by Mark Cassell
The deadness in my arm was absolute. I tried to move my hand. Nothing. I glared at the bastard who stood before me. He clutched the Hourglass in one hand and my shadowleaf in the other.
“This,” he said, “is useless to stitch.”
The leaf was white.
He wiggled it between his finger and thumb, close to my face. I wrestled beneath the heavy hands of the necromeleon behind me and grunted into my mouthful of shadow.
“I thought as much.” Stanley threw the leaf onto the floor.
My dead friend gripped my shoulders and yanked me to my feet. Having been separated from the Hourglass, the leather strap swung from my wrist. It slapped my leg. I flexed my fingers as sensation returned. I wanted to hurl myself at Stanley even though my legs were untrustworthy. Dizziness burrowed into my brain, only the necromeleon’s hold kept me steady.
“No matter,” Stanley said. “I still have this one.” From his jacket, he pulled out a dark grey shadowleaf.
The way he held it suggested an importance, yet I puzzled how he—clearly not in any way dead—was able to hold it without becoming a stitcher. Stanley was ahead of us in this dangerous game. This guy had control. And I was certain he intended to make me stitch.
Natalie had stitched. Her remains not far from me. The poor girl had crumbled into dust and bone shards. So too had Mick and Pam.
Stanley strolled past Polly, ignoring her—I’d forgotten she was there. She appeared unconscious, bound by shadows in a similar way to how I had been. Stanley then came to Isidore, still encased in folds of shadow. Her nostrils flared with each breath.
I attempted a step forward, but the necromeleon’s strength was incredible.
Stanley crouched and grinned into Isidore’s face, showing her the shadowleaf. “Why else do you think he’s being an arsehole?”
She threw me a desperate glance and my heart tumbled into my stomach. I had to get us out of this. I could, surely? After all, I was no longer bound and strapped to the chair. I licked my lips. I didn’t have any shadows stuffed in my mouth. How had I not noticed being released? My throat was dry and words failed me. I’m not sure what I tried to say, no doubt a stream of obscenities were well overdue.
Stanley still held the dark shadowleaf between thumb and forefinger, and he appeared to rub it. He wore a smirk I needed to smash in. My fingers curled into fists and heat charged through me. I had to do something.
During the time I’d been standing there, one of the other necromeleons had detached the leather strap from my arm. Again, how could I possibly not have felt it? Perhaps it was due to the numbness.
Isidore’s blonde curls obscured most of her face. Stanley hunched over her. He resembled a hungry predator preparing to bite its victim. He still held the Hourglass.
I stepped towards them, the necromeleon behind me having released me. Stanley stood up. I attempted another step and failed, my legs felt glued to the floor. My dry lips parted and still nothing came from them.
Then my legs moved. Only I wasn’t the one commanding them. I took two steps forward and stopped. I glared at Stanley’s amusement as he thumbed the shadowleaf.
“Confused?” He approached me, continuing to run his fingertips over the shadowleaf. “I knew I had the right Leonard Howard.”
I puzzled over the way he said the surname, Howard. Who was he? It wasn’t me, was it? My surname was Fox. What was Stanley talking about?
“You can only have one shadowleaf.” He waved the grey one in my face. “And the white one proved that.”
I frowned.
Stanley’s face changed. His jaw set firmer and his eyes flashed at me, still a brilliant blue. Something shifted behind them. “What a waste of time that was.”
Leo Fox, Leo Howard? Leonard Howard. What was this? Although Amy couldn’t move—
Amy? What? I meant Isidore. That was her name. Not Amy. Isidore. Although she couldn’t move because of the shadows wrapped around her, I was unable to move due to something else entirely. Some other power outside my control.
Who was Amy?
My hands remained fists and my feet again took me forward. I headed towards Isidore, and Stanley stepped aside. Frustration screamed in my head and I urged myself to stop walking. I didn’t want to do this. I didn’t know what I was going to do, although I knew one thing. That bastard Stanley had control over me. How was this possible?
I could feel my limbs, yet they weren’t my own. I felt my bruised face, strangely disconnected. Stanley was the puppeteer. The key to which he held in his hand, the dark grey—nearly black—shadowleaf. I guessed it was mine. If my shadowleaf was that colour, then it opened up even more questions. And what about my white one? Suddenly, I had no desire to learn of my past. Was my past as dark as that leaf? Who had I been? My stomach somersaulted and my mind twisted with it. Was I a criminal like those under the House? Should I now be bashing my fists against a cell wall? Perhaps I should be in the morgue.
And then I realised I’d been one of Goodwin’s experiments. That’s what I was to him. No longer Leo Howard, criminal, I was Leo Fox. This was my new life. And here I was, wrapped in this madness without any control over my actions. I pushed aside thoughts of what my crime might have been.
Inside, I raged. Outside, I obeyed.
Fully under Stanley’s control, I yanked Isidore to her feet. Her head snapped backwards—I hated myself for that. I vowed then to save her. To save us all, and further still, to save the world. In any other situation, I would’ve laughed, yet right there, under the twisted guidance of a man cloaked in humankind’s evil, this was my word. And even if I didn’t know much of my past, I knew I was good to my word. Never had I gone against a promise, and as I dragged Isidore’s shadow-shrouded body to the chair, I desired nothing more than to fulfil that promise. Somehow, I would fix this. I would save this girl I now thrust into the seat.
Although she kicked out at me from beneath her shadows, Isidore’s eyes reflected a resigned understanding. She knew I wasn’t behind my actions, and for that, I was thankful. There was desperation there also. And a pleading. If telepathy was at all possible—and who’s to say it wasn’t in light of recent occurrences—I wanted her to hear my promise. I gave her my word.
Most of the shadows slipped from her body, leaving only her arms, ankles, and mouth covered. I knew what came next, and as a necromeleon attached the leather strap to her wrist, I took the Hourglass from Stanley’s outstretched hand.
He nodded.
I forced Isidore’s fingers into the Hourglass straps and pulled tight the buckles. With a flick of my wrist, I upended it and the white sands flowed.
I doubted even my eyes held any of the apologetic fear I hoped Isidore could read as I stepped away, leaving the necromeleon with her. His calloused hands clamped her shoulders and she slumped into herself.
“Now get me more stitchers,” Stanley said into my ear.
Being commanded remotely was one hell of an experience, not unlike hypnosis. To my knowledge, I had never been hypnotised. The difference here was that I remained lucid throughout. I felt everything and helplessly obeyed Stanley’s instruction to find more stitchers. Every minute under that bastard’s control, I gazed out of my own head, entirely at his command. I guessed it would last throughout the hour while Isidore’s sand counted out the time.
Flanked by two necromeleon henchmen, their impressive bulks hung in my peripheral, all dark suits and death. Those guys were no doubt menacing when alive, let alone now that they were dead—God only knew where Stanley found them.
My feet took me from the studio and into the walkway.
How long would I last? How long before Stanley got bored playing with me? I wanted to hit something, someone. To hit out at the pair of dead men walking beside me. And my rage seethed, unable to do a thing.
The emptiness added to our shuffled echoes as the three of us headed alongside the gym, past the beauty rooms, and across the thankfully empty foyer. Dean was nowhere in sight, and I guessed he was at th
e marquee, given the classical concert would begin in a couple of hours. Sounds from the restaurant and bar echoed towards us. Clearly, that was where most of the life was right now. Life…death. Such a thin line between them.
We stomped up the staircase and headed for the suites. Stitchers. Stanley had ordered us to collect more stitchers. I guessed we’d collect a few individuals, not yet grabbing a crowd. How many were in the bar? What about the restaurant? And how many seats were in the marquee? The potential there was too much to grasp.
My legs took me upwards onto the first floor landing. I didn’t want to find anyone. I hoped each resident was out for the evening. I wanted everyone to have left the House and driven into the neighbouring village in search of a restaurant, or for a different form of entertainment. I knew otherwise. Rooms two through twelve were no doubt occupied. It was a busy time of year, regardless of the House hosting a concert. As the softness of the carpet silenced my feet, I prayed there wasn’t anyone getting themselves ready for the evening.
The Bach Suite was first, and as we came to stand before it, one of the necromeleons pulled out an all-access keycard. I recognised it by the luminous green sticker and the smiling face drawn on it: Suzy’s. Where was she now? I hoped she had the early shift and was home. Safe. Away from this madness.
After the lock mechanism clicked open, without pause the dead men bundled in. I waited at the threshold, standing guard. My head moved to the left, taking in the short landing and four steps downwards, then it moved to the right. Another hallway, containing six more rooms, and beyond these, another staircase curled upward.
My ears strained as did my eyes; no one around. It pained me to think what I’d be made to do should anyone come. Indeed, if—when—we found someone in one of the suites. All I heard was the necromeleons searching Bach.
Moments later they filed out, to my relief, empty-handed. My hand reached for the door handle, grasped it, and pulled the door closed. Seeing my hand obey a command I had not given was like watching myself in a vivid dream.
A few paces down the hall, we came to the next room: the Handel Suite. The necromeleons reached it before me, and when the door opened on silent hinges, they stepped aside, allowing me passage. I walked into the small entrance hall. The room beyond was fairly large. Sunlight burst across the modest lounge and fell into the inviting cushions of a sofa.
Soft noises came to me from behind the bedroom door slightly ajar.
I strolled forward, leaving the dead men at the threshold. The closer I got, the more certain of those noises I became: a gentle rhythmic movement with the undertones of heavy breathing.
CHAPTER 34
Suzy’s head snapped up, her eyes wide. Her breasts bounced between the folds of her uniform. Beneath her in a mess of pillows, Joe’s eyes flared and his mouth gaped. In any other circumstance, I would have politely closed the door and left them. It must’ve been an act of snatched passion, given neither had fully removed their clothes.
The girl leapt from the bed, sending the covers to the floor, and pulled down her skirt. The barman yanked up his trousers and coughed, unsure where to look.
“Leo—” Suzy buttoned her top. She frowned at me. Besides getting caught in such an act, she recognised something wasn’t right. I guessed it was how I stood unmoving, the way I must have come across as a sleepwalker.
Joe remained silent as he buckled himself. His face red, his movements frantic. His scowl said it all.
I said nothing. I wanted to apologise for walking in on them. I wanted to tell them what was happening downstairs. Emotions clawed behind my face, unable to break through. My feet moved towards them. I didn’t want to do this. Another footstep followed, then I stopped. My necromeleon companions came to flank me like bodyguards.
Joe stuffed his shirt into his trousers and his expression switched to dismay. “What’s going on?”
By this time, Suzy had composed herself, but her cheeks still glowed. She squinted when she took in the two dead men. A single crease broke across her forehead and her jaw dropped.
In a displacement of light, the necromeleon’s faces shifted into a knot of shadows, wreathed in grey phantoms as traces of the Fabric oozed from their eyes and mouths. Two streams of liquid darkness shot into the awestruck faces of Joe and Suzy. They had no time to react as the black lumps wrapped around their heads, leaving only their noses free. Joe staggered and smacked his shin into the bed, while Suzy dropped to her knees and fell against the dressing table.
Their screams were muffled behind masks of shadow.
I yanked Suzy upright. Her legs were unresponsive as though she had lost consciousness. No, it wasn’t that. She immediately kicked out, arms flailing. Her hands bunched into fists and pummelled my chest. It was short-lived as the shadows around her head leaked downwards. A few tendrils wriggled over her shoulders towards her legs. Each shadow now bound her firmly.
I wanted to scream, to apologise as I dragged her thrashing body out of the bedroom, leaving her bra behind us—it was frilly, flowery. Somewhere in the corner of my eye, I saw one of my dead companions do the same with Joe.
We threw them onto the sofa where more shadows collected, enveloping them. I assumed we’d keep the pair there for later. The Handel Suite would become our storeroom.
With my dead friends, I went from room to room, from the Tchaikovsky Suite to the Rachmaninov Suite, to Strauss, Beethoven and Haydn, then up to Mozart and Grieg, Boccherini and finally Wagner. We didn’t go into Goodwin’s room, the Holst Suite, because it would’ve been empty. The man was still somewhere beneath the House—dead or alive, I simply didn’t know.
The horror of what I was doing twisted in my core, tangled with frustration. I hated myself for my actions, and I hated Stanley for his control over me. Whoever I had been before this, whatever was in my previous life, I didn’t want it in my new life. Maybe I’d been bad once—perhaps I still was—and now I had a role to play in Stanley’s game.
We collected more potential stitchers, yanking them from their business, wrapping the darkness around their startled expressions. Some of those faces I recognised, others I didn’t. Some put up a fight, others didn’t get the chance. The three of us would steal into each room like kidnappers and capture the occupants. Two rooms were empty, and in total, we collected seventeen stitchers for Stanley’s screwed-up game. Seventeen people who would soon stitch, to become nothing more than empty husks. Drained of life.
As I dragged another person along the hallway and threw them into the Handel Suite with the other moaning bodies, the voice in my head screamed denial. I knew it was another potential death on my hands.
I was with Death, and I could do nothing about it.
I had always pictured memories as compartments in my head, little cabinets and drawers accessible by the grasp of a mental hand, opening on silent runners to reveal files and folders of varying widths, colours, and condition—much like filing cabinet divisions. Not like an office, no. Nothing so impersonal nor cold. Nothing so uninviting.
My bank of cabinets were locked up. And somewhere some bastard had the keys. I could see the blank-faced compartments, all of them, yet was unable to access the damn things. Perhaps one contained a list of my crimes. Was I a bank robber, a murderer, a rapist? Was I imprisoned for grievous bodily harm? Who was Amy? Had it been domestic abuse against her?
This was worse than not knowing anything about my past. A sickness churned in my stomach.
Under Stanley’s control, as my feet took me through the House herding potential stitchers, it was as if the occasional sheet of memory would poke out of a drawer. The shadows leaking into an odd compartment, pulling out a random memory.
It happened first when I dealt with the father and daughter. When I’d first seen them a few days before, back when I met yoga instructor, come nurse, come scientist Katrina for the first time, the teenager came across as a spoiled and bored young girl. And the father, he simply looked troubled.
As we let ourselves into the Gri
eg Suite, the girl wasn’t around. The father sat beside the window reading a newspaper. He gave us a slow, quizzical look.
I ran at him.
The man opened his mouth to speak and I punched him. With a sound like a heavy book dropped on a leather sofa, the contact between fist and face surprised me, let alone him. Blood dribbled from his split lip and he dropped the newspaper. He groaned and cupped his hands to the gushing wound, his eyes tiny.
I dragged him towards me—the man was heavy. His bloody hands slapped uselessly at my arms.
In a wet voice, he said, “What the hell is this?” A redness coated his teeth as though he’d scoffed strawberries.
I wondered how many times in my unremembered past had I inflicted such pain on others.
As I held him, an image of someone else scratched across my eyes like a phantom, shimmering behind reality. For a moment, I saw the thuggish looks of a much younger man with a burning aggression, not like this father whose face oozed blood and terror. The ghost—was that it?—was like a glimpse beneath the mask of Man. Yet it wasn’t that simple, this was something else.
There I stood, my hands acting not of my own command, holding a terrified man, while another was there in the same place. Two images overlapped one another. One existing, the other not at all. The face—an incorporeal flutter—was from a memory. One of my memories long before my accident. The crash…the red car…was it real? Never before had I reason to doubt. And if it never happened, then someone please explain my knee injury?
This was the first glimpse I had of those leaking cabinets in my bank of memories, and as quickly as the image came it vanished, leaving me to question if I’d seen it in the first instance.
My thoughts tumbled as my limbs obeyed Stanley’s commands.
The father was shouting something and I forced myself to tune in. “Emily! Emily, get out of here!” Blood leapt from between puffed lips. “Emily!”
One of the necromeleons darted into the bedroom, while the other remained beside me. I heard a gurgle from his direction like a rumble low in the belly—it wasn’t hunger the necromeleon experienced. He stepped forward, a streamer of shadow burst from between his dead lips and fired into the father’s face.
