by Mark Cassell
I held the poor man. The blackness clamped around his head like a wet towel, leaving only his nose visible. Suffocating moans escaped him, and his nostrils flared as panic escalated.
Behind me, I heard his daughter being dragged into the room. I pulled the man sideways and on stumbling legs, he came with me. There was Emily. She wore a gag of shadow, her eyes a petrified daze. I heard the beat of music from her earphones. The late afternoon sunshine filled her glistening eyes, which created another phantom for me, another blast of a ghostly image. Snatched from a forgotten past was Amy, with eyes brimmed with fear and tears. Amy. Her brown hair clumped to the wound on her head, her lips swollen and saying my name, over and over.
Amy. Who was Amy?
And again, as swiftly as it came, the image—that memory—vanished. I saw a scared teenager, wires coiling from her ears, shoved along the hall by a dead man.
I followed, hauling the father with me. His hands were now restrained by more shadows. My head thumped almost in time with the music. The other necromeleon closed the door behind us and we headed to the Handel Suite.
These two were the last to join the nest we’d created there.
Soon, I bundled Dean, my final captive, into the studio. On entering, he tripped and staggered, and I kicked the back of his legs. He dropped to his knees.
The studio had darkened, having little to do with the late afternoon. In the centre of the gloom, like the hub he indeed was, Stanley stood with his chin firm. He still held my shadowleaf between thumb and forefinger. I wanted to knock the thing from his hand, but of course, I was incapable.
Isidore was still attached to the Hourglass. The sand had nearly run out, and a heap of dark grey had collected in the lower bulb. If Annabel had her way, eventually it would have been black. As Isidore had admitted, she’d started with small crimes and it escalated into everything short of murder.
Not long after I entered the studio, the two necromeleons came in with more captives: Joe and Suzy. They passed me, and reaching Stanley, a loop of shadow tripped the pair and they fell.
Stanley’s lips curled into a smirk and I wanted to leap at him. To punch the bastard for being my puppeteer. Evil, evil bastard. The box of spilled shadowleaves was at his feet, the black squares waiting to be stitched, waiting to become part of the Shadow Fabric. Behind him, it quivered as if a breeze stirred its surface.
“Make yourself useful.” Stanley threw a shadowleaf into Dean’s lap. It was my original, dark grey one.
My legs buckled, both knees smacking the floor. An agonising flare lanced up my thighs, more so in my already damaged knee, and I cried out. I had bumped into Dean who had been attempting to sit up. His eyes, questioning, fixed on mine.
I focused on my surroundings, my head no longer clogged, and I vomited. Its bitter taste was welcoming, like a purge of the system dispelling all traces of Stanley’s control. Its stink burning my nostrils, it was a surprise no shadows had come up.
Dean’s shadowy restraints slipped away as curiosity overwhelmed him, inspecting the shadowleaf he held. His eyes flicked in my direction.
My head swam, and although I once again had control over myself, I couldn’t move. The leaf in Dean’s hand was mine, I knew this. How else was Stanley able to control me? Earlier, he held not the white shadowleaf which came from the Hourglass, but a dark grey one. Victor had said we all are sinners regardless of our good intent. Was Dean’s cursory glance as he held my leaf an acknowledgment of my sins? Was it even possible? That in itself led to further questions…and where did Stanley get this leaf from?
Huddled and shivering, not far from the arrogant stance of my puppeteer, I glared at the man. He was the evil one here. Not me. It hadn’t been long ago my shadowleaf came out white. That had to mean something. The extraction was from my new life, not a reflection of my past. This was my new life.
The three dead henchmen walked past me and out of the studio, to collect more stitchers I guessed. I sat up ready to stop Dean from stitching.
Stanley laughed.
“You—” I began to say, when a portion of Fabric detached itself from the roiling mass and clamped shut my mouth.
Stanley ignored me and crouched before the pile of leaves. Straightening up, he tossed another leaf at Dean. Now having two, one of which was mine, the manager’s confusion vanished. His face relaxed. From my collection of captured people, visitors, and employees alike, Dean was the first to stitch.
With wide eyes, Joe and Suzy froze, watching Dean begin. His face serene, so peaceful as the first signs of his life force ebbed. At some point, while I stared helplessly, Stanley threw a couple of leaves to the other employees. Their faces slackened as the stitching took hold.
Regaining my strength, I pushed myself up. No longer was I wrapped in nausea, no longer was I to sit and let this happen. I had to stop this.
And more shadows came. They whipped around my wrists, fastened my ankles, and once again fully restrained me. Gagged and bound, I uselessly struggled. The hate, the terror, the frustration raged.
Isidore had an expression which I suspected mirrored my own, and I was aware of my constant grunts. Her sand had run out.
“Ah.” Stanley turned towards her. He wasted no time undoing the Hourglass straps and removing her shadowleaf.
Isidore’s eyes were fierce and glistened.
“This is more like it,” he said. Her dark leaf flapped between his thumb and forefinger. “Leo, your white one was useless.”
Dean had now shrivelled into his suit. His grey skull still had wisps of hair attached to it, and it lolled. Joe and Suzy were rapidly losing colour. They rocked, hands held as if in prayer. Their black eyes charged in sunken sockets.
Steadily, they stitch-stitch-stitched. I watched, helpless as ever.
Stanley cupped Isidore’s leaf in his palm. “Leo, this is lighter than your original one.” He dropped it onto the pile in the middle of the room. He headed for Polly. I’d forgotten about her, sitting motionless. When he reached her, he strapped her to the Hourglass. Already the sand had lightened from black to white. Purer. Free of sin.
Behind and above me, something creaked. I strained against the shadows. My neck clicked as the door opened a fraction. There stood Victor. He was ravaged, beaten. Blood caked his hair. Clothes torn.
I moaned, slumping into myself.
Both his eyes were sunken and dark. Black…filled with shadow.
CHAPTER 35
And like this to infinity
Seeing the Shadow Fabric and experiencing its overwhelming presence, there was no doubt its evil suggested more than any childhood fear. Not like the time as a kid when we’re afraid of a coat hanging on the wardrobe door appearing as a monster’s silhouette. Not like the harmless, silent spectre in the shadows of a corner, familiar to us during the day, and come night, it morphs into a chasm of unknown depths. It’s the very substance which belongs at the core of every evil since the beginning of time.
There can be no doubt the Fabric was fuelled by an evil born from the primordial darkness long before light came into being.
And when the man I’d come to know, no matter how short a time it’d been, looked back at me with eyes of an impenetrable darkness, I physically felt the light dimming. Victor had brought me there, not for his ills or selfish desires, for I had willingly joined his quest against the darkness. No, I had accepted my hand in this, and for all my courage and determination, I could only accept my fate. Our fate.
We were fucked.
The Shadow Fabric swelled, pulsed, and expanded against the far wall of the studio, growing as more stitchers stitched. By now, I guessed the Handel Suite must’ve been empty. I hadn’t been counting.
The twitches of father and daughter—Emily, her name was Emily—flickered in the corner of my eye. Around them were too many shrivelled bodies to count. People I’d known, people I’d spoken to, all now little more than heaped bones and dusty clothes.
With resignation, I shrank into myself, not even wa
nting to look at Isidore to whom I’d vowed to save. Save the world, no less. All the while the Fabric did precisely the opposite.
I glimpsed the Witchblade. It glinted where Victor stood in the doorway holding it. The blade shone around him, even in the failing light, the athame reflected a reminder that there was light. There will always be light…and it also reflected hope.
There will always be hope.
He clutched the Witchblade to his chest. The last time I saw Victor, pressed to the floor by the bulk of necromeleons, I thought he was a dead man. Indeed, moments ago, I suspected he was a necromeleon. His eyes were buried not in shadow, but blood. Mostly his own, I guessed, and perhaps Katrina’s, and that of the dead men who’d brought him down.
He acknowledged me only briefly as he lifted the blade. One of his eyes was bad, nearly swollen shut, while the other was bloodshot. No shadows.
He lived. He was of the living, and not of the living dead.
With bitter shadows clogging my mouth, I breathed heavily through my nose. God knew how Isidore felt—she’d been gagged the whole time.
Polly sat motionless, with her hand attached to the Hourglass. I had no idea how much sand had run into the lower bulb—it hadn’t been long since Stanley inverted it. As I tried to peek, the shadows surrounding Polly’s legs bubbled around her. They clawed up the chair and encased the Hourglass.
Stanley stood over the shells of Emily and her father, their remains a stark contrast between greyed limbs and coloured clothes. The newly stitched pieces of Fabric slithered from the bodies, snaking and lifting. Each throbbed and headed for the darkness which encompassed almost half the studio.
Although hope had returned at seeing Victor alive, the presence of the Shadow Fabric overwhelmed me. Nausea came in waves and I wanted to vomit. My head pounded. The evil spoke to me, its raw power rushing through every fibre of my being. It charged through the shadows in my mouth, almost like an electric current. I tasted copper. Blood perhaps.
I guessed it was only me who saw Victor. Any moment now, Stanley would feel the light from the Witchblade, if not see it. With the Fabric’s presence draining the light from the room, the majority of its bulk obscured the light from the windows. It blocked out some of the ceiling lights.
In contrast, the Witchblade spread liquid gold across the wooden floor. It had to be a distraction to someone. Why hadn’t Stanley already seen it? Or the necromeleons? As the glow oozed into the room, one of them surely must see it. Victor now shone like a beacon amongst the darkness. Why couldn’t anyone else see this? And what about the mirrors and the gleaming reflection?
Isidore’s eyes had widened above the binding shadow. Had she seen Victor? There was hope in her expression and she glanced at me. The light shone from her skin. Her hair appeared on fire. She was closer than anyone else. Still, why hadn’t anyone else seen it? Surely they felt it, too? It looked like it should be hot, generating warmth like a campfire.
Victor came fully into the room. Each furtive step he took forced light into the darkness. The shadows on the opposite side of the room remained where they were, while the three necromeleons and Stanley stood vigil over another stitcher, an older woman I’d snatched from the Grieg Suite. I guess she must’ve been in her early 50s. She’d been on the telephone at the time, with her back to me, and she’d turned at the sound of my footsteps. I yanked the phone from her and slammed it in its cradle. It was strange to think I’d been under Stanley’s control earlier, and I hated myself for it.
As this woman stitched, she had greyed more than her actual years.
Victor made it further into the room, his pace deliberate as the golden hue spread around him. Angelic, that’s what it was. He appeared like an angel—albeit one in a bloodied suit, and not wearing socks—striding into the path of evil with the confidence of a man blessed with light. The Witchblade drenched his entire body in a golden fog, pressing back the darkness.
Stanley still hadn’t noticed his approach, and Victor stood behind him. The light bleached everything. Bathed in a solar glare, the gently rocking woman continued to stitch.
One of the necromeleons moved and scanned the room. His black orbs lingered on me for a moment, then on Isidore. Then on Polly. And finally back to the stitcher. He hadn’t seen Victor. The dead man’s gaze had gone straight through him. The man was right there. Any moment, I expected someone to see him in a mirror from one angle or another.
The golden glow now lit the entire studio. It swallowed the darkness and left only the Fabric to shimmer and bulge as it always had done—still growing with every newly stitched piece—yet not recoiling, or even hinting at retreating from the light.
Stanley shifted and the golden glare passed across his face. The light reflected in his eyes, yet he still didn’t react. He was oblivious to it. I didn’t know how it was possible for Victor’s presence in the room to be shielded by the Witchblade. It shrouded him in a safe light, a light which itself was equally invisible.
Victor, remaining invisible, walked around Stanley, who still observed the twitching woman. No doubt his actions were just, but I couldn’t work out his intentions. Standing before his brother, emotion hard to read in a face obscured by swollen eyes and so much blood, Victor raised the Witchblade. There was no way a necromeleon could brandish that blade like he did. I doubted the dead would even touch it. The living dead, and Stanley, couldn’t see it, nor were they aware of the man standing directly in front of them.
The light blasted from the blade as Victor brought it to arm’s length.
Already that light saturated the room. It pushed back the darkness and gave the impression Victor was made of gold. Like a statue gripping a dagger, shining on a pedestal for all to see. Only it was Isidore and I who saw him, no one else.
As the athame arced up, fire crackled around the blade, spitting orange and yellow streamers. Delicate at first, then thickened and spread outwards. Victor’s jaw squared and his teeth clenched. The pool of light shifted from yellow to white, brightening with each passing moment. The way he held the blade high, with one downward swipe, it would spear Stanley’s head.
Sniffing the air, taking reassurance from the hint of ozone charging the atmosphere, I waited for him to kill the bastard.
Victor’s lips moved. At first, I assumed he recited some type of ritualistic text, some passage with which to stop this madness. I was wrong. His lips formed the words God help me, over and over.
Tiny flames showered both of them like a sparkler on Guy Fawkes Night, tumbling over their shoulders. Still oblivious to it, Stanley watched the stitcher at his feet, as were the three necromeleons beside him. They didn’t move, obediently standing beside their master.
The Shadow Fabric moved. It shifted sideways, enough to make it obvious. I wanted to warn Victor, yet couldn’t, gagged as I was. I had no idea of Victor’s intentions, the way he held the Witchblade above his head. Would he slam it down into his brother’s head? Would he really stab him again? Last time had been a cruel moment where the Fabric itself had pulled Victor’s hand forward into a fatal strike. This was different.
In a sudden jerk, Stanley snapped his head back and roared. It drove into my brain, made my teeth ache, and froze my spine.
The necromeleons still hadn’t moved.
Victor remained where he was. His lips now still, jaw set. The Witchblade unmoving in the air with the flames showering him and his brother.
Stanley screeched like I’d imagine a pterodactyl would when swooping through a prehistoric sky. The pitch rose. I shook my head, bucked, and squirmed beneath the restraining shadows. From the corner of my eye—unable to take my eyes off the spectacle across the studio—Isidore did the same.
Victor held his ground as Stanley’s mouth issued that inhuman scream. The man’s jaws opened wide, spreading his lips further apart. His tongue squirmed, its colour shifting from fleshy pink to a grey pallor, then blackening, even under the glow of the Witchblade. Stanley’s skin darkened as traceries of veins surged benea
th. His hair became blacker. And his eyes…their whites shifted to black as though a switch had been flicked. Darkness oozed from them. It dripped over his long cheekbones and curled down the elongated face.
And still the scream rattled my brain. It was thankfully losing its pitch, lessening enough to take the edge off.
Stanley’s dark flesh altered: from where the tongue protruded, the lips peeled back. Like some obscene blossom, the skin curled and split without any spray of blood. The black tongue flicked sideways and melded into the grey skin as his face continued to stretch. His head warped, defying human anatomy. No longer did his hair resemble hair, nor did his face resemble a face.
The light of the Witchblade poured over the two men, and a flurry of sparks tumbled about them.
The scream dwindled.
Stanley’s clothes had lost their colour, their sharpness. They blurred. The fabric of his clothes shifted out of focus, diluting as though sidestepping reality. His dark skin melted to become less than human, nothing more than a lumpy, man-sized blob. No longer a man. Once, yes, Stanley had been Stanley, back at his house when I’d first met him. That had been the last time anyone had seen him alive. Victor had, after all, killed his brother—albeit under the guidance of the Shadow Fabric.
I guessed we knew whose corpse it was back at Stanley’s house. So, this wasn’t Stanley after all. But what was happening to him? An entity existed within the Shadow Fabric as Victor had suggested. He’d said that once the Fabric became strong enough, an entity would begin its haunt.
Sweat spotted my forehead.
The Fabric remained where it was, bulging and heaving. It hung as a backdrop to the spectacle like black curtains, a transient shroud of evil. It shivered in a coruscation of black folds and impenetrable darkness.
