Secrets in the Dark

by Darcy Coates

  She managed a smile. The memories were bittersweet: sitting by the old stone fireplace, two cats already squished together in her lap and a third jonesing to get up. Marnie would sit in her favourite rocking chair, holding her cup as she chatted, her hair falling out of its bun and her cardigan a little crooked, but looking so happy that none of it mattered.

  Clare latched on to that image. She held it in her mind, savouring it, trying to make its goodness overwrite her last memory of her aunt. It did, a little. She thought, with time and effort, she might be able to remember her aunt’s name without feeling sick.

  Marnie had loved gossip, but not the kind other people usually spread. She didn’t talk about who was having an affair with who, how so-and-so’s child had been expelled, or about how the neighbours had fallen into a public argument. Her gossip could have been described with one word: wholesome.

  She’d told Clare about the neighbour who snuck into the local church’s garden early on Saturday mornings so that they could trim the plants and fix anything that looked untidy, about the teenage boy who’d finally gotten up the courage to ask out the girl working at the grocery store after making eyes at each other for weeks—and about Mr. Peterson’s private bridge.

  “He invited me to see it last week,” Marnie had whispered conspiratorially. “It’s the loveliest little bridge I’ve ever seen. Or, I guess I shouldn’t call it little! It’s so high off the water that I was afraid of falling. There isn’t a bridge close to his house, you see, and he loves to go into the forest on the other side of the river to pick wild mushrooms. The men from the nearest farms all got together one weekend and helped him build it. It’s good to know his friends care for him so much.”

  “Marnie told me that Mr. Peterson has a bridge.” Clare grabbed Dorran’s hand, excitement making her heart jump. “It wouldn’t be on the map since it’s a private property. But it’s high. Maybe high enough.”

  “Good.” He grinned as he put the car into reverse and backed away from the overflowing river. “Which way?”

  “Uh…” That was a problem. Clare didn’t actually know Mr. Peterson. Her entire knowledge of the region came from her aunt. She bit her lip as her smile faded. “Hm.”

  “It’s all right. Take your time.”

  Think, Clare. Where would he live? He was a farmer—she knew that much. But almost everyone along the winding rural road was a farmer of some kind or another. What else did Marnie tell you about him?

  Two years’ worth of visits swam together in her mind. She hunted, furiously, looking for any hint or clue buried inside the chats.

  “Mr. Peterson’s dog had puppies! Nine healthy golden retrievers.”

  “Mr. Peterson down the road asked for some cuttings from my hydrangeas.”

  “I’m thinking of getting a new letter box. Mr. Peterson replaced his for a lovely bright-green one, and I notice it every time I drive to town. It makes me want to up my game.”

  Clare’s eyes snapped open. “Turn left on the main road. Marnie drove past Peterson’s property on her way to town, so it has to be down that way. He has a green letter box.”

  The car swerved back towards the street. Clare hoped the letter box clue would be enough. The street was long, and their trip was already carrying them close to the edge of the map. If they had to drive much farther to reach Peterson’s property, she wasn’t sure how easily they could find their way back to the route to Beth’s.

  That wouldn’t have been a problem in the old world. She could have looked up their location on her phone, and even if that hadn’t worked, she could have stopped at a service station or a house for directions. Now, she only had Dorran to rely on, and he only had her. Everything they needed had to come from what they knew or what they could find.

  We’ll make it work.

  Dorran drove quickly. He watched his side of the road, and Clare watched hers, both of them making note of every letter box they passed. Doubts began to crowd into Clare’s mind. That little bit of trivia was at least two years old. Peterson might have changed his box since then. It might have come down in the snows. Clare saw at least three letter boxes that were either leaning dangerously or half-submerged in the muddy ground.

  There were precious few remnants of humanity left. They passed two cars, one off the side of the road, one parked in the middle of the street with its doors open. Dorran slowed the car as they eased around the obstacle, but they didn’t stop for either vehicle.

  Then Clare caught a flash of green up ahead and tapped her hand on the dash. “There! Stop!”

  Dorran pressed on the brake as they neared. The letter box was shaped like a house, with a brass knob to open the little door below its peaked roof. The whole shape had been painted a bright green. It was exactly the kind of thing Marnie would have liked.

  “Well done, Clare,” Dorran murmured and turned into the driveway.

  Their progress slowed. The dirt track was a mess of half-dried mud. Twice, the tyres began to spin, and Clare had to mentally brace herself for the idea of pushing their way out before the car got itself free.

  The house came into view ahead. Like Marnie’s, the small building was situated near several sheds. She nodded to Dorran, and he turned off the driveway to coast over the waterlogged grass. They gave the house and its buildings a wide berth. Along the weatherboard side, Clare saw what she thought were the remains of hydrangeas. Marnie’s cuttings.

  Past the house was a hobby orchard and a pond. They were harder to navigate around. The sound of rushing water became clearer the farther into the property they drove. Willows cropped out of the ground; some looked half a century old. Clare’s hatchback hadn’t been designed for off-road driving, and it tilted horribly as it struggled over the root-pocked ground. Dorran’s face was tight with concentration. Clare gripped the sides of her seat, squeezing the nearly dried fabric.

  Then, abruptly, they were at the river. Willows surrounded them. Their leaves were gone, and the draping branches created stark lines against the mist. Through them, the overflowing river frothed against its banks. She couldn’t see a bridge.

  “Stay here; I’ll search,” Dorran said.

  Clare felt uneasy about leaving their shelter. As long as they were in the car, they had a layer of metal protecting them from anything outside, and no matter how claustrophobic it made her feel, it was still better than the alternative. They weren’t exactly in the forest, but the trees were still grouped closely together and could very easily be hiding hollows.

  But they were stuck until they could find the bridge. And that would be faster on foot.

  “I’m coming.” She opened her door before Dorran could object. Cold air wound against her. She didn’t think it was her imagination anymore; the world was growing colder again. She prayed the snow would hold off for at least another day.

  The rushing water was louder than it had seemed inside the car. Clare drew in lungfuls of crisp air and held her hand up to block the sun as she squinted down the stream’s length. It twisted out of sight in both directions. Clare moved close to the water’s edge and, crouching on a rock, dipped her hands into the stream. The water was achingly cold, but she had felt grimy all morning. She splashed water over her face and arms, and as she shook off droplets, she thought she could glimpse something made of stone to her left, half hidden behind the river’s bend and the trees. She signalled to catch Dorran’s attention and began following the riverbank.

  As she stepped around the bend, she found herself facing Peterson’s handmade bridge. The banks were steep and narrow at that point, and the bridge was high enough to poke above the water. Just barely. Liquid ran over its lowest points, where the stones connected with the ground, but the bridge’s middle arched up at a gentle angle to put it above the water.

  “Ah,” Dorran said as he caught up to her.

  Clare rubbed at the back of her neck as disappointment turned her stomach sour. The bridge had been built by farmers, not engineers, and it showed. It had been made high enough to s
tand above the badly engorged river, but it hadn’t survived the water’s barrage. A deep hole had been gouged in the right-hand side where the stonework had crumbled.

  “We could still walk over,” Clare said. She dropped her hands, feeling useless. “But then we’d have no car…”

  The bridge had initially been wide enough for Clare’s hatchback to squeeze over. Now, less than two feet of it remained at the damaged section. The wooden support beams were visible, poking up from the water and showing where massive slabs of stone had once belonged.

  “Maybe it will still work.” Dorran pressed Clare’s shoulder as he stepped past her to examine the structure. “We could repair it.”

  She narrowed her eyes, dubious.

  “Not properly. Not with stone.” Dorran stopped as close to the water’s edge as he could and crouched down, peering at the exposed support beams. “But we could wedge it with branches and logs. The supports are still there. If we can fill the hole sufficiently, the car should be able to drive over it.”

  “Okay.” She stepped back, trying to envision it. The hole was facing the flow, which should help hold the branches in place. That meant they only had a four-foot area to fill… and to make stable enough that it could support a car’s weight. “Okay, that might work.”

  “We’ll make it work.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The willows around the river provided an abundance of fallen wood. Most of it had been caught up by the melted snow and swept downriver, but many branches had been caught in shrubs and against roots.

  Clare picked the thickest branches she could find then dragged them back to the river’s edge, where Dorran broke them into size with a well-placed stomp or the axe. He leapt across the submerged segment of bridge then perched on the edge of the hole as he lodged the wood between the supports and the remaining stones.

  “Be careful.” Clare dropped off another armful of dead wood. Dorran seemed precariously close to the edge, and she didn’t like how shaky some of the stones were. He raised a hand to acknowledge her then returned to kicking at a branch to get it level with the rest of the bridge’s surface.

  This has to work. Please. It has to.

  A scream broke the still air. They both froze, turning towards the forest on the other side of the bridge, where lingering fog crawled between the trunks. The noise hadn’t been close. It hadn’t been human, either.

  Dorran motioned for Clare to come closer. “Give me what you have. It will be enough. We shouldn’t linger here any longer.”

  Clare stretched to pass Dorran the remaining sticks across the water, backed up to the car, and reached through the open door to get the crowbar. She swung it at her side as she scanned the area: the willows surrounding them, the steadily rushing water, and the sparse forest on the bridge’s other side. Dorran moved in quick, sharp bursts as he fit the remaining branches in between the ones he’d already placed. Then, with one hand resting on what little remained of the wood railing, he stepped onto the temporary surface. The wood creaked and bowed under his weight, but the branches didn’t break or dip more than a few inches.

  “That should be enough.” Dorran jumped over the water to join Clare on the spongy ground. “Let us try the car now.”

  She nodded but couldn’t stop herself from staring at the engorged stream. The water moved quickly, and it would have to be freezing. She didn’t like to think about trying to swim against it… or keep her head above water, for that matter.

  “You should cross the bridge on foot,” Dorran said. “We stand a better chance with less weight in the car, and you can help guide my path across.”

  She frowned. “How come your plans always end up with you carrying the most risk?”

  “Because I am abhorrently selfish.” He found her hand, lifted it, and kissed her fingers, laughter sparkling in his eyes. “And because I secretly hope it will impress you.”

  “Hah.” Even though Dorran still held her hand, her fingers felt cold. She shivered. “How about I drive and impress you?”

  “I would rather see you on solid ground.” He gave her another kiss. “Don’t worry for me. I am not afraid.”

  A second wailing cry echoed from the forest. Clare pulled Dorran close, hugging him tightly, relishing the feel of how warm and solid he was. Then she stepped back, swallowing the ache in her throat. “Okay. Okay. But be careful. Please.”

  “I will.” He stepped into the car.

  Clare waited until the motor started, then she turned to face the bridge. The water grasped at everything it touched, obsessively trying to tear it away. Even as she watched, a clump of dead grass and soil broke free from the bank to her right. It tumbled into the water, breaking apart and vanishing under the makeshift bridge repairs.

  She couldn’t stop visualising what might happen if the bridge couldn’t hold the car. It would tumble and roll, dragged under by the rapids, the pressure fighting any attempt at escaping the vehicle while icy water flowed inside like waterfalls.

  Stop it. Dorran believes this will work. Trust him.

  Clare held the crowbar close as she leapt across the submerged patch of bridge, stretching to avoid getting her feet wet. The stones crunched under her feet as she climbed to the highest part of the arch. The bridge wasn’t long—twenty feet, if that—but it was a lot less stable than she would have hoped. She couldn’t see any concreting between the rocks. Peterson and his friends seemed to have built it the old-fashioned way—using simple gravity and tight packing to keep it stable. It was no wonder the river had ripped sections free.

  She eyed the gap as she passed it. The wood was packed tightly, with flat branches on top to give the car something solid to drive over. But it still left her feeling queasy. Some of the gaps would be large enough for a tyre to become stuck in. And some of the branches didn’t seem strong enough to carry much weight at all.

  Clare faced the car. She could see Dorran behind the cracked windshield, his eyes glinting through the shadows. She nodded to tell him she was ready.

  The car crept forward. Its front wheels disappeared into the submerged section, and Clare bit back a scream as the car’s front drifted to the side. But its tyres found purchase again, and a second later, they were back on the dry stones.

  “Okay.” Clare backed up, one eye on the uneven ground beneath her feet and one eye on the car. Dorran slowed as he neared the crumbled section. “Okay, okay. We can do this.”

  She motioned for him, adjusting the car’s trajectory to move over the thicker pieces of wood. They creaked as weight compressed them. Little flecks of spray splashed up from where the river hit the stones, grazed Clare’s cheeks. The water’s angry rumble, the creak of trees behind her, and the whistle of the cold wind—she pushed it all to the back of her mind and zeroed in on the vehicle, and the man, she couldn’t afford to lose.

  One of the branches snapped. The car lurched down, and Clare yelped. It didn’t fall far, though. Dorran, eyebrows low and lips pressed together, froze in his seat. The car hung there, its front right-hand corner dipped down towards the water, then Dorran tried creeping it forward again. Slowly, the car rose out of its hole.

  He’s almost there. Almost…

  Clare continued to beckon, her heart in her throat, barely noticing as her slow paces back put her feet into the water submerging the end of the bridge. The car’s front wheels were almost onto solid stones.

  The car horn blared, deafening. Clare locked eyes with Dorran. He pitched forward in his seat, teeth bared, eyes wild with fear. He pressed on the horn again, staring at something over her shoulder.

  Reflexes took hold. Clare ducked and felt claws snag on the back of her knit top. She pivoted and swung her crowbar at the same time. The metal connected with something fleshy, and angry chattering exploded around her.

  “Clare!” Dorran had his door open, but he was trapped in the car. One end hung precariously over the collapsing branches. The other was butted up against the opposite side of the bridge, with no room for him to e
scape.

  Clare stepped back a fraction of a second too late. Teeth bit into her shoulder. She screamed and tried to pull out of the hollow’s grip, but the jaws only tightened. Long, spindly arms slid around her chest and her abdomen, its spider-like fingers tapping over her as it locked her into an embrace.

  Pain ran through her shoulder, arcing down her arm. She did the only thing she could think of: she threw herself backwards and used her weight to crush the creature between herself and the stone bridge.

  She felt the teeth break. Two of them stayed in her flesh, the impact embedding them. The monster’s jaw fractured, but it seemed impervious to the pain, and its scrabbling hands continued to tighten around her.

  Clare lifted her crowbar. She couldn’t see the creature pinned under her, but she could feel it. She clenched her teeth as she stabbed the metal down at her side.

  The crowbar pierced through the creature’s flesh, finding a gap just below its ribs, and hit the stones below. Dorran leaned on the horn. The blast was deafening, but it worked. The hollow flinched at the noise, and its arms lost some of their tightness.

  Clare rolled, breaking free of the creature’s embrace. She hit the edge of the bridge. The splintered edges of the broken railing scraped her hip as she passed over it.

  “Ah!” Clare clutched at the stones to stop her momentum. She felt her legs go over first. The water grabbed at them, pulling with more force than she’d thought was possible. Her good arm latched around the remaining wooden railing. The structure cracked. She hung, one arm holding on to the support, the other scrabbling at the stone wall, trying to find a purchase to pull herself back up. Her shoulder burned, sending pain streaking up her neck and into her arm.

  The hollow chattered. From Clare’s position, nearly off the bridge, she couldn’t see it—but she could hear the thick sluicing noise of a body being lifted off the metal pole. Then the tapping, the noise that had haunted her dreams, crept closer. A sunken face appeared, leering down at her. Bony fingers landed on top of Clare’s hand.