by M. J. Hearle
A cry of warning rose in Winter’s throat. Even as it escaped her lips she knew it was too late. The bus driver slammed on the brakes, but the vehicle’s momentum was too great, and the man was struck before he had a chance to turn his head. Instinctively, Winter flinched away so she didn’t see the moment of impact. She heard the sickening thump as his body collided with the unyielding front of the bus, followed by a wet smacking sound. When Winter dared to look again, she saw the man lying several feet away from the bus, twitching as though an electrical current ran through him. Concerned passersby ran to his side, leaving fading blue light trails in their wake. Winter could already tell the effort was futile.
Nobody could survive such a collision.
Chapter 41
Winter had never seen anyone dying before. Her parents had been killed while she was in class at school, and it wasn’t until she’d gone with Lucy to the hospital and seen her parents lying on the morgue slab that the unbearable reality of the situation had slammed home. Even then, Winter remembered being grateful that she was spared viewing the moment of their death. Now, here it was happening right before her eyes – the truth of mortality. The sudden, messy and violent truth.
Even from this distance, Winter could see the red glow from the man’s eyes as he lay within the circle of onlookers. It had taken on a dimmer quality, but it continued to stand out in marked contrast to the blazing blue lights of those around him. Ashamed of herself for feeling anything other than horror at the man’s fate, Winter couldn’t help but see the beauty of the colours in the tableau – the shimmering vibrancy of the red and blues partially obscured by the falling rain. It was a moment of transcendental wonder, and over far too quickly.
A coldness suddenly stole over Winter that had nothing to do with the wet clothes clinging to her body. It was almost as though she’d stepped into the shadow of something monstrous and invisible: something that blocked out all light and warmth. Three dark shapes appeared in the corners of her vision and began to drift towards the dying man. The shapes were tall – at least seven foot – and moved in an inhumanly smooth manner, as if they were gliding. Winter wasn’t sure where they’d come from, only that the sight of them made her want to shrink inside herself and disappear.
What were they?
Despite being vaguely human in appearance, the spectres were clearly anything but. Their elongated heads were completely hairless, white and smooth – more like polished bone than skin. A strange luminescence seemed to radiate from their skin like smoke, etching the figures in a shimmering white light. The creatures might have been eerily beautiful were it not for their eyes: jet black, like polished ebony. No white, no iris, no pupil, just a terrifying, restless darkness, which even from this distance Winter found frightening. Two of the creatures were dressed in identical tight-fitting black robes, accentuating their elongated, skeletal frames and hiding their feet – these robes reminded Winter of the cassocks worn by Jesuit missionaries, without any of the benign inference such clothing possessed. The third figure’s robe was slightly different. Strange, swirling crimson designs embroidered the hemline, sleeves and collar, marking this creature as separate from the other two. This must be the dominant entity, their master.
The Master opened its mouth, communicating with the other two not with words, but by clicking its small grey teeth together like a giant insect. The sound made Winter shudder. It sounded completely inhuman. It sounded wrong. With a chilling realisation she knew she’d heard this clicking before – in the woods outside the Velasco place.
Winter was clearly the only one who could see the apparitions; otherwise the people gathered around the dying man surely would have started screaming in terror once the creatures entered their midst. And yet the concerned onlookers seemed to sense their presence, instinctively moving aside to let the creatures through.
Watching in horror, Winter gasped as the first creature held the dying man down while the second reached into the folds of its cassock and withdrew something small and sharp. The Master stood over them, observing or perhaps directing their actions. Winter’s enhanced vision, which she now wished away more than ever, allowed her to see the object the creature held in its fingers: scissors! Though relatively small and innocuous, the blades gleamed with danger in the grey light.
The creature wielding the scissors now did something that made Winter question whether she had completely lost her mind. Ignoring the laws of physics, the creature’s pale hand passed through the man’s clothes and ribcage as though it were smoke. The hand was withdrawn a moment later, clutching a pulsing ball of red light – the intensity of which hurt Winter’s eyes.
The man’s struggles intensified now that the creature held the light in its clutches. He began to spasm; his legs jerking as though he was trying to kick off the spectres and free himself. Winter felt tears prick her eyes as she watched him struggle – it was just so awful!
Thin tendrils of red light threading from the man’s chest clung to the orb in the monster’s hand, like arteries snaking to a heart. Using its scissors, the creature began to snip through the threads of light, presumably to finish removing the orb from the dying man’s being. Seeing the man’s essence being cut free provoked such primal horror in Winter that she was barely aware of the cry rising in her throat.
‘Stop it!’
The onlookers gathered around the man glanced in her direction, some with more curiosity than others. However, the spectacle of a hysterical girl shouting from the footpath wasn’t nearly as interesting as the gory figure lying at their feet. Her cry also drew the attention of the creatures. They paused in what they were doing and slowly turned their heads towards her.
The Master, particularly, seemed fascinated by Winter’s intrusion. Her blood ran cold as it tilted its head to one side, studying her. Slowly the Master raised its arm and pointed at Winter. Obeying a silent command, the other two creatures began to glide across the road towards her.
What had she done?
Winter tried to scream, but couldn’t. There didn’t seem to be enough air in her lungs to generate the sound she needed to make. Her limbs felt weak and rubbery; the fear had stolen her strength. But she couldn’t just stand here! Those things were coming fast. If they reached her . . .
That terrible prospect was enough to break her paralysis, and Winter turned and ran.
Chapter 42
Winter had no destination in mind; she just knew she had to get away. Rain stung her eyes, blurring her vision. The shoppers she hurtled past regarded her with shocked expressions – what did she look like to them? Some mad girl tearing through their midst? For whatever reason, she was the only one cursed with the ability to see the horrors chasing her. How could they not hear that awful clicking sound? It seemed to drown out all other noises, rising above the din of traffic on Maple Boulevard, even her own harried breathing. And it was growing louder.
Winter’s heart pounded in her chest; her lungs threatened to burst. She was no runner. She was a sitter, an eater, a TV-watcher. This type of exercise was beyond her. If she didn’t stop soon she was going to collapse from exhaustion.
Another sound rumbled through the demonic chattering: an engine. Someone was driving up behind her. A truck by the sound of it. There was a blur of motion out of the corner of Winter’s eye as the truck overtook her, jumped the curb, and skidded to a noisy halt across the pavement. In her current state, Winter was too disorientated to realise she’d seen this vehicle before – it was just another obstacle blocking her escape. She was about to circle around it when the driver leaned out of the window. Winter almost wept with relief at the sight of his harried, yet still recognisably beautiful, features.
‘Quickly, get in!’ Blake said, beckoning urgently to her. His gaze darted past Winter, darkening at what he saw there.
Winter didn’t need any more encouragement, nor did she need to see how close the creatures were. She could hear them. Their demonic chattering sounded ever closer as she raced to the truck. Once in
side, she barely had time to close the door before Blake slammed down the accelerator. The truck leapt forward, its momentum pinning her against the seat. Gripping the armrest, Winter braced herself as Blake sent the truck hurtling back onto the road, narrowly missing a blue minivan. The driver’s horn blasted angrily at them as they sped away.
‘Are you okay?’ Blake asked, eyes worriedly flicking from the road to Winter.
She couldn’t answer. There didn’t seem to be enough air in her lungs to form the words. Her legs throbbed as if someone had jammed red-hot needles into her shins and was slowly twisting them.
‘Winter?’ Blake asked again, clearly troubled by her silence.
‘What . . . what are those things?’ she managed to say at last. Her voice sounded weak and distant.
‘They’re called many names – soulsmiths, ferrymen, reapers. I know them as Skivers,’ Blake said grimly.
Winter’s thoughts spun as she tried to get a grip on herself. Was it possible to physically strain your mind the way you could a muscle? If so, she was in danger of injuring herself. Her hands started to shake uncontrollably, the convulsions spreading down to the rest of her body. There was the sound of teeth clicking together, and for one horrifying second Winter thought it was the creatures, until she realised it was her own teeth chattering.
‘There was a man back there,’ she began, as if talking it through might help her deal with it better. ‘He got hit by a bus, and then those things came. The Skivers . . .’
‘Did you see a red light in his eyes? Before the bus hit him.’
Winter turned to him, eager for his explanation. ‘Yes – what does it mean?’
‘The light is called the Occuluma. If it was glowing red, instead of blue, then it means he was marked for harvesting.’
‘Occu—’
‘Occuluma. Invisible to the naked eye, except for those with the Sight. The Occuluma is a way of measuring someone’s life force. The brighter the blue flame burns, the longer you have to live. As the light diminishes and grows faint, the closer we come to death.’
Winter frowned, unable to keep up with the flow of information.
‘Blake, slow down. I don’t understand —’
Blake shook his head, wrenching the steering wheel to the right as he overtook a slow car. ‘There’s no time, Winter. You’re going to have to try to keep up. I know how confusing this must be.’
She noticed his eyes dart to the rear-view mirror and felt a stab of fear. Surely they’d left the Skivers far behind? The truck was moving at a dizzyingly quick pace, Blake expertly weaving it in and out of gaps through the afternoon traffic. Another car would have difficulty keeping pace with them, let alone three creatures travelling on foot. Still, she had to see for herself, if only to be certain. Tentatively, Winter turned . . .
‘Don’t look!’ Blake warned from beside her, a second too late.
The Skivers were still following. Winter could see their dark, wraithlike forms distorted in the rain-slicked glass. They were gliding after Blake’s truck with supernatural fluidity, the hems of their black garments barely touching the ground. It didn’t look as if they were gaining on them but they weren’t falling away either.
Winter slumped in the seat, a sob of terror escaping her lips.
‘Winter?’
‘This isn’t happening.’
Blake shot a look in her direction, alarmed by her pallor. She was going into shock.
‘What can I do?’
‘Talk to me, please,’ Winter begged. She felt as though her sanity was slipping free from its moorings. ‘Help me understand what’s happening.’
‘Okay, I’ll do my best. Focus on my voice. Try not to think about what’s behind us.’
As impossible as his request was, Winter appreciated Blake’s effort. It couldn’t be easy for him to concentrate on the road and talk to her at the same time. He took a deep breath and began.
‘We all have a path, Winter. A beginning and an end. If we ever step off this path, if we avoid our preordained end, then we become marked. Our Occuluma changes colour. It turns from blue to red. The man you saw earlier, the one who got hit by the bus, must have stepped off his path. At some point before today he should have died and didn’t. Either on purpose, blind luck or through someone else’s intervention, he escaped fate. Once this happened his soul became forfeit.’
Winter stared blankly ahead, watching the road disappear beneath Blake’s truck. Too preoccupied with her own fears, she was having trouble processing his words.
‘Soul?’
‘As good a word as any for the light that resides in us all.’
‘Those things chasing us can steal our souls?’
‘Put on your seatbelt,’ Blake suggested, just before wrenching the steering wheel violently to the right as he swung to overtake a slow-moving car. Winter was thrown against him, and then flung painfully into the side door. Feeling dazed, she strapped the seatbelt around her.
‘Not steal. Remove under certain circumstances. They can’t just take anyone’s soul,’ Blake continued. ‘Only those whose Occuluma glows red. Those who are no longer part of life’s plan. Even then, the Skivers are beholden to a set of ancient rules. For example, they are forbidden from directly attacking the living.’
‘What do you mean? They have to wait until someone gets hit by a bus?’
Blake struggled to put the concept plainly. ‘Not exactly. The Skivers are evil creatures; their very presence disrupts the natural order of things, taints people’s thoughts, causes accidents – like the bus hitting the man. They inspire fear and dread. Often they can use this dark influence to drive their intended victim to the point where they take their own life; other times it takes longer. Eventually, though, they always get what they want.’
He took the turn-off into Harris Street too fast, the truck’s tyres screaming in complaint, and angled towards Owl Mountain. Winter didn’t know where they were going, and didn’t care. She just wanted to get as far away from those things as possible. Even more so now she had an inkling of what they were capable of. Disoriented, Winter looked out the window, but the view of the shopfronts rushing by made her feel even less in control.
‘Why can I see them? What’s happened to me?’
‘You’ve always had the Sight, Winter, the ability to see the invisible. It’s just lain dormant inside you. Last night on the beach when we . . .’ Blake stopped himself, as though hesitant to mention the stolen kiss. ‘It awoke this ability. It will probably weaken over time, it might not; I’m not sure. I didn’t plan for any of this to happen.’
The kiss was the reason behind all this madness. If she’d never thrown herself onto Blake, maybe she would have been spared this terror – this ability he alluded to. The Sight.
Winter’s mind buzzed with questions, but before she could ask them the words died on her lips. She stared at Blake’s eyes – at the Occuluma shining in them. It was green, differing from the blue and red spectrums she’d seen, but no less hypnotic.
‘Look away, Winter,’ he said quietly, eyes fixed on the road.
She obeyed, feeling oddly guilty, as if she’d glimpsed something private, an aspect of Blake that he wasn’t comfortable sharing with her. Turning her attention back to the road, she saw that he was driving them towards the intersection of Smith and Riley Street – one of the busiest junctions in the Bluff. All thoughts of Blake’s unique Occuluma were cast aside when she realised with alarm that their pace wasn’t slowing. The traffic light was orange, but any second now it would be turning red.
Blake accelerated, swerving around the braking cars ahead of them and speeding towards the intersection. Winter caught a glimpse of the traffic light flashing red just before they crossed into the path of the oncoming traffic. The rainswept world outside the truck suddenly shifted into slow motion. She observed in startling detail the cars approaching through her passenger window, heard the squeal of tyres as the closest one slammed on the brakes.
Gritting her teeth,
Winter prepared herself for the impact, but at the last instant Blake managed to swerve, avoiding the skidding car careening towards them. He manoeuvred the truck safely through to the other side, a cacophony of horns blaring in its wake.
Winter slowly unclenched her jaw. How much more of this could she take? Blake had fallen silent beside her, concentrating all his attention on driving. Wary of distracting him further, a new question now occurred to Winter, one that seemed particularly pertinent given the situation.
‘Why are they chasing us, Blake?’ she asked, resisting the urge to look behind her. ‘You said those things – the Skivers – are drawn by the red Occuluma. That they can’t just cut the souls out of anyone they want. Why would they . . .’
Winter trailed off, her mouth suddenly dry. No, it couldn’t be!
‘I’ll explain later,’ Blake responded, hastily filling her silence in as though hoping to stop her thoughts from heading further down the dangerous course she’d started. ‘When we’re safe.’
Winter hardly heard him. She was barely aware of anything any more except the cold, dread certainty that was forming. The rumble of the truck, the rain spattering against the windows, her wet clothes – anything tethering her to the here and now lost its consistency as she withdrew into herself. It felt as though she was back on Jessie, hurtling towards the edge of the cliff, rushing into a dark fate impossible to avoid.
‘Winter?’ Again, she heard Blake’s voice, more insistent this time. Her hands trembling, Winter reached up and grasped the rear-view mirror, angling it towards her. In a second, she saw her fears realised in the glass.
Blake flicked the mirror away from her in a futile attempt to hide the reflection from her.
‘I wish you hadn’t seen that,’ he said sadly.
Chapter 43
Winter squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the image. It was no use. Even with her eyes closed she could still vividly see her frightened, pale reflection. And her eyes . . . the crimson tongues of fire burning in the depths of her eyes. The red Occuluma. Now she understood why the Skivers were chasing them. Her soul was marked for harvesting. She was supposed to be dead.
