by Isla Jones
The wrinkled hands of the grandmother were clasped on her lap—but her flesh was rotten. Boils covered the grey skin, circled by dents and scratches. And the sores; they oozed pus.
Blake’s lips parted in horror. Was she dead, she wondered? How long had she been sitting there?
Blake took another step to assess the grandmother’s face. Her eyes were closed, as if in a peaceful sleep; but her lips had peeled and cracked into scabs. Her skin sagged off her face like a wax-mask.
Blake reached out her quivering hand to check for a pulse. But she jerked back and stifled a gasp—
The old woman’s eyes snapped open.
Her eyes were gone… they were now just hollow pits of darkness, as if her eyeballs had been scooped out the sockets.
The grandmother’s lips spread into a toothless grin, and a hauntingly cruel cackle tore from her black mouth. She wasn’t a grandmother, observed Blake—she was a thing!
Stunned, she staggered backwards; away from the cackling, eye-less, tooth-less creature.
Blake’s back collided with the wall. Her legs wobbled beneath her shaking body. Her hands slapped against her parted lips to muffle a cry.
The cackle stopped.
And, just as quickly, the old woman stood and faced Blake, a mere metre between them.
Blake erupted into terrified scream. The panicked sound was almost drowned out by her own thunderous heartbeat.
It lunged at her, that thing that had once been human. Blake, her vision obscured by a flow of tears, struck the old woman with the diadem. The grandma didn’t even flinch before she tackled Blake to the ground. Blake might as well have been wrestling with a cage fighter; the frail corpse possessed the strength of Hercules, she realised.
Its bony fingers curled into Blake’s tresses and slammed her head into the wooden floor. A blinding pain exploded in her skull as she blinked back tears, thrashing beneath the creature. Blake kicked her leg out and struck the old woman’s chest, sending her flying onto her back. Scrambling to her feet, Blake fished out the mace from her cleavage and raced out of the room. She made to turn right, back to the staircase—to leave, to run home and tell her dads!—but the old woman collided with her again.
They crashed into the wall—so hard that portraits rattled all the way down the hall—and they both tumbled to the rug in a tangled heap. Arching her back, Blake’s winded lungs clutched at oxygen as she rasped on the floor. The thirst for air burned at her starving throat; the thud in her head clouded her sight.
The manic old woman climbed on top of her.
The grandma cackled as she clutched Blake’s neck in a vice-like grip. Darkness seeped into Blake’s vision, but through it she could see a blur of madness on the creature’s hollow face. The voids that had once been eyes bore down at Blake’s pleading, watery gaze.
She flailed her legs, bucked her hips, raked her fingernails down its arms—all to jolt the monster from her body. But its fingers were wound too tight around her neck. Blake’s movements slowed quickly. Heat poured into her face as blood gathered there. Blake wondered if her head would explode.
She dragged her hooded gaze to the floor in search of a weapon. The can of mace rested on the centre of the rug; she stretched out her fingers to reach it.
Her fingertips grazed the side of the can, coaxing it closer. But her vision blurred and her fingers twitched—oxygen was cut off from her brain; her body jerked, crying out for air. Then, her foot twitched as her body began to go limp.
Eyelashes fluttered as her eyes threatened to roll back into her head. The cruel cackling creature crowed on top of her body. It was glad, she thought distantly; glad that Blake was slowly drifting away.
That did it. The thought of death sent a final surge of life through her. Blake smacked her heavy fingers on the mace and dragged it closer. She fumbled with it until she grabbed and raised it to the grandma’s face.
The can in her loose grip wobbled, shaking almost as much as her life source. She pressed her finger down on the trigger and sprayed right into the thing’s toothless mouth.
It choked. Its body heaved as it coughed, and the mace spewed back out from its lips.
The grip on Blake’s neck loosened. Blake sprayed and sprayed; her chest rising as her throat greedily sucked in air.
Life flooded her body as she squirmed out from beneath the wailing grandma. Black blood seeped from its rotten lips and it screeched on the rug, twitching and gagging.
Blake scrambled to her feet and looked at the door at the end of the hall.
“Zeke,” she choked, tripping over her own limp feet.
Blake staggered and reeled down the hallway, away from the screeching thing behind her.
“Zeke!”
His bedroom door remained shut. He didn’t come to her aid. Blake reached the door, hastily opened it, and lurched inside.
A wild shriek tore down the hallway, drawing closer to the door. Blake slammed it shut, wheezing, and pushed her back against it. The handle dug into her spine.
The beast threw itself against the hard door. Blake wailed as the door rattled against her back, and feral cries tore through the manor.
It stopped. The shrieks no longer clawed at Blake’s ears, and the door stopped rattling against her back. All that could be heard were Blake’s own choked sobs and hammering heart.
She placed her hand on her chest, trying to calm herself. She had to think; to escape and call the Sheriff. Cautiously, she stepped away from the door. Her muscles tensed as she waited for it to rattle again, but it didn’t.
Blake suddenly raced over to the dresser. Pushing her weight against it, she thrust it across the room, using it to block the door—just in case. Then, she turned to face the room and squinted through the dimness. Zeke’s bedroom was tidy—too tidy. His bed was made, his desk organised, the floor clean of dust, and the laundry basket empty.
Her gaze settled on the window and a gasp of relief escaped her—she lunged for it. She wrenched open the drapes, but her heart plummeted to her hollow stomach at what she saw. It was nailed shut at the windowsill.
“No, no, no,” she muttered.
Rubbing her hands over her tear-stained face, Blake tried to focus her mind, to train it on a way out of the manor. Her phone was in the car, lost somewhere from when she’d thrown it. The keys were in the ignition, which she was grateful for, as it would make for a quicker escape. But she had no weapons on her, and the empty can of mace in the corridor was no good now.
Dropping her hands to her side, she turned on her heel and spotted a sliver of yellow light beneath a second door; the ensuite door, tucked in the corner of the room, almost hidden by the bulky wardrobe.
Blake dashed over to the door, hoping that it was unlocked. Her hand clasped around the brass knob before her wrist twisted. The opened quietly and Blake made sure to stifle her frantic breaths as much as possible. As she opened the door all the way, light flooded into Zeke’s bedroom.
A foul stench punched her senses; bile crept up her throat from the odour. The brightness of the ensuite had her eyes clenching shut—white spots danced in her vision.
After a brief pause, Blake blinked to adjust to the light. Her index finger lifted and pinched her nose to block the smell. The light cleared in her eyes, then red seeped into her sight. Suddenly, Blake exploded into a tirade of horrific screams—
Zeke’s body lay sprawled out on the tiles. It was bent and broken in a pool of blood—his blood. Symbols, she saw, were painted with his blood on the tiled walls and were cut into his freckled skin.
Blake made to reach out for him—to do what, she didn’t know. He couldn’t have a pulse; he was dead. But before her hand even lifted, the door opposite her burst open and shook against its hinges.
Blake screamed wildly. The grandmother stood in the threshold, black tar dripping from her mouth, and her body heaving.
Blake spun on her heels and bolted into the bedroom.
The creature caught up with her before she could reach the
window. Blake was thrown off her feet, as if hit by a truck. A sickening crunch resounded through the room, drowned out by the grandmother’s cackles, as Blake’s head crashed into the windowsill.
A whimper whispered from Blake’s bloodied lips. Her body wilted and she slid down from the window to the floor. The creature snatched a handful of her curls and flipped her onto her back. Blood poured from Blake’s cracked skull, trickling down her face and into her hooded eyes.
Her vision blurred—all she could make out was a swift blur of movement above her. She wasn’t sure what she saw—she couldn’t comprehend it, couldn’t grasp it.
The creature screeched in agony; ripped to pieces. There was a blond man, as pale as the moonlight, standing above her. He crouched down beside her, covered in black sludge. His head cocked to the side, and fleetingly Blake felt she knew him.
Theo, her mind said. Before she could speak, darkness took hold and dragged her down into the abyss.
7
The Crazies
Blake had always liked that sound—the sweet melody of birds chirping in the morning. When birds chirped at night or during the day, she didn’t notice. But the morning songs were beautiful; peaceful. It woke her up with a soft smile in her comfy bed. Her feathery duvet hugged her body, and the side of her face melted against her favourite pillow. Everybody has a favourite pillow. The floral one was Blake’s. It was soft, thick, and cushiony, just like it ought to be.
Blake hummed as she opened her sleepy eyes to gaze out of the window. The morning sunlight poured inside, and brightened her white and pink bedroom.
She blinked.
Foggy memories leaked into her mind—the reservoir, Theo attacking her, driving to Zeke’s, his grandmother …
She jolted upright. Her fingers, twisted in the sheets, curled as the horrors came rushing back to her, flooding her mind. The windowsill, the head injury—
She slapped her hand to her forehead, expecting to find a bandaged wound, or stitches, or even a stab of pain. But her skin was smooth, there was no ache. Blake splayed her fingers and dabbed them all over her face. There wasn’t so much as a pimple.
“What the hell?” she whispered to herself.
Her hands dropped to the mattress. Craning her neck, she glanced at the shabby nightstand. As always, her lamp stood there, a notepad, a glass of water and her phone. She could’ve sworn she had left her phone in her car.
Blake snatched it from the nightstand and tapped the screen. It was Saturday, 8.30AM. She unlocked her phone. There was on missed call from Rachel and a voicemail.
Her thumb smacked against the voicemail button, and Rachel’s annoyed voice shrilled out from the speaker.
“Where are you! I’ve been looking all over for you, B. If you can’t come, at least let me know, ok? Bethany’s here, but she isn’t exactly a ball of fun. Oh, you probably won’t care, but guess who’s been asking about you? Hunter. Yeah, that guy from the bayou. I told him to get lost, but he’s looking for you now—”
Blake ended the voicemail and opened the call log instead. There, facing her, was the proof. Six unanswered calls she’d made to Zeke last night.
She selected the note app and saw that there was a message typed. ‘Don’t go back there. —T.’
Blake threw the duvet off her body and climbed off the bed. Standing, she looked down at her body. It was the same body she’d looked at every day—no bumps, cuts, or bruises shone on her skin. Her white floral shorts hung off her waist, tied at the strings; her torso was covered with a white spaghetti-strap top; her hair fell over her shoulder in a perfect fishtail braid—A better plait than she could do, or even Abe.
Again, she glanced at her phone and reread the message. ‘Don’t go back there. —T.’
Theodore? Vaguely, she remembered his face; though it was blurred and smeared with black sludge. The sludge she remembered. It had spewed from the grandmother-creature’s mouth after she’d sprayed mace into it. It was the creature’s blood, a tarry substance.
Theodore had saved her. She remembered that, now.
But if that were true, how could Blake be standing there in her bedroom, with no memory of how she got home and not a single laceration to show for it? He must’ve taken her home afterwards. He must’ve…
Blake’s face hardened as she glared at her braid and sniffed it. Shampoo.
Lifting her arm, she inhaled the scent of her skin. The stench of blood, dirt and sweat should’ve drifted up her nostrils. Instead, the aroma of coco-butter and perfume wafted up from her pores. Theodore had washed her; he’d changed her clothes, braided her hair and … somehow healed her wounds.
But that wasn’t possible, she thought.
Groaning, Blake toppled back onto the mattress and flattened her hands against her face. There was so much she didn’t know, too much. But there was one thing she knew she had to do. For Zeke.
Blake came bursting through the door. Abe and Jack sat in the living room, chatting over the day-time programmes that showed on the plasma TV screen. They looked over the back of the sofa and observed their panicked daughter.
Blake blurted out, “What happened last night?”
Abe shared a puzzled look with Jack.
“Tell me!” she shrieked, her hands clenching at her sides. “What happened after you sent me to bed?”
“You went to your room, and that’s all,” said Abe. “Jack and I had a late dinner when he came home, then watched some tele.”
“No, no, no,” she said, shaking her head. “With me. What did I do? Did I come downstairs? Did you check on me?”
“I popped in to say goodnight,” replied Jack, frowning at her. “You were fast asleep.”
“Ah!” she exclaimed, pointing at him. “But did you really check on me? Did you see my face? Was I really in the bed, or was it pillows?”
Abe snorted. “Pillows? Blakie, did you have a bad dream?”
“You could say that,” she mumbled. “So? Did you see me?”
“I saw you,” said Jack. “I came into your room, tried to wake you up, but you were dead to the world.”
“What time was that?”
Jack threw up his hands and looked at Abe. “I don’t know, Blake. Maybe just after ten o’clock. Why?”
“No reason,” she said and backed out of the room. “Bye!”
“Bye?” echoed Abe, jumping to his feet. “Where are you going? You’re still grounded, Blake!”
Blake let the door shut behind her. In her shorts and singlet, she raced to the front door and checked the key bowl. Her keys at the top of the pile. Just as the living room door swung open—Abe and Jack chasing her—she snatched her keys and bolted out of the house.
Her Jeep was parked on the grass patch. There was no way, she thought, that she had done that. Blake would’ve remembered driving home and parking her own car.
“Blake!” bellowed Jack, rushing out of the front door. “Get back here! You’re still grounded!”
“Sorry!” she shouted and climbed into her car.
Blake started the engine and shoved the gearstick into drive. Abe sprinted toward the car, but then she released the handbrake and skidded onto the road.
In her rear-view mirror, Jack shouted after her, and Abe paced back and forth. Even Ms Walters had come out of her house, hugging a tabby cat to her bosom, and watched Blake speed out of sight.
Blake swerved into a disabled park. The tyres skidded over the asphalt and the back wheels lurched. She didn’t have time to park elsewhere—she scrambled out of the Jeep, snatched her denim jacket, and slammed the door shut. As she tugged on the jacket, she looked up at the building in front of her.
The police station.
The deputy stood on the steps out front, warning her with his stare alone. He was about to give her a ticket for reckless driving and parking in a disabled spot. But she didn’t care. She raced up the steps, snubbed his shouted protests, and shoved through the swing door.
The reception was quiet. The administrator sat at his
desk, and a grubby man from the bayous—who reeked of moonshine—sat on the plastic chair against the wall, his hands cuffed together.
“Sheriff Cotton?” she hollered. “Has anyone seen the Sheriff?”
The receptionist gave her an exasperated look and waved her over. “He’s busy,” he said. “What do you want?”
Blake looked around and licked her lips. Then, she placed her hands on the edge of the table, and leaned closer to the receptionist. Her nails dug into the false wood, leaving crescent dents.
“I need to report a murder.”
*
Blake would’ve called the interview room a cupboard. It was a small dank box with one metal table and two metal chairs. Sheriff Cotton sat opposite her. His calm expression remained unreadable as she explained everything. She told him of the stranger, Theo; the altercation at the diner; Bethany and Zeke’s odd behaviour; the creature at the manor; Zeke’s death. She told him everything that she could remember.
“And that’s when I woke up,” she finished lamely. “I came straight here.”
He thought she was mad. She could tell, not by his gaze, but by the heavy silence that passed between them.
She hugged her denim jacket closer to her chest, sinking back into the cold chair.
After a while, Sheriff Cotton said, “Do you want a coffee?”
Blake raised her brows in surprise—then her whole face crumpled into a scowl; her creased green eyes narrowed at him as her upturned nose wrinkled. “No.” Her voice was terse. “I want to make a statement.”
“I see.” Cotton rubbed his stubble. “Maybe you should talk to your parents first. That’s a big decision to make on impulse.”
“On impulse?” she echoed. “My friend is dead, Sheriff!”
“About that.” He still scratched his grey stubble. “You said a strange creature killed him? One without eyes or teeth, and with tar for blood.”
Blake rolled her jaw. He thought she was crazy, and she could see why.
