by Darcy Coates
(ONE)
I was back inside the house, but it wasn’t the house I knew. The walls were cleaner and seemed to be a lighter shade of off-white, and the modern furniture had been replaced with stiff wooden chairs and tables.
A girl knelt on the ground in front of me. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen, but her sallow skin clung tightly to her bones. A thick black dress covered her from her neck to her ankles, and the sleeves extended to her wrists. It had no shape, no frills, bunching fabric, or ornaments. The best word I could find to describe it was stark.
She was scrubbing at the floor with bright-pink hands. I walked around her to see her face, and a mixture of pity and revulsion ran through me. Her eyes were sunken, heavy-lidded, and dark. Her limp black hair had been done into a plait that draped over her shoulder, nearly touching the wet wooden floor. Her jaw was a little too thick to make her pretty.
Heavy footsteps reached my ears. The girl must have heard them, too, because her scrubbing became faster, almost frantic, and her eyes widened in fear.
A tall, lean man walked into the room. He stood above the girl for a moment, watching as she scraped the brush’s bristles over the wood, then he said, “Let me see.”
She drew back obediently, resting on her knees and fixing her gaze on the ground. I saw then that she hadn’t been cleaning aimlessly; a dark stain was visible on the wood.
“Rise,” he said, and she did, letting the brush hang limply by her side. He walked forward to stand in front of her then gripped her chin in his long fingers. He pulled her face up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Genevieve, what did I ask you to do?”
“Clean the floor, sir.” Her voice was thick and barely above a whisper.
“Is it clean, child?”
“Not yet, sir.”
He leaned closer, his eyes boring into hers. “I expect it to be clean by bedtime tonight. You don’t want to be punished, do you, child?”
“No sir.” Her voice had a definite tremor.
He released her chin, and she returned her gaze to the ground with evident relief. “Count your blessings, Genevieve. You may take a break now as we commune.”
As though on cue, a tall grandfather clock at the back of the room chimed, loud and booming, almost like a church’s bell. Genevieve dropped her scrub brush and hurried into the hallway. I followed her and found her standing beside a door I didn’t recognise.
Footsteps thundered through the house, and one by one, the rest of the family joined Genevieve—five thin women, three teenage boys, a greasy man, four frightened-looking children, an older, haggard man…
I walked past them, examining equally pale faces and equally dead-looking eyes. The oldest teenage boy’s face held a murderously angry look, and he was gripping his left hand. I glanced down and recoiled at what I saw—he was missing three fingers. While the first two stubs looked old and healed, the third stub was raw, red, and barely scabbed over. I reflexively glanced back at the stain the girl had been cleaning. Surely not…?
The clock finished chiming, and the gathered family stood stock-still, lined up in a queue. I counted twenty-one of them in all.
The tall man strode into the hallway, his eyes skimming over those gathered before him, apparently checking that they were all accounted for. Then he took a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door.
“May the Lord have mercy on you all,” he said as they filed into a stairwell.
I woke with a start. Pain burned across my skull, my limbs felt ice cold, and rocks and sticks dug into my back. I tried to rise into a sitting position, but something heavy was holding me down. I opened my eyes a fraction, groaning as the pain flared, and saw the mausoleum’s heavy plank was lying across my chest.
My body felt sluggish and reluctant to obey my commands. Sharp little pricks were touching all over my exposed skin. I thought they might be pins and needles, but then I realised they were huge, icy raindrops.
I groaned again then put my hands against the plank and began to worm my way out. Soon I was able to pull my feet out from under it and crawl to my hands and knees. Everything hurt, so I sat for a moment, waiting for my head to stop spinning and for the aching to recede. Lightning flashed over my head, and I squinted. For a second, it illuminated the roof of the house standing over me.
I climbed to my feet. I had no idea how long I’d been out, but the ground had become thoroughly soaked by the heavy rain. I stumbled one step at a time across the patchy grass, through the gardens that not even the rain could save, and up the four porch steps.
The house was still and cool. Shivering, I stood in the hallway, dripping rainwater and mud while I tried to get my mind to think through what I needed to do. All I wanted was to lie down on the comfy couch where my blanket and pillow still lay and ease the headache with sleep—but my soaked clothes would ruin the leather, and Mrs Gillespie would never forgive me for that.
Grumbling, I continued up the stairs and down the hall then let myself into the bathroom.
My clothes were already soaked, not to mention caked with dirt and little bits of nature, so I didn’t bother undressing before stepping into the hot shower. I let the flow of water wash the clothes clean, then peeled them off bit by bit and threw them into the sink to dry. I took my time showering. The hot water lessened the headache and eased the muscle pain a little, so I enjoyed it until I was too hot to stay any longer, then climbed out and wiped the steam off the mirror.
A red mark started not far above my right eye and extended to my hairline. That has to be where the wood hit me. I reached up and pressed at it, hissing as a flare of pain shot through my skull.
Farther down my body, another mark ran across my lower ribs, where the beam had landed after knocking me out. I didn’t think anything was broken, but I guessed it would bruise fantastically.
I wrapped a towel about my body, left the wet clothes in the sink, and shuffled to my room, where I changed into my nightclothes and dressing gown. By the time I got downstairs again, I was functional enough to pay attention to the terrifically fierce force of nature battering the house. The storm had whipped itself into a frenzy; I stopped by one of the windows and twitched the curtain back to see the rain was being driven nearly horizontal, and the barely visible trees in the distance were thrashing like waves.
The storm continued all through dinner, but by the time I had made a mug of hot tea and retrieved the book I was reading, the downpour had settled to a thick drizzle. I sat on the couch, the blanket bundled around me, while I tried to fall into the world of Margot, my novel’s heroine. It wasn’t easy; she was trying to solve a mystery, but I found I couldn’t focus on it while I had such a bleak, infuriating mystery of my own.
That dream I’d experienced when I was unconscious had felt incredibly real—so real, in fact, that I was finding it hard to convince myself it hadn’t actually happened. That family, wordlessly obeying the thin man… What power did he have over them? Why did they put up with his apparent brutality?
I still hadn’t come up with an answer by the time I’d drained the last of my tea. I considered getting up to make another cup, but I was too tired and cozy in my temporary bed to bother, so I lay back and watched the rain create strange patterns on the window.
(TWO)
I walked down the stairs with the others, following the tall man’s candle. The stairwell led into the basement, terrifically dark and coldly hostile. I heard a scratching noise under the stairs. Rats?
The man continued towards the table at the back of the room. His followers—I was sure they were followers of some weird backwards cult—each stopped to take one of the mats from the table. They then fanned out along the walls to create a circle, placed their mats on the floor, and sat down.
Unseen, I walked between them, curiously watching the mixed looks of resignation and anxiety on their faces. Once they were all seated, their leader opened the box on the table.
“You’re Jonathan Gillespie, aren’t you?” I asked him. He nei
ther heard me nor replied. Instead, he took the book out of the box, opened it and began reading.
“We were begat of darkness, and to darkness, we must return. The Others who live in the shadows have many gifts to bestow; court their favour, and we will be rewarded handsomely. We will be given freedom and see the limits of this mortal world melt away. We will be given life and be awake to witness the passing of the millennium. But spurn the Others of the shadows, and you shall feel the sting of their wrath, and you shall know suffering like none other before your spark is extinguished and you are claimed by your grave.”
He closed the book with a crisp snap. “May the Lord have mercy on you all,” he growled, then blew out the candle, plunging the room into complete darkness. Somehow, I could still see. I glanced up at the ceiling, which doubled as the floor of the room above, where even the thin spaces between the floorboards were filled with plaster.
The family sat shivering in the cold. The youngest children fought their impulses to squirm, and the older family members stared ahead with dead, sightless eyes.
In the dark, insects and rats began to make their appearance. They scuttled between the frozen bodies, obviously familiar with this silent, still circle. Several of the family members closed their eyes as cockroaches crept across their legs.
At the table, Jonathan’s cold grey eyes scanned the room, and I was suddenly struck with the idea that he could see in the dark. The twisted metal skull hovered behind him, a reflection of Jonathan’s unwavering surveillance.
A rat ran past my feet, and I jumped backwards. The room had felt ominous when I’d left the rat traps and poison there that morning—had it really only been half a day ago?—but right then, it felt filled with pure malevolent energy.
The minutes stretched on. How long does Jonathan expect them to stay down here? How long do I have to stay down here? The atmosphere was making me want to gag.
A rat was sneaking up on Genevieve. She had her eyes scrunched closed against the darkness, but she must have been able to hear the rat, because she flinched when it moved closer.
The rat, no doubt emboldened by the knowledge that the warm beings in its domain wouldn’t move, leapt onto Genevieve’s leg. Droplets of sweat developed on her cheeks as she recoiled and bit her lip to smother her heavy breathing. The rat climbed her black dress, pausing every few steps to explore and sniff, while tears appeared in the corner of Genevieve’s eyes.
I moved closer, wanting to knock the rodent off her, but powerless to do so. The rat reached her neck; its whiskers breezed over her exposed skin. I glanced at Jonathan. His scowling eyes were fixed on the child; the fingers of his right hand were spread, resting on the table as though he were preparing to stand.
Genevieve finally shrieked. The rat had bitten her; drops of bright-red blood beaded on her neck as she slapped away the mangy beast. Her eyes finally opened, and terror flashed over her face.
Jonathan stood and walked towards her with slow, ponderous steps. The other family members moved their heads to follow his motion, blind in the darkness but listening to the drama that was unfolding.
Genevieve’s breathing was shallow and ragged by the time Jonathan stopped in front of her.
“Daughter,” he said, and she recoiled at the word, “you’ve broken the stillness. A punishment is in order.”
“May the Lord have mercy on me,” she blurted.
“Don’t punish her,” I begged, standing as close to Jonathan as I dared. “She’s only a child! She couldn’t help herself!”
Jonathan stared down at his daughter, tortuously drawing out the silence. “You will spend the night here,” he said at last. “Maybe some time in our communion place will teach you to respect it.”
Relief flooded Genevieve’s face, but dread quickly replaced it. Clearly, the punishment was better than what she had feared—but was also worse than she’d hoped.
“You understand why I do this,” Jonathan said. He reached out and gripped Genevieve’s chin, turning her head up to face him. His voice was softer, almost, but not quite, caring. “Embrace the darkness, and it will give you strength. Embrace it, and it will give you a life many times longer than what you would otherwise bear. But the darkness is not easy to carry; we must practice and show it respect, so that it will grant us these gifts when it deems us ready. You understand.”
Genevieve was shaking like a leaf. “Yes, Father.”
Jonathan released his daughter’s chin and addressed the rest of the room. “We will return upstairs.”
There were several relieved exhalations, and the others rose, picking up their mats.
“Mathilde, you will take over Genevieve’s cleaning duties tonight.” Jonathan plucked the candle off his table, lit it with a deft stroke, then led the family towards the stairs. Genevieve stayed behind, huddled on her mat as the candlelight faded from sight and the footsteps receded. At last, the door at the top of the stairs clicked closed, leaving the shivering girl alone in the dark.
THIRD NIGHT
“No!” I spat, jerking upright. Pain seared across my temple again, and I pressed my palm to it, waiting for it to ease. Confused and disoriented, I took a moment to realise I was still in my makeshift bed in the living room. I groaned, pulled myself to my feet, and wrapped the blanket about my body.
I must have been asleep for hours; night had coated the house in darkness, and I groped for the light switch. I stumbled out of the living room, where the wooden floor was cool on my bare feet, and into the hallway.
I had to let the girl out. She was trapped, frightened, and surrounded by the rats and insects, and her father planned to leave her there all night. I could help her, though. I had to help her.
The door was so well concealed that I nearly ran past it. It was so different in my dreams; the wooden entry had been tall and dark then, filled with power and importance.
I opened the door and looked into the black stairwell. “Genevieve?”
Idiot, I thought as my voice echoed back at me from the void. It was a dream. Genevieve isn’t real.
It had felt real, though, so much more real than anything else that had happened to me that day, so I hurried into the kitchen and retrieved the candlestick from the table, lit its blood-red candle, and returned to the unholy basement.
The room was almost exactly the way I’d left it at the end of my dream. Only the cloth thrown over the iron skull and the empty floor were different. No Genevieve.
“Of course,” I muttered, more than a little angry at myself for being so impulsive. It was only a dream. Genevieve is probably your brain trying to send you a subconscious message to stop reading horror, or something.
Even so, I found it hard to convince myself that Genevieve didn’t need my help. I turned, preparing to climb the stairs again, and glanced upwards. The cracks in the ceiling were filled in with plaster.
One hand on the bannister and my right foot on the first stair, I was rooted to the spot. That little detail—the plastered ceiling—had been in my dream. Jonathan had filled in every last gap so that no light could find its way into his homage to darkness. But how could that be in a dream if I’d never noticed it before?
My mouth opened a fraction, and I frowned, trying to reconcile the knowledge. Maybe I’d subconsciously noticed the ceiling, and my brain had slipped it into the nightmare. And yet, it wasn’t something I would have noticed unless I was looking for it. Then why…?
The door snapped closed.
I jumped and stared at the place that had once been my escape. A gust of wind followed the door’s motion and caught my dressing gown, chilling me. My candle’s flame died with a quiet hiss.
I swore then started running. Am I trapped? Does the door lock itself?
Pain shot into my foot from where I stubbed my toe, but I didn’t slow down. I imagined myself as Genevieve, trapped in the lightless, heatless basement, fighting off overly bold rats and clicking insects, waiting for a rescue that would come months too late.
Terror made it
hard to think as I reached the landing and felt blindly for the door—which had no handle.
“Damn, damn, damn,” I panted, exhaling the word with every breath. I scrabbled around the edge of the door, my fingernails trying to find purchase, ignoring the stings of splinters. I thought I heard a skittering sound behind me.
Genevieve’s face rose in my mind—her wide, terrified eyes pleaded with her father as he left her in the room, dread painted across her face as she watched her family climb the stairs. I felt her eyes on me, observing me, her companion in her cruel jail.
“No.” I backed up until I felt the wall behind me. Then I started running, angling my shoulder at the door, and hit it as hard as I could.
I burst through it, splinters of wood shooting into the hallway in my wake. My knees gave out, and I collapsed to the ground, panting and clutching at an anxiety-induced stitch. For a moment, I didn’t move. I knelt there on the wooden floor, savouring the sight of the poorly lit hallway and rooms, feeling the burn on my shoulder. Guess that’ll be another bruise.
When I turned back to the door, I saw I hadn’t broken it completely, as I’d assumed. I’d merely cracked the wood around the crude lock.
“Jeeze,” I muttered, gaining my feet and dusting off my dressing gown. I felt wobbly, and my headache was back, throbbing at my skull. The room had made me jittery and anxious, and I didn’t like the way the black stairwell was left exposed, so I shoved the door closed then backed away from it. “You’re sick, Jonathan Gillespie.”
It felt good to be able to say it, to express that hatred and revulsion that his family had been incapable of verbalising. I stumbled to the kitchen, his kitchen, and put the kettle on. I glanced down and saw I still had the candlestick clutched in my hand, thought the candle had broken in half during my escape. I dropped it on the table.
A glance at the clock showed it was a little after midnight. I didn’t feel tired, so I jogged up the stairs to fetch my laptop, and I had it plugged in at the dining table before the kettle had finished boiling.
