by Brian Hodge
A creature crawled up to the guard, moving with an odd kind of grace although it looked like it should be clumsy. It was almost humanoid, naked with pale flesh. It drug deformed legs behind it as it moved, its bald head gleaming in the fluorescent light. One arm seemed useless and thin, while the other was muscled and powerful. It seemed to be smiling and its mouth was full of misshapen and sharp teeth.
The guard shrieked and tried to crawl away through Rabbit’s slippery blood. The creature lunged its face forward, pulling a thick chunk of flesh from the man’s face like an animal. Blood sprayed so far that I was hit with the droplets standing at least seven feet away.
The creature turned its head toward me and shot me what I took for a grin before it crawled off down the corridor. Off in the distance I could hear more screams, then everything went quiet again.
So now here I stand, alone in my blood-splattered cell. Rabbit’s half head stares at me from the floor accusingly. It has been four days now, and no guard has shown his face. I’m convinced that they are all dead. The running water is not working, so I’ve been forced to drink from the toilet. I’m getting to the point where the fly-covered pieces of Rabbit’s flesh are starting to look tasty to me.
How my life had suddenly turned into a surreal nightmare is beyond me. What kind of prison is this place? The creatures seemed to be able to spring right from our dreams? How is it possible? It’s baffling.
My plan is to wait one more day, and then I’ll be forced to venture into the hole in the ceiling. What will become of me I am quite certain is a death similar to Rabbit’s or the guard laying in front of my cell. All I hope is that my death will be as quick as theirs.
I am haunted by these creatures every time I sleep. I am never sure if they are really in the room with me or if it’s a dream.
There are times when I wonder if I’m still sleeping as Rabbit watches me, head cocked to the side as he tries to make out what I’m saying. It’s amazing to me that I actually wish the annoying prick was back alive. Other times I wonder if it wouldn’t be better if I slammed my head into the wall just like Travis did.
I lay back on the bed and close my eyes, awaiting my death. What else can you do when even sleep cannot provide a way of escape?
The last thought that enters my mind before I drift off into my dangerous dreams is of my wasted life and the way I squandered it.
And I wonder if I will wake up in Hell or if I am already there.
Rosahella’s Footprints
Carverton—1890
Edward came out of his trance to the soft sound of his finger bone scraping against the chiseled letters in his daughter’s tombstone. He fell backward onto Rosahella’s snow-covered grave, whimpering in disgust, his hand clutched inside the dark folds of his coat. The last few letters of the tombstone were covered with his flesh and blood, a long, snake-like crimson line dripping from the letter A and into the date of her death just below. He held the mangled finger before his face, the white bone peeking from within the milky blood as if behind glass, and wept.
Visitors to Dark Hallow Cemetery were used to the site of the man, clad all in black, kneeling at the graveside of his dead daughter. Not a day passed that Edward Covington did not visit at least once. A common sight would be Edward standing over the grave in the rain; his wiry form as still as the marble angel statues that guarded the entrance of the burial grounds. It was said that he had lost his sanity the day he found his five-year-old daughter dead on the shore of the lake, arms outstretched as if she would take flight, her pale body covered with stab wounds.
Rosahella was not the first child to be found murdered but one of dozens. All of the children were found on the shore of the lake, some of their bodies so small they appeared to be broken dolls. Most of the town children were not allowed to roam the woods outside of town for fear that they would become the next victim.
Edward stood up and stared around the graveyard to see if he was being watched, holding his hand clenched painfully to his side. Dark Hollow looked strangely beautiful coated with snow, gray tombstones jutting out of an ivory sea. The trees, their leafless branches frosted in white, looked beautiful to his artistic eye. The iron gate that surrounded the cemetery offered a feeling of protection, the spikes encrusted with frost. Dagger-like icicles hung from the roofs of the dozens of mausoleums that lay scattered about, water dropping from the tips and onto the wet ground below.
I wish I could paint it, Edward thought to himself. Despite all the death here, it is so beautiful.
Before Rosahella’s death, Edward had made his living with nothing more than a paintbrush. He had not painted anything since he lost his daughter. Even the death of his wife a year before Rosahella’s had not killed his artistic spirit.
Edward looked down at the grave and tried to imagine his daughter as she had been when alive. The first image that entered his mind was her smile, elegant and exhilarating in its magnificence. When Rosahella smiled, she had the ability to chase away even the worst of moods. The smile was infectious enough, but when followed by the musical sound of her laughter, it was enough to make even the most hardened of men melt. If he closed his eyes, sometimes he could see the way the sunlight glittered off of her golden hair. Feel the way it felt to embrace her when she ran out to meet him when he came home from town.
The soft sound of footsteps approaching in the snow made him open his eyes and he was surprised when he seemed to be alone. He was certain someone had been walking toward him. The sound penetrated the air again, a whispery rustling of movement.
When he saw the imprint of tiny bare feet in the snow just to the left of Rosahella’s tombstone, he nearly collapsed. As he watched, the footprints continued to embed themselves into the white ground, stopping only when they came within a few feet of where he stood. Edward forced himself to breathe, but he stood still, knowing with certainty that his dead daughter was standing invisibly before him.
As he watched, words formed in the snow at his feet as by an imperceptible child’s finger. “Daddy.”
Though Edward struggled to hold in his explosive emotions, a painful sob fired from his mouth in a steamy burst, he fell to his knees before the letters, his finger already tracing the words. It took him a few seconds to realize he was using the exposed bone of his hand and the letters instantly became highlighted with his own crimson blood.
“I miss you, Rosahella,” Edward said, his teardrops falling into the snow with a barely audible hiss. “Daddy has never stopped thinking about you.”
The footprints moved away a bit and turned around as if they wanted him to follow. Edward stood up and brushed the snow away from his knees. The footprints moved right through the fence of the cemetery and into the dense, snow-covered trees beyond. Trying his best to ignore the pain throbbing in his finger, Edward managed to climb the iron fence, carefully avoiding the sharp spikes by folding his coat.
Rosahella’s footprints, patiently waiting as he climbed the fence, started up again once he had crossed. Edward followed his dead daughter silently, both numb and exhilarated at what was happening. He followed the footprints over steep slippery hills, across ice covered streams, through dense foliage and snow covered terrain—ignoring the slicing wind that penetrated deep into his tired bones. Though the snow was deep, Edward sometimes sinking down to his knees, the footprints never went any deeper than an inch.
The trail led Edward to an old gray mansion that rested deep in the ancient forest, a thick wisp of smoke trailing from its brick chimney. The two-story house was kept up well, despite the fact that it was out so far into the woods that visitors were most likely scarce. A wrap around porch, complete with an elaborately carved wooden rail, surrounded the house. The faces of angels, or children, were carved into the wood, all of them gazing toward the heavens with enormous eyes of melancholy. The windows were covered with dark draperies.
Rosahella’s footprints walked over to one of the columns that supported the porch and stopped, waiting for Edward to catch up.
Carved expertly into the column of wood, her eyes so vibrant and expressive they appeared alive, was the face of Rosahella.
Edward ran his finger over the wooden nose and lips, a pained moan coming from deep within his throat.
“Can I help you?” a raspy voice asked from behind him. Edward spun around, the words startling after such a long silence.
The man standing behind him had a lengthy dark beard, speckled with generous amounts of gray. A black top hat rested comfortably on his curly hair. His yellow teeth poked out from his stringy lips, giving him the appearance of a rat or some other kind of vermin. The man’s eyes were strikingly blue; glowing like newly polished gems. He was unnaturally tall, his spidery legs no thicker than sticks. Crows feet made jagged patterns away from his eyes; the lines only working to emphasize his already striking stare.
“Yes,” Edward said, burying his bad hand in his coat. It began to snow, the flakes swirling around their bodies in odd patterns. “Would you mind telling me why the face of my daughter is embedded on the column of your house?”
“Is she?” the man asked. “None of the angels carved into the wood are real. I just carve a face that comes into my mind. If she bears a resemblance to your daughter, maybe it is because she is as beautiful as an angel.”
“Was beautiful,” Edward said, his eyes narrowing.
“Pardon me?”
“Mr…”
“Moore,” the man replied. “My name is Jarret Moore.”
“Well, my daughter was beautiful, Mr. Moore. Rosahella was murdered two years ago.”
Moore walked up to the porch and put one black boot upon the step. “I am very sorry to hear that, my good man. I am honored that my angel bears a resemblance to your daughter. It can only mean she is now at one with the denizens of heaven.”
Edward nodded and continued to study Moore suspiciously. He thought about pointing out the ghostly footprints that had led him here, but decided against it, instead going with his instincts. Something about the bearded man had a feeling of controlled rage.
Moore looked up at the gray sky and shivered. “Looks like it’s going to get worse before it gets better. You can feel it in the air. Would you like to come inside for some tea?”
“I would indeed,” Edward replied.
Moore led him inside the immaculately clean house, placing their coats on an oak coat hanger just inside the parlor. More than a half a dozen paintings hung around the hallway, most of them depicting angels in one way or another. An ornate grandfather clock loomed at the end of the hall, the faces of dozens of cherubs peering out somberly from within the reddish wood. The sounds of their boots striking against the hardwood floor resonated through the quiet house as they walked down a dimly-lit hallway. Edward detected a strong scent of flowers, which seemed unusual in the middle of one of the harshest winters on record.
Moore led him to a door just before the massive clock. “This is my study. Go on in. I’ll go fetch us some tea.”
The study was filled with hundreds of old books, most of them in near perfect condition. A grand table sat in the center, an unlit candelabra in the middle. In one corner of the room sat a small bucket filled to the brim of with the dead petals of flowers, colorful ribbons and bows strewn throughout. A leather-bound copy of John Milton’s Paradise Lost sat opened on the table, the stem of a dead rose holding the page. Edward placed his finger upon the soft paper and read the first line.
Of Man’s first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste
Brought death into the world, and all our woe.
Edward frowned and turned to the window at his back. Snow was pounding into the glass so fiercely that he could barely see the yard outside. He could not help but feel a little wounded by the fact that Rosahella’s footprints would now be completely covered up as if they did not exist.
The sound of a striking match startled Edward from his thoughts and he turned to find Moore lighting the candelabra with a mysterious smile, his long stick-like arm guiding the flame to the wicks. “I thought you might want a little light.”
Moore vanished yet again, but returned a few minutes later with two steaming cups of tea. “Sorry for the wait.”
Edward nodded and sat down, his body cold and weary from the long trek through the woods. “Thank you, sir.”
“It is not a problem at all,” Moore said, sitting down. “To be honest, you are the first guest I have received in the last twenty years.”
Edward took a sip of the hot tea before speaking. It had a vague taste of apple. “I had no idea I would be venturing into the woods today. To be honest, I was led here.”
“Led?” Moore frowned and cocked his head curiously to the side. “Led by whom?”
“My daughter Rosahella.”
“But I thought your daughter was—”
“Dead? She is indeed. It’s the oddest thing. I followed her ghostly footprints into the snow and I end up here.”
“There are other things in these woods than the spirits of dead children,” Moore said, sipping repetitively at his tea. “It could have been anything.”
“I suppose,” Edward replied, carefully studying the man’s face. His wounded finger was throbbing painfully in his pocket. “But what kind of spirit would lead me to a life-like wood carving of my dead daughter’s face? She led me right from her grave.”
Moore started to speak, but closed his mouth and shook his head. Something in the eyes told Edward that the man was disturbed. The strange man stared down into his tea as if he could somehow escape within the cup.
“I found my daughter on the shore of the lake two years ago,” Edward whispered, turning to face the howling storm as if he sensed a kindred soul within the ferocious wind. “I was looking for days, but I never stopped, never slept—nothing. She was lying on her back, staring upwards into the sky. Oh God, she looked so peaceful—so beautiful. The lake had washed the blood away and her skin was so white. The way her arms were outstretched, it was as if someone had made a macabre porcelain doll of her. That image has not left my mind for two years. The first picture I conjure up of Rosahella is her dead face. My life has become hell.” Edward stopped speaking for a moment, his face reddening as if there was a slow burning fire just behind his moist and haunted eyes. “Rosahella was my life. I was lost when I could not wake up and make her breakfast for school. I was just empty.” He choked out the last word and stopped talking again, fighting back his emotions with a pained grimace. “She was my soul. I have not stopped thinking about her for even one moment. I’m dying inside. I don’t think I can stop it unless I find out what happened. The bastard stabbed her over thirty times.”
“Your daughter is with the angels now,” Moore whispered. “That is where all dead children go when they die. Children are not capable of evil. It is what makes them so utterly perfect. What goes wrong that turns men into murderers?”
Edward watched the man speak, his mind exhausted from his own grief. Moore’s eyes were filling up with tears as he spoke.
“Something is deeply wrong with a man,” Moore continued, his voice taking on a resigned tone as he stood up. “A man who gives into his temptations. When a child dies it is as if the world stops. It wounds us all. I wish I could just cease.”
“You sound as if you are responsible,” Edward said.
Moore paused for a moment, something dark stirring from deep within his face. He moaned and an anguished sound fell from his quivering mouth. It was as if he was trying to hold a tremendous weight and was only moments from being crushed to death. Something snapped behind his cryptic eyes and his body sagged momentarily, a wheezing sigh nearly pulling him to his knees. Moore picked up the bucket of dead flowers from the corner of the room and set it gently upon the table. “You must only take what belongs to you.”
Edward stood up and peered into the bucket, his good hand shaking as he plunged it within the decaying petals. The realization that the numerous colorful bows and ri
bbons belonged to the murdered children struck him like a blow and he nearly collapsed into the chair just as his finger closed over the bracelet.
Edward pulled the bracelet from the bucket, watching the dead petals fall from the gold as if in slow motion. The initials of Rosahella Covington could clearly be seen carved into the side.
“I’m so sorry,” Moore whispered, wincing as if he was in agony. The wind bellowed outside of the window directly behind him. His gaunt silhouette stood out in dark contrast to the swirling snow at his back. He let his head drop toward the floor, though his eyes still stayed in contact with the father he had broken.
Edward gripped the bracelet so fiercely that it broke his skin, holding it up toward the ceiling. Blood ran down the gold and onto the pale flesh of his wrist. He closed his eyes tightly, clenching his jaw as if someone had just slipped a knife into the small of his back. “Tell me,” he hissed, tears falling from his closed eyes. “Tell me why. You have destroyed me—the very least you could do is tell me this.”
“She was walking in the woods,” Moore said, his words soft. “I could not stop myself. I have never been able to stop once I see them. See the angels. Children often use the woods for shortcuts. She smiled when I approached her and offered me a piece of her candy. I returned her smile and placed the candy upon my tongue. She was too beautiful to be of this world. She belonged in heaven. I took my knife from the sheath at my side and plunged it into her stomach. I can still see her eyes as she died—so exquisite. So lost was I that I did not realize how many times the knife broke her flesh. I took her to the lake and placed her within the water. I regret murdering her. I regret murdering them all. I cannot stop.”
The two men scrutinized one another in the candlelight—the shrieking wind the only sound. Edward looked like a man too tired to live; his mouth hung slack, his ebony eyes nothing more than burned holes within his flesh.
