by Amy Cross
My head feels so heavy, but I force myself to sit up straight in the armchair. It's way past midnight and I've nodded off for a few minutes here and there, but for the most part I've used a combination of diet pills and good old-fashioned arm pinching to make sure I don't fall properly asleep. There's been no sign of Alice since Dad went back to bed, and no sign of whatever's chasing her. I was followed downstairs, I'm sure of that, but since then...
Nothing.
Looking down at my laptop, I bring up another website about ghosts and demons. I never believed in any of this stuff until tonight, but I figure I've got to find out what's trying to 'claim' Alice. So far I've read about hundreds of different entities, all of which sound completely ludicrous, and I'm starting to think that these are all just the ramblings of unsound minds. At the same time, I know that something is hunting my daughter, and I can't just give up and let her fall into its clutches.
I have to protect her.
I click through to another page, but after a couple of seconds I realize I can hear a very faint creaking sound somewhere nearby. Glancing around the room, I listen as the sound continues, and then I set my laptop aside before getting to my feet. When I reach the door to the kitchen, I peer through and see to my surprise that the handle on the back door is once again turning very slowly, as if something is trying to get out. I locked that door earlier, of course, but I watch as the handle turns several more times, still creaking slightly.
“What do you want?” I whisper.
The handle turns a little more.
“Alice, is that you?”
The handle turns again, and then freezes.
I take a step forward.
“Don't be scared,” I continue. “I'm here, baby. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you.”
Still watching the handle, I wait in case it moves again.
“Do you understand?” I ask. “I will not let anyone get to you. Whatever's in this house, if it wants you, first it has to get through me. And that's not happening, so you'd better believe you're safe.”
The handle creaks slightly and turns a fraction.
I take another step closer.
“Alice,” I whisper, “I'm right here. Mummy's -”
Suddenly the handle stops turning and footsteps race across the room.
“Stop!” I yell, as I realize that once again Alice must be being chased around the house by whatever creature or demon or ghost is after her. “Leave her alone!”
I run after the footsteps as they race into the next room, then into the next, but I can't quite catch up. I clatter into the hallway table, which slows me down for a moment, and then I race into the dining room.
“Leave her alone!” I scream as I listen to Alice's panicked footsteps. She must be so terrified, but I don't know how to save her. I'll find a way, though. I swear to God, I will keep my daughter safe.
Up ahead, a door slams shut.
“Alice, come to me!” I shout, hurrying back through to the hallway. “Alice, I'm trying to help you, but I need you to tell me what's happening!”
As I say those words, I hear footsteps racing up the stairs. I start to follow, breathlessly trying to catch up, and as I get to the top I'm just in time to see Alice's bedroom door slam shut.
“Alice!”
I start walking toward the door, but almost instantly I hear the brushing sound over my shoulder. I stop and turn, but the sound is gone now.
“Leave her alone,” I sneer, before turning and taking another step toward the door.
The sound returns.
“Leave her alone!” I yell, turning again, just as the sound stops one more time. “Are you following me to my daughter's room? Is that it? What kind of sick thing are you? What do you want with her? She's just a child!”
I wait, just in case some kind of apparition appears in front of me, and then I turn and take another step toward Alice's room.
The brushing sound returns.
“Leave us alone!” I scream as I turn yet again. There are tears in my eyes now and I feel as if I'm about to explode with rage and fury. “She's not yours! She's mine and you can't have her! Whatever you are, I will never let you have her! She's mine!”
As I say those words, I realize I can hear Alice sobbing in her bedroom. The thought of her tears is enough to break my heart, so I turn and head to the door, and this time I force myself to ignore the brushing sound as it once again starts following me. With each step, however, I feel more and more certain that something is right behind me, but I tell myself that there's no point looking back because I know there won't be anything there.
“She's mine,” I whisper, trying to stay strong as I reach the door and grab the handle. “She's -”
And then I freeze as I see that the knuckles of my right hand are red raw and bleeding. The skin is worn away so badly, I can actually see bone showing through the blood.
“What the hell?” I whisper, only now noticing the pain.
After a moment I turn and look over my shoulder, and to my horror I see that there's a thin but distinct trail of blood smeared along the wall, running all the way from the top of the stairs to the spot where I'm standing now. The blood is glistening and bright red, but there are other, older-looking smears on the same wall, and more on the wall opposite.
“How can that...”
Holding my hand up, I take a closer look at the patches on my knuckles. Blood dribbles down to my wrist and onto my forearm, and I can't help realizing that I must have been rubbing my hands against the walls for a long time. Days, maybe.
Slowly, I reach down and press my bloodied knuckles against another patch of the wall. Sure enough, when I rub my knuckles against the wallpaper, I hear the exact same brushing sound I've been hearing for the past few days.
But I'd have noticed.
It can't have been me all along.
I've been trying to save Alice, not...
“Alice,” I whisper, turning and pushing the door open, hurrying into her room as I feel a rush of panic in my chest, “where are you? Alice I -”
Suddenly she screams, and I put my hands over my ears as I hear her racing past me. I don't see her, but when I turn and look along the landing I realize I can hear her stampeding down the stairs. She sounds terrified, as if she's running from something awful.
“Alice!”
I race after her, but it's clear that she's in a state of panic. As I start hurrying down the stairs, I hear the handle on the door turning frantically. By the time I'm halfway down, the handle has stopped moving, and a moment later the door to the cupboard swings shut.
When I get to the bottom, the house is silent again.
And then I realize I can hear faint sobs coming from the cupboard.
“Alice, it's okay,” I stammer, opening the door but seeing no sign of her. “I won't let anyone hurt you. I'm going to look after you forever and ever. That thing won't get you. You're mine and you always will be. I won't let -”
And that's when I remember what she said last week, when her ghost described its dreams.
“I can't hear what it's saying all the time,” she told me. “Its voice is distorted and I can't see its face either, it's too blurry, but I can hear some of the words. It keeps saying that it's going to take me forever and ever. It says I belong to it, and it won't let me go. And every time I try to go out one of the doors and into the light, it stops me.”
“Alice,” I whisper, as tears start trickling down my face. “I'm your mother, I...”
My voice trails off as the whimpering continues.
After a moment I turn and look toward the front door. There's nothing outside but the pitch-black garden, but suddenly I spot a small patch of shimmering light on the floor, as if something is shining through the glass in the door. I don't see a source for the light, but something is definitely shining through from outside. Just a little patch of dancing light on the floor.
“Alice, I'm your mother,” I say as I take a step back from the cupboard door. “I'
m your...”
It's me.
I was the creature that was chasing Alice in her dreams. She couldn't see my face, and she couldn't hear my voice properly, but she heard just enough to know that I wasn't willing to let her go. And as her sobs continue, I realize that I'm the one who has been chasing her for the past few days, and I'm the one who's been keeping her from getting out of the house and going into the light.
Trembling with shock, I turn and head to the back door. I reach into my pocket and take out the key, and then I unlock the door before pulling it open and stepping aside.
I look toward the open cupboard, but I can still hear Alice sobbing.
“It's okay,” I tell her, as tears stream down my face. “You can go. You have to go. I don't know where to, but I guess you'll find out when you get there. I can't keep you here, you don't belong here anymore.”
I wait, and a moment later I realize the sobbing sound has faded away. After a few more seconds I hear cautious, tentative footsteps emerging from the cupboard, coming toward the open door.
“If you see light out there,” I continue, “then go to it. Whatever's on the other side, it's where you're meant to be now. Not rattling around in this old house, not now that you're...”
I wait, but the footsteps have stopped, as if she's too scared to come any closer.
“Not now that you're dead,” I sob finally, and suddenly I hear the footsteps running past and out through the door. “It's me, Alice!” I add frantically. “Alice, do you recognize me now? Alice, it's me!”
I turn and listen as the steps hurry down onto the lawn, and then I hear the glass rustling for a few seconds before finally the sound is gone.
It's Monday morning.
Exactly one week since the funeral.
Alice is finally out of the house. In the weeks since she died, I've kept her spirit trapped here in various forms, but now I have to accept that she's truly gone. Standing in the doorway and looking out at the dark night, I wipe away tears as I realize that wherever Alice is now, she no longer has to worry about me holding her back.
Heading through to the hallway, I finally take my black gloves from the funeral and put them in the drawer, which is where they belong. I miss her so much, but I guess it just took me this long to realize I had to let Alice go, just as I had to accept that she was dead in the first place.
And just as, sometimes, the living haunt the dead.
Pets
One
As soon as I reach the woodshed, I turn and lean back outside, letting the driving rain wash mud from my face. Opening my mouth, I spit more mud out before running a hand through my hair, trying to help the rain with its job. I know I'll never get myself completely clean, but at least I can stop the mud weighing me down.
Finally I pull back into the shelter and wipe mud from my eyes, then I try to clean more from my ears. I snort even more mud from my nose, and then I crouch down as I once again feel pain from that broken rib.
“I know it's broken,” I whisper, hoping to drive some sense in my meat. “You don't need to keep reminding me.”
Yet still the throbbing continues, and still rain comes crashing down against every surface.
The weather has been like this for as long as I can remember now. Just constant, unrelenting rain, as if the gods want to flood the whole world so they can start again.
I guess I wouldn't mind that.
I guess I shouldn't complain.
Reaching down, I lift up the several shirts I'm wearing, until I can see the lower right side of my chest. Sure enough, the bruise is much larger than before, as if blood has soaked down on the inside. I know that somewhere buried in that meat there's a broken rib, but I also know there's nothing I can do about it; I can only wait, and hope that the pain subsides at some point. It's only been a week, so there's still time. I can't expect miracles.
Figuring that I shouldn't take too long out here, I get to my feet and start looking around for one of the pitchers I always leave just inside the woodshed's entrance. I don't have any kind of flashlight with me, so it takes a moment before I find the old red pitcher that I remember Dad used for the pig sty. As I tip the pitcher over to make sure it's empty, I can't help wondering what he'd think if he could see the farm now. If he could see me now. If he could see what's happened to the world. Would he be proud of me for surviving, or would he be disappointed in me for choosing to live like this? Would he understand?
“No daughter of mine would ever be a collaborator!” I imagine his voice hissing at me.
Deep down, I think that's what he'd say, but then again he could be pragmatic at times.
“You've got to keep living,” I imagine him saying. “As long as you're alive, there's hope.”
A rumble of thunder grabs my attention. Looking back out at the yard again, I wait for a flash, but several seconds pass and nothing comes. There was lightning yesterday, lots of it, and I'm sure there'll be more soon. This is end-of-the-world weather, after all, and it just wouldn't be the same without a good old biblical maelstrom. Sometimes I wonder whether I'm the only human being left on the whole planet, whether all the others got ground down into the dirt. Or are they out there somewhere? Are they planning to fight back? Or are there just a few who, for whatever reason, get to live the way I live?
If they died, at least the soil will be rich for whoever comes next.
“Ah girl,” I hear Dad's voice saying, “now you're just getting sentimental.”
I hesitate for a moment, before realizing that I really need to get back to the house. After all, I'll be in so much trouble if I take too long. Just as I put my hood back up, however, I spot something in the mud just a few feet away. Crouching down and reaching out into the rain, I find that there's an old glass bottle just outside the woodshed. Picking the bottle up, I realize that I've never seen this particular bottle before. I've been taking real good care of all the bottles and jars on the farm, and I know I'd never have missed a beauty like this. Still, there's no other way it could have ended up here, so I guess maybe it was buried a long time ago and somehow the boggy ground has managed to spit it back up.
Still, I look around for a moment, just in case there's any sign of a visitor, and my eyes quickly settle on the nearby forest. I watch the trees, but there's no-one.
And then, as if to underline my loneliness out here, a rumble of thunder fills the sky.
Keeping hold of the bottle, I get to my feet and step out into the rain. The sky rumbles again above me as I carry the bottle of the pitcher past the old stable and around toward the farmhouse. I have to wipe strands of matted hair from across my face, and in the back of my mind I'm once again think that I should maybe just cut the whole lot back. I always loved having long hair in the old days, but it's all just getting in the way now. I could cut it real short, so short that nobody's even recognize me. Even Dad's ghost, if it was around, wouldn't wonder who I am.
And then, just as I turn to hurry back into the house, my foot catches on the edge of the concrete and I let out a panicked yelp as I fall forward and land face-first in a particularly boggy puddle of mud.
I get halfway up, spitting mud from my mouth as rain crashes down all around me. For a moment, just a few seconds, it occurs to me that I could simply let myself sink down into the mud and drown. Then all of this would be over.
Stumbling to my feet, I wade over to the steps and then up to the back door. Once I'm inside the farmhouse, I pull the door shut and stop to peel my mud-soaked clothes away. I instinctively glance through into the hallway, to check whether I'm alone, even though I know that in the long run it doesn't really matter. These clothes are cold and soaked and filthy, so I force myself to strip all the way down until I'm naked, then I head back out into the rain and quickly hang the clothes from various wires that run between two of the walls. Hopefully by morning, most of the mud will have been washed away, although that still doesn't mean the clothes will be clean.
Taking a step back, I take a moment to wash mysel
f in the rain and then I head back inside. Pulling the door shut once more, I grab a blanket from the shelf and wrap it around my body, and then I step over to the doorway that leads into the dark hallway.
I stop and listen for a moment.
Apart from the rain that's still crashing down outside and battering the windows, I don't hear anything else. I know they're in the house somewhere, but I guess they must be busy. Still, I hesitate for a moment longer before daring to step forward. There's a loose board on the floor next to the bottom of the stairs, so I take great care to avoid giving it any excuse to creak. Instead, I pick my way carefully toward the kitchen door, while shivering slightly as the old blanket sticks to my wet, cold flesh.
Where are they?
Usually I can hear them. Usually I know what room they're in. I might not like knowing that they're around, but at least there's some comfort in understanding where they are. That way, I can try to avoid them. Right now, I know they have to be somewhere close, but I'll be damned if I know exactly where. I glance over my shoulder, just in case one of them is coming down the stairs, but all I see is the dark rails.
Suddenly there's a loud crack of thunder outside, and I flinch slightly as I hear a corresponding groan coming from the dining room.
Okay, at least now I know where one of them is.
I don't think they like the weather here, even though I suspect they're the ones who've caused all the storms.
I peer through into the kitchen, but all I see is darkness. Stepping through the doorway, I fumble past the breakfast table and over to the counter, where I take a jug of water and fill myself a clean glass. At the same time, I spot a bowl of blueberries and I reach out to take a handful. Even though technically I don't think I need old-fashioned food anymore, I like to take some now and again. Maybe I'm kidding myself when I think stuff like this make me feel better. Maybe it's just comfort-food for the apocalypse.
Still, I drop the blueberries into my mouth, and I can't deny that they taste good. Everyone's got to have a little treat now and again, right?
