'I have to find out. I can't allow this to happen to my child. I just can't. I feel her stir in my stomach as he tries to insert his claws into her dreams. He knows of her, and he wants me to be aware of that. I won't let him have her. I refuse the sacrifice. He and I can’t both survive. I must find the hollow. Somehow.'
Child? I looked over at Cassie as she panted through the pain. I lifted the edge of her gray-dyed cotton shirt and gently ran my hand over her stomach. A slight, firm bump protruded. I straightened the edge of her shirt and massaged my temples. Had I failed, in every way, to be a father to her? Cassie couldn't be much older than her mother was when we had her. She didn't mention a boy in her journal. Who could the father be? This created even more questions. Anger would be useless. Maybe I could find out by reading more of her journal.
Words gave way completely to pictures. In later pages, near the end, she drew strange pink pills alongside sketches of that shadowy monster. It seemed to indicate the two were related in some way, and she could not convey it through speech when she drew the picture. She believed the dark man was more than a man, and he was responsible for everything that had happened to our family. She insisted, time after time, that she struggled against this demon every night.
She fought something, indeed. Herself, and her grief. She chose to have something to attack and blame rather than face the truth. Sad, really. My heart went out to her suffering, for I felt it, too. Admittedly, I drank more whiskey than I should have in the months following my wife's death. Perhaps Cassie had taken to drugs to numb herself. They may have addled her mind in such a way that she believed her hallucinations.
Yet, that still would not account for the shadow man I saw. And now, this journal connected him to my wife and Cassie.
Deep, russet-orange sunlight painted the entire room in a sinister hue. How had it become this late so soon? Had I not seen the morning sun through the window in my daughter's room just an hour ago? I felt something peering at me from the edges of newborn shadows lurking beneath the evaporating light.
"Nonsense," I told myself.
I flipped a switch of the lamp on her desk. Lightbulb must have died. I yanked the cord to the overhead fan light. Nothing. Odd. Shivers ran uninvited down my neck and shoulders like frigid water. I didn't understand why, but I felt that both of us were presently in mortal danger. That feeling grew with the length of the shadows.
I decided to stand guard over her that night.
I walked to the family library. I opened the latch to the wall and walked into the sanctuary. On the table next to the sofa lay the family bible. I felt silly arming myself with these trinkets of faith. For me to think this hatted man was an apparition could very well mean insanity. Nevertheless, I removed the silver cross rosary which held its place over Matthew 16:19 and wrapped it around my wrist. My wife had embraced spirituality and chose to learn from every source. It was not odd that she owned this bible or any other number of spiritual texts from other religions.
A tremendous sense of loss permeated my heart as I looked at these two objects in my hands. Faith made not one virtuous. Neither did a lack of faith. I had lost all claim to virtue that day. The day Cassie saw me kiss another woman. A kiss, so brief yet heartfelt, for that fraction of time in which it had elapsed. That kiss may have cost Tangie her life.
I gripped the bible tightly in my right hand as I winced from the memory. Had Tangie known? How had my betrayal affected her? Was it on her mind when she was taken from us?
Grief and regret bubbled over into tears that pattered onto the bible's cover. Their percussion loudly accused me in this silent room. I prayed for judgment. I deserved their pain, and yet I was shielded from it. The innocent suffered the pain for my mistakes.
When I returned to Cassie's room, a dire sense of peril flooded my thoughts. I shamed myself for cowardice. No logical reason could explain what I knew in my heart. It would not be safe for me to leave this room again. Cassie squeezed the unicorn plushy tight.
The more I focused my thoughts on that plush unicorn, the lighter I felt. The air smelled faintly of the sweet lemon-lavender perfume Tangie always wore. She was here. I couldn't explain it. The level of intimacy we shared—I would recognize her anywhere. She was here. Peace exuded from the unicorn in the same way the warmth from a campfire radiated in an Alaskan wilderness.
That was something I found lacking in the book in my hand. I found no comfort there. I felt tempted to take the unicorn from my daughter but refrained. Cassie needed it—deserved it—more than I did. I wasn't worthy of an oasis.
My attention returned to the drawings of the dark man. The character from our story wore a sharp, brimmed hat made of aged black leather. His name was Siris. He sowed discord and fear wherever he journeyed, and existed between worlds. Only the perceptive could see him, and if he noticed you watching him, you were his next target. Once trapped, he drained every joy ever experienced from a person’s soul until they withered and died. He dined, in that way, to keep his existence—draining people of all will, happiness, and hope. He was the knife of all division, cleaving the dark from the light.
But he was fictional! A character we had created together!
Or had we? The unexplainable stirred my heart to believe that my daughter told the truth. Evidence, no matter how odd when all else is excluded, must be the truth. The only link my wife, Cassie, and that smug, smiling demon had in common lay in Cassie's journal.
Tangie had kept a journal for her ideas and projects. I thought it worth a chance to investigate. I looked back to the bed. I couldn't leave. Cassie would be defenseless against that thing if it returned. I draped the cross around her neck. I had to find out. Who knew when or if the sun would rise again?
I knew where her box lay upstairs. I would only be gone a moment. I bolted upstairs and pulled the rope to the attic door. I climbed into the attic two steps at a time, then rushed over to the box of my wife's belongings. Her perfume greeted and comforted me just as she always had. Tension left my shoulders briefly. The sides of the box collapsed onto the floor, kicking up dust.
Barely any light, now. I pulled the chain to the lightbulb swaying loosely above me. No light. Strange. Had the electricity stopped working? I looked down at my watch, the hands of which had stopped at three o'clock. The room chilled as the last rays withered away from the window. I pulled my shirt closer around me.
A picture of all of us three summers ago greeted me with exalted smiles of laughter. Who had taken this picture? I couldn't remember. Grief washed over me. The doom I felt dissipated as anguish rushed in to claim my soul. The charade I had held so firmly to my face, like a mask, disintegrated. I had lied to myself. I hid behind my logic, like a shield, to keep from admitting what I already knew. This was my fault. Maybe not the curse, but I certainly hadn't helped matters.
The light scent of smoke filled my nose. I placed the picture to the side and pressed further. A burnt wooden box, buried beneath assortments of odd jewelry and arcane instruments, had strangely been reopened since we had moved in. My wife had a fascination with the occult since before I met her. I admitted that the subject was interesting to me only so much as any psychological disorder could marvel the mind. Everyone had their eccentricities. I let her be happy with hers and she let me be happy with mine.
She had rarely mentioned anything about her beliefs to me, though. I supposed it was because she knew I would scoff at her for it. I could not deny the serenity and happiness she had felt when she walked outside in the forest. That was one of the reasons we chose remote locations in which to live.
This home reminded me of our old one. Certain differences in paint stood out to me, now. Why had we chosen to live in a home drab and devoid of mirthful colors? It looked similar to our old home, but this one felt like the bottom of a deep, narrow well. Desperation and loneliness hung about the air without her here.
I had met Tangie on one of my many walks through the forest. I woke up at dawn, unable to go back to sleep. The gnawing fe
ar of the blank page caused me to get up and walk. I didn't have a destination, only a compass and a backpack.
Under the pines and naked as she was born danced Tangie. Her movements were practiced and graceful. I watched her swoop and sway for several minutes before announcing my presence. She bowed, sweating and out of breath. She smiled and invited me to dance with her. At first, I thought she was mad, but her mind was as sharp as the edge of a newly honed razor.
Tangie was much younger than me, but she never seemed to acknowledge that. She simply invited me to share in the freedom of being her. She extended her arms to me. She wanted me to dance with her, so I did. Her behavior puzzled and enticed me. Her excitement at my acceptance felt as if I were the first man she had ever seen. Or that she had met many such men and chose me. I was not sure which was more accurate.
We met often after that. We would speak of our thoughts, feelings, and desires. I began to yearn for that secluded wood more than the outside world. I found myself spending most of my time there. Leaving at dawn and returning before dusk. We never shared a night. No other houses except mine were within walking distance, yet she always presented a clean and kept appearance. She clearly didn't live in the wood.
I invited her to return with me on several occasions. Her face would contort into restrained fear. She would disappear into the thicket at my mention of it. So, after the third time, I never spoke of it again.
It didn't take long for our relationship to grow into something more mature. A part of me felt guilty to have this beguiling woman all to myself. Had I taken advantage of her circumstances? Those moments in the thicket were pleasures for which I was only too happy to feel guilty.
She loved the woods and the river. I found her often, naked and dancing under the pines or in the water. She invited me often, and I couldn't refuse such a provocatively sensuous woman as she. When we were entwined together on the pine floor, the world consisted of just us; everything felt magical and surreal. We were each other's heaven. Like a dream. In fact, Cassie had been conceived after several such outings near our lake.
After that, when a little bump formed in her stomach, we rejoiced in the new bond we shared. It wracked my soul to have them both live in the wilderness. I could not have that. This place was ours alone. Our Eden. I feared her response when I put the ring on her finger and asked. Her eyes sparkled with tears under the bright, cloudless sky. She agreed to come home with me to be married, but not before making a request of me.
"Be our guardian. Be our protector from those things in the night. Let there be no division between us. Promise to remain true. Do not break my heart. From now on, we are one. Do that, and I will marry you. I will stay."
I agreed immediately. She pricked my finger with a Damascus-wrought dagger. She quickly cut a place over her heart and placed my bleeding finger over it. She held it there for quite some time, staring into my eyes with an intensity one rarely sees outside the bedroom. Had that been a ritual?
Did she practice the arcane arts of the pagan cultures she so revered? Had these items, here in this box, helped to conjure that man in the hat? That wasn't possible. My wife was a gentle woman. I could never imagine her doing such a thing, even in jest. I attempted to open the box, but it would not move. The lock was gone and yet it remained stuck shut. I laid the box down and broke the side of it with the stock of my shotgun. The contents fell out readily. Her journal lay on top of a partially burnt leather book. A deep hole had been gouged through it by the dagger lying beside it. Had she pricked my finger with this dagger? I turned it over in my hand. Yes, it was the same.
I opened it. This was a copy of our book. How could that be? I had finished writing it just recently. I thumbed through the pages until I came to the very last. I cried out in horror. The last sentence I wrote sat on the page with fresh ink pressed upon it. I could not fathom how this could have happened. Had I lost my mind? I set it aside to read Tangie's journal.
As I read through it, the same pictures of the dark, hatted figure proliferated the pages. In several entries my wife spoke about a curse she called the 'tempest'. That was the same word Cassie had called out. My wife also mentioned Siris and a being named Demiurge.
One of the last entries detailed her attempts to capture, contain, and destroy the malevolent entity.
‘The Tempest. Cassie and I are the descendants of the escaped sacrifice. Light and shadow. Good and evil. Their pact would be sealed by our bloodline's apocalypse; to bring about a new era of peace. Every last one of us had to die. The line of Lilith had to end.
‘Three hundred years ago, my ancestor's father decided that their daughter would not die. That decision locked us in a never-ending cycle of damnation. All we can do is run. There is no place to hide. When it is night, he comes for us. No angel of heaven or demon of hell will raise their hand against him. We are alone.
‘The executioner, forever cursed to hunt us until the bloodline of the sacrifice had ended. He tracked my lineage for thousands of years. The shadows are ever-growing. Division cracking further apart. No woman of my line ever saw a natural death. Not once. He found my mother defenseless and drowned her in her own tears. I do not expect mine to be less violent or forgiving.
‘We are the only ones who can stand in the hollow of the sacrifice. Only we can enter. Only we can mend what was broken. Every night he hunts us in our dreams. He visits every bed, looking for me. I evaded him for most of my life. I learned incantations to keep him at bay. He lurks on the periphery of my vision always. Waiting for weakness. A sign of division where he can slip through and attack.
‘Wherever there is division his power grows. For his hat is the knife of the sacrifice. He wears the chain to taunt us; an object we can never hope to reach or repair. His master Demiurge forbids it. Without duality, creation cannot exist. The executioner Siris’ soul will be forever trapped in shadow until our line truly ends. All our fates were sealed when my ancestor interfered in the ritual. Perhaps it would have been better if he hadn't.
‘The hat man thought I was the last. I hid Cassie from him for years, but now he knows. He thought he would see the end of his aimless wandering with my end. I feel his impatient malevolence breathing down upon my shoulders. He wants it to end. And it will, but not the way he wishes. I hoped to contain him inside the book and seal him there forever. It is only a matter of time.’
Loud scraping pierced my ears like metal pins. As I read the final word, my blood ran cold. I looked up through the attic window to the fading light outside. Something perched at the window, watching me. A bleeding shadow, formless, grinning with delight. All color fled from my vision. The hat man had returned. The sound of splitting glass crackled loudly as he forcefully pressed against the pane.
Now I understood. Only now did the full gravity of my betrayal hit me. She chose me. The unity of our love kept the hat man at bay. He could never fully reach her. In the moment my heart felt love for someone else, no matter the brevity of it, my wife's executioner found a way in. He sensed the divisive action and it led directly to her. I was the unity she hid behind to avoid him. I had failed her. In that moment of my infidelity, the accident in the mineshaft above our lake had jettisoned tons of contaminated debris, flooding the river in which my wife bathed.
When I heard the news on the television, I went to look for her immediately. I rushed through the woods, remembering how I first met her. Desperate to see her again. I expected to find her wading in the cool waters of the lake. Smiling. Bidding me with open palm to join her once more under the pines.
Her cold rigid body lay bare on the shore of the lake. I died that day, too.
He poked at the glass with his wispy, translucent fingers, searching for a way inside to me. Two craggy yellow eyes shifted behind the shadowy mass of his face. Cold frost formed at the exhalation of his breath upon the glass. I couldn't deny it any longer. My wife fought against this monster, and now Cassie. Why didn't they ever tell me?
Siris awaited us in the night. Smug, biding
his time, knowing that we weren't going anywhere. We were both his, and the hour grew late. He showed himself to me just to let me know he was here, he was real, and there was no escape. He would make a quick snack of me before claiming Cassie. The craggy smile widened as he tapped the rhythm to The Chain with nails of iron. We were trapped.
The walls closed in. Their edges grew sharp and angular. The shadows blackened with all their oppressive might. Deeper. That corpse-like feeling returned. My body was freezing. The shadows closed around me like claws—like teeth. The sharp, metallic scent of iron filled my nose and mouth. I took the book and dagger with me.
I catapulted myself out of the attic and slammed the staircase behind me. The paint from the walls and ceiling peeled away and dropped to the ground with a sickening wet patter. A devilish red material lay beneath. I ran for the stairs.
"I will let you live." Words, carved by a knife, sprawled down the sides of the stairwell. I sprinted as fast as possible without losing my footing. The wood beneath my feet gave way. The stairs collapsed beneath me and the banister fell away like rotted wood. I jumped, clearing several stairs, to avoid falling into the basement below. The staircase disappeared into the black abyss. I listened intently to hear the final crash, but it never came.
To greet me at the bottom landing, in blood, was written "Bring me the final sacrifice."
Black mold spread across the walls as I passed them. I covered my face to keep the spores from entering my nose and mouth. I ran down the hall to Cassie's room. The house creaked and shifted, sending dust and debris flying around me. A strong wind outside could bring the entire structure down.
This house. It wasn't real. I desperately tried to remember when we actually moved in. What moving company did we use? When did I sign the agreement with the bank? When had we moved the boxes to the attic? Chills crept over my entire body like I was tangled in icy spider webs. I couldn't remember any of those things.
Now, the house fell apart.
What happened after I found her body? When was the funeral? Who arrived to pay their respects? My eyes opened wide in horror as I remembered. The man with the sharp, brimmed hat had risen up from my wife's body to greet me on that shore. The darkness that exuded from within the folds of his shadow had crept across the landscape, enveloping every stitch of light. His shadow had entombed me. I never had time to grieve before he had me.
The Grim Keepers Page 16
