by Indi Martin
“We can’t leave,” said Danny. “Remember, the van is broken.”
Chris turned on him. “I DO remember that, Daniel. We discovered that after Melissa had her fucking breakdown and then you all just walked back in like nothing had happened. If you’d STOPPED and LISTENED to me, she would still be ALIVE!” His voice rose in a crescendo until he was screaming. Even Luke had raised his head to stare at him, his brown eyes hollow and wide, shining with tears.
“I don’t know why we did that,” whispered Nathan, arms wound tightly around himself. “Why did we do that?” He looked up at Chris pleadingly, his eyes shining.
“It’s the house,” croaked a strange voice, and Danny turned to trace it back to its owner. Luke was staring at the shrouded body, his face unreadable, his voice unrecognizable. “It makes you do things. Things you wouldn’t…” he trailed off and dropped his head again.
“Well, we still can’t leave tonight,” replied Danny after a minute, breaking the oppressive silence. “I don’t think we should just hike out to the road with some lunatic killer out there waiting for us.” He wrung his huge hands together helplessly.
“If we stay together…?” offered Chris, but his tone was defeated. It was clear that he also didn’t relish the idea, but was torn between which he liked less: the hike or the house.
“Let’s shut all the doors and just stay in here until morning,” said Nathan softly. “If we’re all together, we’ll be fine, right?” He looked toward the open bedroom doors and shuddered.
“Sure,” replied Chris, sounding not at all sure. He tapped Danny on the shoulder and together they shut the bedroom and bathroom doors, sliding small pieces of furniture in front of them. “Just in case,” he explained, feeling a little ridiculous. He rejoined the group and sat on the floor, his ears straining to detect any sounds outside. Gonna be a long night, he thought to himself as he looked at his companions, and his eyes flickered over to land on the body of a young woman, covered in a thin black cloth, lying on the hardwood floor. He scratched through his beard and looked away, wondering how it had gotten to this point.
14
Gina Harwood couldn’t concentrate on her book; she kept tapping on its edge with her pen, her thoughts wandering. She glanced up at the clock. 9:40. She was tired, but anxious, a bad combination that left her with a pit in her stomach while her eyelids felt heavy. Chewing on her pen cap absentmindedly, she read the same sentence for the third time and sighed. She closed the cover and set the novel aside, certain she would get no more reading done tonight. Though the prospect of Victor being in her apartment while she slept was a bit weird, she was actually more nervous about a night without the amulet. She missed feeling its familiar weight in her pocket, and dreaded being unconscious without it for protection.
But the night was coming, and sleep was inevitable. Gina stood and walked to the kitchen, flipping on her electric kettle and tapping her foot impatiently while it quickly warmed up. Unwrapping her favorite strawberry tea, she glanced at the microwave clock. Ten minutes, she noted. She was entirely unsure of what the night held in store, and tried to shove her concerns away. Truth be told, she wasn’t entirely comfortable with Victor’s proposal; she felt different around him, not entirely in control, and was afraid of doing something she might regret. When she wasn’t near him, she didn’t have any illusions as to what he really was. Nice, handsome, but not someone you take home to mom, she thought with a grin as she poured a little milk in her steeped tea. She made a mental note that she needed to call her mother and check in.
A knock sounded on the door, two quick raps, and she glanced back up to note the time. 9:58. Sipping her tea and trying to quell the pit of nervousness in her stomach, she walked slowly across the living room and unlocked the door. Opening it, she was unsurprised to see Victor, but was surprised to see his attire. At work, he always wore a button up shirt and dark pants under a white lab coat; it had never actually occurred to her that he ever wore anything different. Tonight, he stood in her doorway with his shoulder-length, chocolate-brown hair tucked behind his ears, wearing black sweats and a Misfits t-shirt. She barked a surprised laugh before she could stop herself. His smile faltered a bit, confusion behind his strange, silver eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said, warming her hands around her cup. “Come in, Victor. I’ve just never seen you outside of your work clothes, it was a surprise.”
“Ah,” his look of confusion was replaced with understanding and he swept in past her with his normal catlike grace, causing the casual attire to seem even more comical to her. “I do like to be comfortable. I hope you do not mind.”
“Not at all,” she replied, closing the door behind him. “Tea?” she offered, and then grimaced.
He smiled at her. “No, thank you.”
“Ah, no. Of course not, sorry.” She sat back down on her recliner, sipping her tea gingerly, slowly. It wasn’t that hot any longer, but she was nervous about what would happen after she finished it.
Victor sat lightly on the couch. “You are anxious, Ms. Gina.” He cocked his head at her. “You apologize too often when you are nervous.”
Gina began to say “Sorry,” but caught herself with a self-effacing smile. “Huh,” she said instead. “I sure do.”
“Am I making you nervous by being here?” he asked, looking genuinely concerned. “I am just not sure of another way right now. It was the best solution I could think of…”
“No, well, maybe a little,” she conceded, glancing up at him and then back down at her cup. “I’m more nervous about actually sleeping. And I am tired, I know it’s coming. The nightmare,” she explained, as she finished her tea with a sigh. She set the cup on the table and looked at it longingly, wishing for it to refill without her effort. “This is a little awkward,” she admitted.
Victor stood and offered his hand to help her up. She couldn’t help but chuckle at his courtesy, but accepted it. He nodded toward the bedroom. “Are you ready?”
Feeling heat flush her face a deep red, she withdrew her hand and folded her arms, suddenly unsure of what to do with her limbs. “Um, I guess?”
He bowed slightly and lightly touched the small of her back, making her jump a little in surprise. “After you, then, Ms. Gina.”
“I see you’re back to the Miss,” she replied in mock disapproval as she walked into her room, clicking on the bedside lamp.
“Considering the situation, I thought a bit of distance might make you more comfortable,” he said thoughtfully, drawing the chair she’d set out a little closer to the bed.
“Actually, no,” she replied, climbing underneath the blankets and fluffing her pillows. “It makes me feel like you’re a doctor conducting a sleep study on me.”
Settling into his chair, he appeared to consider this. “It is not too far from the truth,” he conceded. “But if you prefer…” Victor leaned over and clicked off the lamp, and Gina shivered slightly in the sudden darkness. “I am only here to make sure you are safe, Gina. Sleep well.”
Gina’s eyes adjusted quickly, and the light from the living room lamp still shone; she nodded into her pillow, feeling his light mental touch as almost a soothing stroke, petting her mind as though it were a cat’s fur. That’s a good trick, she thought. I need to learn that.
She yawned, and felt the familiar slight vertigo as she drifted off, more quickly than she’d expected. Sweet dreams, she thought as darkness claimed her consciousness, and she wasn’t sure if it were her own or Victor’s voice in her head.
15
The silence stretched on, and everyone seemed uncomfortable in its midst. Danny shifted on the couch, but he couldn’t find a position he liked.
“There’s a cellar,” croaked Luke, pointing near the body. “We found the trapdoor earlier, well, Melissa found…” he trailed off again, wincing.
“I’m fine here, thanks,” said Nathan from beside him on the sofa, checking his phone. “No service still. Damn it!” He chucked his phone across the room in an unusual display of anger, c
ausing Danny to jump slightly.
“Hey, man. We’ll get out of this,” reassured Danny, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We just need…” A tickle in his throat cut off the sentence, and he pitched over, coughing uncontrollably, unable to breathe. He fell to the floor, on all fours, coughing and sputtering.
“Dude,” he heard Chris say, and felt slaps on his back.
Continuing to cough, he heard a thick wet splat and saw a huge mass of black hair on the ground underneath him, wriggling, yet it did nothing to clear his airways.
“What the fuck?” yelled someone, but he still couldn’t breathe, and he felt lightheaded and dizzy, the edges of his vision tinted with darkness. Panicking, he clawed at his mouth, dragging long black hair out of his mouth, heaving at the sensation of the movement in his throat and chest as the threads came out. He fell with a thump on his side and looked up into his friends’ faces, who were all gathered above him, and felt his vision tunnel even further down. I’m going to die, he thought with sudden clarity, and he heard a strangled cry escape his own throat as he reached deeper to grab more hair and throw it to the side. His hands were clumsy and his arm felt too heavy to lift. He felt the dragging sensation again and tried to focus; he saw Nathan right above him, and felt his hand inside his mouth, tugging painfully, a bizarre and horrific sensation. He saw more clumps of the threads thrown aside, and he drew in a tiny bit of oxygen, the smallest hole having been cleared. The fuzziness in his head cleared ever so slightly, and he wished it hadn’t, because the more conscious feeling of someone else’s hand dragging something out of his body seemed even worse. This time, though, Danny felt the tugging as a sharp pain, and he tried to shake his head, his eyes wide. Nathan pulled harder, sharply, and Danny shut his eyes against the pain, heaving with it, and felt something awful dislodge. He opened his eyes to see Nathan staring at a fist-size clump of hair covered in blood, and was confused; he could still feel something huge in his mouth, but if Nathan’s hand wasn’t there, then… horrified, he traced the strands of hair down from Nathan’s hand and saw chunks of matter, of flesh, his flesh, something grey and shiny. It’s not your fault, he wanted to say, wanted to help somehow, but his vision was blurry and his thoughts wavered for a moment, flashing nonsensical images of his childhood. He was balancing carefully on a bicycle, afraid to move forward, afraid to fall off of it. The ground seemed so far away. He heard his father’s reassuring voice, and flashed forward through scenes from his high school. He was filming something with Chris, his chin covered in thin stubble instead of his traditional beard. Danny laughed, trying to tell him that his beard had disappeared, but no sound came out, and he was on the floor again, looking at Nathan, who seemed so far away.
Then there was no more.
16
It was there again.
Gina eyed the hole in her wall with tired rage. You aren’t supposed to be here, she thought angrily at it. This isn’t supposed to be happening. She checked her mental blocks again; they were in place, as far as she could tell. Squirming deeper into her recliner, she stared across the room at the intruding blackness.
Things were a little different however, she considered. Though she felt anger, she didn’t feel the unpinning terror that usually accompanied this dream, and she was more lucid than she ever remembered being. Gina took a few deep breaths, forcing her muscles to un-knot, relaxing into the chair. She allowed her eyes to unlock from the void and glanced around the room, concentrating on remaining calm, keeping her breaths even. There were no sounds, no beasts trying to knock down her doors, nothing to force her into the hole this time. No cracks in her apartment, no invisible fires working their way across her walls. Even the hole didn’t seem as frightening; concentrating, she could see the yellowish glow from the torches she knew lay at the end of the staircase. Gina furrowed her brow. What exactly am I supposed to do here? she asked herself, though the answer seemed self-evident. She grimaced and crept slowly to the edge of her wall, looking down the slick staircase that was barely illuminated from below. She sighed.
A shrill sound pierced the silence, and she whipped her head around, startled. It was her ringtone, and she cocked her head in curiosity, walking toward the kitchen to trace the source of the sound. Sure enough, her phone vibrated on the counter, the screen lit up with unreadable letters and numbers. She concentrated on the screen as she picked up the phone, trying to make sense of the squiggles, but to no avail. Curiosity overtook her, and she swiped the familiar bar to answer the call.
“Hello?” she said, feeling the thick difficulty of speaking in dreams.
“Gina? What is it?”
She blinked in surprise. Morgan? she thought, bringing the phone down for a moment to take another look at the screen. It was still unreadable, so she brought it back up to her ear. “I… I’m not sure…” she stammered.
“Are you okay?” his voice was alert, persistent.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she started to say, but the line had clicked off, replaced with a whining dial tone. Dial tone? she thought, smirking. There’s no dial tone on cell phones. She flicked through her screens with practiced, deft movements and tried to call him back; all she heard was the dial tone that didn’t belong. As if I needed more proof that I was dreaming, she thought, setting the phone down and glancing back toward the cutout in her living room wall.
Deciding on action as opposed to spending the night staring at a hole, she walked briskly to the void and crawled carefully through it. Though she had done this many times before, it had always been in the grip of sheer terror, chased by things she could never see. Doing it consciously, purposefully, and calmly was a new and strange sensation. It was not entirely unwelcome, though she would have preferred a nice, fluffy dream instead. Carefully, she descended the black staircase toward the yellow-greenish glow at its end; she glanced back to see her living room barely visible through the diminishing hole. I can get back any time I want, she tried to reassure herself. Setting her jaw, she walked on. She wanted to know what this was all about; she felt sure there was some reason behind this scene’s recurrence.
Nearing the plateau at the bottom of the staircase, she was surprised to see two figures standing near some sort of massive door. Gina had figured that she was alone in her dreamspace, since the beasts upstairs had disappeared. Several torches lined the dais, casting a cold light upon the two men, and she took a moment to study them. They were nearly identical, though one was slightly taller, and they wore similar, many-layered robes ornately decorated in what looked almost like hieroglyphs. The fabric shimmered, a bluish silver weave that at once seemed light and very, very heavy. The drapes of the cloaks looked thick and multitudinous, and deep hoods covered each of the men’s faces. Long, delicately braided white beards lay upon both men’s chests. The hieroglyphs made her head hurt when she looked at them, stitched upon the cloaks in shining gold thread, and she looked away to steady herself, feeling her heartbeat quicken at the pain. Movement caught her attention and she looked back, watching as both of them raised their heads in slow unison. Alarm bells sounded in her head, and her legs twitched, trying to force her to run back up the stairs. No, she commanded her body. I want to know what this is.
Both men’s faces were clearly visible now, and she took a step backward instinctively. They were definitely not the same, though she would be unsurprised if they were brothers. Age was carved deeply into their faces, crevasses of time lining their skin. They looked ancient, older than anyone she’d ever seen, although they did not look frail in any way. She concentrated on the one nearest to her, on the right. His jaw was wide and his expression measured, not quite blank. Shocks of white hair framed his face, spilling down behind his shoulders, its length obscured by the hood. Most strangely, however, were his eyes, which seemed to regard her with intelligence, but were the cloudy white she associated with cataracts or blindness. Hating herself for it, she felt her legs propel her another step backwards, and gritted her teeth to keep them still. A stone door loomed behind them, but
her eyes seemed to slide past it, not wanting to focus on its details. She was vaguely aware of some sort of writing on it, but it was not recognizable, and it seemed to move, shift, in her peripheral vision, much like the writing on the elders’ cloaks.
“Hello,” she ventured, her voice sounding small and distant in the blackness that surrounded them, the void which seemed to reach out for eternity, broken only by this small staircase and the massive door.
The faces stared stonily back at her, but she thought she saw the smallest change in the nearest one’s features. Buoyed slightly by the tiny reaction, she searched for something else to say. “My… my name is Gina,” she stammered, embarrassed and afraid.
“Gina Harwood,” rumbled the left man in a voice so loud and deep that she clasped her hands over her ears instinctively. The voice was stone, earth, ancient and imposing - but not, Gina thought, unkind. She forced her hands back down to her sides.
“Yes,” she answered, unsure if it had been a question.
“Guard your name with more care,” warned the right man, his lips barely cracking to deliver his speech in a voice with a richer tenor than the first.
She winced at his warning, but felt bolder in their conversation. “Who are you?” she asked cautiously, feeling her voice gain strength.
“You may call me Nasht,” answered the man on the left, bowing slightly. His voice reverberated through her head, and the name evoked images she didn’t understand, disconnected but warm, a desert standing for millennia under the heat of a red sun. Blinking, she turned to the other man expectantly.
He gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head and withdrew one of his hands from his cloak. In his hand was an amulet, identical to the one Victor had given her, its five-branched tree glowing a faint blue. “You are not ready, Gina Harwood,” announced the man, his voice tinged with authority and sadness.
