Every year, on the anniversary of Lucy and Gemma’s disappearance, we would attend our own private vigil. These vigils followed pretty much the same routine: a visit to their untouched bedrooms accompanied by an obbligato of anger, tears, disconcertion, and pain.
But this year was different.
This year our grief triggered… something else.
A smashed plate was the ominous signal to set this night in motion. Nothing unusual about broken crockery, except this particular plate had been a favourite of Lucy’s, our missing five-year-old. She’d decorated it on a family holiday six months before she went missing and would eat off it whenever she could.
For the last five years, however, that plate remained tucked away at the back of a cupboard, along with the abrasive memories. Now it had found its way out and lay scattered over the kitchen floor.
Inexplicable as this was, our attention was snatched away from the broken plate as the computer turned itself on. Popping into life, it began cycling through photos of Lucy and Gemma; the photos we most cherished; the ones the girls loved to look at when they were… when they were still here.
“Did you do this?” asked Mary, assuming I’d set it up.
“No. Did you?”
“No.”
We reverted to silence.
Then came the voices.
At various points during their absence, we’d both heard the girls laugh and cry and argue and sing, but we knew this to be a cruel trick of our desperate, grieving minds. This time it was no trick. These young voices sounded oh-so-achingly-familiar, and yet they were foreign, distant and full of angst. But more than that, they sounded angry; an anger aimed at the parents who allowed them to be taken. We could both hear them, but could never pinpoint them. They’d be downstairs when we were up. Always in a different room. There, but not there.
Then, just like that, nothing. Not a peep. Everything went quiet once again. We checked the household electronics to confirm they were off, including the computer. We checked all the locks and all the windows. They were tight. We were safely locked in.
As was typical on this night, our home choked under a shroud of sorrow. But this was different. It was darker. It was real. It was terrifying. But why could we not leave the house? What compelled us to stay? Of recent years our home had become a place of misery and a place of loneliness. It was now becoming a place of horror.
Neither of us were afraid of ghosts. Perhaps, somewhere deep in our twisted souls, we even welcomed them? Maybe.
We went to bed.
It took us both an eternity to relax, but eventually the cold embrace of a lonely sleep began to take hold.
Mary sat bolt upright.
There was a scream; a scream of such distress and such horror that any scrap of good feeling remaining within that house vanished. That scream was inhuman, but at the same time, all-too-human.
It came from the cellar, that much was obvious, but neither of us were in a hurry to go and investigate. We had no desire to move at all. Until this point there had been no genuine fear, but the scream changed all that. I somehow dredged up the nerve to stretch out of bed and peer around the doorframe onto the landing, half expecting a vision direct from hell.
There was nothing.
This was all in our heads. It had to be. Those years of shared depression and dismay were finally taking hold. But holding was an act we’d not engaged in as a couple for a long time – and tonight was no exception. We rolled our separate ways and connected with our individual concerns and emotions.
A crash erupted from next door in Lucy’s room, followed seconds later by a thud in Gemma’s loft room above us. Mary still didn’t move, but I decided to go and have a look.
In the middle of Lucy’s room was a fallen box with her Barbie dolls spilled all over the floor. Bending down to pick them up, I noticed many had the hair ripped from their heads and a number were covered in mud. I didn’t stay to put them back. And I certainly didn’t go up to Gemma’s room. Instead, after a brief look around downstairs, I climbed back into bed, praying this night’s anguish was over.
It wasn’t.
I heard something run up the stairs. Something slight. Something small. Something delicate. It was a sound we’d been desperate to hear for the last five years. But now it sounded… wrong. The footfalls were too deliberate.
There was a brushing against the banister as if a hand slid over it. It moved along the landing towards our room and I could hear floorboards squeak as weight was applied. This time I did not possess the courage to look around the door. Like my wife, I just lay there, closed my eyes and took a deep breath. This wasn’t real.
A smell of decay entered the bedroom.
From out of the gloom, I felt a figure climb onto the bed. Small and frail, it resembled the body of a five-year-old with skinny arms and soft skin. But it was cold… so very cold. I froze as it manoeuvred itself between us, while Mary groaned and rolled away.
Finally daring to move, I curled an arm over the space I’d just felt our little Lucy climb into, only to find it suddenly empty.
That was it. I sat up. I was going downstairs. I needed a drink.
A silhouette appeared at the foot of our bed; the silhouette of a nine-year-old. This figure was not conjured by the waking stab of a fitful sleep, and I definitely wasn’t dreaming. This was real. The outline looked exactly like Gemma. But Gemma wasn’t with us anymore. And she wasn't nine years old anymore.
I said her name.
She moved.
She moved around the bed and made to climb in with Mary.
Complete darkness cloaked the room except for a ribbon of orange streetlight leaking through the gaps in closed shutters. The figure crossed to Mary’s side of the bed, and I watched as the covers rose and then crumpled. I wasn’t sure of it was Mary moving, or…
“Mary.”
“Mmmm?”
“Mary, wake up.”
Her response was a tortured sigh.
Then I felt that cold little body once again, on the other side of me this time. It wriggled until it was nestled against my back. I could feel a wisp of soft hair touching my shoulder and hear the laboured breathing of a small pair of lungs. That smell of decay became stronger.
“Mary.” I whispered.
“Mary!” I whispered again.
Nothing. She wasn’t there. In her place was a lump under the covers that slid towards me.
I didn’t know what had happened to Mary, but in the bowels of my heart I was aware an exchange had just taken place. I was caught between a nine-year-old’s body to one side of me, and a five-year-old’s to the other. Both cold. Both dead. Both alive. I couldn’t move.
And yet it wasn’t a physical force that clasped me in place; this was a restraint of a different kind. Closing my eyes, I surrendered to whatever was holding me fast in this bed, my fear now at its peak.
This fear, however, was not born of what lay beside me — nor what may lay ahead of me. It was a fear of not wanting to sleep. This night was the most surreal, most strange, and most scary night of my life, but I didn’t want it to end. I’d no idea what these things lying next to me had in mind, but I knew I didn’t want to be parted from them ever again.
I wasn’t quite sure what to be afraid of. But I was afraid.
And in that moment I realised:
You don’t comprehend true fear until your children go missing… and then come back to you again.
Five Days
by Susan Mayer
Faunique™ is a miraculous new natural product brought to you exclusively by MaNatura. Made from the secretions of the Faunus freshwater snail, its transformative qualities are GUARANTEED to firm up aging skin with one single application. All your fine lines, wrinkles and blemishes will completely VANISH in only FIVE days!
Forget surgery! Apply Faunique now, and count the days to a new you.
Day One
I’d practically skipped home from the Luxe Bazaar, I was so excited. Stupid, I know, bu
t when you’re 48 and back on the dating carousel, age is definitely the enemy. I could still feel a prickle of shame at handing over a week’s wages for such a tiny jar. But, what the hell – it was cheaper than a facelift.
Looking at my wrinkles in the bathroom mirror, I smiled. I did! I actually smiled at my crepy, blotchy, sagging reflection. Somewhere beneath the surface, beneath nature’s vandalism, I could still see my younger twenty-something face. In less than a week, that face was going to be back on top. Up yours, nature!
I unscrewed the lid. It had a strange evocative perfume – not unpleasant and not synthetic, but difficult to pinpoint. It smelled of wetness and darkness and hollowness. Like being inside a cave. The directions said to apply the face mask just before bedtime, using the enclosed applicator, and to leave it on the whole five days for it to fully work its magic. Genius in a jar.
The gel was transparent and syrupy, yet also kind of firm and spongy, like it couldn’t decide whether it was a liquid or a solid. Then again, it was bound to be unusual; every pot contained ‘one hundred and fifty concentrated Faunus secretions’.
I slathered the snail snot over my face and neck, covering my lips, and nudging it as close to my eyes as I dared. I used every last drop, wishing I had a bucket-load more for the rest of my body. This stuff defied gravity! It didn’t slide or drip or move at all, and it set fast, like jelly.
As I lay back in bed, careful not to smear the pillow, I thought about how I’d almost missed the Faunus stall at the busy market today. Set back a little from the main route, I must have walked past at least twice without even noticing it was there.
It was just sheer luck that the Faunique pot fell off the stall when it did and came rolling towards me.
Day Two
I was at the mirror again, scrutinising my reflection. For about the millionth time. Pointless really, as the face mask had turned an opaque grey, and I couldn’t actually see my own skin beneath. I dabbed at it lightly with my finger. It felt a lot tighter now - almost like it was clinging on! And it had definitely got busy: my whole face was tingling with active stimulation, like space dust on the tongue.
I decided there and then to accept Becky Akhtar’s invitation to her stupid reunion. Just to see the look on their haggy old faces. Ha! And there was no chance any of her clique would have got their hands on it; the guy on the stall, Lou, said that Faunique had only just come on the market.
Lou wasn’t the usual kind of person you’d expect to sell beauty products. I’ve seen many an Avon lady in my time, and none of them have ever had rectangular pupils. These novelty contact lenses! So much for the eyes being windows to the soul. He was wearing a headscarf too, over what seemed to be two fat dreadlocks. Maybe it was a religious thing. Who knew. By contrast, his suit was impeccably dapper - really suave and stylish, and made of a brown pelt-like fabric that I’d felt an overwhelming urge to stroke whilst he was talking. I’d managed to resist, but boy, was it distracting.
Apart from Faunique, the only other product on his stall was Faunesse; a lotion also made from Faunus secretions. They were clearly on to something here with the snail stuff. I asked Lou about the difference between them, apart from the price (the Faunique gel was five times more expensive!) He explained that when the snail sustains damage to its shell, it instantly secretes a restorative substance. When it’s a slight crack, a small amount of low potency fluid is produced to fix it. However, when the shell is thoroughly broken, which effectively kills the snail, it secretes in its death throes an abundance of highly concentrated fluid which has unbelievably potent skin repair qualities.
Lou offered me the choice: an affordable lotion, which would probably take up to ten years off my appearance, without any torturous snail death. Or: a stupidly expensive gel, containing the trauma-induced secretions of one hundred and fifty crushed snails, guaranteed to firm up my skin and eradicate all wrinkles and age spots fast and forever.
Why was he even asking? They’re only molluscs. We eat meat, don’t we? To me it was a no-brainer.
Day Three
When I woke up I couldn’t open my eyes. My eyelashes seemed meshed together. I touched them and could feel that the upper lashes were stuck to the gel on my lower lash line. Only the gel wasn’t a gel anymore. It had dried and hardened, like clay. Well, that wasn’t on the information leaflet. I scratched and picked at it, thinking it would come away like a scab, but it wouldn’t budge. I felt a yawn building up. That’s when I realised I couldn’t move my jaw either.
With my eyes glued shut and my mouth stuck open, I reminded myself of a baby bird, all nest bound and needy. I called Marie on speed dial; she could just about understand me, and yes, she could come over. What a discovery - I was a ventriloquist!
“Wash it off!” she said, for about the fifth time since she’d arrived. My sister was very ‘no nonsense’. I shook my head again.
“Give me one good reason!”
I braced myself, actually relieved that I couldn’t see her, and showed her the receipt.
Once she’d calmed down, she checked it for contact details. Nothing. She went online to look them up. Again, nothing. Not a single mention anywhere about a miracle gel that claims to eradicate every single wrinkle in only five days. And nothing about the company either. I let Marie guide me to the bathroom.
It was clear, after about ten minutes of hot towels and scrubbing, that the Faunique wasn’t coming off. Deep inside me, a stubborn nugget of hope excreted gladness. Maybe this is what’s meant to happen! Maybe the product is so new that the internet hasn’t caught on yet!
“Maybe you should go to hospital,” said Marie, the voice of reason. “Imagine if you’d slept with your mouth closed.”
*
Until they knew more about the face mask, the doctors were keeping me in an isolated ‘tropical diseases’ unit. A bit over the top, I thought, but at least I could see again; they’d snipped through my eyelashes. I hadn’t applied any Faunique to my upper eyelid, so I could blink too. Bonus.
In the evening, just to be on the safe side, they gave me a plastic insert to keep my mouth open, and coated my eyelids with a barrier film. Tomorrow they would get the test results back and then they’d work out how best to remove the Faunique.
As I drifted off, I could feel the face mask working on my skin. A hot, itching, almost effervescent feeling, while on the surface it was cool, rough and inert: the lava beneath the crust.
My tears slid over it, pointlessly.
Day Four
Marie was waiting for me when I woke up from the anaesthetic. It took me a moment to come round. I touched my face; it was smooth now and hard, like slate. She said they hadn’t been able to remove it; the Faunique had fused with the muscle tissue attached to my skull. Marie looked grim as she passed me a mirror. I gasped for air. The Faunique had darkened even more to a matt gunmetal grey, threaded through with veins of copper brown. The beauty of it was lost on me.
Then she held up a picture of a snail. It was a Faunus and its shell was identical to what was on my face. I couldn’t even begin to consider it. I felt a tremor in my arms. When I looked down, my whole body was shaking. I heard a constricted howling scream and saw Marie lunge at the emergency button. Then I realised the screaming was coming from me.
*
The sedative made me feel hazy and distant, but I could still tell what everyone was saying. The police had made extensive enquiries, but not one single trader had seen either Lou or his stall. They’d all said that the place I’d described was just piled with empty boxes and had a goat milling about amongst them. Apparently, stallholders often brought animals to the market; they attracted custom. So no-one had thought it the least bit unusual.
Day Five
It must have been the smell that woke me. Dank, damp, subterranean. So strong I felt flooded with it. I reached up to touch my nostrils. My fingers found only a smooth, hard curve. Then both hands were fumbling, searching for any recognisable feature. But the Faunique had grown into a so
lid rounded shell, over my mouth and eyes, covering my entire face. My heart clenched. I felt for the edges. Oh god, no. The Faunique had spread. Over my hairline, down my neck and throat.
A swell of panic charged through me. Get out! Get out! I clawed at it, pulling and scratching, thrashing, kicking. Suddenly, pinned down. My arm, gripped.
Punctured. Seconds later, a flat numbness packed out my skull like polystyrene. Someone touched my hand. Marie?
“Evelyn, I am Doctor Munro. I am monitoring your situation. You are absorbing oxygen through the shell, so you’re still breathing, as such, but this becomes difficult when you’re distressed. Do try to remain calm.” There was a knock at the door. “One moment please.”
I heard her walk away and talk to someone, but their liquid voices bled into one another. I caught odd phrases: “harness it”, “military applications”, “unlimited funding”.
The doctor returned.
“Evelyn, this morning we made a small crack in the carapace which produced a substance that was able to heal the fracture within minutes. In order to make you better, we need to look at what this substance is beneath the shell. If you agree with this, please raise your hand.” I hesitated, wondering if Marie was still here.
“Evelyn? Do you understand?”
I raised my right hand.
“Good. Thank you for your permission.”
What? But I didn’t. . .
“We have a government advisor here who has promised you will receive the very best treatment available. Plus any additional cosmetic procedure you want. Really. Absolutely anything, completely free of charge: facelift. . . stem cell therapy. . . anything. To help you with your recovery.”
Twisted 50 Volume 1 Page 6
