EverFall

by Joe Hart

  The creature stepped to one side with the speed I’d witnessed earlier, and threw a halfhearted punch, knocking Scrim from the air. The bird crumpled and hit the hard rock in a rolling flurry of feathers. He somersaulted twice and then lay still, his beak pointed toward the sky.

  “No!” Kotis bellowed, his voice full of pain. He made his hardest lunge against the chains yet, the cords in his neck sticking out in ropes, his eyes bulging with hatred. “You fucking prick! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!”

  I stared at Scrim’s unmoving form and felt despair slide over me. I waited, hoping for him to move, to shift a wing or open his beak. He remained still.

  The creature inspected the long nails on its hand, ignoring Kotis’s insults and threats. “Yes, yes. You’ll tear me limb from limb, I’m very concerned.” It looked up and motioned me to come closer. “Michael, come here before any more life is lost.”

  My legs trembled as I stepped onto the makeshift bridge spanning the small gap around the field. My mind searched for possible ways to get out of the situation, and I glanced in every direction, looking for something, some sort of diversion or means of defense. There was nothing. I walked past the ring of rusted beings, who stared at me with hunger, their dark eyes shifting from my feet to my head as though I were a walking banquet.

  I stopped several yards away from the creature in an attempt to stay outside of its reach, but then I remembered how fast it moved and knew if it wanted to kill me, it would.

  It smiled again. “Michael, so very nice to meet you. I’m Dagnon of the Lonos, and these are my prodigies,” Dagnon said, waving a hand at the rusted figures around us. “And, well, you know these two, I suppose,” he said, jerking his head toward Kotis and Fellow. I looked at Kotis, who bared his teeth, his breath coming out in heavy puffs.

  “Don’t tell him anything, Michael. He’s a vile disease,” Kotis said, and I could see he wanted to spit again.

  “Oh, can’t we be civil?” Dagnon asked, his voice lightening with syrupy good humor. “This is all just a misunderstanding.”

  “What do you want?” I asked, finally finding my voice. I kept the question steady, even though Dagnon turned his strange eyes upon me again. The red in his irises flickered, and in that moment I knew he was mad.

  “Just a simple favor. You’d do a favor to save your friends, wouldn’t you?” he asked, leaning forward.

  I licked my lips, weighing my words carefully. “It depends on what it is.”

  Dagnon smiled. “You’re really not in the position to bargain.”

  “Maybe not, but we all would be dead if you didn’t really need me for something,” I said. My brain shot in multiple directions as I tried to buy more time, to figure out how to free Kotis and Fellow without getting us all murdered.

  Dagnon considered my words and stroked his chin with dirty fingers. “You humans are an interesting lot, you know that? Some time ago there was a vent to Earth that showed up just a few feet from where we’re standing. It appeared in your world in a man’s attic, and he happened to peer in just as I did the same. He was in a stupor and stepped back before I could grab him. So I asked him his name instead, tried to lure him a little closer. He said it was Lovecraft. The vent disappeared shortly thereafter. Such a shame I couldn’t bring him here for a longer stay.” Dagnon shifted his reptilian eyes away, and then back to me. “I like your name much better.”

  He turned and walked away from me, stopping beside a short-legged table I hadn’t noticed before. There were a few ornate carvings in the wood, swirls and diagrams that meant nothing to me but could have been a language. Dagnon reached down and, with one pointed fingernail, peeled up a piece of the table’s top. With a quick snap of his hand, he ripped the strip of wood up and off. Blood flew into the air in a rainbow of red, and a lipless mouth opened on the end of the table and screamed. I took a reflexive step back, and flinched when Dagnon threw the piece of wood at me.

  I caught it, expecting the rough feel of laminate against my palms, but instead the strip hung limp like a dead snake. It was soft and pliable, sticky with blood. When I looked closer, I realized it wasn’t wood at all—it was skin. I dropped it on the ground at my feet, rubbing my hands on my jacket as my stomach pole-vaulted toward the back of my throat. The table sobbed and let out an agonized scream every few seconds until Dagnon kicked it, drawing an abrupt yelp from it that trailed off into soft crying.

  “You see, Michael, I’m quite adept at changing things. I make dead things alive and alive things, well ...” He tipped his head toward the weeping table. “Let’s just say I alter them. And your two friends here would make great additions to my little collection. Is that enough negotiation for you?”

  My mouth felt like it was full of sand, and all I wanted was to get the smell of blood out of my nose and the feeling of it off my hands. A sound like sandpaper on concrete came from around us, and I saw the rust creatures laugh, their mouths open and their eyes hungry.

  I turned back to Dagnon. “What do you need me to do?”

  His smile seemed to split his face. “There is a house not far from here, where no house should be. There is something there that I want. You will know it when you see it. Bring it back to me, or your friends will end up as something too terrible to speak of, something I can torture and that will be torture just to exist as.”

  “Why don’t you go and get it?” I asked, feeling as if I was already on thin ice and had just stepped further away from shore.

  Dagnon’s face clenched in a fist of rage, and then relaxed in a blink of an eye. “Because, I will kill your friends and then kill you,” he said, grinning crazily again. “Is that a good enough answer?”

  Kotis shook his head again, pleading in his eyes, along with a heavy grief that was already etched into his blocky features. “I’ll do it,” I heard myself say.

  Dagnon threw back his head, his long hair bouncing as he laughed. “Wonderful,” he said between giggles. “Two of my helpers will escort you to the house. Be back as fast as you can. And remember, if you run, not only will your friends end up as my new favorite pastime, I’ll make it my sole purpose to find you and peel out your bones one by one.”

  My bowels felt soupy, but my gaze didn’t waver from Dagnon’s. “And you’ll let us go if I do this?”

  Dagnon’s face grew serious. “Of course. Be quick and I’ll set you all free.”

  I knew the lie for what it was, but nodded anyway and tried to appear satisfied. I took a couple of steps closer to Kotis. “Is that table Ellius?” I asked in a low voice.

  Kotis shook his head. “He managed to get into the forest when we were ambushed.” I glanced around at the rust creatures as two moved toward me on spindly legs.

  “Is Fellow okay?” I hadn’t seen him move since entering the clearing, and I feared the worst.

  Kotis glanced to his left, then back at me. “I think so. They hit him hard on the head when they took us. He hasn’t been conscious since.”

  “That’s enough chitchat,” Dagnon said behind me. “Get moving.”

  With no other choice, I followed one of the rusted guards, while the other fell in step behind me. We walked away from the group to another bridge, the direction the same as the one we’d been following before reaching the river. We wound our way into the maze of rocky spines. The creatures’ breathing sounded like overheated radiators, wheezing and whining with each step. I wondered briefly if I could overpower them. Kotis and Fellow had seemed to get the best of a few before being taken. The skin on the guard in front of me was layered like a snake’s, the patches of rust overlapping to form scales that rose and shifted with its movement. I looked for a weak spot, somewhere to strike. After a few moments I gave up the idea, knowing that I had no weapons besides the Zippo in my pocket, and my fists didn’t seem the best tools for the job. Kotis may have been able to smash them to pieces, but I knew I’d die if I tried the same.

  We walked for approximately the same distance that I had earlier to gain view of the op
en area, and soon came out onto a plain of hard-packed ground. The slight wind blowing pulled a wave of dust from the ground and lifted it in a twisting cloud that rolled beautifully before us. When it settled I saw the outline of something not far away, something boxy and tall, with a peak. Its gray color did nothing to contrast it from the soil it sat upon, but its shape was distinct: a house.

  “That’s it,” one of the creatures growled. “Come right back, or we’ll find you, and the prince won’t have the pleasure of his torture.”

  I hesitated. “You’re not coming with me?”

  The one who’d spoke remained stoic, but its eyes flitted between my face and the house, and I saw something in them: fear. They were afraid of the house. I didn’t question them anymore, and turned away. Without glancing back, I walked toward the outline of the structure in the distance.

  Chapter 9

  The House of Mirrors

  The house was old. The paint that covered it at some point was gone, flaked away beneath the wind and the ever-present sun. Its wooden siding was rough and decaying, with loose fibers that twitched with the breeze. The first story was fronted by a short porch, its railing gone in some places, as well as several steps to the front door. The second level narrowed to suggest only a single room upstairs. Windows looked out at me, every pane of glass still intact. A picket fence surrounded perhaps an acre of property. A lone toy truck, its yellow paint faded to watery urine, sat half submerged in the drifting dirt of the front yard. That chilled me the most.

  I glanced over my shoulder to inspect the distance I’d traveled and to make sure the rust creatures hadn’t followed me.

  A shadowed figure stood a hundred yards away.

  I stared at it, even as my heart leapt into furious action. I dared it to fold away as it had done before, to become a mirage that faded, but it remained. There were no features on its face, but its build and stance were familiar. Familiar because they were my own.

  I turned back toward the house and watched for some sign of danger. No faces appeared at the windows, the door didn’t creak open ominously. The wind rustled my hair and pushed at my coat.

  Unhooking the gate, I walked through the yard to the front door. The rotted smell of wood, a punky, thick odor, invaded my nostrils. The handle was worn and corroded, but it turned easily, and the door opened without protest. A blast of air rushed past me, as if the house were pressurized and I’d just broken the seal. For some reason the air made me think of a drink, a cold beer, an iced whiskey. My mouth watered. Before I stepped into the house, I glanced over my shoulder again and saw that the shadow was gone.

  Stepping through the door, movement flashed at me from directly ahead. I ducked instinctively, expecting a blow to the head. When none came, I saw that mirrors lined both short walls flanking a central staircase that led straight up to a landing and then disappeared out of sight. I shut the door behind me and examined the mirrors. They were dusky and stained with time, their reflected images mottled and distorted. I moved toward the one on the left and stopped, my breath freezing solid in my lungs.

  A little boy looked out at me from the mirror.

  I blinked, waiting for the reflection to move on its own, to grow teeth and leap free of its glass prison, but it merely blinked too. I raised my hand and it did the same. Until then I hadn’t really studied the boy’s face, but when I saw that he wore a polo shirt with colors that chimed tones in my memory, I knew that he was me. I was seven years old in the reflection, and saw that my other hand held the lifeless body of a guinea pig. Its brown-and-white fur was barely discernable through the age of the glass, but I could still see a black eye glazed with death shining through the tangles.

  “Pal,” I said, speaking the name of my pet for the first time in over twenty years. I’d named him Pal after my father brought him home for my sixth birthday. His name was chosen in honor of being my self-proclaimed best friend. He had been my responsibility, my charge. Water, food, and cleaning. Simple enough to an adult, but for a kid of six it was, at times, overwhelming. I’d forgotten his water the day after my seventh birthday, the day we left for my aunt’s for a week. He’d died of thirst, and it had been no one’s fault but mine. I remembered coming home, wearing the shirt that the boy did in the mirror, and stepping into the house and smelling the putridity of something days dead.

  I tore my gaze away from the boy in the mirror, who began to cry. I felt tears on my cheeks and wiped at them, yet I saw no matching movement in the mirror. I turned and walked to the other side of the staircase. My mind hummed with the memory of my failure. I’d caused Pal’s death, and although most would scoff at such a petty loss, it still bothered me.

  A darkened foyer sat to the right of the stairway, and I peered inside, breathing in and out, trying to shake off the feeling of despair. I wasn’t here to wallow in my failures, I needed to focus. I needed to find what Dagnon wanted, bring it back, and think of a plan along the way to free Kotis and Fellow. I saw nothing of significance in the dim light that entered through the dirty windows. Dagnon said I would know when I saw it. I glanced toward the stairs; the upper floor my next destination. My eyes swept past the second mirror intentionally, but the urge to look was too great, and I glanced at the reflection in spite of myself.

  The mirror showed me again; although this time I almost thought it was a normal mirror, because it was clearer, and the first thing I looked at was my face. The features that stared back were not those of a young boy, but they weren’t currently mine either. There were no lines around my eyes and my face was leaner. I wore a faded Weezer T-shirt and jeans that were torn at the knees. In my right hand I saw a crumpled wad of money.

  I’d taken the cash from my best friend in college. Tom had left thirty dollars lying on a coffee table after we’d gotten drunk the prior night. He was asleep when I woke, and seeing that it was already raining outside, I took the money from the table, knowing I had none to buy the booze that would get me through the thunderstorm. I never told him or paid him back, and he never asked. He slowly separated himself from me over the following weeks, and deep down I knew why.

  I staggered out of the mirror’s reach and gripped the molding banister that lined the stairway. My stomach churned with nausea, the guilt that coursed through my mind making my guts foam with regret. What the hell was wrong with me? I coughed and tried to straighten. It felt as though weights hung from each of my shoulders and the top of my head. I wanted to lie down on the floor and curl up, to give in to the guilt that pressed down on me. The images of Kotis and Fellow chained floated through my mind, but they were hazy and without definition. It wasn’t my problem anymore. I didn’t even remember why I was here.

  Jane, Sara, Jack.

  My spine stiffened and my head cleared at once. My kids, my wife, that’s why I was here. My gaze traveled up the stairs, and I took the first step, which groaned under my weight. The landing came into view, and I realized that there was only one room on the second floor. I stopped at the last step and looked at the space before me.

  The room was fairly long. A single window set high in the farthest wall shone a pale shaft of light onto the wooden floorboards. A table sat beneath the window and ran the entire width of the room. There were several objects on its surface, but what caught my eye first was the noose.

  It hung from the middle of the room, the rope strung through a sturdy eyelet screwed into the middle beam of the roof. The noose was open wide, its mouth drooping like a silent scream. A dusty chair sat beneath it, its thin legs unsupported by cross-rungs of any kind.

  The quiet mimicked the dirty surfaces of the room, unmoving, stolid. I stepped onto the second floor, and something moved at the far end. A darkened mirror sat above the long table, matching its width of the room. Without something to reflect, its surface blended into the wall. Now I stood suffused in muted light, small and indistinct in the polished glass.

  Part of me cried out to flee the house, to abandon the search for whatever the demon in the clearing w
anted. I could devise another plan to rescue my friends and my family. But even as the thoughts danced through my mind like ill-conceived sprites, I knew I couldn’t leave. Somehow I knew the house would stop me now that I was inside its boundaries.

  I centered my will on finding what I needed to free my friends, and moved forward. Wary of the noose in the middle of the room, I gave it a wide berth. But as I passed it, I couldn’t help but see the maroon stains on the rope and the scuff marks on the seat of the chair.

  Once at the table, I kept my head anchored down, my eyes focused on the objects, unwilling to let my attention wander up to the outline in the mirror. An ancient revolver sat to my left, a thin layer of dust covering its heavy steel. There were several places on the table where it had been moved and set down by unknown hands innumerable times. The next item to the right was a long knife; its blade curved and stained a uniform black from tip to handle. It was all but free of dust. My gaze shifted again and I stopped.

  Two more objects sat in the row. The first was a clear vase almost a foot high. It was wide at the bottom, its base the size of my palm. It narrowed at its top and nearly came to a point, ending in a stopper that looked like a hand-carved cork. But the most interesting aspect was its contents. The inside of the vase was amber in color, with bits of black swirls that moved of their own accord. They corkscrewed through the viscous fluid and left wakes where they swam.

  The second object was a bottle of whiskey. For a few seconds, the sight of it didn’t compute and I felt nothing. The label was gone, peeled away, but its outline was visible and I knew it was Jack Daniels, my favorite. The impulse to snatch the bottle from where it sat became strong. I imagined unscrewing the cap and smelling the oaky sting that would leak out. I could feel the bottle’s mouth against my own, the fire that would race down my throat, and the pervasion of the alcohol as it softened everything.