Shadow Over Sea And Sky

by K H Middlemass

  “Beware the wolf that prowls the cliffs,” Hugo said, desperately. “Beware the beast that stalks the night.”

  Emily felt a strange panic mounting up inside her at those words. Blood was now welling up in Hugo’s eyes, saturating the vitreous humour to a pale and watery pink. Viscous rivers of red cascaded sluggishly down his cheeks, dripped from his chin.

  A faint twinkling echoed in Emily’s ears; she looked down to find that she was grasping the crucifix that Abrahms had given her at the funeral. The chain glinted in the dream-light.

  When Emily looked up, she was met with nothingness. The crucifix began to burn in her grasp. Her skin was hot, she could smell the singing flesh, but she should not have felt it. She should not have felt it, but she did.

  8

  Emily woke from the dream in a fit of cold spasms, her heart pounding painfully against her ribcage. She was cocooned in the heavy quilts and sheets, like the bed was trying to swallow her whole. She disentangled herself, frantically kicking her legs and twisting her body until she was free. Her mouth felt unbearably dry. She forced herself up and out of bed, grasping for the full pitcher that was waiting for her when she’d first come into the room. The cool, clear water helped to clear her head a little, each gulp bringing her closer to a state of calmness. She sat on the edge for a while, head lowered and breathing deeply, willing her heartbeat to slow.

  Once she felt a little calmer, Emily got up and went to the window. She felt a little unsteady on her feet, head swimming woozily when she first stood up. The dream fog was clearing from her head now, out in the bitterly cold air of the winter evening. She relished the feeling of it on her arms and legs and felt pleasure in the way it brushed against her cheeks.

  Emily looked out into the night. Patinas of crystalline frost was slinking slowly up the glass of her window and she could see the grounds stretching out along the sloping underside of the hill, leading into the Fairbanks Cemetery. Emily’s skin prickled as her mind turned to Hugo’s ashes, buried beneath some cold, marble tomb stone. The night was clear, but for a fine fog creeping amongst the graves, close to the soil. The waning moon cast the world outside in a glacial, ghostly light. Emily moved closer to the window, watching her breath mist on the glass. She had forgotten how terrifyingly beautiful the night could be. In the city, the darkness was constantly obstructed by noise, flickering lights and dizzying odours. There was no time for silence or contemplation, not when everyone had somewhere to be and always an hour too late. Now, in the deep silence of the house, Emily could hear everything there was to be heard: the rustling of the wind as it gently whispered through the leaves on the trees, the lapping of the waves over the rocks down below, even the frost forming on the flower stalks.

  Her skin quickly grew chilled as she stood in only her thin shirt and underwear, the sweat from her nightmare drying on her body, but she couldn’t look away. She didn’t want to. She felt separated from reality, standing here. What was she doing, sleeping in the house of a stranger when her own home was but a walk away? More importantly, where was the stranger? The house was painfully, overwhelmingly still. There was not a single movement, not a single sign of life to be found other than her beating heart. For a while it calmed her, made her feel at peace in some way. She didn’t regret her actions in staying here, though she did wonder what had compelled her to do so in the first place. All she could really recall was a strong desire to remain.

  Emily touched her forehead to the glass, enjoying the coolness against her skin. The rest of her body was cold, but her face still burned from the dream and it offered her some relief. Doing so put everything out of focus. A flash of white dashed by in the corner of her eye, but by the time she had turned to look, there was nothing to be found but a patch of disturbed gravel. She couldn’t see beyond the window. Far off, there was a faint sound of movement: quick, crunching noises too fast to be made by human feet. It could have been a stray cat, perhaps even a dog that gotten loose from someone’s garden. Whatever it was, it was coming back, circling around like one of those poor creatures gone mad in an enclosure. Emily waited, not realising that she was holding her breath, her heart mounting in her chest. She didn’t know why she should feel afraid, but its bony hand was clutching at her throat and choking the air from her lungs. Time slowed down to a halting pace as the creature revealed itself, appearing once more beneath her window.

  Emily watched, unblinking, as a wolf ran across the yard, kicking gravel out from beneath its paws with each padding step. The moonlight bounced off of its glistening snow-white fur, its long muzzle blacker than the night sky above them. Emily’s legs threatened to buckle beneath her, the power of her fear locking up her body. Lungs burning, she took in a sharp, ragged breath.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered.

  The wolf’s thick haunches tightened as it came to a sudden stop. Emily wanted to hide, to run to her bed and throw her head beneath the pillow like she did when she was a little girl and convinced it would keep the nightmares away, but she couldn’t move. She was frozen in place, unable to look away, to do anything at all. Here was a wolf in England, a wolf standing beneath her window, a wolf that was turning its heavy head to look at her like it had heard her words. The golden orbs of its eyes reflected the moon back into hers. A fat, pink tongue lolled from the corner of its mouth and she swore that she could hear it panting as closely as if it were right next to her. The thing was… gazing at her, as if looking into her soul. Its eyes, she realised, were strangely human. They expressed great sadness, dark feelings that no animal can experience. Emily looked back at the wolf, letting her fear slowly melt away under the power of the creature’s impenetrable eyes.

  Time was fluid, and Emily has already forgotten her dread. Her body, every cell was infused with a sudden, heady euphoria. It spread through her like heat, sparking inside her with lucid sharpness. She felt immortal, powerful, to be caught under the watch of the wolf. She wanted to run with it, wild and free across the land, limitless and invincible. It was like being reborn.

  “Beware the wolf that stalks the cliffs…”

  The words flowed into her mind, a bolt of lightning piercing through the cloud that befuddled her. She felt herself emerging, as a drunk is dragged into sobriety, clarity trickling through her like water. She blinked, shook her head and pulled back from the window. Each movement was slow and deliberate, fighting against instinct to will her body back to her. The wolf’s eyes flashed once, glimmering red, and Emily finally tore herself away. She turned and ran back to the bed, heart fit to burst, where she threw herself beneath the sheets that were still warm from the imprint of her body and pulled the pillow over her head. Emily squeezed her eyes shut, creating darkness within darkness, and all she was left with was the sound of her muffled breathing and the blood rushing in her ears.

  She couldn’t believe what she had just seen. Was she still sleeping, lost within her own dark fantasies? Had she fallen so deeply into her dream that she would never wake again? These possibilities seemed terrifyingly all too real to her right now, cowering beneath the bedclothes as if mere fabric could protect her from the visions that chilled her blood and numbed her body to her own will. All that euphoria, that incredible feeling of power, was now but a trace left in her veins. It was like coming down from the greatest trip in her life.

  A sound broke through her barrier: a low, mournful howling that seemed to fill the entire space around her. Emily’s ears were ringing at the sound, the fine hairs on her arms rising in response to it. She gripped the pillow with both hands and pulled it even closer over her head, on the verge of smothering herself but only just. She began to mutter under her breath, the same phrase over and over, spoken through gritted teeth and with eyes shut up tight.

  “It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not fucking real.”

  Again and again, she spoke her special mantra against the nightmares to the indifferent darkness. This wasn’t the same as the scares her father had given her; she had been a willing vic
tim then, delighting in the giddy rush of fright. What she felt now ran deep, rattling in the hollows of her bones. The pillow was a flimsy, all-too-breakable barricade, the fine line between life and death. She would have remained there in that warm, dark place for the rest of the night if she could have, but her breathing was becoming tight, the space around her now too warm for her to stand.

  There was a faint scratching sound at the door.

  The sound was like a shot of adrenaline to the heart, propelling her out of the bed and back into the cold air. Staring at the door, Emily groped in the dark until she found her coat, which was thankfully draped over a chair near to the bed, and wrapped it around herself. She felt a little less vulnerable to be covered up, thankful for its warmth and familiarity as it encased her soft, unprotected body.

  There was the sound of scratching again, fainter than last time but just as insistent.

  “He-,” The words died in her throat. Emily swallowed, tried again. “Hello?”

  There was nothing save for the sound of the scratching growing louder.

  Emily pulled her coat around her tighter, holding it close like a comfort blanket. She wished that she had a light of some kind, any kind, but her mind was muddled and could not recall the facts at that moment. All she could wonder was how a man could live without electricity in this day and age. Why would a man of obvious wealth stumble about in the dark like the blinded? Then, thankfully, the fog of her mind cleared and she remembered what Volkov had said.

  Should you need them, you will find some candles in the drawer.

  Emily felt her way in the darkness towards the bed, grasping at the handle on the drawer beside it and yanking it open roughly. Her hand travelled over smooth wood, finding nothing. She tried the second, and felt sweet relief wash over her when her fingers clasped around the cylinder of the smooth, cool wax of a candle, blissfully next to a box of matches. Trying to get a single stick to light was made difficult thanks to the darkness and the ceaseless shaking of her hands, but she struck and struck until a flame finally flared up, a tiny little beacon in the darkness. She lit the candle before the flame burnt down to her fingers.

  The scratching continued. After placing the candle in the candelabra that rested upon the dresser drawer, Emily hesitantly approached the door, her hand gripped desperately around the cold shaft. Her mouth was dry again, a lump lodged firmly in her throat. The sound seemed to grow louder with each progressing footstep, but she forced herself onward regardless. When she finally came to open the door and yanked it open, there was nothing but emptiness on either side of her, and seemingly endless corridors where the moonlight poured through the windows, leaving little patches of silvery light upon the carpet. Emily found those patches strangely comforting. A gentle breeze wafted through, causing her candle to flicker apprehensively. Her imagination must have been playing tricks on her.

  Emily decided to go out and look around. Frankly, she didn’t know why she had decided this, but she knew that she could not stay in that room alone and hope to sleep again that night. She briefly contemplated trying to find Volkov’s room and requesting that he take her home, before pushing that stupid notion to the back of her mind. Could she even find him in this great, empty place? Instead, Emily pulled her coat tighter around her and padded off down the hall towards the stairs. Everything was in absolute silence, even her footfalls on the carpet. When she passed the high windows she took care not to look out and into the yard for fear she might catch sight of that wolf again, whether the beast was real or not. She kept her eyes fixed ahead of her and walked. The light she held in her hands was meagre, but it was warm and kind.

  A brief gust of chill wind caught her attention as it blew viciously around her ankles. The walls were indistinguishable in the night, the wallpaper rendered indiscriminate, but when Emily looked closer she realised the source of the draught: a small cove that concealed a set of stairs leading into yet more impenetrable darkness.

  “Be bold, but not too bold,” Emily said quietly to the night, as if she expected it to answer her. When had her life become so reminiscent of the dark fairy tales from her childhood? Bluebeard, the sinister Mr Fox… women that explored, women that were curious, they never fared well in such stories. But then Emily had never appreciated the condescending tone of these tales either, the way that their behaviour was so quickly condemned by the men that wrote them; if Bluebeard’s bride hadn’t unlocked the forbidden chamber then she would never have known the truth until her own time came. What fate would have eventually befallen Lady Mary had she never gone to the castle of her husband-to-be and seen his murderous ways first hand? Just because they didn’t know, it didn’t mean that they would be safe. She had never been able to understand the finger wagging morality of it; instead she scoffed at the notion of ‘female curiosity.’

  Emily went up the stairs.

  They curved around, creaking softly with each footstep, and the air grew colder as she ascended higher. She reasoned with herself that it must lead to the attic or some kind of loft at least, and this suspicion was confirmed when she finally came to the top. Her nose was met with the tickling smell of dust and age, catching in her throat and making her sneeze violently. She bumped into something with her shoulder, almost knocking it over. She forced herself to be still for a moment, allowing her a few seconds to get her bearings. The meagre light that her candle offered was only enough to see what was directly in front of her, but she could make out some slim shafts of light from the cracks of the windows on the other side of the room. Like everywhere in this house, the light was obstructed, blocked from entering. She slowly crossed to that side of the room, taking care to dodge anything in her way.

  After some fumbling and false starts, Emily managed to tear down the curtain that covered the largest window, allowing the moonlight to pour in and provide her with some much-needed illumination. After a few moments, she could discern the various shapes and obstacles that the attic held. Things that were covered in great swathes of clothes and velvet; things all coated in a thin layer of dust and grime. Even after the disruption that Emily had caused with her sneezing and stumbling, the air that settled remained contaminated with a fusty smell so strong that it was hard to breathe. Emily instead took shallow, little breaths that stopped before the itch could form in her throat. She tried to clear a path for herself with a swat of the hand but the air, it transpired, was thick with the stuff and moved sluggishly, contorting around her limbs rather than dispersing.

  Emily considered leaving, knowing she would only be able to stand such air for a short while, but continued walking forward anyway. There was something about the place that compelled her to keep going, like she was tied to an invisible cord and slowly being pulled along. The only sounds to be heard were the gentle padding of her bare feet along the wooden floor, and the occasional flicker of the candle that whispered into the night.

  Behind some old furniture, she found what looked to be a pile of canvases and realised that she had come across some of Volkov’s precious collection. Some of them were propped up against stacks of boxes, draped in plain white cloth, while others were disrespectfully strewn across the floor. She had expected something grander than this, or at least some semblance of order and reverence. With the light of the moon and her candle to aid her, she could just make out some of the lines on the canvases that weren’t covered, and saw scenes and landscapes drawn in a hand that wasn’t hers and was no longer living. She placed the candelabra upon the ground and got down on her knees to inspect them more closely. Her fingerprints left smudges upon the gilded frames. She suspected that this little pocket of artwork was a small part of a much larger whole, and she began to wonder just how many beautiful pieces Volkov had stashed away up here, hidden from eyes that would appreciate, that would consider and critique and discuss with others. It was like a miser that hides away his gold, never even daring to spend a single coin.

  She turned to one of the covered pieces, a canvas that had been propped up against t
he boxes. She was wary of removing the cloth for fear of disturbing the already impenetrable fug of dust and the air was already so thick and cloying, but she made herself do it, gripping a bunch of it in her hand and gently pulling so it cascaded to the floor in a shower of white.

  Despite the darkness, this was a painting that she could see with complete clarity. A shaft of light from the window had come to rest directly upon it, particles of dust slowly dancing through the air. Emily dragged herself closer, bringing the candelabra with her. The candle was burned down to about half way already, but it was enough for her to make out the finer details. It was a portrait of two people, a man and a woman. The woman Emily instantly recognised as the unforgettable subject of the painting that hung in the hallway, the one that Volkov kept hidden behind velvet curtains, the one that he had so dazzled her with on the night that they first met. She was wearing a red gown this time, in a shade so bright that it made her white skin all the more ghostly and unnatural. It was the stark white of swan feathers, her skin completely bloodless. She was sitting as she had sat in the other painting, daintily with her little hands folded neatly in her lap, but she wasn’t alone this time. A man stood behind her, one hand resting on the back of her chair. A man with long, dark hair tied at the nape of the neck, a man with strong features and eyes that peered out from beyond the canvas. He was dressed in finery that became him, assured him of his place in the world, his place in time.

  There was a date engraved upon the bottom of the frame where the name of the piece would have gone. Emily scanned over it with her eyes. Then again. Then a third time.

  1763.

  Lest that your heart’s blood should run cold.

  Emily’s breath hitched, her vision blurring around the edges as a feeling of faintness crept up on her. She stared at the portrait until her eyes watered; when she finally blinked, a faint outline of the number was imprinted on the back of her eyelids.