by E.W. Pierce
marched into the darkness. The people lying there did not move. He would have thought them dead if not for the low but persistent sound of air whistling through open mouths.
He crept carefully through the ranks, loath to disturb or touch any of them. They slept on, oblivious to his presence. There must have been hundreds - men, women, children. Some he recognized from the crowd that first day. The boy was there, too. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly askew. Marten remembered the boy laughing and chasing Baron. I should have taken him away that night and run away. He and Baron and I, and gone far away from this place of cold horror.
He lingered long at the boy's bedside before moving on, leaving the boy undisturbed.
The cots stopped abruptly though the room continued on into the darkness. There, a final cot sat alone. It wasn't empty. An older man in faded overalls lay there. At least, he suspected it was a man, only his face was gone. Smooth skin covered the area where eyes and ears and mouth should have been.
The dream, gods the dream. With a trembling hand, Marten gently touched his own face. Had it been a dream?
Staggering back, he stepped on something soft and furry. No, it can't be...
Baron lay upon the floor, curled inward. Asleep. Marten dropped to one knee, setting the crossbow aside. "Wake up." He softly rubbed Baron's head, then grabbed handfuls of hair and tugged when the dog didn't stir. "Come on, you old bastard. It's time to go." The dog was oblivious to all.
“Marvelous, aren’t they?” Herbert's voice echoed.
Marten half-stood, hand groping blindly for the crossbow. The old farmer picked his way through the cots, coming ever closer. Only, Marten suspected it was not Herbert at all. A skin changer, wearing people's faces like a man wears clothes.
“A fine collection, if I may say so.” Herbert stopped to admire a man sleeping on a cot. With long, spindly fingers of gray, the creature caressed the sleeping man's cheek. "All so very interesting. So very unique. Yet I grow bored of them. Their lives are so dull. None are half so interesting as you."
Crossbow in hand and pointed at the creature, Marten found his voice. "What are you?”
Herbert’s face shifted and blurred until the dough-cheeked innkeeper stared back at him. "Sorry about your horse. Try the old man north of town." The face melted away and now It was Michelle. "Stay awhile... you are so interesting." Marten's stomach rolled over. His finger tightened on the crossbow's trigger.
"What am I?" Michelle's features darkened, elongated, grew hair, until It wore Baron's face. The dog grinned and spoke with Michelle's voice. “Whatever I want to be.”
Marten’s pulled the trigger.
The bolt caught the creature in the chest. It flew backwards, toppling over a cot. It lay there, alternatively crying in an ever-changing babble of voices and mewling like a wounded animal. Marten reloaded the crossbow and stepped closer.
It leapt at him as soon as he cleared the cot. The crossbow fired, the bolt went wide, ricocheting into the darkness. Then It was upon him, baring him down with impossible strength, forcing him to the floor. The crossbow was gone, ripped from his hands. The ever-match spun away but by some grace stayed lit. He tried for the sword but couldn't free it from his belt.
Michelle lay astride him, holding his arms down. Much as she had the first night.
Marten fought but her grip was like cold iron, and her touch seemed to sap his strength. Already he was feeling drowsy. “Stay away from me.”
“But I find you so interesting. So... sinful.” Her mouth yawned open, impossibly wide, until it seemed the entirety of her head was an enormous mouth. Ribbons of drool hung between sharp teeth. Leaning in, it consumed him. His boot heels kicked frantically on the floor and then stilled. All was silent, save an eager clicking noise.
*
In the morning, Marten returned to the inn, dragging the reluctant horse behind him. He walked with a jolly step, as a man of younger years might. His chest hurt where he'd been shot, but it was a minor affliction, no more than a bruise really. A silver-headed arrow? As though he was some sort of horror out of story? How silly humans could be.
The Skin-Man wore Marten’s face and had access to Marten’s memories. He was Marten, in every way imaginable. Thus, he knew that Marten had lived on the road many years, and he remembered how to go about the business of preparing the wagon for travel. Hopping aboard, he gave the pony a smart crack. The wagon lurched into motion. Hodgersville had been good to the Skin-Man, but it was time to seek more varied places. More interesting peoples.
The wagon slowly picked its way south, toward the warmer lands and the cities and the people.
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About the Author
Raised on a steady diet of Star Wars, cowboy movies with his great-grandfather, and lots of pretend, E.W. Pierce developed an early interest in the making of make-believe. He now writes Fantasy and Science Fiction stories, sometimes with an element of horror.
He lives in Michigan with his wife and their two children. You can follow him at https://ewpierce.com, where he blogs about fantasy books, roleplaying games, and other geeky pursuits.
