Tap.
A knock on the glass came from the back windshield. His breath tangled in his chest as he glanced up into the rear-view mirror. His mind scrambled for a plausible answer. It was probably Craig White's gang, boys with nothing to do but impress their friends with their cruelty. They could smell a coward from a mile off, even when the coward was supposed to be a grown up.
‘Pull yourself together,’ he said. ‘It's a tree branch in the wind. Or a possum.’
He leaned over the back seat and grabbed his umbrella.
Tap.
His head jolted up at the sound of another knock, but there was nothing there.
With a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped out. The chilly air soothed his hot cheeks. He circled the car, umbrella held up high. He ran his hand over the car roof but there were no new dents or marks and the roof was still covered in a thin layer of moisture. He looked up. There were no overhanging branches, no excuse for the noise.
Did this only leave the implausible? Peter?
He sighed. He'd been working too hard. It was the pressure of performing in front of Alan Wolf again, of desperately wanting to avoid history repeating itself. It was this place, this school, Beacon Hill.
Ravenswood climbed back into his car and turned the keys again.
‘Come on.’
The engine spluttered. He leaned in, egging the car on.
Thump.
‘Please,’ he whined, embarrassed by the sound of his own voice.
The car shuddered and clicked over, springing to life. With a little cheer, he put his foot down hard and sped out of the carpark with squealing tyres.
One last thump crashed against his roof as he passed through the school entrance. To his left side, a hooded figure emerged from the bush. The man reached out for the door handle. Ravenswood let out a cry and floored the accelerator.
He didn't look back, he just kept driving, all the way home.
***
BRIDGET AND THE GATEKEEPERS
The phone rang, shattering the silence into tiny pieces. Bridget jumped in her chair. ‘Hello?’
‘Did you feel it?’ It was the leader.
‘Yes,’ Bridget whispered. ‘What happened?’
‘I don't know for certain. I can feel the anguish but it's not at full strength. There is still time.’
‘Is it like a moaning in your bones?’ Bridget rubbed her forearms.
‘We all feel it differently. But the shadows are longer. They are following me.’
‘I’ve seen them too,’ she said, a tremble in her voice.
‘Don't be afraid. The Warden will protect us but we need to concentrate our efforts, and you are closest to the source.’
Bridget bit her lip and glanced around the empty room. She was alone and the door was closed but it was unnaturally silent, as though all sounds of life were being muffled.
‘Don't let doubt darken your mind. Remember your promise to the Warden. This is what we have worked for. This is our calling.’
Bridget slumped. ‘The sigils have been removed in some places,’
‘Someone is hindering our plans. We must go out again tonight and refresh them. I've called Mathilde. I have another ritual in mind, something more powerful. Tonight.’
‘Tonight,’ Bridget repeated faintly.
She put down the phone and cupped her head in her hands. ‘I mustn't let doubt darken my mind,’ she repeated aloud. ‘I mustn't.’
***
RAVENSWOOD
Tossing his keys on the kitchen table, Ravenswood slumped into the vinyl orange chair with the taped-up rip. The kitchen was bright and warm, filled with the scent of frying garlic and onions and the sounds of indie guitars on the radio. The incident in the car park was already fading away. Mostly.
‘Bad day?’ Fiona said as she stirred a pot on the stovetop. She pushed a curl away from her eyes with the back of her hand.
Ravenswood sighed.
‘Kids, eh?’ She licked the blood-red sauce off the wooden spoon.
Ravenswood nodded, removed his misted-up glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.
‘Wine? Hungry?’
‘Yes, and yes.’
‘It's only pasta. Don't read anything into it. Your timing is good and I've made too much.’
‘You're a bloody marvel.’
Ravenswood rifled around in the mound of unwashed dishes in the sink. He extracted a large glass, rinsed it and filled it with red wine.
‘You look knackered,’ Fiona said. ‘I don't know how you put up with them all day. I didn't even like teenagers when I was one.’
‘They're not too bad,’ he said as he took a long blissful sip and relaxed back into his chair. ‘It was something else. Something a bit strange.’
Fiona shoved aside a pile of unopened letters and catalogues and placed two bowls on the table.
‘What was it this time?’ She said, blowing on her fork.
Suddenly starving, Ravenswood shovelled the penne into his mouth and spoke with his mouth full. ‘Probably nothing.’
‘Do you still dream about her?’
‘Sometimes,’ he shrugged.
‘You can't keep blaming her,’ Fiona said.
‘You know what she was dabbling in.’
‘I've told you a million times, she was a sick woman. Anyway, she's dead—’
‘Who's dead?’ Leon trudged into the kitchen and kissed Fiona on the top of her curly head. ‘Any left for me, babes?’
‘Look in the pot,’ Fiona said. ‘We were talking about Josie.’
‘Ah, the evil stepmother,’ Leon said as he ladled pasta into a bowl. ‘You guys never talk about the cult.’
Ravenswood continued eating his dinner in silence.
Leon pulled up a chair, which looked doll-sized under his broad thighs. ‘Of course. I hadn't made the connection before. It's the same place where the high school is now, isn't it?’
‘It's really none of your business.’ Ravenswood scowled into his wine glass.
‘Don't be so rude.’ His sister flicked at his arm.
‘I'm interested in my girlfriend’s past,’ Leon said. ‘What's wrong with that?’
‘I like it when you say ‘girlfriend’.’ Fiona smiled.
Leon reached over and stroked her cheek. ‘You two always change the subject whenever I bring up family.’
‘With good reason,’ Ravenswood snorted. ‘And I don’t want to talk about it now.’
‘But I'm not talking to you. I'm talking to my girlfriend.’
‘It's our private business,’ Ravenswood grumbled.
Fiona sighed and put down her fork. ‘We didn't live in that compound. After the Kindred were forced off the hill, they moved down near Leslie Vale.’
‘Did they really skin people alive?’ Leon asked.
‘This is what I mean, Fi.’ Ravenswood rolled his eyes. ‘He's never going to understand.’
‘Give him a chance.’
‘Everyone in town knows there was some fucked up shit going on up there,’ Leon persisted. ‘It'd be nice to know the truth.’
‘It was an allegory,’ Fiona said. ‘They didn't really skin people.’
‘But they talked about it? Right?’ Leon leaned forward in his chair, his eyes gleaming.
‘It’s really about shedding your skin and being born anew. Like a baby. Free of sin,’ Fiona said.
‘Oh,’ Leon sounded disappointed. ‘Still. A bit gory, though.’
‘Are you sure it was only a story?’ Ravenswood asked. It was his sister's turn to glare. ‘I know you've had the dreams, too.’
‘Kids have wild imaginations. The way Josie treated us—‘
‘What did she do?’ Lee said without blinking.
Fiona closed her mouth.
‘Come on, Fiona.’ Ravenswood raised an eyebrow. ‘You wanted to talk about this.’
‘She was brought up inside the Kindred,’ Fiona said. ‘It was all she knew. She was traumatised.’
‘You're always
making excuses for her,’ Ravenswood said. ‘She was a cruel bitch. She knew exactly what she was doing.’
‘Perhaps you need to talk to someone again. The school is digging up all these memories.’
‘But your dad wasn't one of them?’ Leon interrupted.
‘Josie came to his office to buy a house,’ Fiona said, with a swallow. ‘He was pretty vulnerable after mum died.’
‘He was putty in her hands,’ said Ravenswood. ‘She knew exactly what to say.’
‘He was grieving. He didn't know how to cope.’ Fiona frowned.
‘More excuses,’ Ravenswood said.
‘And there was a fire?’ Leon asked.
‘If you believe that—’ Ravenswood muttered.
‘Paul!’ Fiona furrowed her brow. ‘We've been over this a billion times. There was an inquest and everything.’
‘I'm just saying. Oh, forget it.’ He shook his head and took another slurp of wine.
‘What really happened tonight?’ She narrowed her eyes.
‘Nothing. My mind playing tricks on me,’ he said, prodding at his pasta, his hunger gone as quickly as it had arrived. ‘Probably.’
‘Probably?’ Fiona said.
‘I was in the car park. I swore something was following me. A shadow. Then there was a thumping on the roof.’
Fiona inhaled sharply. ‘Peter?’
‘It sounded like pecking,’ Ravenswood said with a gulp. ‘But there was nothing there.’
‘You've been working too hard.’
‘Who's this Peter guy?’ Lee asked.
‘Another time.’ Fiona patted his hand. ‘With more wine.’
‘Come on. You can't leave me dangling like that,’ Lee groaned.
‘Lucky for you, it's only a one-year contract.’ Fiona turned back to her brother. ‘But be careful. I don't want you getting ill again.’
‘It's different when the school is empty.’ Ravenswood cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps you're right. I've got that doctor's number somewhere. I promise I’ll call next week. But for now, get me another wine, will you?’ He held out his glass. ‘There are a few kids with real potential in the group. And I talked to Alan Wolf today. He’s coming along to opening night.’
‘Alan Wolf? That's really good,’ Fiona said as she handed back a full cup of wine and placed her warm hand on his shoulder.
‘This time, he'll take notice,’ Ravenswood said, firmly.
He had to.
***
ANGELIKA
Last Night
An earthquake? In Beacon Hill? Angelika forced her eyes open. She lay waiting for another jolt, her whole body tensed. The glowing green digital clock showed 3:00am. The house was quiet and there were no more bumps. Why did rational thought disappear in the middle of the night?
Her mouth was gluey and sour. She tossed her quilt aside and padded across the bedroom carpet and down the hallway in her socks.
She flicked on the light and was temporarily blinded by the blast of 100-watt bulbs running along the top of the mirror. She fumbled into the pine-panelled bathroom and drank straight from the shamrock-green tap, flinching as the cold water hit her two front teeth. Angelika caught her reflection in the mirror and prodded tentatively at the plum-coloured blotches under her eyes. Allergies. With a sigh, she leaned in closer, so close she could feel the cool of the glass radiating against her skin.
Below one of the bulbs, she noticed a chip and sighed again. She’d get the blame as usual. She reached up to touch it and as her fingertip brushed the little black crevice, the surface of the mirror cracked. Angelika cried out as a long meandering crack severed the mirror from top to bottom. The black rivulet cleaved her reflection in two, a diagonal slash from cheek to chin. Angelika stared at her broken reflection. A knot tightened in her stomach as she cringed, anticipating her father's tirade.
It couldn't have been her fault. She only touched it.
But as the seconds passed and she stared into her own face, the knot in her tummy untangled. Her panic was replaced by a lightness in her chest. She giggled at herself, a wicked and unfamiliar gleam in her eye. An older, colder stranger stared back through her own blue eyes.
The crack spread, crazing the mirror like a spider's web and she leaned in to admire her new face, partitioned into a hundred jagged pieces.
And then the blood came.
First, it was bright red, full of life and iron. Young blood welling up in the cracks like a fresh paper cut. Angelika reached up, mesmerised. She rubbed the blood between her fingertips. It was still warm as she stuck her fingers into her mouth and the rusty taste of iron tingled on her tongue.
The red sap dribbled down the channels of broken mirror. Bloody puddles formed on the green vanity. Angelika tilted her head as the liquid darkened from bright red to scarlet and then to the shade of her dad's favourite Shiraz. This was a sickly colour, of old blood, decay and disease. The flow thickened into a waterfall of soiled claret that rolled down the mirror, lapping the sides of the sink.
Angelika stepped back, her mouth hanging open as her skin prickled and she held her breath in her throat.
Her eyes widened as the scene changed again.
Viscous like oil, the blood was now black. It oozed and spread all over the mirror. Random pieces of the mirror were left uncovered like ladders in a black stocking. Odd fragments of her face reflected back at her: a few strands of blonde hair, the fleshy round of her chin, part of a plucked eyebrow. The rest of her face was blacked out, deleted.
The stench of rotting fruit, blocked drains, mould and carcasses flooded the inside of her nose and mouth. Angelika retched.
The inky liquid filled the sink and clogged up the plug hole. It welled over the sides and poured onto the floor with loud belch-like glugs. This blood was icy cold. It soaked her socks and squelched between her toes, sending chills up her legs. Angelika choked and dislodged something chunky from her lungs. She spat a clump of dark goo onto the linoleum. The black blood was inside her as well.
Angelika’s lips trembled and hot tears rolled down her cheek. She licked her palm, and scowled, her tongue leaving behind a sticky black residue. She wiped her face with the back of her hand. Her tears were black, too.
Black blood flowed from the mirror in a never-ending stream of lava from somewhere deep inside the bathroom wall. Angelika stared and stared. She threaded her fingers through her hair and felt the blackness inside and out.
‘Stop!’ she cried.
Angelika woke up with a start to her alarm clock screeching and sunlight peeking between the curtains. She was damp with sweat. Her shoulders softened and she wriggled in under her quilt. It must have been all that superstitious nonsense from yesterday, but wasn't it fascinating how the mind processed the day's information overnight?
She stretched, yawned and rubbed her eyes. Familiar footsteps clumped down the stairs. Her dad hummed to himself and the kettle squealed in the kitchen. Angelika pulled aside her quilt but inhaled sharply. She peered closer, her stomach churning.
Her palms were caked in crusty black debris.
Chapter 6
Wednesday 20th June 1992
HOLLY
‘Hey Witchy-poo,’ Wayne said at the bus stop, his voice booming as usual through the fog. ‘You'll be loving this play.’
‘You don't even need to act at all,’ Jason added.
‘All those spells and stuff would come natural to you.’
‘You won't even need make-up,’ Jason sneered.
‘Or a costume,’ Wayne laughed.
They circled Holly like sharks. Years ago, they had all been the same height but now, they towered over her. The same lines over and over, day in day out, every day of her entire school life.
‘Leave me alone,’ she said. ‘What do you want?’
‘Nothing,’ Wayne replied as usual. ‘We want nothing from you. Witch girl.’
‘Watch out,’ Jason said. ‘She'll put a spell on you.’
Holly pushed past them and waited by the ke
rb as the morning traffic flowed by.
Every day it had been the same, ever since primary school.
‘We know about you,’ they used to say. ‘You can't pretend. We know. You're evil.’
‘I'm not,’ she'd reply, her voice hoarse after years of denying.
But no one listened.
Holly would run and hide behind the big ant-covered gum tree at the edge of the playground and come back to the classroom with a tear-stained face. She tried dobbing to teachers, but even they eyed her strangely. One or two listened, but the more understanding teachers never lasted long in Beacon Hill. Then Holly tried violence. She smirked every time she relived the day she punched Wayne in the nose and his blood dripped onto his school shirt, but as usual, no one listened. She was the one punished.
Holly had pleaded with her mum to switch schools, to go private, even Catholic but her mum wouldn't have a bar of it.
She had thought they'd get bored eventually, but she was wrong. She learned to ignore them. Tuning them out was easier than making them stop.
The girls were no better. They smiled on the surface and sniggered behind their hands, excluded her from skipping, and never invited her to their birthday parties unless the whole class was there. The parents were as bad as the kids. Her mum called them hypocrites. She said they secretly sought out Aunty Dahlia when no one else was looking. But Holly never knew who to believe.
There were only two hundred and sixty four days until the end of Year 12. But perhaps a solution would arrive sooner.
Holly peered through the fog up the hill and hoped each new glimmer of light was the bus. She glanced up and down the footpath, wishing an adult would come. Their mere presence would shut the boys up. But no one did. Holly rubbed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. It had been another night of shadowy dreams and broken sleep. She'd woken up with the same persistent throb pressing inside her skull.
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