The Midnight Lullaby

by Cheryl Low

  The music grew louder, making his eardrums whistle and his skull throb. Hazel screamed in pain somewhere in the room.

  A name was written on the plate, between runes he himself had drawn a hundred times.

  Emmeline Whitney Scott. He had never known her full name. But, of course, they had. They had stolen her from her life and, in their own way, thought they put her to rest at the edge of the graveyard nine years ago.

  Again, Benedict imagined teeth being pulled—one tooth caught in the grip of a pair of pliers and being jerked up, ripped from the jaw and gums and dragging the other tooth with it in a bloody, mangled mess.

  Elysium shouted, but the awful music drowned him out, his mouth open wide and face red, as he lunged for their cousin and the plate. He would never reach in time.

  Benedict stepped through the doorway and right up behind his cousin. He had loved Theodore once, the way anyone casually loves the relations they have no reason to despise.

  His right hand tightened around the handle of the paring knife, arm thrusting forward and burying the short blade into the other man's side. Benedict's chest pressed up against Theodore's back, and his free hand shot out to catch the plate just before it fell. He pulled it safely to his side and jerked the knife up. It stopped against Theodore's ribs, scraping bone. His cousin's body twitched, trying to get away with a forward lean, but Benedict walked with him. He kept Theodore's back against his chest and started pushing the blade forward, slicing his stomach open until Benedict's knife-arm was all the way around him, hugging him.

  It was all without sound. He couldn't hear Theodore's shoes scuffing the floor, couldn't hear if he screamed or gasped or begged. That would have been terrible—to hear him beg. He couldn't even hear whatever sounds the knife made against the other man's shirt, flesh, and bones.

  Benedict hugged him tightly when he began to convulse, thoughtlessly digging the knife in deeper, pushing in and up. He had no idea what kind of damage he was doing, or if he should pull the knife out and try again for something more vital. Wasn't it all vital? People were fragile animals; even in the arena of mammals, they were particularly soft.

  Theodore sagged, legs finally giving out rather than pedaling forward, and Benedict pulled the short blade out of him and let his cousin fall.

  The rampant music in the walls stopped, his ears still ringing when he registered the thud of Theodore landing on the rug. His knees hit first, and then he buckled forward. His forehead smacked the ground, body slumping over.

  Hazel screamed.

  Benedict turned to look at her for the first time. She had propped herself against the wall. The big séance table was upside down beside her, and her leg broken, her knee crushed, and her shin bending near the middle. Had the table landed on her? Had she managed to get it off? Hazel would. She had the will to overcome her own pain. That was the point, wasn't it? The Lyons had an excess of will—too much spirit. It had allowed them to bully ghosts out of existence, and with all that will came a wealth of ego to tell them they were right to do so—not bullies, but heroes.

  Tears ran in thick streaks down her cheeks, and bleary eyes fixed on her dead brother. She had lost everyone now, hadn't she? Everyone in this house anyway. Just two shitty cousins left, and no one to take her side. Not even Elysium, who was in the same sinking boat.

  "This isn't you, Benny," Elysium spoke. Was he yelling, or were his ears still ringing? Somehow, he seemed loud and far away at the same time. "This isn't your anger. It's hers."

  "I know. You think I don't know?" Benedict glanced down at the knife in his hand, momentarily shocked to find his arm up to his elbow covered in hot red. He trembled, eyes tearing but mouth pulling into a miserable grin. "Does the fact that it's her anger make it any less meaningful? You killed her. You murdered her. Sacrificed her, for what? For me?"

  "Ben, please!" Hazel cried, croaking up the words. Her whole torso rocked, and he knew she wanted to stand or maybe even just crawl toward them. She was a doer, not the sort to sit back and let the world roll over her. But that leg wasn't going to let her move anywhere. "Smash the damn plate!"

  He turned toward her, cocking a brow and holding the plate up. "This one? You want me to break this? Why? Convince me." It was cruel. Was it his cruelty or Emmeline's? Did it matter?

  "She's going to kill us!" Hazel burst.

  Benedict laughed.

  She squirmed, groping at the wall, still trying to get to her feet. "I have kids!"

  His laugh died, smile dragged down. "Do you think that's a reason to spare you? To let you go home? What will happen to them, being cared for by a murderer? You didn't even like me, Hazel. Imagine what horrible things you'd do for them."

  She blinked at him, and he could see all her anger bubbling under her skin, looking for a way out but still wanting to convince him. She would say anything, if only she knew the right lie to tell.

  "Please," she settled on a plea.

  He sighed like he had given in. And then he rubbed his bloody arm across the plate. She screamed miserably when he coated the dish in a new layer of color, painting over and smearing the runes and that name, the name of a dead girl. He made sure to rub away enough of it in those streaks of fresh blood before tossing the plate at Hazel. It broke on the floor in front of her, thick shards skittering across the hardwood. "You're welcome," he muttered.

  Elysium hobbled past, and Benedict watched like a lazy wolf, following him one step out of the parlor. His brother marched a sloppy line for the front door, and Benedict waited. Somehow, he knew it was locked. He knew there would be no escape. Just as there had been no escape for her.

  Elysium twisted the knob and jerked the doors against their frame. They rocked just a little, just once, before seeming to fuse together.

  Elysium tried five more times before swearing and turning, pressing his back to the door and staring at Benedict. "We're your family, Benny," he rasped.

  Benedict rolled the handle of the knife against his wet palm.

  Emmeline was there now, standing in the foyer, watching Elysium with a thin scowl. "I was walking home from my friend's house," she said softly, mesmerized by her own memories, as though they were being played for her in his tears. "I was in a hurry. Didn't want to be late and make my mom worry… He seemed so nice when he asked for directions. He was lost—from out of town. He kept apologizing for bothering me and even promised he wasn't one of those creeps… I guess he was something else entirely. I thought he looked kinda sad. Stressed, maybe? I had no idea. There were no warning bells, no alarms going off in my head. And then it was too late. He hit me until my limbs went heavy. Until I couldn't get up. There was another man, and they put me in the trunk…"

  Elysium dropped his head back, thumping his skull against the heavy door. "She's here, isn't she?"

  A tear rolled off Benedict's left eye and down his cheek. "Yes."

  Hazel cried loudly in the other room, something intangible thudding around in there with her. Mother had never liked Hazel. The music started up again, blasting through the walls, but this time only in the parlor. The doors slammed shut, muting the tangle of notes and Hazel's screams.

  "I never came home," Emmeline whispered bitterly, more to herself than either of them. "My mother waited, and I never came home."

  Benedict took two steps forward. Elysium reached out to stop him, pushing at his chest in a weak effort to throw him back, but Benedict slashed at his arm with the knife, cutting through sleeve, skin, and muscle. They struggled against one another, sloppy with exhaustion, grief, and guilt on both sides. Elysium never tried to strike back at him, only tried to push him away—to grab at the hand wielding the blade and hold it back from his abdomen.

  When Benedict finally shoved himself back, staggering away from the door, Elysium slid down to the floor. He panted for air, arms curling around his middle, around those seven wounds in his stomach. The knife hadn't been as big as the one they had used on Emmeline, but it would kill him—eventually.

  Benedict
sank back into the hall, away from the threads of gray light that saturated the front of the house, and away from the growing puddle of blood around the front door, where his brother sat.

  He put the knife back in the kitchen and then went upstairs to shower.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Benedict woke gently, slowly, and found himself lying on his side on the bed. Emmeline mirrored him, her hand close to his, as though they might touch if only one of them would close the distance. He smiled at her first, and she smiled back cautiously. He realized then how quiet the house was. It had stopped raining outside, and there was no one moving inside but them.

  He thought about how he had left his brother and cousin downstairs, knowing they were bugs in a spider's web—going nowhere.

  He had showered, washing off the blood and the mud, and then laid down.

  "Is it time?" he asked, though he felt it.

  "Almost," she said. "You don't have to, though. You could leave."

  Benedict rolled off the bed and stretched, just the way he did at home in their little apartment in the city. "I might be a liar, Em, but I'm not a coward."

  She got up and followed him out of his bedroom and through the little sitting room.

  "What should we call you?" Benedict asked. He felt better than he had since he first stepped foot into this house days ago.

  "Hm?" Emmeline slid past while he held the door. She wore the boots, or rather, her ghostly version.

  "If we were writing about you in our book of spirits, what would we call you?"

  She laughed shortly and joined him in a walk down the long, dark corridor toward the stairs. "How about, The Whispering Dead Girl?"

  He snorted. "More like, The Shouting, Shrieking, Cackling Dead Girl…"

  She feigned offense. "How dare you!"

  The rug at the bottom of the stairs made a soggy wet sound when he stepped on it. The hard, toxic stink of fuel hit his lungs for the second time today. Before showering, he had siphoned the fuel from the cars into the red, plastic cans in the garage and doused the first floor of the house. He paused in the foyer, considering the still shape of his brother sitting against the front doors in a puddle of blood. His legs were sprawled, and his head hung forward, chin to his chest.

  Two steps and he pushed open the parlor door. He didn't step into the ruined room, furniture broken and tossed about. Theodore's body face-down on the rug where Benedict had left him and Hazel's on the far side of the room, head smashed against the edge of a table.

  It didn't matter.

  They didn't matter.

  The big clock began to sing midnight to the house, one long chime at a time.

  Benedict smiled, swinging into the dining room with Emmeline on his heels. "How about The Midnight Ghost?" He jumped up to sit on the table, facing the wall of family portraits.

  She sat beside him, kicking her heels. "I don't want to be called a ghost…" she complained.

  "How about, My Midnight Lullaby then?"

  She looked at him, surprised. If she could blush, she might have.

  They were seven chimes in to twelve now.

  "What happens when we die?" Benedict asked, picking up the box of matches he had left on the table.

  "I don't know," she confessed. "But I'm pretty sure we'll still be together."

  He lit a match. "I hope so."

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Cheryl Low might be a ghost haunting an apartment building in Sweden where she bakes mountains of cookies she can’t eat, whispers dad jokes in the ears of her neighbors, and mixes the letters around in the mailboxes.

  …Or she might be a completely corporeal hermit and no cookie in her home has ever gone uneaten.

  Find out for yourself by following her on social media @cherylwlow or check out her webpage, CherylLow.com.

  The answer could surprise you!

  But it probably won’t.

  And be sure to check out

  these other novellas from

  Grinning Skull Press

  Prologue

  The sailor ran toward the sound of the ocean, stumbling blindly through the midnight jungle. Mammals, birds, and insects screamed and chirped, calling out into the night as though to mask the sound of waves—working with the nightmare of this island to keep him forever lost inside a prison of foliage and teeth.

  Only days ago they'd thought this island a blessing, gifted to them in the aftermath of a storm and the sinking of their ship.

  They had been wrong—and now he was the only one left. The jungle had claimed the others, one by one. Blood plastered his clothes to his chest, sticking to his hands, but it wasn't his.

  His boot caught on some vicious, overgrown root of the jungle floor, casting him forward onto his belly just as he broke free of the trees and vines. For a moment he didn't move to rise, panting against the coarse sand and listening to the waves. They called him, beckoning him to the only escape left.

  He lifted his head, and under the bright moon, he saw the shimmering ocean, beautiful with her offer of certain death. He crawled to her, clawing and kicking at the sand in a frantic race to the foam gathering at the edge of her surf.

  The ravenous jungle behind him went quiet, and that silence stabbed at his heart, bringing tears to his eyes. "It will not be me. It will not be me."

  He stretched, desperate for the waves. "You will not take me."

  His body jerked to a stop, fingers curling back just as the water would have reached him.

  A violent breath sucked deep into his chest, burning through his lungs, his muscles, his soul—leaving nothing behind but a body sitting on the beach, smiling at the moon.

  With a sigh, he stood. The waves crashed and rolled with new anger, reaching for him, always reaching. The man, no longer himself, took a step back, and then another until he disappeared into the shadows of his jungle once more.

  Chapter 1

  As a child, Valarie DeNola would jump right into the deep end of the pool. She wouldn't dip her toes or wade in slowly on the steps of the shallow end. She wouldn't even look into the water before leaping. She just shed her towel and her mother's hand and ran full force to the edge, jumping high and falling hard into the deep. That never changed. Not even when she traded a pool for the ocean.

  * * *

  To say there is no sound underwater isn't true. The press against her eardrums, the beating of her pulse, and the shifting of her suit was sound all its own—blocking out any chance of quiet. But sound was different below water than above, contained by her skull and echoing from her body.

  Val held onto the bar of her cage and stared out into the deep. She loved this moment, the one when waiting became almost unbearable. Bits of fish gore fluttered through the water from the boat above. The passengers were chumming while she and the other divers waited. It wasn't difficult to find predators in these waters, and experience had taught Val that it wouldn't take long. Through goggles she watched, straining to make out moving shapes, darker blues drifting closer. The excitement clogged her throat, fingers gripping the cage as that body swam closer and closer, unable to tell size and distance until it was finally clear within sight and still so large.

  Her earpiece crackled when the crew on deck saw the shark from their perch. "Incoming," Jessie said excitedly.

  Val reached out to the side to grab onto Terrance's shoulder. He'd been fidgety in the cage the past few days, but he was getting better. He held onto his camera with both hands, body turning toward the viewing frame in the bars. But he didn't face it just because it offered the best view. It was where he would feel the most vulnerable, and that camera in his hands became the last barrier between himself and whatever came up from the deep. Terrance learned quickly, even if it was his first season in the water with them. Felix liked him, but no one was surprised there. Her husband could befriend a feral baboon if given some time and a bottle of tequila.

  Val looked to the second shark cage dangling there in the open water, bobbing with large, black floaties breaki
ng the surface overhead. Felix and another videographer were there to mirror them in their wetsuits and dive gear.

  The shark came in close, swimming between the two cages to take a look at the boat before circling Felix. "Anyone we know?" Val asked, watching him study the massive fish. It was at least sixteen feet and female. If they didn't know her, they should. They had been coming to this spot to observe the great whites for the last four years. Val could see the bright yellow tag on the dorsal fin from where she bobbed in her own cage.

  "Looks like Mimi," Felix replied in her left ear, his thick Spanish accent familiar and always comforting.

  Val shifted in the cage to trade sides with Terrance, making sure he had the best shots he could get. Usually, she would have a camera herself, but with the new show they were filming, they agreed to take on more camera crew and get her into some of the shots for once.

  For the past six years, it had been Felix on the screen and Val holding the camera. She used to tell him what he was looking at, what kinds of fish they were, and what was normal or abnormal about them, but Felix learned fast; she never had to tell him anything twice.

  She had expected Felix to get bored with the ocean eventually, the way he'd gotten bored with skydiving, helicopter flying, mountain climbing, and extreme camping before they met. But she had been wrong. Something about the ocean captivated him the way it did her. They could go to the same spots every year to see the same sharks, and somehow it never got old.

  "We have two more, Val," Felix said over the comm system. Excitement rang in his voice, inciting it in everyone who heard him.

  The cage rocked, and Val snapped her head to the side to see the large body of a male great white push past. Terrance bumped into her, and she braced his side to keep him steady while he filmed. She was sure he'd get the hang of this job—eventually.