Our Last Echoes

by Kate Alice Marshall

  “Please,” he said. His accent was thick, his voice pleading. “I won’t hurt you.”

  “Okay,” I said. It wasn’t much, but he looked relieved, almost like he was the one who’d had cause to be afraid. He lurched, and I startled, but he only grabbed one of the kitchen chairs and pushed it toward me.

  “Please, sit. You are tired,” he said.

  I didn’t move. “What’s out there? What were those things?”

  “They are—” He gestured, swiping his hand in the air over his face. “Gosti. The Visitors. Not usually so dangerous in the daytime, but . . .” He shrugged. “Not always.”

  “I saw you,” I said. “You attacked me.”

  He shook his head. “No. That was not me. They look like us, but they are hollow.”

  “He—” I put a hand to my throat. It was tender where he’d choked me. I flinched at even the light brush of my fingers across it. I’d been lucky.

  “Prosti menya,” he said. I stared at him blankly, too weary to ask what it meant. He let out a sigh and picked up his shirt from where it had fallen, pulling it on.

  “How did I get here?” I asked instead.

  “I found you. In the water,” he said. “Just there.” He pointed toward the back wall of the cabin, which faced the sea.

  I must have lost consciousness when I fell. I was lucky I hadn’t drowned.

  A memory shimmered below the surface of my mind like a pale fish beneath the water—a hand in mine, walking down toward a rocky beach. But not the same beach. Not the same hand—or was it? I shook my head to clear it. “What is going on here?” I asked, more plaintively than I meant to. “Who are you? What was that place? What are those things?”

  He stopped me, holding up his hand. “This is no way to talk. I will make tea. You sit, rest. Then ask your questions.” He gestured to the small kitchen table. I considered. He wasn’t the man who’d attacked me, but they shared the same face, and the most primal part of me refused to let go of my fear. And even if that had not been true, he was a strange man and he’d taken me here, alone and vulnerable.

  A glass lantern hung from the wall on a hook, the smudges on the interior suggesting it wasn’t just decorative. I stared at the miniaturized reflection in its surface.

  The man in the reflection wasn’t Mikhail. It was the other one. He had his back to us, and twitches of movement rippled over his body, his limbs, his head jerking an inch to either direction every second or two.

  “What do you see?” Mikhail asked with interest.

  “Nothing,” I said. I sat down in the chair heavily. “I think I’d like that tea.”

  * * *

  Mikhail spoke as he filled the kettle and set it on the heat. “You have figured out by now that there is something evil on these islands.”

  “The Visitors?” I asked.

  Mikhail shook his head. “The Visitors belong to it. They merely do as it says.”

  “It. You mean the Six-Wing,” I said.

  “Yes. The Six-Wing cannot leave the other world,” he said. “The echo world. The Visitors, though, they can slip out.”

  “They come when there’s mist,” I said.

  “Hm. No. The mist comes with them,” he said. “They are stronger at night. In the dark months. But they come in daylight too.”

  “That’s why no one’s allowed here after the summer,” I guessed. “During the summer, there’s no night.”

  He nodded. “It is why you must not go out in the mist, or in the night. Sometimes, nothing. You come home, all is well. Sometimes, you do not come home. Sometimes, someone comes home, and it looks like you, and it sounds like you, and it is not you.” He leaned forward, his voice urgent. “You must not trust them. Not even for a moment. Some of them are like animals, worse than animals. They will tear you apart the moment they see you. But others, they have learned to smile. To say, ‘It is all right. Come closer. It is only me, your old friend.’ But you do not trust anyone you meet in the mist. You do not trust a knock on the door. You do not trust the voice you hear, calling for help.”

  “Do you . . .” I swallowed. “Do you know what happened to Joy Novak?”

  Something like surprise and something like regret flashed through his eyes. “I know they took her,” he said. “I was only there at the end. The bird people had gone to Belaya Skala. It was not allowed, but smart men are sometimes the greatest fools.”

  I blinked a moment, thinking he meant some kind of bird-person monsters I had yet to encounter, but then I realized he must mean the ornithologists—the LARC staff. “What do you mean, ‘at the end’?” I asked. “What happened at the end?”

  “I found you,” he said, as if it was obvious. “I found you in the boat, Sophia. You were all alone, and the others were gone.”

  I went still. The fisherman in the story—it was Mikhail? “I need to know,” I said. “I need to know what happened to my mother.”

  Mikhail scowled. “You should not be asking these questions. Your mother would want you safe. And you are not safe here. What you can see can also see you. The island has not noticed you yet, but it will. You should go. Leave this place, and stay safe.”

  “I have to find her,” I said quietly.

  “The people who vanish here do not come back,” he replied. His voice was gentle.

  “I did.”

  He looked at me a long moment. And then he sighed. “If you won’t leave, I will tell you only to be careful. Do not trust a familiar face just because it is familiar. Some of them have learned to walk outside the mist.”

  I knew I would get no more from him. Not now, at least. “Thank you,” I said. “For saving me. Twice, I guess. And for the clothes. Who . . . whose are they, anyway?”

  “They belonged to my wife,” he said.

  “Does she live here?” I asked.

  “Oh, no. She left a long time ago,” he replied. “But sometimes I still see her. And I lock the door.”

  VIDEO EVIDENCE

  Recorded by Joy Novak

  AUGUST 14, 2003, TIME UNKNOWN

  Hardcastle’s gun is aimed straight at Baker’s heart. Carreau steps in front of Baker immediately, holding out a restraining hand.

  CARREAU: Put that down. What are you doing?

  Novak takes the camera from Sophia and trains it on Hardcastle.

  HARDCASTLE: Put that away.

  NOVAK: No. Whatever happens here, it happens on camera.

  He gives her an angry look.

  HARDCASTLE: See this?

  He reaches over to Vanya and yanks on her collar. She jerks away angrily, but not before the movement reveals a necklace of darkening bruises around her throat.

  HARDCASTLE: She did that.

  NOVAK: That’s impossible. She was with us the whole time.

  CARREAU: The door was barred. She could not have gotten out.

  BAKER: I haven’t done anything. I don’t even know what’s happening, please . . .

  HARDCASTLE: She was out there. She was crying. We went to help her, but she sounded crazy. Babbling nonsense. We started to bring her back and she went along at first, but then she attacked Vanya. She would have killed her if I hadn’t—

  KAPOOR: Will. They’re obviously not the same person. I mean, they are, but—

  Novak’s hands are shaking, and so is the camera. Sophia whimpers beside her, clearly terrified.

  CARREAU: Where did you get that gun, Will?

  Hardcastle looks down at the revolver.

  HARDCASTLE: I don’t know.

  KAPOOR: You said you found it.

  HARDCASTLE: I don’t actually remember picking it up. Did you see me pick it up?

  Kapoor shakes her head. Hardcastle swears.

  HARDCASTLE: What the hell is happening?

  NOVAK: I’ll tell you what isn’t happening. No
one is shooting anyone else. Put that thing away.

  Hardcastle hesitates.

  NOVAK: She was with us the whole time, Will.

  He grunts. Reluctantly, he tucks the revolver into his belt. Baker lets out a sob of relief, digging her fingers into her hair.

  Something bangs against the back wall. Everyone jumps; Baker scurries away from the altar. The bang comes again, and then comes a croaking, groaning voice, each syllable strained and stretched.

  [UNKNOWN]: He waits.

  Another bang. Another, each at a different point along the wall. The thuds come faster and faster until they’re like hail, striking at the roof and the sides of the building. The wood creaks and cracks. Sophia is screaming. They all draw back, away from the cacophony.

  A huge crack spreads across the roof, splitting the mural in two. The walls bulge inward, splinters of wood flying under the unseen onslaught.

  KAPOOR: It’s going to come down! We have to get out of here.

  Novak reaches for Sophia. Carreau picks her up instead.

  CARREAU: I’ve got her. Don’t worry.

  The camera dangles by its strap from Novak’s wrist as she helps with the effort to unblock the door. The pew falls to the ground, momentarily drowning out the ferocious noise around them, and they scramble outside.

  HARDCASTLE: Jesus Christ.

  Novak gets a good distance away before she turns and, with shaking hands, lifts the camera to capture the sight before them. A roiling mass of terns fills the sky. One by one they plunge from the swirling cloud and plummet, striking full-force against the church. Black sludge drips from the walls, the roof, as the birds lose cohesion in death, reverting to that strange liquid.

  All at once, the building collapses. The birds cease their assault, but continue to swarm up above. Their silence is somehow obscene.

  Lightning flashes in the distance, illuminating a six-winged shadow.

  HARDCASTLE: The bunker. We can take shelter in the bunker. Come on. Run!

  Baker grabs Novak’s arm to help her, and they flee.

  16

  MIKHAIL GAVE ME tea, but no more answers. I couldn’t tell whether he’d told me all he knew, or whether he thought he could protect me by staying silent. Either way, I left as soon as my clothes were some semblance of dry.

  We were supposed to be at the LARC at seven thirty a.m. My shoes were still soggy, but I shoved them on anyway and jogged for Mrs. Popova’s. I hoped that I could sneak in without being noticed. I went around the back and was relieved to find the door open. That would put me at the end of the hall, and hopefully people were still scraping together breakfast in the kitchen and hadn’t thought to try to rouse me yet.

  I crept toward my room, but urgent voices to the right, coming from Abby’s room, stopped me. Abby was saying something I couldn’t make out, and then Liam’s voice cut through.

  “Bullshit. We can’t just sit here and do nothing while—”

  “Keep your voice down, will you?” Abby hiss-whispered. “Do you want the whole house to hear you? There’s nothing we can do. We don’t know where she is. If she’s even alive.”

  I opened the door. They both jumped, Abby reaching for something at her belt—a knife, probably—and while her hand paused when she saw it was me, she didn’t entirely relax.

  Liam, though, just about collapsed with relief. He crashed into me with a hug, and if I stiffened up for a moment, it was a brief moment. I hugged him back, taking more pleasure than I cared to admit from holding his slender body, the very boy scent of him. Human and normal and cute and clever and a million things that weren’t monsters in the mist.

  “Missed you too,” I said, before the moment could get too intense.

  “Where were you?” Liam demanded. “We couldn’t find you anywhere.”

  “Second verse, same as the first,” I said.

  “A little bit louder and a little bit worse?” Abby supplied.

  “Pretty much. It was that other place—only it was different this time, and . . .” I trailed off, gave them a questioning look. “How did you get away from Dr. Kapoor and Dr. Hardcastle?”

  Liam’s cheeks flamed. “Uh. We didn’t, exactly. They saw me.”

  “How are you not locked in your room for the rest of your natural life?” I asked.

  “We sort of . . .” He looked at Abby helplessly, and she rolled her eyes.

  “Liam was just showing his new girlfriend around, to impress her,” she said. “We’re dating now. Whee.”

  I might have been jealous if they weren’t so obviously horrified by the necessary deception.

  “It’s just a cover,” Liam said. “I’m not—”

  “I get it,” I said. “It was smart.”

  “Okay, enough with the tedious romantic subplot. What happened to you?” Abby asked. Lily walked past in the hall, and we fell silent.

  “Let’s take a walk,” I suggested. We headed out to the beach and wandered down it in the pale morning light. I told them what had happened, every step of it. The other island, the strangers, my flight down the hill, the half-formed house. And then I got to Mikhail.

  “What do you think?” I asked Abby when I was done.

  “About what?” She tucked her hair behind her ear, a losing battle against the wind.

  “Mikhail. What he said.”

  “I think he was telling you as little as he could,” she said. “He’s hiding something.”

  “You don’t know that,” Liam said.

  “No. She’s right,” I said. I didn’t want her to be. Mikhail had helped me. He’d been kind, and wounded, and lost. But he knew more than he’d said, I was certain. “But it doesn’t matter.”

  “It doesn’t?” Abby asked with a skeptical arch to her eyebrow.

  “No. Because whatever he is or isn’t telling us, we know the important thing. What happened to my mother—to me—happened on Belaya Skala. I’ve crossed over to that other world twice, but never on the headland. We need to get over there if we’re going to find the truth.”

  “You want to go back to that place?” Liam asked.

  “If it gets me answers,” I said.

  “You shouldn’t go alone,” Abby said.

  “I can’t ask you both to risk yourselves for me,” I said. “Especially you, Liam. Abby has her own reasons, but you . . .”

  He hadn’t looked at me yet. “I’m not exactly doing it for you,” he said. He swallowed. “I want to help you, but it’s not just that.”

  “What, then?” I asked.

  “That summer, the summer of the Girl in the Boat, something changed,” Liam said. “I was really young, but I remember how close Dr. Kapoor and I were. She’s the one that convinced Mum to have a kid in the first place. But after that summer, she never had time for me. She barely spoke to me at all, or looked at Mum, except when they were fighting. And then she left and came back here. And it was a relief, because it felt like we’d been living with a stranger.” His voice was raw and thick with bitterness.

  Abby looked away, clearly uncomfortable, but on impulse I reached out and grabbed Liam’s hand. He didn’t meet my eyes, but he squeezed my hand and took a deep breath. And then he continued.

  “I’ve always thought that she just realized she wasn’t cut out to be a mother. But it wasn’t just me—she used to be incredibly close with her parents, but she hardly ever sees them now. And with all of this, I just . . .” He faltered, then set his jaw and looked straight at me. “What if we were living with a stranger? What if she isn’t here because of the bloody birds?”

  “What are you saying?” I asked.

  “What Mikhail said. Sometimes people come out of the mist, and they look the same, and they sound the same, but it’s not them.” Liam asked. His eyes were dark, intense, and fixed on me. “What if what came out of the mist isn’t my mother at all?”


  VIDEO EVIDENCE

  Recorded by Joy Novak

  AUGUST 14, 2003, TIME UNKNOWN

  The group calls out to keep track of each other in the mist. Novak and Baker are together still, falling behind as Novak’s injury slows her. The occasional glimpses of the landscape ahead of them show the others as indistinct silhouettes in the mist, sometimes nearly vanishing completely.

  BAKER: Come on. Come on.

  NOVAK: Just go.

  BAKER: I’m not fucking leaving you. I’ll get stuck babysitting your kid. I hate kids.

  She grunts, tripping over something.

  BAKER: What—

  She lets out a gulping sob. A woman lies sprawled on the ground in the graceless pose of the dead, one leg bent so far her foot is near the middle of the back, her head tipped up and mouth open in an expression of guileless surprise. She wears the same green jacket and black T-shirt as Baker. She wears the same face as well. There is a hole in her flesh just below her collarbone. The ground beneath her is soaked with blood.

  Novak’s voice is quiet.

  NOVAK: Just keep moving.

  But Baker seems not to hear. She creeps forward, her breath uneven, and bends over, reaching a trembling hand toward the shoulder of her double. Her fingers have almost brushed the body’s shoulder when it twitches. Baker stumbles away with a stifled scream as the woman rolls awkwardly forward, then flops to the ground. Her jaw works once, twice. She blinks her eyes. They snap over to Baker.

  BAKER [2]: Wh . . . wh . . .

  It’s not clear if she’s trying to say something, or merely aping speech. The sound is wet and slurred. She rolls again, this time more successfully. Her hand closes around Baker’s ankle. Baker screams and kicks, but the woman’s grip is implacable.

  BAKER: Help! Help!

  She falls over backward. Her double claws toward her across the ground, still forcing out those gasping syllables. Novak seems frozen. And then, dropping the camera to dangle by its strap, she lunges forward. She grabs a rock from the ground the size of two closed fists. She brings it down. The camera strikes the ground as she does. The lens fractures. Someone—Baker or her double—screams. Novak slams the rock down again.