Sword of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  “Don’t worry about it.” Skot gently smiles. “The cup is not important. Other things, though, important things, will shatter.”

  The two share a serious exchange of their eyes.

  The host then speaks, “Would you like to help prevent that?”

  *****

  Their flashlights are yet off, but it doesn’t seem too much more time is left before they will need such artificial assistance. The place is generally comprised of light colors, the stairs and railing white, the walls a cool teal, though now the vibrancy has faded, dusted in ash, paint peeling. The three curious boys begin to mount the broad steps, noticing the rubble collected in the corners and edges of some, and the available illumination diminishes.

  “I heard this place was closed down because of some murders,” one of them says.

  “We’ve all heard that,” another says, but all three have ceased in their assent.

  “Let’s go,” finally utters the third, plodding onward.

  The other two follow.

  There are many windows on the ground floor, tall and narrow, and the meager condition or outright absence of any drapery gives full access to the sun. Such apetures prove to be in less abundance on the dingier, darker floor atop the stairs. The three curious teenagers flick on their torches.

  The place had once been an orphanage, and it had indeed been shut down. The fine example of architecture and décor of the place had not proven reflective of the manner in which the children were treated. The justification and approval behind such excess in its construction now more lost than the truth of what led to its closure.

  There had been murders.

  “I read about it,” the initial one speaks again.

  One beam reverts back to shine on the lagging boy.

  “What did you read?” comes forth the demand, as the other continues his exploration, rather stoically focused.

  Shoulders are shrugged, resolve disintegrating under the challenge.

  “If you want to go back, go ahead,” the skeptic offers, then turns to continue.

  For those attuned to such, tales wait to be told in the small rooms on this floor. The number of beds yet remaining in them do not always indicate how many occupants tried to find some peaceful hint of home inside. Not all of the workers were bad, some even sincerely cared and tried, but it is regrettably true that such has been eclipsed by the terrible things that did happen. There are shadows here, darkness that no amount of light will dispel.

  The stoic feels some of it, scratching at the edges of his awareness like the beginning peel of a migraine’s blind spot. His inherent gifts are so miniscule that their traces do not affect him in any conscious way. He has oft been noted for his taciturn study of things, his natural insight. He is too young yet to try to explore it in any real, deep way, if he might ever at all. For him, it is just who he is.

  In one room, he notices the shattered remnants of a lamp, some of the pieces on the table against a wall, some on the ground. He picks up a sizeable shard of the ceramic, noting a peculiar straining on the inside of the piece. It is blood, but he cannot be sure of that. Was this the impromptu weapon of an evil orderly or perhaps a desperate attempt by an orphan to escape this place via the only avenue they felt was open to them?

  “You find something?”

  He looks back over at the skeptic. “Nothing that matters.”

  He releases the piece, letting it fall the very short distance to the tabletop, joining its brethren. The trio of young explorers moves on.

  The residual energies of this place may be a feeding ground. Negative potencies saw cultivation, some grew and were harvested, others, though, remain in a fertile, even feral, state, pulsing like an oily pool hoping to breach its barriers and infect others.

  By the time they complete their exploration of this floor, it is full night. Only one of them has received a text from family, trying to check on them. It is ignored. The three have been friends for years, and they often go out and about. They’ve never had much success in bonding with larger social groups, so they stick together.

  “Do you think we ought to head out now?” asks the most timid of the trio, the one who mentioned doing some reading.

  There is silence.

  “That didn’t seem like much,” the skeptic offers, somewhat non-committal, but there is a show of relief in his tone.

  “There’s more,” the third mutters.

  “What?”

  “A basement level.”

  “How do you know that?” the timid one asks, tension evident in his voice.

  The stoic one shrugs, then walks away. A look is exchanged, fear in both, though the skeptic hides his somewhat behind a smirk. As they always do, they follow.

  The door is found with little searching, as though he is being called. It is not a personal lure, but it is powerful enough to get through his meagerly developed sense. Three beams angle into the downward, narrow staircase. The blackness begins immediately at the edges, no transition, as if lurking there, waiting to feed on the light, add it to the impenetrable darkness.

  “We’re not going down there, are we?”

  Another smirk is given in response, but then the skeptic looks to his other friend, waiting, perhaps hoping the search will now, indeed, be ended. His expression drops as the stoic heads down, his shod feet resounding off the wooden steps with a volume that sounds unnaturally loud. His gait is steady, even, like the report of an announcing gong. The chilling noise becomes shrouded in the irregular, hesitant steps of the other two as they also descend.

  The outré-seeming quality of the darkness proves more imagination than reality, retreating as their beams move, enveloping the way through which they came. More dust and debris awaits, along with an unnatural silence. No insects, no spiders or varmints make their home here.

  “It’s huge,” the skeptic notices, sending his cone of light out in many directions, shining on shelves, boxes, walls, “It must be as large as the ground floor.”

  “Larger.”

  The light is shined on the stoic, challenging questions left to mumble and die behind frightened lips.

  “Why would they have a basement like this?” comes the whispered question from within the darkness, uttered by the timid one.

  “Hell if I know.”

  Their footsteps crunch over detritus as they move deeper within. Objects are seen on some of the shelves, layers of dust caking over them as though this place has been abandoned far longer than it truly has. There are wisps of spider webs, equally devoid of occupants, some empty carapaces clinging with mindless stubbornness.

  They round a bend into a larger room at the rear of the expansive level, and they find a water softener, the tank ruptured, angles and bends of metal turning outwardly, a standing pool of liquid on the ground.

  “Wow, I wonder what caused that?” the skeptic asks, a grin on his lips.

  All three beams shine on the ooze, only inky blackness reflected.

  “Weird,” the timid one comments, crouching, showing his own bravery in his gaining of proximity to the spill.

  He shines his light on it in different ways, turning his head, examining what he sees.

  “This doesn’t make any-,” he begins then looks up, perplexion on his face.

  The skeptic had been watching him, and he turns his focus in the same direction. The third, the stoic, is walking to the liquid, his aspect as one under hypnosis. The skeptic furrows his brow.

  “Hey, man, what’re you doing?” he asks, reaching toward his friend who makes a rather deft dodge, shoulder going down just enough to prevent the physical connection and hinder his movement.

  His left foot touches the edge of the spill, a sound of wetness resulting as one might expect. His right foot prepares to settle well within the boundaries of the ooze, but instead of a similar resistance, he drops, disappearing into the liquid as though it were bottomless and devoid of any friction, hardly any ripples occurring on the surface of the black ichor.

  “W
hat the fuck!” the skeptic cries out as the timid one just yelps, jerking backwards.

  The timid one continues recoiling in fear, but the other recovers himself, making to move in to see what happened to his friend. Perhaps a hole has formed in the ground, though that would not allow the standing pool, nor the odd behavior of his friend and the liquid, but his mind is now reeling. He cannot explain what he has seen; he just wants to find his friend.

  “No!” the timid one shouts, dropping his flashlight and lunging forward, all but jumping entirely on the skeptic’s back, holding him.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” he struggles, his beam angling about wildly, the other torch now rolling on the floor, casting its own unhelpful illumination as the pair fall to the ground.

  Both cease their movement quite quickly when they see the shape rising up from the pool.

  “Adam?”

  The oily liquid clings, giving forth form of what seems a head above shoulders, a figure that could be their friend. The lights shine erratically still, and the skeptic, grumbles in anger, and he pushes himself free from the fearful clinging of the timid one with a jerk of his arms. More flickering and un-aimed flashing of the held torch, and when it goes back, the shape is not that of their friend.

  It still looks somewhat humanoid, even beneath the slick, sluicing gelatin-like shell of the liquid, but parts of it move that should not, in ways it should not, were it human. The thing continues rising, coming up as though propelled smoothly from beneath, and the shape of shoulders leads down to arms, or appendages at the very least. One is like a human arm, held at the side, but the other comes free, clinging tendrils of the ooze threaded between the limb and torso. It is too long, possessed of too many joints, and the fingers unfurl, far too many, tipped with hideous claws.

  The boys are held in fright, sheer, freezing panic. Their hearts pound, bodies trembling, the light still held on the thing there, two pairs of wide eyes not turning away, even as a third appendage rises from the backside, bent like the arm of a praying mantis, going out, then up, higher than the head, thick, ropey lengths of the goo lazily dripping down.

  Eyes then blink open on the face of the creature, and thankfully, there are only two. They do not reveal in unison, though, slitting open with irregular appearance, then, not so thankfully, settling on the two unexpected visitors.

  Screams then do come.

  The thing had been resting, recuperating, gathering strength. It had travelled some distance, traversing lands unfavorable to it, and such had taken a great deal of energy. This sanctuary had been known, and thus had it been the destination, the rest stop. It had chosen the pool as an obvious place to regenerate, a ready-enough tether to its homeworld, if not a precarious connection. This visit from the three humans would prove a boon, a truly unexpected treat. The one who fell first would provide the juiciest sustenance, but these others would not be neglected, no.

  The skin wearer shall walk again, sooner than expected.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Skothiam sits there, trying to keep himself occupied, but the object of his worry, so close, yet so far, continues to distract him. He looks over toward the sounds emerging from the kitchen. Lilja is in there, cleaning. He knows that such activity is not amongst her most favored. They even have a maid service that comes in every so often to thoroughly clean the place, but she is in there now, immersing herself in the mundane. He wonders if she is thinking of her issues, or if she is doing this to occupy herself away from them.

  He goes back to his notes. He’s read the page on his tablet many times, eyes travelling over the words, as though a drone passing over clear lands. He is imbibing none of it. He lets a somewhat noisy breath of exasperation pass through his nostrils, adjusting himself in the couch cushion, trying again.

  He hears water as the faucet is turned on in the kitchen. His eyes move in that direction, though he cannot see her from this vantage. He wants her to finish her chore, then maybe she’ll come in here, and they can talk. He wants to help her, wants to talk to her, but he still second-guesses. Is this even the correct approach? But he understands the potential disaster if this is not properly handled, sooner than later. He feels a growing tension in his belly.

  Negativity. This is how they feed.

  He is not succumbing to paranoia. He does not think the Infernal are out there, lurking, haunting, waiting, drinking up these tidbits in anticipation of a greater meal, but he does understand the potential power of negativity. It feeds itself, growing, becoming like a bloated leech threaded throughout one’s being, making you think you had never lived without it before and you could not possibly exorcise it without destroying yourself. Doubt, fear – older demons than even those they fight.

  He realizes the sounds from the kitchen have ceased. What is she doing now? Just as he is about to put away his work and go find her, she emerges into the living room.

  “All done?” he smiles at her.

  She nods, a bit weakly, humming, “Mmhmm,” then sits herself beside him.

  He feels her proximity like a relief, raising his left arm to drape it across her shoulders, gently coaxing. She leans in to him, snuggling before raising her face to place a kiss on his cheek. His smile increases, and he turns to look at her. Her eyes drink in the depths, unquenchable. If they are mirrors, they are so complex as to cause more awe than reflection. He lowers his face to hers, offering another kiss, which she accepts.

  He feels her hand as it goes to his arm, moving along it slowly. He manages to set his tablet aside, his other hand now free, and he touches her in return. Their kissing increases in intensity. He feels a great need for this, but he remains largely passive, taking cues from her.

  As their interaction continues, her hand moves from his arm to his side, and she presses more into him. He accepts it, pulling her closer. He tentatively cups at her breast, just holding. Her lips linger on his, their warm breath intermingling. He returns it with an increasing hunger, his hands now moving in more inviting motions, exploring, testing.

  And then she pulls away, her face more an expression of one intent on other things, if anything at all. She reaches for a nearby copy of a science magazine for which she has a subscription, flipping it open, checking its contents.

  “Lily?” he finally speaks.

  She looks over to him. “Yes?”

  He blinks, brow furrowing, that smile from before gone entirely.

  “What …,” he begins, finding words difficult, signs of the tumult within him, the war of feelings, “Uhm … I’m a bit confused.”

  “What about?” she replies, sincere enough, and that also adds to his perplexion.

  “This,” he speaks in a gentle tone, “It seemed to me that we were about to have sex.”

  “Oh.” She blinks once, eyes then held open. “Sorry,” she finally opts, looking away, hunching somewhat into herself, a frown taking her lips.

  “It’s okay,” he says, an attempted warm smile showing, and he places a hand on her back, trying to console. “I just want things to be okay between us.”

  She nods, not looking at him.

  “Are you okay?” he presses, his expression now one more of concern than conciliation.

  She continues slowly nodding, the motion suggesting more a dowser than a willful person, and a light noise emerges from her lips, a sad sound.

  “I want to help,” he ventures.

  She sets the magazine on the coffee table, turning in place, tucking up a slender leg, facing him. He can sense the sheer force in her, knows she is warring with herself. He sighs.

  “I’m sorry, Lily.”

  “Why?” she asks, “You have nothing to apologize for.”

  “I want to help you, but maybe the best way to do that is to leave you alone.”

  Silence. He experiences fear in that moment, doubt eating at him, trying to dislodge him from what he believes to be a helpful path.

  “How so?” she finally speaks.

  He ponders for a moment, her eyes on hi
m. He wants to seize this moment, to use it to make everything better, or at least, to perhaps fuel a breakthrough.

  “I know you’re having trouble. I know this whole thing can be very stressful. I know this world, and I want to help you to better understand it,” he begins, and though his words come out smoothly, he feels as though he is fumbling, “I know it can be difficult, because we’ve even told you how they can sometimes possess people or look like people, so maybe you just need some better training in how to really see the threat, how to determine when it’s really there.

  “There are certain signs,” he begins to gain steam, though in the back of his mind, he knows this has been shared with her, “minutiae, ways to detect these small, subtle signals. We can spend more time with you studying those, so you won’t think that-.”

  “I know about this,” she snaps, though her voice does not raise in volume, but her anxiety is clear. “Why are you talking to me like I don’t know this?”

  “I was just …”

  “I know about threat and risk assessment. I teach a class on it,” she continues.

  “I’m not talking about that.”

  “Then what are you talking about?”

  “You’re not yourself,” he comments, his own ire threatening to spike, “This isn’t rational. What’s wrong? You’re not like this, Lily.” The last is toned down, more sensitive, caring, but for all the attempt at checking himself and trying to be helpful, it backfires.

  She rises from the couch, tension heightened, glancing at him, then looking away as she takes steps from him. He fights the urge to spring up and take hold of her. He looks at her as she just stands there, eyes down. He can all but feel the tumult.

  “Lily?” he surrenders to his impatience, speaking her name quietly.

  “Just give me a second,” she says, then leaves the room.

  He sits there, as though he is in a mild form of shock. Lines rise on his face, growing pathways marking the way to feeling distraught. He lets himself breathe, slow, deep, controlled, trying to meditate himself into a better place. His love for her is a storm. It careens against him, making him want to go to her, but she has clearly asked to be given a moment. Even as he sits there, motionless, it buffets him.