Silence in the Shadows

by Darcy Coates

  Clare glanced towards the suitcase in the corner. “What about food? We only have enough there for another couple of days.”

  “She will not harm me; she wants to keep me alive. I will visit the garden and the furnace room. You will need to stay here.”

  Clare grimaced. “I don’t like that. What if you’re wrong? What if she does try to hurt you? If we go together, I can watch your back—”

  “And you would be vulnerable. If you accompany me through the house, there are too many ways we could lose control of the situation. If I took my eyes off you for even a second…” He shook his head. “Stay here. We will keep the door locked. She will not make a move to get at you until she is certain she will succeed. We need to buy as much time as possible.”

  “Okay.” Clare blew a breath through pursed lips. Already, the dark-blue wallpaper and gold edging was beginning to feel claustrophobic. She hated the thought of Dorran moving through the house alone on the mere assumption that he had immunity, but they had precious few choices. “Okay, but you still have to be as safe as possible. Carry weapons everywhere you go. And maybe some way to call for me if you need help. A whistle or—”

  “I will be safe. I promise. My mother is a patient woman, and she believes she has us trapped. Our advantage is that she does not understand the nature of the thanites and has no control over the Evandale Research Centre.”

  Clare understood why he was speaking so quietly. “And as long as she doesn’t know, she won’t realise her time is limited.”

  “Exactly.” He finished tying the bandages around her leg and rinsed his hands in the basin of water. “We simply need to wait—and hope Becca is fast at her job.”

  Dorran stayed close to Clare that night. A storm moved across the region near midnight, and they huddled close to the fire as snow and gale-force winds lashed the windows.

  Their wood supplies were growing low. Dorran threw the final lump on the fire, then he dusted his hands on his knees and stood. “I’ll fetch more.”

  Clare’s heart flipped. She grabbed his hand, keeping him beside her. “Not yet. At least wait until it’s light out.”

  His soft smile was almost enough to assuage her fears. “I am not afraid. The creatures will be under instructions not to harm me, and they won’t dare disobey. Waiting for sunlight won’t make a difference.”

  Trust him. Clare’s instincts were screaming at her, but she clamped down on her objections. She stood, though, her aching leg held off the ground and one hand braced on the closest wingback chair as she watched Dorran don a thicker coat, light a candle, and slide the hatchet into his belt.

  “I will leave the keys with you to prevent any risk of them being stolen. Madeline may try to lure you out, but you must not open the door unless you hear my voice. Promise me that.”

  “I promise.” Clare dragged him into a quick, tight hug. “And you promise that you’ll be careful. If you start to feel unsafe, come back immediately.”

  “Agreed.” He kissed her, lingering, then drew back as he placed the keyring on the table near the fireplace. He took up the candlestick and the fire poker then crossed to the door. Clare ignored the sparks of pain sizzling up her leg as she limped after him, unwilling to let him out of arm’s reach. He turned the door’s lock and eased it open.

  The space outside the door was empty, but as Clare leaned into the hallway, she saw flashes of eyes near the stairwell. Dorran saw them, too. He smiled at Clare as he closed the door behind himself.

  Clare didn’t immediately turn the lock. She couldn’t shake the fear that they had misread the situation, that the hollows lurking through the building weren’t as subdued as they had imagined, and the idea of locking Dorran out of their sanctuary when he was about to be attacked filled her with sick dread. But his footsteps faded down the hallway. When she heard the stairs creak in the distance, Clare finally turned the latch.

  Please, come back quickly.

  She shuddered and drew her coat more tightly about herself. The fireplace was warmer, but it put her too far away from the door, especially with her foot hobbling her. Instead, she drew up one of the ornate wooden chairs to sit in front of the entrance, ready to open the lock in less than a second if Dorran needed it.

  Minutes ticked by, burning her insides like slowly seeping lava. The house complained under the freezing wind. In the distance, the bus’s hood gave a pained squeak. As irrational as it was, she felt guilty for what had happened to the bus. It was her last gift from Beth. It had served them loyally for weeks, surviving incessant abuse and never giving up on them. Even its fiery death had protected them, buying them the seconds of distraction they needed to get into the foyer. She wished they could have saved it.

  A door slammed on the second floor. Clare wondered if that might be where Madeline was. Since the building had been abandoned for so long, the matriarch might have moved out of the tunnels and back into the main part of the house. Clare hated the idea of the deformed woman stalking through the rooms.

  Will she try to talk to Dorran? Clare clenched her hands, glowering at the door with all of the loathing she felt towards the older woman. Madeline had manipulated Dorran for years, emotionally and physically tormenting him, and Clare didn’t put it past her to try to whittle down her child’s will now. If Madeline did show herself, Clare hoped Dorran would be smart enough to come back to their room. He didn’t have to face his mother alone any longer.

  The clock’s ticks counted down the passing minutes. The anxious, angry fire in Clare’s stomach cooled into thick fear. The journey to the basement and its stores of firewood wasn’t short, but Dorran still shouldn’t have taken so long.

  Madeline confronted him. Or he’s become trapped. Or the hollows attacked after all, and he can’t get back here. He’s hurt, and he can’t even call for help—

  Footsteps approached along the hallway. Clare drew a sharp breath and rose. She reached towards the lock but didn’t turn it, waiting for Dorran to call. He knocked: four sharp raps that made the wood under Clare’s fingertips tremble.

  She bit her lip, the anxious prickles spreading across her shoulder blades and making them itch. “Dorran, is that you?”

  He knocked again, more urgently this time.

  It’s not him, part of her mind said. The other half retorted, But what if it is?

  He could have been hurt. She imagined him in the hallway, leaning against the door, shaking and voiceless. His throat ripped away, his mouth torn up, trying to call to her but unable to.

  Her hand moved to the lock and touched the cold metal. She itched to turn it, and it took effort to hold her fingers still. “Dorran, I need to know it’s you.”

  She thought she could hear him breathing. It was thick and wet, not the sound of a healthy throat, not the sound of the Dorran she loved. Her fingers twitched. She forced them still. Her voice cracked. “Speak to me.”

  “Help… me…”

  Clare stepped back from the door. She was shaking, nauseous. Her world felt like it was tipping over. She forced herself back into the seat and clasped her hands in her lap so that she wouldn’t be tempted to reach towards the door’s lock again. The voice wasn’t Dorran’s. It played like a broken record, a memory of human words, spoken without feeling or awareness.

  Four more knocks shook the door. Then the voice came again, reedy and unnatural, playing on a loop. “Help… me… help… me… help… me… help… me…”

  Clare closed her eyes and bowed her head, fighting the urge to cry. The clock above the fireplace continued to count down the seconds. Dorran had been gone for nearly half an hour.

  Chapter Thirty

  The voice outside the door grew louder with each echo. “Help… me… help… me…”

  The words were punctuated by the fist, beating in a steady tempo, hard enough to make the frame around the door tremble. Then, all at once, it was joined by a dozen other fists. They not only beat the door, but pounded along the length of the wall. Clare clenched her hands together. T
hey were slippery with cold perspiration.

  Then, abruptly, the fists fell silent. The voice croaked one final rendition of its song: “Help… me.” Then it faded away. The hallway was silent.

  Clare turned her burning eyes towards the ceiling. She struggled to remain silent, afraid that any noise might bring the creatures back. The charred hood of the bus creaked as the wind tugged at it. The fire popped behind her. The gale continued to dig at Winterbourne’s loose shingles and claw its way through gaps in the stone. It was gradually transitioning into a blizzard.

  The house’s noises were suddenly interrupted by approaching footsteps. Clare reflexively recoiled from the noise, but it was different to the sounds from before. Faster, heavier, more regular. Knuckles rapped against the door in a soft, quick tempo. And then Dorran called, “Hello, Clare. It’s me.”

  She leapt out of her seat, flinching as she put weight on her leg, and turned the latch.

  Dorran pushed open the door with his back and stepped into the room. He carried a stack of firewood under his arm and a rough cotton bag over his shoulder. He shoved the door closed behind himself, and his smile faded as he saw her. “You’re ghost white. Did something happen?”

  Words choked in her throat. The relief of seeing Dorran safe blended with the anxiety until it was overwhelming. She grit her teeth and shook her head.

  Dorran dropped his burdens on the floor. His hands roved across her face and neck, and he hissed between his teeth. “You’re freezing. My darling, I’m so sorry. I know I was away for a long time—too long—I should have returned sooner—”

  “Yep,” she managed.

  He scooped her up, lifting her feet from the ground easily, and carried her to the fire. Clare was too emotionally fatigued to argue against it. He settled them into the seat, one arm around her back to hold her. “What happened?”

  She told him about the hollows that had tried to mimic him.

  He scowled at the flames, jaw working. “I knew she would try to manipulate us, but I hadn’t expected it to begin so soon. I am sorry. It should have been a shorter trip. I should have guessed they were trying to distract me.”

  Clare searched his dark eyes. “What? What did they do?”

  “After I refuelled the garden’s furnace and gathered wood for our own fire, I stopped to check on the garden. The tap had been turned on, flooding the floor.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s what I wondered.” Dorran shook his head. “The beds are raised, so it wasn’t as though they could kill the garden. I turned the tap off and checked around the plants to ensure no other damage had been done. As far as I can tell, they are intact. But it raised another concern.”

  Clare’s mouth dried. “How did they get into the garden?”

  “Exactly. My first fear was that they might have some secondary key set. I was preparing to run back to you when I realised the true answer. The garden has a secret compartment leading to the concealed tunnels.”

  “Seriously?” Clare blinked, shocked. Before leaving Winterbourne to search for Beth, they had attempted to map the passageways and their concealed doors. But, somehow, neither of them had considered searching the garden’s walls. “We’ve been so careful to lock the door… and all this time, they had a back entrance?”

  “I was just as disturbed. They don’t seem to intend to damage our food source, but I don’t appreciate the idea of them in there, regardless. I found the door in the back wall, behind a row of shelves. It had been left open a crack. I nailed it shut.”

  “Good.”

  “That is the reason I took so long: finding the supplies to secure the door and searching for any others. I didn’t even consider that they might have intended for me to be distracted. Regardless, I should have checked in with you. It was not fair to make you worry so much.” He kissed her forehead. “I won’t leave you again tonight, my dear.”

  “You’d better not,” she grumbled.

  “Ah. I forgot. I brought a peace offering.” Dorran squeezed her shoulder as he left her side. He returned with the armful of wood and the cloth bag, which he placed at Clare’s feet. “Lettuce. Tomatoes. Snow peas. Even a cucumber… which is admittedly on the small side, but those are the sweetest.”

  “Oh!” Clare felt a smile grow as she sorted through the bag. “We can have a salad.”

  “Exactly. Our first rewards from the garden. There is not much to celebrate in our current situation, but this is something.”

  The salad was as basic as Clare had ever eaten. They had no dressing, no tangy or crunchy elements, not even salt for the tomatoes. But it had been weeks since Clare last tasted fresh produce, and that made it one of the most delicious things she had ever eaten.

  She and Dorran shared the meal out of the same bowl, nestled together with their shoulders bumping. The leaves were warm from the garden’s lights, and sap beaded at where the stem had been cut. Still, it was crisp and juicy, and Clare felt a small thrill to remember she had been the one to sow the lettuce seeds.

  “The plants are thriving,” Dorran said, spearing a cherry tomato. “There are others ready to be picked; more than we could eat in one meal. And the slower plants are gradually maturing. We will have more variety soon.”

  “I want to see it again.” Clare didn’t realise how true that statement was until she spoke it. The garden had always been the best part of Winterbourne, her refuge, a place of life and safety. As happy as she was to eat the dividends, she wanted to walk among the plants again.

  Dorran brushed her hair behind her ears, his voice sad. “I know. This won’t be forever. We just need to wait.”

  I’ll try.

  While Dorran washed up the bowl and cutlery, Clare limped to the window. The blizzard forced endless flecks of white against the glass, its chill drifting into the room and stealing their warmth. She leaned close, breath misting, squinting to see through the frost plastered to the panes. In the distance, the forest was barely visible, a seemingly endless tangle of old trees. Something moved across the white yard near their burnt-out bus. She frowned, pressing so close to the window that her exhalation fogged it.

  Hollows paced through the snow like grim, mindless sentinels. Their fingers and toes must have been breaking with frostbite, the thanites rebuilding the cells in chaotic patterns, but they didn’t seem to feel it. Their bulging, watering eyes stared up at Clare’s window. She pulled the curtains closed to block the hostile gazes.

  Clare was too wired to sleep for the rest of the night. While Dorran napped in front of the fire, she flitted about the room. She placed the radio on the windowsill and turned it on, its volume low enough that the static wouldn’t be disturbing, but just loud enough that she would hear if Evandale activated their channel. Then she unloaded the backpack from the bus, laying their horde on the dresser.

  Between the supplies from the bus and her own suitcase, they had forty-five tins, an assortment of fish, beans, and vegetables. In addition, there were some packets of dry food—pasta, rice, and even a box of pancake mix.

  Enough for a week or two. Clare ran her hand over the back of her neck. Dorran stirred by the fire, his eyebrows pulling together as some dream turned sour. Clare approached and knelt to run her fingers through his hair. He relaxed. We’ll have to rely on the garden heavily and only use the tinned food as a last resort. Before, we had the bus to search for more supplies. Now, everything we need to survive has to come from Winterbourne.

  She shivered and added a fresh log to the fire before pulling her knees up under her chin. Winterbourne had always felt bereft to her, as though it were dying without any souls moving through it. Now, in the depths of night, she couldn’t believe how alive it felt. Feet moved through the passageways. Most of the time, she could barely hear them. But, occasionally, the creatures loped through the halls outside their room, running their fingers across the wallpaper, the maddening clicking and chattering reverberating. In the distance, doors whispered open and closed. Winterbourne had never felt so full of l
ife, and Clare hated it.

  She slept in broken patches. The storm had quietened to gentle snowfall by the time dawn broke. Clare returned to the window to watch the golden light spear across the sky. Hollows continued to circle below, relentless, their eyes trained on the windows. The bus had almost vanished under a blanket of white, the earlier ferocity of its blaze erased as completely as nature could manage.

  “Good morning,” Dorran said.

  She turned a smile on him. “Hey, there. Didn’t realise you were awake.”

  He stretched in front of the fire, arms reaching overhead and back arching as he shook off the stupor of sleep. “Have you been up long?”

  “A while.” She glanced back out towards the pacing monsters. “It’s hard to sleep when the house is so noisy.”

  “Hm.” He stood and crossed to her. His arms wrapped round her, hugging her against his chest. “I’ll need to leave again, to revisit the garden.”

  She’d known it was coming, but she still dreaded it. She scowled at the blinding snow outside the window.

  “I’ll return quickly this time,” he promised. “If I suspect they’re trying to delay me, I’ll come back for you immediately.”

  It wasn’t much of a comfort, but they didn’t have any choice. Clare pressed her eyes closed. “Be safe out there.”

  “I will.” He stepped back, and Clare shivered against the sudden rush of cold. “Be patient. Wait for my voice before opening the door.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Like the day before, Clare remained a sentry at the door. She sat facing the immense wooden slab, the metal keyring clasped in her hands. The door dwarfed her, larger and thicker than any bedroom door had a right to be. Everything in Winterbourne seemed to have been designed to impress. To intimidate.