Black Forest

by Shane Lee

  Monty held his breath as he approached. The floor was silent as he stepped carefully into the common room; in fact, it had been silent all throughout the Commons, without a squeak or a groan. If someone had wanted to sneak around the place, they could have.

  He let his breath out slowly when he confirmed that the room was empty. He wasn’t exactly sure what he would have done if there had been someone here, but he didn’t have to worry about that now. But what—

  Something tugged at his hair, and Monty spun, lashing out his arm. It swung through the air, hitting nothing and throwing him off-balance. He stumbled to the right, pinpricks of pain flashing on his scalp as some of his hair was yanked free.

  “What the—”

  Fwapfwapfwap!

  Monty brought his hand to his head, rubbing at the spot where the crow had snagged its claws. The bird, big and black and almost invisible in the dark, was now standing on the back of a chair.

  Monty broke into laughter, leaning against the wall. He had pictured Rodney ready to close one hand around his throat. He had pictured a vagrant from the merchants’ troupe slinking around town. He had pictured—and he hated to admit it—some monster, narrow enough to slip through a crack in the door, but strong enough to tear him in two.

  “All that for a crow,” he said, staring at the bird, which stared right back at him. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  Monty went to a window on the far wall of the common room, pulling back the curtains and pushing it open. Chill night air eased in.

  “Come on,” Monty said, trying to draw the bird’s attention to the window. When it just stayed put, he came around to its opposite side and advanced, shooing it forward. “Go! Go!”

  The crow took off in a few mighty flaps, and saints be good, it flew towards and out the window, ruffling the curtains in its wake. Monty shut the window and drew the curtains behind it.

  And someone called his name.

  16

  The voice filled Monty’s veins with ice. He turned, forgetting to let go of the curtain he was holding. The rod pulled off the wall, clattering to the floor. He didn’t hear it.

  He was staring into the face of his father.

  Montille was his height to the inch, with a short, unkempt beard and sparkling green eyes beneath dirty blond hair. He looked just as Monty remembered him, and why wouldn’t he? It had only been a little over a year.

  Because he’s dead, that’s why, because he is dead—

  “Monty,” Montille said again, and he was watching his dead father’s lips move, he was hearing his dead father’s voice in his ears, he was watching his dead father step toward him one slow shuffle at a time. He could see him just fine, like he was lit by daylight coming from somewhere else.

  Monty’s own voice died in his throat. Still clutching the curtain in one hand, he swallowed, finding something.

  “Fa...dad?”

  The word made Montille’s face break into a smile. He had his arms out; big, strong arms from a lifetime of farming and carrying his kids above his head until they got too big for it. Terra never got too big.

  “Come with me, Monty,” his father said. “I want us all together again.”

  Monty dropped the curtain. “You—you’re dead.”

  “Not dead,” he answered. Step. “Just gone. Come on and be gone with me.”

  Step. Step.

  “We’ll go an’ get your mother, and your sister...”

  Step.

  Monty screamed, a terror that sounded loud in his head but came out as only a gasping whisper of guttural air. He backed up one pace before bumping to the wall, and Montille kept coming.

  “An’ we’ll go into the woods.”

  This is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong this is wrong this is wrong

  Monty grabbed the curtain rod from the floor, the curtain sliding off of it. It was brass, and heavy. It was real.

  this is wrong this is wrong this

  “Don’t make me go back alone, Monty.”

  is wrong this is wrong this is not him

  Monty swung the curtain rod at his father and connected solidly with the side of his head, a meaty hit that jarred the muscles in his arms. Montille fell to the side, hitting the floor like a pile of bricks.

  “Oh saints, oh no, oh gods...” Monty was mumbling to himself without even realizing it, trying not to look at what he had just done, gripping the rod tight. It was bent, and bloody at the curve. “Oh lords of all what is going on...”

  Montille sat up, and Monty did scream this time, a real scream that ripped up his throat and rang his skull in his head and shook the insides of his ears. His father’s head was smashed in, blood pouring out of the hole where his left ear had been. His head was caved, half his teeth scattered across the floor. The skin of his face was hanging loose, ripped off in strips, showing shiny flesh underneath.

  I didn’t do that, how did I do that, what’s happening—

  That was when the smell hit Monty, a gagging, putrid cloud of wet death and rot that made him drop the curtain rod and cover his face with both hands, his eyes filling with water. He choked on it. He remembered the dead chickens, and spilling his guts into the tall grass.

  “Monty...” Montille spoke, spoke as though his head weren’t sunken like a rotten pumpkin, like his teeth weren’t spread across the floor, like his lips hadn’t peeled off to show his bleeding gums. “Don’t be afraid, kiddo. I got a place for us.”

  He stood up, more of his flesh falling to the floor. It hit with wet slaps. “Nice an’ big. We can stay there forever.”

  Monty forgot about the curtain rod and just ran. The smell of fresh death wrapped its arms around him and held him back, like he was fighting his way through the cloud. He closed his burning eyes and barreled forward, hitting one of the stuffed chairs and falling to his hands and knees, and then he crawled, eyeing the long hall through blurred vision.

  “Don’t touch me,” Monty said, still crawling, only struggling to his feet once he reached the common room entrance and could pull himself up. “Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me!”

  He didn’t dare look back. What would happen if this thing got its hands on him? It wasn’t his father. It was a monster wearing his skin, and that skin was falling off.

  Up on his feet, he ran, thundering down the hall, knowing that no one would hear him because he was alone, all alone here with that thing. Every breath was fiery pain down his throat; the wretched smell wasn’t getting any weaker. What if it was right behind him? What if—

  He looked back as he crossed past the front doors, just in time to see his father close in. His breath locked up—Montille reached one hand out and grabbed his shoulder, lancing him with exquisite, searing pain as his fingers dug into the meat of his collar up to the knuckle, and he screamed—

  It was gone.

  Monty tumbled to the floor, clutching at his shoulder. He skittered backward and looked wildly down the hall. Nothing. No noise; no monster.

  And no smell. That was what really convinced Monty that it was over.

  He looked at his hand, expecting it to be covered in blood, not realizing that his shoulder didn’t hurt anymore until he saw that it was clean. He felt for the wound and encountered unbroken, clammy skin.

  “What...the blazing...fuck...” Monty squeezed at his shoulder again, expecting it to suddenly spout forth a bucket of blood. He leaned against the wall, catching his breath, which was jumping around inside his chest like it was sizzling on a hot pan. But his shoulder was fine. He was fine. He was alone.

  He had to be sure.

  Slowly, he stood, pressing his weight against the wall while he pushed up from the floor. Nothing to his left or right. He stepped to the divergent entrance, peering down the Judge’s hallway. Nothing there either; no unnaturally-lit figure waiting for him at the end.

  Have to check the common room. Have to.

  With leaden feet, Monty walked down the long hall, where he’d fled in terror just moments ago. His steps were ungai
nly and heavy. He wasn’t concerned about being quiet. If it was there, let it come, but don’t let it hide away and wait to ambush him. Let this be done.

  The common room was empty. Monty let his stale breath escape and wash into the room. It smelled clean; perfectly normal. In fact...

  “That’s...impossible.”

  The curtain rod was hung up on the window, the curtain drawn. Heart pounding, Monty approached it, looking down at the floor. This was where the father-creature had fallen, struck hard enough by the rod to start breaking into pieces.

  The floor was clean. Spotless. No flesh; no blood; no tiny white specks of teeth and bone fragments.

  Monty looked up to the curtain. The rod wasn’t bent or broken. It was like it had never been taken down from the wall.

  Fuzziness crept in on his vision and he felt like he might just float up to the ceiling. He fell backwards into one of the chairs, arms hanging loosely over the sides. Gradually, the blurriness in his vision faded, and he could breathe deeper.

  Did it happen? Monty mouthed, trying to speak out loud but not summoning the breath. Did any of this

  “Actually happen?” he said. The monster? The “Crow?”

  He touched his head, but he couldn’t tell if he’d really lost those few strands of hair to the crow’s claws. It had all felt real. Smelled real. Just the memory of it made nausea churn in his stomach.

  “Dreams can feel real,” he spoke, his eyes drooping. “Dreams” can feel too real. It’s a dream. It was a dream. It still is “a dream. You’re asleep in your quarters. You fell asleep thinking” about your dad and that night at the inn and “then you dreamed about him.”

  I’ve never dreamed like this.

  Fine, you’re “sleepwalking.” Like Terra. Like the other night, when he awoke facing the Dromm. But this was so much worse.

  “It’s not real,” he told himself, and gathered up the assurance to rise from the chair. A nightmare was a nightmare, and if you could have them while sleeping, surely you could have them while sleepwalking. He would go back to bed and try to sleep, just for a little, and shake this off.

  The Commons were so dark and quiet. It would be good to see the sun.

  17

  Monty’s sleep was bare, but it got him through the next hour or so. There were no more haunting visits or noises outside his room. The Commons was quiet, and he breathed easier, though quietly, in his bed.

  When it was time to rise, he did so with gratitude.

  Dressed and sitting on the bed, he rolled his room key around in his fingers and listened for the Judge’s footsteps. He had no concerns about missing them in the night; if he wasn’t a light sleeper at home, he certainly was here, and seeing the crack of dawn thousands of times had instilled his early-rising habit just fine.

  At last, the sound of the front door and the quick, purposeful steps of the Judge brought the day to a start and the night to a close. Monty gave the Judge enough time to get to his office and settle in before heading over.

  Judge Mullen’s door was closed when he arrived, and he gave it three small knocks. The Judge was quick to answer.

  “A pleasure to see you so punctual, Monty,” Judge Mullen said. He always seemed energized in the morning, his eyes kind and aware. “How was your first night here in the Commons?”

  Monty’s throat tightened. He fought through it and answered, “It was great, Judge. The bed in the quarters is very comfortable.”

  “If only it were bigger.” Mullen had a scroll in his hand, which he brought up to Monty. “This has to get to Bolton when he makes his delivery rounds. It must go to Ponsia today.”

  The capital city, and home of the king. Monty took the scroll, holding it as though it weighed more than the others before it. “I’ll make sure of it.”

  “Very good. In the meantime...”

  Mullen beckoned Monty into his office to pepper him with the morning’s assignments, which were few in number but large in distance. Just like the day before, he’d be crossing town several times over before the sun was all the way in the sky.

  “Make sure you get something to eat,” Mullen told him as he walked Monty out of his office. “I cannot have you fainting in the middle of the street to get run over by a horsecart.”

  With that stipulation, Monty left the Commons with a light bag slung over his shoulder, full of scrolls. The inside was sewn full of leather straps to hold down messaged and keep them separate, with an indent to slide the wax seal into and protect it.

  He made his rounds as the sun crept upward, making sure to get the Judge’s scroll to Bolton, the inter-town courier, as soon as he saw him. The silent, skinny man gave Monty a thin grunt from atop his horse before continuing on his own route.

  It would be nice to do this on a horse, Monty thought, shrugging his bag up on his shoulder.

  When he returned from a quick lunch at the small cafe near the Commons, his bag empty, Judge Mullen was waiting at his quarters. He had a thick book under one arm.

  “Is there more, sir?” Monty asked, flipping open his bag as he approached.

  “Yes, but there’s a more pressing matter to attend to.” Judge Mullen’s face was tight; solemn. “Doctor Tobias has just left. It seems that Audrey Kettle has passed away.”

  The news froze Monty in place, one hand pinching the leather flap of his bag. “She’s...she’s dead?”

  Judge Mullen nodded. “She has not been well.”

  “My mother said something about that.” On the first day of merchant sales, his mother had tried to visit Audrey. That was only a week ago; it felt like years. “I just thought...”

  “We all hoped she would improve as time went on and her mother’s death was not so fresh,” Judge Mullen said. “Alas...I have been called upon to read her rites.”

  “Oh.” He hadn’t considered that. The thought cast him back to his own father’s death, and the Judge’s attendance there, something that had entirely left his mind until now. He shook off the heavy image, saying, “Please let me take any messages I can before you leave, then.”

  “Actually, Monty, I would like you to join me at the reading.” Judge Mullen shifted the heavy book, which Monty could now see was officially-bound, into two hands. “If that sits well with you. You are a representative of the town, now, and I know you were there when Dorella was found. I think it would be good for the Kettles.”

  “I...” Monty didn’t think his presence had done much for Marie, let alone the rest of the family. But if the Judge was asking... “Of course, Judge, I can go with you.”

  Mullen nodded. “Drop your bag and lock up. This may take some time, and there are no terribly pressing deliveries that need be made in the immediate hours.”

  From the desk, the Judge pulled out a neatly-folded black square of fabric. The rites cape.

  With his quarters locked, Monty fell into Judge Mullen’s wake, breezing out of the Commons. He was always surprised at how quickly the short man walked. Their steps kicked up small clouds of dust as they made haste to the Kettles.

  Audrey is dead. He couldn’t believe it. There was no reason for Audrey to have perished. Though, he supposed, everyone took losing a parent in a different way. His own father was hard...but Ma Kettle had been around three times as long.

  The Judge didn’t speak on the walk, nor did he don his black cape. He must have been trying to keep the news in the family, though Monty remembered hearing that he had worn the cape directly to the Kettles’ when he crossed town for Ma Kettle’s rites. Why not now?

  The door to the store was locked, and Judge Mullen rapped on the door in three quick strikes. Henry Kettle answered.

  The man looked like the grave. At a glance, one would assume he hadn’t slept for three days. His eyes were saddled with deep purple bags, his hair unkempt and dirty. His arms hung at his sides like dead animals, and when he blinked, it seemed the shiny lids of his eyes weighed on him like stones. When Henry’s glossy gaze drifted over him like an aimless weathervane, Monty felt all his
words dry up inside of him.

  Judge Mullen had no such issue. “Henry, I am so very sorry.”

  Henry sure way talkative demeanor was dust; shattered. He said nothing, but moved aside so that the Judge could walk in. Monty followed on tender feet, uneasy. He’d never been inside of Kettle’s when it was closed. Seeing the store quiet and dark, when it was normally filled with sun and boisterous voices, was a haunting thing. Like the shelves and counters, too, knew that Audrey was dead.

  Judge Mullen fastened his cape to his cowl once they were inside and the door was shut behind them. He gave a nod to Henry, who responded by turning to lead them up the stairs. His steps were heavy and awkward, the thumps of his boots the only sound in the stale air.

  They ascended the stairs and went through the Kettles’ front door, wide open. The house was quiet like midnight, and it stank like

  dad

  death.

  Henry had not said a word since they’d come. His silence was broken with a small, lifeless “This way.”

  Tacitly, Judge Mullen and Monty followed Henry through the house, its surprisingly-confusing halls eventually leading back to a room with a door only slightly ajar.

  The Judge didn’t need to ask if Audrey was in here. Monty could smell it. He regretted his lunch.

  I will not vomit here, I will not vomit in their house, I will not...

  His gorge was ever-present, a new part of him amid the stench, but he held it at bay. He was here for a reason, and he mustn’t forget that, and in the company of the Judge. Perform well, even if the performance is simply silence and holding back your bile.

  Judge Mullen did not hesitate to move past Henry; the short official did not seem perturbed by the smell. Monty hoped he looked half as composed, yet he doubted that Henry would notice anyway. The man’s eyes were empty and faraway.