by Leo Hunt
“You lost it again?” Jack grins.
“To lose your body once is an accident,” Ryan says. “To lose it twice starts to look careless.”
“I’m not really in a joking mood,” I say.
“All right, mate,” Ryan says, “no hassle. We haven’t seen it.”
“OK,” I say. “What are you doing here?”
“Heard there was a gateway opened up,” Andy says. “Always wanted to see one.”
“Gateway?”
“Yeah, mate,” Jack says, “to Deadside.”
“That’s what this is?” I ask.
“It’s a passing place.”
“But . . .” I gather my thoughts. “The Devil’s Footsteps is the only passing place in Dunbarrow.”
“New one got made, mate. It’s big magic. Everyone’s talking about it.” Andy shrugs. “Don’t look like much to me, if I’m honest. Bunch of fog.”
“What d’you expect?” Jack sneers. “A bloody big door with fire coming out of it?”
“Maybe,” Andy says. “Maybe.”
So Ash created a new passing place? A huge one, by the look of it. If the entire house turned into a gateway, then that’s far larger than the stone circle. What on earth would Ash do that for? Is this to do with the nonpareil?
Has she gone to Deadside?
I remember telling her the story of what happened last Halloween, how interested Ash was in hearing what Deadside was like. She must have known she was about to cross over. . . .
“Is there a way to go through the gate?” I ask the ghosts.
“Nah,” Ryan says.
“Not here,” Jack agrees. “We were thinking of having a peek through. Dunbarrow’s been getting a bit old. But this passing place here isn’t public access.”
What am I going to do? I don’t know where Elza is, if she’s OK. . . . Did Ash take her and Ilana into Deadside? What about my body? If she kept it in her house and took it over to the other side with her, then I’m in serious trouble.
“Can you help me look around this place?” I ask the ghosts. “See if my body’s around?”
“Follow your lifeline,” Jack says.
“That works?” I ask.
“Should,” he replies.
Embarrassed that I didn’t think of it myself, I look down at my chest, searching around in the air until I find the slender thread of light that connects me with my body. Trying to grab hold of it is difficult — like trying to guess where something is by looking at it through the surface of water — but eventually I manage it, and hold my lifeline in both hands. It feels like sunlight on my palms.
I tug on the line, like I’m pulling myself up a mountain, and there’s a tightness in my chest. The lifeline goes taut, and then I start to glide, pulled toward my body. The other ghosts and Ham follow beside me. To my relief, the line doesn’t lead me into the thick fog where Ash’s house used to be, but away from the house, back across the field, into the woodland beyond. The fog has faded here, and we drift in between sunlit trees, floating over a carpet of moss and brown leaves, Ham scampering ahead of me.
Even though it’s my lifeline and my body, it’s Ham who finds the right spot. He’s rooting under fallen leaves and branches when I arrive, scratching at the edge of a plastic tarpaulin. Someone tried to hide it, covering it with debris from the forest floor. Ham takes one corner in his mouth and drags the covering off the two bodies.
We’re lying next to each other, my body still breathing, asleep, with my faint glowing lifeline sticking out of its chest.
Elza is dead.
She’s lying there, still in her dad’s leather jacket, jeans, with her eyes open, leaves and twigs stuck in her hair.
I remember sitting with Ash by Ilana’s bedside that night I followed her to their house. Remember her saying to me, I can’t live without her. I love her. I’ll do whatever it takes.
Ham is whining and scrabbling at Elza, trying to get her to wake up.
“Stop that,” I say to Ham. “STOP IT!”
He jumps back, whimpering.
“She’s gone, you stupid dog!” For a moment everything is still. The Dunbarrow ghosts, Ryan and the rest of them, stand silent a little way from us. Ham is trembling. Elza’s still dead.
“Sorry,” I say, and I’m not sure who I’m apologizing to.
I rejoin with my body and wake up flat on my back, the sun shining low through the trees and into my eyes, making me wince. I feel shivery and stiff, and my head aches.
Elza lies beside me. I reach out with one hand and close her eyes. Her face is cold and feels strange. She’s really gone.
What am I going to do?
“Sorry about this, mate,” Ryan says.
“Yeah. We’ll take care of her, don’t worry.”
“What do you mean ‘take care of her’?” I ask.
“Well,” Andy says, “she’s dead now, right? One of the town ghosts.”
“No,” I say. “She’s not —”
“Look,” Jack says, “she’s gone, Luke, mate. Crossed over. She’ll be around somewhere. Don’t worry, it ain’t so bad. We’re all used to it.”
“She won’t have to get used to it,” I say. “I can bring her back.”
Ham licks my hand.
“How you gonna do that?” Ryan asks.
“The nonpareil,” I say. “Ash said it could resurrect people if they were killed by the demon. I just need to find where Ash is and get the nonpareil from her, and then —”
“You’ve lost me, mate,” Ryan says.
“No, see, Ash went into Deadside, so I just need to follow her —”
My sigil. Where’s my sigil?
It was on my finger, but I took it off last night. I start to search my pockets. Ham and the ghosts look at me, bemused. At last I find something cold and round in my smallest jeans pocket, and I pull out the black ring. Ash clearly didn’t search me, or she would have taken it. Even though I don’t know what her plan is now, she must be in a hurry.
“See!” I’m saying. “I have this. I still have power. I just need the Book and . . .”
Ash has the Book of Eight. It’s still inside her reading machine, which was in her house. It’s gone over to Deadside with her. I’m so stupid. . . . How did I ever trust her? She’s been leading us right where she wants us this entire time . . . and she has the Book.
I almost throw up.
Without the Book of Eight, I’m powerless. If they’ve gone to Deadside, then I have to follow Ash there, but I’ve no idea how to do that. I know the Devil’s Footsteps is supposed to be a place you can cross over, but how is it done? I doubt you just walk up to the stone circle and say “Open sesame.” My only chance to follow them, to fight Ash in any effective way, was in the Book.
This is it. I’ve lost Elza.
“No,” I’m saying, “no, no, no . . .”
She’s gone, really gone. There’s no coming back from this. I’ll never see her again. The last time I ever saw her, she was in pain and I couldn’t help her. . . .
“Luke,” one of the ghosts says, “it’s all right, mate. We’ll look after her.”
“No!” I shout. “You won’t! Shut up! You don’t even know what you’re talking about! Bunch of ghouls who died in a car crash! Go away! I don’t need your help!”
I glare at them, my eyes clouded with tears.
“We can see you’re very upset,” Andy says after a pause. “We’ll see you around, mate.”
The three ghosts turn and glide away into the trees, leaving me with Ham and Elza’s corpse.
“Sorry, Elza,” I say. “Sorry. I don’t know what to do.”
Ham whines.
“She’s gone, mate,” I say. “She’s gone.”
She’s still lying there, in the same position we found her, head fallen to one side and her arms lying at strange angles. Leaves in her black hair. Mud on her jeans and combat boots.
There’s nothing I can do. Everything we went through together, and this is the end of it. Ash wins.
All my magic, everything I’ve learned about death, and I can’t save her.
I hug Ham and sob.
When my tears have ebbed away, I feel strangely calm, numb. I can’t sit out here with her all afternoon. I need to do something, go somewhere. If someone sees me leaving the woods where the dead body of my girlfriend is found, I’ll be in even more serious trouble. I need to get back home, work out what I’ll say.
I pull the plastic sheet back over her body, make it as inconspicuous as I can. I leave the forest and press straight into the fog that coats the field, hiding myself from view. I make my way through the foggy gray building site, and when I come out the other side, with Ham trotting at my heels, the late sun on my face seems like an insult. How can it be sunny when she’s dead? How can birds still be chirping and wheeling above the trees? We pass an old man walking his terrier, and he smiles at me and I want to punch him. How can anyone smile at me now?
We reach Wormwood Drive, and I try to compose myself. Mum knows me well, and she’ll know something isn’t right, but I can’t give too much away. I’m scared she’ll look me in the eye and see Elza’s death somehow, see my guilt. I stand on our front step for five full minutes, digging my fingernails into my palms, trying to make myself feel normal, until I worry one of the neighbors will see me out here and say something. I quietly open the front door.
“Luke?” Mum’s voice comes immediately from the kitchen. “Is that you?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Can you come through here? I’ve got some bad news.”
“What?” I ask, walking into the kitchen.
“I’m afraid Ham’s gone missing, love. He ran away.”
“He’s with me,” I say, trying to sound cheerful. She must see something’s wrong.
“Is he?”
Right on cue, Ham comes bowling into the kitchen after me, leaping up at Mum.
“Where did you find him?” Mum asks, astonished.
“He came to find me.”
“Well, you could have called me! I’ve been ringing you all day. It kept going to voice mail. . . . I’ve been worried sick! He leaped over the garden wall this morning and ran away! Where have you been?”
“My phone battery died,” I say, then wince at my choice of words. “Sorry. I was with Elza, I thought I said.”
“Are you all right, love?” she asks, petting Ham, looking at me properly for the first time.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly.
“You don’t look well, love.”
“I’m just tired.”
“Are you sure you’re feeling all right?” Mum asks, frowning. “You haven’t been getting any flashes or anything, have you? No headaches? You look very poorly. Would you like some herbal tea?”
“No, thanks.”
“Some dinner?”
“No, I’ve already eaten,” I say, but I’m not sure if she believes me.
“You haven’t had another fit, have you?”
“No, Mum.”
If I stand here another second, I’m going to start bawling again.
“You’re still having a scan at the hospital on Monday, don’t forget. And if something happens in the meantime, please tell me, won’t you, love?”
“I’m just tired,” I repeat. “I’m going upstairs to lie down.”
“Are things all right with Elza?” Mum asks.
“Fine.”
“You know you can talk to me if something’s wrong, don’t you?”
“I’m OK,” I say. “I’m just going to my room.”
I take the stairs three at a time so she won’t see me crying. I walk into my room and see the impression on the beanbag from where we slept that night, the impression of her body, and that makes it worse. I don’t want to touch the beanbag. I want to keep that impression there forever. I lie down on my bed. The photograph of her, one I took with her camera, smiles at me from its place on the wardrobe door.
I’m sorry, Elza. I’m sorry.
I remember that night on the beanbag, her voice, whispering against my neck.
Just let me go.
I can’t. How can you ask that?
“How, Elza?” I’m saying. “How?”
I need to watch out.
Talking to myself.
Shit!
I punch the bed as hard as I can. I don’t feel much better. I punch it again, and there’s a solid thump as my fist hits something under the pillow.
That’s weird. Why would there be something under my pillow?
I move the pillow aside. To my disbelief, I see a book. A green book, a book bound in green leather, with silvery clasps and a golden eight-pointed star on the cover.
How?
Is this . . . ?
I pick it up. It really is the Book of Eight. How on earth can it be in my bedroom?
It really is here. I run my finger over the cold clasps.
Elza.
Elza was sitting here, on my bed, Wednesday night. When Ash had the Book in her reading device . . . I run through the night in my head. Ash went to throw up, and then we went downstairs, outside . . . and Elza followed later. She was alone up here with the Book of Eight. She hid it under my pillow . . . and when we came back upstairs, the reading machine was already closed up, ready to be carried away. We thought the Book was inside, but Ash never actually looked. . . .
“You genius,” I whisper to the photograph of Elza. “I love you. You genius.”
Ash thought she had the Book of Eight when she crossed over, but she didn’t. Elza didn’t trust her with it.
It’s right here.
I can get her back. I know it. I can follow Ash to wherever she’s gone. I get up and lock the door to my bedroom. Then I walk back over to my bed, slipping Dad’s sigil ring onto my finger.
Without fear or hesitation, I stroke my finger along the Book’s green spine. The clasps open with a muted click. I look at the blank pages. Now that I’ve read the Book before, the path seems clearer somehow. I remember the start of Dad’s sequence. . . .
Seven. I turn seven pages to the right. One reversed. I flip one page back, toward the front cover. Four, three reversed, seven, five, four, nine . . . I turn the pages, and they flow beneath my touch, the Book responding to its true owner. I see the pages begin to fill with sigils, marks of power.
And soon I’m not in the room at all.
When I come back into myself, the room is dark, the sky barely dawn-lit. For a moment my heart nearly stops, thinking I’ve been reading the Book for days, weeks, but I was only under for about eight hours. It could’ve been much worse. I snap the Book shut. I close my eyes, and sigils flow unbidden across my eyelids. I may be destroying my brain, but right now I don’t care. Elza’s all I care about. And there is a way to get her back. I know it.
One who wishes to tread the paths of the dead would be advised to bring a guide. I haven’t read that, not those exact words, but that’s how I remember what the Book told me. Those rare spirits who have journeyed deep into death and returned are gifted with eyes that have the aspect of liquid darkness. The Widow’s been to Deadside before, and she’ll be helping Ash, guiding her in whatever they’re doing there. I can’t face them on my own. But I know someone who might be able to help me.
It’s the stupidest plan I’ve ever made, but I don’t see another option.
I take the Book, my sigil, and one of Dad’s rings, a silver band set with jade. I leave the house quietly, locking the door behind me, and walk alone through Dunbarrow, too late for the milk vans and too early for anyone else. The town sleeps. I walk across the bridge, past the park, up the hill to our school and beyond. I walk through the forest, feeling drawn on, like I’m a leaf in a raging river. Nothing could make me turn back.
Just let me go.
I can’t. I won’t.
The magic circle is still drawn around the Devil’s Footsteps, white lines of paint. The golden binding ring we used to summon the Fury is still lying in the center of the circle. I check that the lines are un
broken, and then I remove the golden ring and leave the jade ring in its place. I take my own position in the smaller circle. I raise my sigil, feel cold run through my body. I say the words, the names. I perform the Rite of Return.
I don’t have long to wait. Within moments, there’s a ghost standing inside the ring of stones; the ghost wears an old-fashioned black suit, black boots, a wide-brimmed black hat. He wears a white shirt fastened at the collar with a strange silver pin. His hair is gray, hanging down over his shoulders. He has a long beard and a waxy face that looks half-molten. His fingers are slender and white, with cobwebs of wispy hair at each knuckle. His eyes, those oil-black eyes, are hidden behind mirrored glasses.
The Shepherd paces around the magic circle, looking for breaks or imperfections. Having satisfied himself that he’s properly bound and imprisoned, the ghost turns to me.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asks.
“I can have you return to me if I want to,” I reply. “It’s my right.”
“You may swallow boiling lead if you please,” the Shepherd says. The look on his face suggests he’d enjoy seeing me do it. “That is your right, too. But I do not believe you would do so. Why have you called upon me?”
“I need your help,” I say, keeping my voice level. Now that I’m face-to-face with him, I don’t know how I imagined this would work, but I have to try. I need a guide.
The Shepherd throws back his head and laughs, the only time I’ve heard him do it. It’s a nasty sound, like a crow having a heart attack.
“I will never help you,” he says. “You have clearly lost your mind, Luke Manchett.”
“Where did the Devil take you?” I ask.
“It took me to the darkness,” the Shepherd spits. “And I have suffered. I suffered and suffered and suffered. Exactly as you intended. So I congratulate you.”
“Where are you now?” I ask him.
The Shepherd looks around us at the standing stones and the oak trees and the moss and the reeds. He looks at the bracken and the stony bank behind me.
“We appear to be at the Devil’s Footsteps. The site of your previous victory over me.”
“And where are you not?” I ask.
“I am currently not in a great many places,” the Shepherd says. “Say what you mean or keep your tongue still. I do not deal in riddles.”