by Mark Cassell
As we reached another room—this house was bigger than I’d first thought—I heard wood explode and the crackle of something else, soft thumps of what I guessed to be the bodies hurled out of the way.
I passed another mirror, its shattered glass crunching beneath my feet.
From another room, the piano played a haunting tune. The sound of splintered wood and a hurricane of wind echoed through the house. It blasted apart furniture and ornaments. Everything else clanged and shattered as the shadows leapt from where they’d lain dormant only moments before.
We rounded a corner entering the hall, and as Lucas ran past the grandfather clock, its tick overpowered my pounding heart. And its panels exploded in a rush of darkness. A loop of shadow coiled around Lucas’s legs and tripped him. He smashed into the wall. A hammering rain of wood and clock mechanisms swallowed his yell.
The shadows reared up and reached for his head. His hands slapped about, flailing blindly. His eyes were glazed.
I stopped running and started for him, when Victor shoved me aside. Before I managed to say anything, he lunged for his old friend. He kicked the shadows and stamped on them. His jaw clamped tight and determination squinted his eyes. With one hand, he tugged at Lucas, and with the other, he clutched The Book of Leaves.
The shadows broke in places, dispersing like oil and water. Too weak, perhaps, for such an attack. For a moment, Victor and Lucas held one another. Lucas gave a sharp nod as he regained his footing, and Victor pulled him towards the front door.
“Go!” he shouted.
I stepped back, my arse hitting the wall. The presence of the shadows—although not as menacing as the Shadow Fabric—flexed its muscles. Its energy charged through the house. Shadows beneath the Wellington boots erupted in grey bursts, like phantoms awakening on the other side of reality. My breath was rapid as I eyed the door.
Lucas had already yanked it open and staggered towards his truck. It was parked further up the driveway. Rain still pummelled the ground. Victor made it to the car and started tugging at the handle. Mud streaked his face and caked his hair, his eyes wide and his clothes filthy.
With the wall at my back, I slid sideways and bolted out. Cold air slapped my face and the rain stung. It froze my brain. My heartbeat thundered through my head. Though impossible, I imagined I still heard the grandfather clock.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Victor was shouting, and it took me a moment to tune in. He glared at me, his mouth moving, but I heard only that ticking sound. Behind me the shadows whipped and twisted into the wet afternoon. They thinned and shrank back, darted forward again and immediately retracted as though unsure to leave the house. Perhaps I heard them groan in frustration. I fancied I even saw a thin wisp of darkness curl like a finger, beckoning.
“Leo!” Victor screamed. “Press the button!”
Button? I blinked, no longer hearing the clock, no longer mesmerised by the shadows. I turned to him. Then I understood. I fumbled for the car key. My breath was sharp in my lungs, and my knee was killing me.
The house groaned—that’s what I heard, not the shadows—and the sound of shattering glass made me take a final look. The darkness seethed at the threshold, unable to enter daylight. Through the windowpanes, glass spitting, the smoky phantoms tried to reach out.
With slick hands, I yanked the car door wide, threw myself in and started the engine. I even found it an effort to close the door, so I left it wide.
“Just lesser-shadows,” Victor said as he pulled his seat belt. I dropped the handbrake and shot off after Lucas’s 4x4. My door slammed shut as I tugged the steering wheel.
Mud and rain smeared the windscreen in twin arcs as I whacked the wipers on.
We made it away from the farmhouse. From the shadows. From the shrivelled corpses.
From the madness.
CHAPTER 21
The drive to Lucas’s bookshop had been fast, too fast. I still felt as though the shadows, or the lesser-shadows as Victor had put it, were behind me, and I constantly checked the rear-view mirror for any pursuing darkness.
Once out of the car, things were no different. I didn’t stop throwing glances over my shoulder until I’d followed Lucas into his flat above the shop. We spent time in the bathroom cleaning up as best we could. While Lucas threw some new clothes on, Victor took the bathroom first. When it was my turn, I made certain to put the light on, even though daylight blasted through the frosted glass. I wondered if Victor had done the same.
In the lounge, with Lucas and Victor in the middle of the room, I hovered by the window and watched the road below. I stared without seeing, stuck in a constant replay of the madness at the farmhouse. My temples pulsed.
On the gleaming surface of a glass coffee table, aligned parallel with the edges, sat a pile of movie magazines. Next to these was an empty fruit bowl and three remote controls—again perfectly aligned. All a contrast to the shop downstairs, with piles of books and split boxes strewn about the floor.
“You’ve done well, my friend,” Victor said to Lucas. His face was cleaner, his gloves too, but there was still mud in his hair.
Lucas said nothing.
“Thank you so much,” Victor added.
In his lap, the book remained covered. It sat in the folds of filthy cloth. The material fell over his knees, one edge draping the floor. Earth still caked his clothes.
“Don’t think I’ve forgiven you,” Lucas said, but his voice was softer. I thought of the way he’d looked at Victor when he pulled him from the shadows. Maybe they were closer—albeit slightly—than when we’d met at the farmhouse, before everything went crazy. That felt like such a long time ago.
Victor pulled the cloth away and it fell to the floor. Inside, tied with string, the book was wrapped in brown paper; torn in places, spotted with smudges of mud and age. Nothing on the outside of the package gave away its contents. He pinched the two ends of string. “I’ve spent years searching for this.”
I had no doubt that inside the grubby wrapping was The Book of Leaves. It was something else to drag me into a world of witchcraft and corpses and magic knives. Plus, with recent revelations yet to be fathomed, doubt and deceit. And now, even ordinary shadows played the game.
“Now the search is over.” His voice was small, his eyes unwavering.
“Don’t you want to open it?” Lucas sat on the edge of his chair. His voice had definitely softened. I hoped they’d finally settled their differences. Again, I wondered what really happened to them in the jungle. And what jungle was it?
Victor didn’t move his fingers. I wanted him to open the damn thing, the suspense crippled me. Especially after all we’d gone through to get it, all we’d witnessed, and the feeling of those shadows as they tore apart the family’s home. Their bodies thrown around. Even though I’d not seen the shadows grab them, I imagined them hitting the walls in scattered bones and flapping clothes.
Lucas traced a finger down the length of his scar. “I’m too old for all that Indiana Jones shit.”
Victor’s eyes focused on somewhere else. A frown tugged at his forehead.
“The older I’ve gotten,” Lucas continued, “the closer those calls. I don’t know whether to cringe or smile at the memories of us two. Too many times we came close to death….”
“We did, my friend. Far too many.”
“Still here, though,” Lucas said, and then added, “Even after today, we’re still here.”
“We are.”
“I have my contacts in the game now. Thomas was one of them.”
“It’s not a game any longer,” Victor said, a slight edge to his voice. “It was never a game to start with.”
Lucas scratched his chin. “No, you’re right, it never was,” he said. “Still isn’t.”
“You’re still the same, Lucas. You proved that today.” Victor’s eyebrows raised. “I’ll sort out a bank transfer for you. Give me a few days.”
“No rush, it’s Friday after all. I’m closing up shop tomorrow
and heading to my sister’s for the weekend. She’s having a barbecue on Sunday.” He motioned to the dining table: bread rolls, charcoal briquettes, lighter fluid. “At my age, it’s about family.”
Finally, these two were speaking normally. As normal as could be, given the recent events. Again, I thought of the shadows in the farmhouse, the way they’d slithered from the corners, coming alive and reaching for us; Lucas tripping and the clock exploding.
A sudden tug of Victor’s gloved fingers and the string fell away, draping his knees. He hefted the book from one hand to the other, and the covering tore slightly.
I rubbed my forehead, a dull throb pulsed behind my eyes. Perhaps it was eyestrain, or even a dehydration headache. I wasn’t sure.
Victor revealed the edge of the book, leather-bound, as he’d described it. Brown, stained, and aged.
A stab of agony shot across my forehead, blasting behind my eyes. I grunted, not loud enough to draw attention. All eyes were on the book as Victor slid away the final sheet of wrapping. I lost focus for a second. In front of me, the two men sharpened and then blurred under another bolt of pain.
The Book of Leaves sat in Victor’s lap, cradled in folds of paper. He caressed its front cover. His fingers made a subtle rasp.
I blinked and frowned. A greyness clouded my vision and my head throbbed. A darkness swept over me and swallowed my periphery. It left a narrow tunnel of light where only the book remained. Even though it was a bulk of dark pages, the thing glowed.
The streaks of darkness pressed in with increasing force. Victor and Lucas were talking again. Their voices too far away, overcome by the wind rushing in my ears like a train thundering through that tunnel.
The light expanded slightly, with occasional glimpses of other things. Greyness at first, shimmering at the edges. Brief flashes of something…somewhere else; row upon row, on all sides, were books. Not books, boxes. Metal containers sporting an emblem which I failed to make out.
As suddenly as the image appeared, it quivered into a wave of shadow. Vanishing…
Again the wind roared, no longer resembling a train. It howled.
The tide of conflicting scenes crashed into me like being in two places. The main one—the real one—was a room where Victor and Lucas stared at me. The other was a transparency placed over my eyes, tricking me into seeing something else; a glowing bare bulb over many shelved boxes.
My mind buckled with that insistent bang and roar of the train, and those shadows pushing down. I wanted to escape. Bile crept up my throat; I wanted to run, vomit, collapse, to fly…and there I was, with Victor and Lucas now reaching for me. They came too slow. They couldn’t help me. They wouldn’t get there in time. Again, the image of those metal boxes smashed into my mind. The bulb was too bright.
What was this? A memory?
Rapid, alternate scenes flashed between my companions and the room of boxes. On and off, in and out. A strobe effect between reality and unreality. It was as if a determined tide dragged me under. I gasped, lungs tightening, and I clutched my throat with rubbery hands. The surge of images crashed down around me.
My mind reeled. This wasn’t a memory. The room of boxes was not a distant place from my past.
It was something else entirely.
I squinted and tried to speak. Then I collapsed.
* * *
Victor’s voice slid through the darkness and my eyelids cracked open enough to allow light to creep in. I felt fine—if strangely sleepy. No headache. No dizziness. And no odd visions. All was normal.
Victor’s face hovered close to mine. His wrinkles were canyons.
“Leo,” he said, “are you okay?”
I blinked a few times, my head swimming. I was slumped on the floor against an armchair, limbs awkward and with no idea how I’d got there. My breath came in short gasps.
Both men looked down at me.
“Victor?” My voice sounded weak. I felt small.
“You were lucky,” he said. “Lucas managed to catch your fall.”
“What happened?”
Victor shook his head. “I honestly don’t know.”
“You’ve been saying that a lot recently.” Maybe everything had finally been too much to take in. After all, in only a few days my understanding of the world had been torn into strips.
“Yes.”
As I shifted into a sitting position, Lucas went into the kitchen. He shortly returned with a glass of water. Inside, zigzags of reflected light shot around as though trying to escape.
“Here.” He crouched beside me.
With a steady hand, I took it from him. The cold liquid sharpened my senses and I sat up straighter.
“I remember seeing boxes,” I said. “Lots of boxes. Rows of them. Metal ones. A room full of them.”
“What do you mean, boxes?” Victor took the glass of water from me.
Pressing my fists into the carpet, I got to my feet without a problem. I stood for a second, stretching, and lowered myself into the armchair.
Victor handed me the glass. Taking a large gulp, I waited for them to sit before continuing. The Book of Leaves was nowhere in sight. Between mouthfuls of water, I told them how I’d felt and what I’d seen. Neither of them interrupted.
“I was there, yet not there,” I concluded. “Weird.”
“As soon as you saw The Book of Leaves?”
“Yes!” I said, embarrassed that I’d shouted it. “Yeah.”
“I’ve wrapped it up again,” Lucas said. “It’s in the kitchen.”
“Good.” Victor rubbed his forehead.
“This is your territory, Victor.” Lucas took off his gloves. “Not mine. I just find these things for you.”
“I know, my friend. You did well. Thank you.”
“You’re telling me you don’t know either?” My elbows thumped my knees as I leaned forward, glaring at Lucas.
“Sorry, pal.” He shook his head—a familiar gesture all round, and it was getting annoying. I gritted my teeth.
From the kitchen a combination of clatter-clang-smash made us all turn our heads. The three of us froze and strained our ears. I wanted to get out of my chair, but didn’t want to make a noise in case something else happened.
Silence. Nothing more.
Lucas slowly stood up and headed for the kitchen.
Victor and I watched the big man leave the room. There was a short hallway leading to the kitchen, next to which the stairs vanished to the lower floors.
While a few seconds passed, I pictured Lucas crouching and picking up a pot or a pan, frowning at the mess of a piece of shattered crockery. Moments later, he returned, framed inside the doorway. From behind him, the lightshade gave him a crude halo.
“A pan fell off the rack.” He shrugged. “Damn thing broke a plate.”
Victor’s shoulders slumped. I shook my head and took a sip of water.
“I’ll clean it up later,” Lucas said.
The hallway light went out.
Lucas frowned, turned, and looked up. A darkness had spread across the ceiling, swallowing the light. It resembled a puddle of dirty water, only it defied gravity. Its smooth edges shifted and seethed, moving towards Lucas.
Victor said something as Lucas’s bellow ripped into the room. Several tentacles of darkness burst from his stomach in a red mist, yanking him upright.
I dropped the glass and water soaked my trousers. It hit the floor and cracked.
The ends of those black limbs twisted and squirmed. Blood gushed from jagged holes, soaking Lucas’s clothes. Like a puppet, his arms and legs flailed and his face contorted.
This was nothing like the shadows at the farm. I’d seen and felt this presence before. At Stanley’s house. It was the Shadow Fabric.
A black coil speared Lucas’s neck. Another haze of red, splashing the walls. His head flopped sideways as the slithering darkness whipped the air. His legs buckled. The weight of his lifeless body supported only by tentacles of varying sizes. Their ends curled like beckoni
ng fingers.
In a collective tug, they tore Lucas’s body to pieces.
CHAPTER 22
“Lucas!” Victor roared, and the two of us leapt to our feet.
A lump clogged my throat and I forced it down. I’d never seen anything like it, certainly not beyond the TV or cinema screen, and I knew there was nothing remotely similar in my unremembered past.
Pieces of Lucas were everywhere. A few tendrils of shadow prodded and stroked the chunks of his flesh. Beneath their touch each piece shrivelled and crackled, losing its wetness. The redness darkened to grey. Those tentacles retracted and the bulk of the shadow pulsed. Clinging to the top of the doorframe, it shimmered like tar.
“Think we’ve found the Shadow Fabric,” I said.
With the darkness in front of us and the evening sky pushing on the window behind, we were closed in. Trapped. The Fabric blocked our only exit. It didn’t move. It packed out the hallway, and even as I watched, its size increased. Already its bulk had expanded since the last time I’d seen it—thinking of the redundant violin case back on Stanley’s dining room table. It must be ten times larger now.
“Victor!” Sweat beaded my brow; bile rose to my throat. “What can we do?”
“We can’t allow the Fabric to take the book.” His gloved hand clamped my arm.
For a moment, I dragged my eyes away from the Shadow Fabric, and I saw Lucas’s gloves beside the sofa. I grabbed them, my eyes returning to the Fabric as I pulled them on. Far from a snug fit, but they were all I had. Given that Victor always wore a pair, I guessed it was time for me to get into a similar habit.
The tentacles slithered back into the body of Fabric, and in one movement it shifted through the doorway. It still clung to the ceiling as it dragged itself half into the room. The light dimmed further. Its seething bulk throbbed once and settled. It dipped in the middle like a black canopy, the surface neither rippling nor shimmering.
“What’s it waiting for?” Victor said, glancing at the window.