“No—” Rachel’s scream is lost to the darkness as Dougal pulls her off the ledge.
They break the water together, which envelops them both in a cold, raging embrace. The icy water slams the air out of her lungs, and she loses her grip on Dougal’s hand as the violent current drags them downstream. She panics. The tempestuous, dark waters roll around her, making it impossible for her to figure out where the surface is located. Oxygen. She wants to breathe so bad. A hand grabs her by the collar and tugs her backward. She kicks, trying to get away and swim upward—or where she assumes up is—but Dougal’s body slams into her. All she wants is to break through the murky water and inhale. The river roils suck her deeper into its shadowy depths. Rainstorm debris and manmade waste toss together in the underwater rollercoaster. Tread water turns to mud. Something prickly jabs into her side, gouges at her clothes, before moving past.
Then, without reason, the water gives way and gravity takes hold again. Gone is the floating. Gone is the tumultuous water. The end of her inexplicable fall is softened by luscious, emerald-green grass. The darkness is replaced by the bright afternoon light, a welcome sight after scurrying around like rats in the sewer. Sputtering and coughing, too weak to begin coming up with an explanation for this wicked trip, Rachel lies on her back and stares through the forest’s canopy of leaves. Beside her, still gasping and wheezing, Dougal is on his hands and knees. She watches him grab fistfuls of grass, retching up the filthy water. His strength gives out and he lies down, breathing hard.
Shivering, Rachel sits upright, reaches for the umbrella between them, and drags it closer. She laughs weakly through chattering teeth as she inspects the family heirloom, and finds it in perfect condition, aside from a few muddy splotches covering the umbrella’s canopy.
“I dinnae ken whit yer laughin’ aboot.” He turns his head to face her, cheek pressing against the grass. She ignores his criticism, fumbling with the clasp keeping the material wrapped around the shaft. “We were almost murdered thanks tae ye.”
She casts her eyes to the white birch arch standing ahead of them, benign. “I got us out of that place, remember? If we’d have gone up, we’d never have seen daylight again.”
He props himself onto his elbows and looks at her in disbelief, blue eyes scanning her features. Without saying a word, he sits upright.
“Okay, fine. I accept responsibility for getting us there—wherever there is—but you have to give me credit for the rest. I did save your life ... twice. Just like you saved mine, although I’m not happy about the way you went about it.”
“Yer talkin’ a lot,” he grumbles. “I dinnae lik’ it.”
“I don’t care whether you like my talking or not. I’m freaking out here, sue me,” Rachel snaps back. “The fact that I’m not hyperventilating right now is amazing in itself. I mean, first we get chased by a shadow, which probably destroyed a huge part of the forest and, God forbid, our homes. Then I get assaulted before I have to swim through heaven-knows-what because some idiots were shooting arrows at us—”
Dougal interrupts her rambling with an outburst of his own, speaking in the same language he’d used the previous night when they had encountered the Black Annis. He stands and wanders off to where he’d left his backpack before their underground adventure.
She hurries to her feet, rushes after him, and asks, “What is that anyway?”
“Whit?”
“The language you’re speaking. What is it?”
“Gaelic.” He busies himself with the backpack to avoid looking at her.
“Oh,” Rachel says, pushing the mechanism of the umbrella up to dry the fabric.
Dougal’s surly silence rolls off him in waves as he pulls the backpack on and walks back the way they had come earlier.
She follows, grimacing from the overall aches and pains, and trying not to pay too much attention to the squishes of her sodden shoes every time she takes a step.
When the silence becomes unbearable, she says, “Quick question: If I had said I couldn’t swim back there, would you have left me behind?”
“Aye,” he says without looking back.
“Brutal,” she mutters.
“I’m nae verra keen on ye right noo, Rachel. Ask me again tomorrow.”
Rachel doesn’t know how to respond, simply follows him as he retraces their path through the forest, keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings. The trees are as dense as she remembers them, the brush hardly disturbed after their race through the woods. The quiet encircling them is visceral, as usual, but the smell of their unexpected swim lingers no matter which way she turns. Thankfully, the sun is out, and the day is hot, even in the gloomy forest, which helps to dry her clothes and the umbrella. Her shoes, however, are a whole other matter.
“Sorry fer goin’ off on ye,” he says after a while, his tone low.
“It’s all right. I’m sorry for getting us into that place,” Rachel says in turn, picking up speed to walk beside him. “Friends?”
“Yeah, but dinnae go steppin’ intae faerie circles again. Next time, I wilnae follow ye through.” Dougal affords her a weak smile.
“Fair enough,” Rachel says, smiling back at him. “Remind me again, what’s a faerie circle?”
“Och! Did Nan nae teach ye anythin’? The mushroom circle was a faerie circle, Rach,” he explains. “It didnae act like I expected it would, what with the birch arch and all yer pushin’ tae get through, but usually a faerie circle takes ye tae th’ Fae Realm wi’oot any extra hurdles.”
She purses her lips together. “I didn’t know,” she whispers.
“Aye, I ken. If ye had, ye would’ve figured out sooner why Nan’s been makin’ ye do weird stuff over th’ years.” Dougal shifts the backpack on his shoulders. “In the auld days, folks used tae leave gifts fer th’ piskies in order tae placate them. Mah da told me aboot it when I was a bairn.”
“Piskies? You mean pixies, right?”
“Aye, pixies,” he says. “Our egg plantin’ yesterday was s’posed tae appease th’ fair folk in some way, too.”
“Judging by the day we’ve had, I’m going to just say it didn’t work.”
Dougal makes a show of sniffing in her direction and his face scrunches up in revulsion. “Ye can say that again.”
“You don’t exactly smell like a bouquet of daisies either,” she says, swinging her umbrella around to dry it faster. “Speaking of bad days, what are the chances of us running into any more trouble on our way home?”
Dougal’s humor evaporates and his features smooth into a blank expression. He scans the forest again, his body becoming stiff as it readies to deal with a threat as soon as it’s detected.
He swallows, and whispers, “I dinnae ken. I hope nae.”
The forest changes in appearance as they walk; ancient trees seem to have been ripped out by the roots and thrown across the path they had trodden earlier, leaving them no other option than to take the long way around. In some places, smaller flora specimens are crushed beyond recognition, whereas younger trees are damaged by the falls of the bigger ones. It looks like a warzone, like forgotten mines were triggered and had torn apart the earth itself.
She feels a pang of guilt for ignoring the ACCESS PROHIBITED sign, but the guilt soon turns into concern for her hometown, for the people who live there, for the children who are gone. Is this what they’re up against? Is this unseen entity, this monster with the strength of a bulldozer, the crux of Shadow Grove’s problems?
Rachel can’t begin to answer these questions, but she’s almost certain her dad, Liam Cleary, can.
Six
By The Dying Light
Upon their return from the forest, Griswold Road is a flurry of activity. The sheriff department’s cruisers’ red and blue lights flash in timed intervals, casting an eerie glow over the grim gathering of townsfolk who litter the lawns of both houses. As dusk swells into existence, the heat never relinquishing the power it holds over the world, a distressed Mrs. Crenshaw and Jenny Cleary
stand together in the shade of a tree, two lonesome figures amidst the chaos.
Rachel’s heart drops to her stomach at the commotion and then does a flip when Mrs. Crenshaw spots them near the forest’s ACCESS PROHIBITED sign. The old woman’s concern turns to rage in an instant—a frail lady changing into a warrior queen. Gone are the ailments of age, gone is the amicable façade.
“We’re in so much trouble,” Rachel says as they cautiously approach the road together.
Mrs. Crenshaw takes several footsteps away from Rachel’s mother, who wears a blank expression and stares past her toward the forest. Those who are present turn their gazes toward them, relief rather than annoyance filling the air. It’s strange, though, oh so very strange that a crowd had gathered outside their houses—possible search parties, if Rachel’s reading this scene correctly—in a matter of hours, whilst those poor missing children were never afforded the same luxury. Rachel doesn’t mention it to Dougal, doesn’t have the courage to utter a single word with Mrs. Crenshaw marching their way, but it’s unnerving to imagine her life meaning more than innocent kids’ lives.
Why?
“You two better have a damn good explana—” Mrs. Crenshaw almost shouts. She cuts herself off as she draws closer, her nose wrinkling as a pesky breeze blows past them. “What is that smell?” She looks them up and down, now clearly upset by losing her momentum, and runs her hand through her white, loosely braided hair, which isn’t her style of choice. “Go get yourselves cleaned up immediately. We’ll talk about this excursion of yours when you don’t smell like sewage.”
“Nan—”
“Don’t give me lip, boy. Move.”
Rachel watches as Dougal hurries toward the house. He dodges the curious onlookers by cutting across the lawn and slipping around the side of the Frasers’ property. She makes her way to the house across the street, gripping the umbrella handle tightly in her fist, defiantly marching through the whispering crowd to reach the front door.
“You and I are going to have a good long talk about responsibility, young lady,” her mother says when Rachel passes.
Rachel’s response is no more than an indignant snort. The hypocrisy of her mother’s words, the very tone she uses, doesn’t deserve more than belligerence. Responsibility. Ha! She makes her way up the porch steps, sets down the damp umbrella, and kicks off her ruined shoes. She escapes into the house without a word.
If Jenny wants to talk, if she suddenly feels like it’s time to act like a parent again, Rachel decides it’s only fair that her mother listens to the long list of complaints she’s compiled over the past few months. Period.
Her wet hair hangs over her shoulders and down her back, now several shades darker and infinitely curlier, thanks to the long shower she needed to get rid of the persistent smell. Water drips onto the black, white, and purple geometric carpet, protecting the hardwood beneath. Rachel sits cross-legged on her bedroom floor in the yellow artificial light that shines down from the ceiling, dressed in her favorite pajamas and robe, and scrolls through her emails and Instagram timeline. From the look of things, she hasn’t missed much; a few holiday photos, some passive aggressive status updates on Twitter, a handful of spam emails, and a few texts from a number she doesn’t recognize—first asking where she is and then whether she’s all right.
A knock on the door startles her out of her thoughts, followed by her mother’s irate words. “You’re grounded for two weeks.”
“For what exactly?” Rachel calls back.
“Insubordination.”
Rachel rolls her eyes, tosses the phone over her shoulder, which lands on her pillow with a dull thud, and stands from the floor. She crosses her bedroom and opens the door, searching for her mother in the hallway. It’s only natural for her to want to contest the unfair punishment, considering she and Dougal hadn’t even technically left their families’ properties, but her mother isn’t there. Deliberating, it seems, is out of the question. The public remark her mother made earlier, about them having a “good long talk about responsibility” won’t come to fruition.
She slams her door shut, hard enough to rattle the window, and makes her way to her desk. A few of her father’s journals are scattered across the surface, open at seemingly random pages. Her own notebook, which she’s been using solely to find a pattern to locate the missing children, sits atop her closed laptop. Rachel takes a seat in her swivel chair, opens the notebook, and looks at the progress she’s made. It makes for depressing reading, especially since she hasn’t found a single lead to get to the bottom of this frustrating mystery whatsoever, apart from the Black Annis running about town.
She picks up her pen and adds Astraea Hayward’s name to the growing list, her age and the information surrounding her disappearance—Vanished into thin air on Main Road, in front of witnesses.
She glances at her father’s journal, where the Black Annis is doodled in the margin, and sets her notebook aside.
There’s more to the sketch than meets the eye, but what? She flips to the first page of the journal and reads through her father’s notes, which mainly revolve around the Eerie Creek Sawmill. There isn’t anything salacious about the research her father had done. The journal delves into the history of the lumber company that agreed to enter into the partnership with Shadow Grove’s leaders. There’s a brief overview of the possible malpractices the lumber company was allegedly involved in—child labor, unsafe working environments, fraudulent behavior. Otherwise, it’s maddeningly tedious.
Rachel stands and walks over to her bed, lies on her side, and continues reading. There are a lot of facts to sift through, boring facts. In this particular journal, her dad doesn’t touch on the subject of the tragedies that had befallen the sawmill’s owners or workers, but the entry on the last page does hold promise.
The apathy shown regarding the missing child laborers, some as young as ten years old, during this turbulent time in Shadow Grove’s history, is perhaps the most appalling part of the Eerie Creek Sawmill Saga. For two years prior to the fire that would ultimately end the partnership between the town and the lumber company, at least fifteen children disappeared. Is this the work of a serial killer? We may never know.
“Oh.” Rachel sits upright on the bed. She rereads the last part of the journal, eagerly searching for more, but the tantalizing tease begins and ends with the paragraph in question. “This has happened before,” she whispers her revelation out loud, heart racing as she rushes back to her desk and finds her own notebook.
She copies her father’s entry word for word, adds the citation for future reference at the bottom of the copied paragraph, and places the journal to one side of her desk. Rachel picks up the next random journal and repeats the process, hoping to find something else that could help her in the search for those missing kids.
Long hours pass as she wades through useless information about farming methods used in Shadow Grove and how they’ve changed throughout the town’s history. The dull read weighs down her already leaden eyelids, exhaustion after a day of bizarre adventures promises a deep, dreamless sleep. Rachel absentmindedly strokes the soft bedding as her ever-narrowing eyes move across the page, while the pillow supporting her neck gently caresses her cheek. Comfortable, inviting, her resolve to continue reading ebbs until it finally dissolves. Sleep drags her out of the waking world and into blissful nothingness.
Sometime during the night, the temperature plummets. The wind howls as it rushes from the forest and enters the town. Leaves whisper as the wind picks up, the air becomes heavier, clouds gather over Shadow Grove as a storm rolls in. A long, low rumble rouses Rachel from her slumber. Her eyes snap open at the sound, and an incandescent light fills her bedroom for a few milliseconds.
One Mississippi ... Two Mississippi ... Th—
Peals of thunder interrupt her counting. She sits upright, mind muddled with sleep, and wonders if her mother had been the one to turn off the lights or if the storm had blown a fuse. She looks around her dark, undisturbed
bedroom, still in the darkness. Aside from the gossamer curtains waving violently as the wind penetrates her room, nothing is out of order. Rachel doesn’t recall opening the window since the previous day, when it’d felt like someone—something—was watching her.
Lightning cleaves the night sky in half; a clap of thunder rattles the heavens.
She pushes the journal off the bed as she gets up, and it lands face-down on the floor. Her robe’s belt drags behind her as she saunters to the window. Yawning, she rubs the sleep from her eyes with the back of her hand. A persistent scratching and a click, click, clicking noise—not so loud as to truly hinder a heavy sleeper but loud enough to bother someone who wants to reach their dreamscape again—sounds just outside the window. Rachel pushes the curtains out of her way, battling the swathes of fabric which billow wildly as another gust of wind makes its way through, and comes face-to-face with the stuff of nightmares.
The creature’s most noticeable feature is her blue-hued skin tone, and although her rusty nail-like teeth are without a doubt a menacing sight, it’s those eyes. With a single glare of those midnight-colored eyes, even Death would surrender his scythe to the Black Annis outside Rachel’s window.
Metallic fingernails glint—regardless of the absent moonlight—and tap against the glass pane, once, twice, before dragging downward to create a shrill screeching noise that reverberates in the very roots of Rachel’s molars. The Black Annis pushes away from the wall and comes into full view. Hanging there, suspended in midair, a satisfied smile spreads across her inhuman features. Then the black cloak, which is not at all filthy as Rachel had assumed the previous night, wraps around the Black Annis’ emaciated form, protecting her from the downpour. Rachel suspects the cloak to be sentient as it curls closer to its mistress on its own. Tighter and tighter, restricting like a python.
Whispers ride on the wind. Distant childlike voices, gleeful, as if they’re on a playground, swirl into existence around the crone. The soft voices become louder until it sounds like the children are playing right beneath Rachel’s bedroom window. The Black Annis’ cloak suddenly shoots open and spreads out farther. Impossibly, it somehow fills Rachel’s entire line of vision, revealing a collection of ghostlike faces stacked one upon the other and side by side. Chubby-cheeked cherubs avert their hollow gazes to stare at the Black Annis, forced smiles twisting their features horrendously.
The Night Weaver Page 6