“Good, thanks,” he says. “Nan said ye came o’er lookin’ fer me.”
“Yes. I got a visit from our mutual friend last night,” she says. Dougal perks up, the humor fading from his expression. “She calls herself the Night Weaver.”
He sits upright, eyes wide. “Aye. And?”
“She has a sentient cloak with ghost faces staring up at her, worshiping her with their eyes. I suspect those are her victims. It’s all super narcissistic.”
“And?” he says, fishing for more information.
“She said if I wanted the kids back, I should go get them, so that’s what I’m going to do,” Rachel says. “Wanna help me save some children from an egotistical, blue-faced monster?”
“Aye, it’ll be a good way tae get mah blood pumpin’,” Dougal says, grinning.
“We’ll have to work with Greg Pearson, though.”
Dougal’s smile vanishes and he groans as he lies back on the sofa. “I leave ye alone fer one day and yer already makin’ googly eyes at a hurdie. How’d ye get by before I came along, eh?”
“What does ‘hurdie’ mean?”
“Dinnae matter,” Dougal says, smirking. “What matters is that I did some diggin’ of my own today. Asked auld Joe Farrah—” He clears his throat and says, “Joe Farrow, aboot th’ town a wee bit. He’s a talkative man if he likes ye.”
“Yes, and what did Joe tell you?”
“Fer starters, he told me nae tae go intae some or other cave. He said folks tend tae go in one way and come out another,” Dougal answers. “Ye ken what cave he’s talkin’ aboot?”
“No. I just know about the Siren’s Pit located on the Other Side. The pit’s one of those verbal histories that gets around every now and then, revolving around yet another tragedy that befell Shadow Grove during its formative years. I told you about it, didn’t I?” she asks.
“Aye, ye did.”
“What did Joe say about the cave?”
Dougal shrugs, his eyes pinned on the TV, but slowly drooping as exhaustion seems to take him under. “Nae much more than that, but he did mention folks have been actin’ streenge lately.”
Mrs. Crenshaw’s sewing machine comes to life in the dining room, hammering out a rhythmic rat-tat-tat-tat.
“Interesting,” Rachel says, tapping her fingers against the armrest. “Did Joe mention any names?”
“Naw,” Dougal says. “Do ye think it’s connected?”
“At this point, Dougal, I think everything wrong with this town is connected. The kids going missing, the adults acting strange, the forest coming alive, you name it.”
“Dinnae go lookin’ fer trouble without me,” he says, beginning to drift off. “Yer a capable lass, but Nan’ll castrate me if ye get hurt. The auld witch isnae one tae forgive or forget.”
“Go to bed, Dougal,” Rachel says, pushing herself to her feet. Dougal’s eyes snap open and he blinks a few times. “Go to bed before you fall asleep on the sofa. Neither your grandmother nor I can carry you.” She points to the staircase. “Move.”
“Yer worse than Nan, ye ken?” he mutters, getting up.
“Yes, I ken.” Rachel moves around the armchair to join Mrs. Crenshaw in the dining room. “Goodnight.”
Dougal says goodnight in passing, dragging his feet as he heads upstairs to his bedroom. Meanwhile, Rachel steps into the brightly lit, outdated dining room where a six-seater dining table is surrounded by unmatched chairs. A white crocheted tablecloth is draped over one of the chairs, while the battered metal cookie bins—holding all of Mrs. Crenshaw’s sewing supplies—stand on the scratched surface of the table. The sewing machine’s needle never ends its work as Rachel takes a seat beside the old woman and pulls an open cookie bin closer.
“Where’s that grandson of mine?”
“I sent him off to bed,” Rachel says, poking through the various laces and ribbons stored in the bin. The sewing needle stops hammering and Mrs. Crenshaw pulls the dress away from the machine. She evaluates her handiwork before grabbing a pair of scissors to cut the thread. “You’d tell me if my theories about the kids were wrong, right? About there being more to this story than what meets the eye?”
“I would,” Mrs. Crenshaw says with a needle resting between her lips.
“Why don’t you help us?”
“I am helping, even if you think I’m not.”
Rachel finds a roll of shocking pink ribbon and places it on the table. “This will brighten up those drabs.”
“Sweetheart,” Mrs. Crenshaw says with a sigh, setting the dress down on her lap.
“Okay, no pink ribbon then.” Rachel returns the roll of ribbon to the cookie bin.
“The ribbon is fine, Rachel,” the old woman says. “You’ve heard the saying about teaching a man to fish, so he’ll be fed for a lifetime?”
“Yes.”
“It’s like that. If you and Dougal don’t learn to spot the signs and handle this crap by yourselves, Shadow Grove is doomed,” Mrs. Crenshaw says. “I’m not going to be around forever, you know?”
Rachel drops her gaze back to the cookie bin. She hates it when Mrs. Crenshaw brings up her mortality, hates the idea of coming over to the Fraser house one day and not seeing the witty busybody doing something borderline insane before she drags Rachel into the thick of things. Who else would willingly help Rachel undermine her mother by staying up the whole night only to redesign an entire wardrobe? Nobody in Shadow Grove, that’s for sure. It’s more than mischief tying Rachel and Mrs. Crenshaw together. It is friendship and family and years of teaching each other skills. Mrs. Crenshaw wouldn’t know squat about how to operate a cell phone or a computer if Rachel hadn’t shown her. Rachel, in turn, wouldn’t have a clue about catering an entire Thanksgiving dinner if Mrs. Crenshaw hadn’t taught her.
“Save your tears for my funeral, dear. I’m not dying anytime soon,” Mrs. Crenshaw says, getting back to work. “I’m turning this gray dress into short-shorts and a crop top. Pick out some lace for it, maybe something with mini pompoms.”
Rachel swallows her premature grief and says, “Ooh, it sounds hippie-chic. I like it already.”
Mrs. Crenshaw grins and pins the dress off along the area she wishes to cut. A while later she says, “If something does happen to me before my intended time, I need you to look after Dougal. He’s a good boy, even if he believes differently. Keep the border of the forest clear, don’t let anyone pass by the sign, and make sure Dougal’s cousins don’t enter this house ever. They’ll steal anything of worth and then some.”
“Are you leaving everything to Dougal?”
The old woman glances at Rachel. “Is there something you wanted?”
“No, no. I’m just curious. Sorry.”
“Except for my late husband’s remaining assets and a few other things, I explicitly mention in my last will and testament, Dougal will receive my entire estate. Don’t let his cousins in here, Rachel. You scare the money-grubbing trailer trash off my property with my shotgun or I’m going to haunt you for the rest of your life.”
With wide eyes, Rachel says, “Sheesh. That’s your family, Mrs. Crenshaw. Whatever happened to flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood—?”
Mrs. Crenshaw interrupts with an indignant snort. “In some cases, family is an overrated concept. My son, Matthew made a mess of his life when he left Shadow Grove. He got into drugs and spent most of his adult life in and out of prison. His wife isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, and their children are ... Well, money-grubbing trailer trash and convicted felons is the only way I can describe them. I love them, don’t get me wrong, but they would squander my estate.”
“But if Dougal gets everything, won’t they take him to court and try to get a slice of the pie?” Rachel asks.
“Oh, they’re going to try. Thankfully, I have a good lawyer with clear instructions, a grandson with a warrior’s heart, and you.” Mrs. Crenshaw smiles at Rachel. “You’re my secret weapon.”
“I don’t follow.”
“You’ll figure it o
ut when that fateful day dawns,” Mrs. Crenshaw says, finding her measuring tape. “Okay, stand up so I can see how short I need to make the crop top. We don’t want to show the world Greg Pearson’s toys.”
Rachel barks an unexpected laugh.
For most of the night, they work together on redesigning the dresses into fun, fabulous, and wearable pieces that will hopefully irk her mother so much she will return to her former self. The gunmetal horror show becomes a sleeveless two-piece with colorful ribbons crisscrossing the bodice and a billowing mini skirt, thanks to repurposing an old petticoat gathering dust in one of Mrs. Crenshaw’s unused bedroom closets. The khaki dress turns into a playsuit with an open back and deep pockets. The ochre-colored dress turns out to be the most difficult one to save, so they leave it for another time—If I’m being honest, I doubt even the Lord Almighty can save this one. The black dress is shortened, the sleeves are removed, the neckline is lowered, and voila. Rachel has a perfect little black dress. It takes them hours to fix those dresses up, of course.
Just after midnight, a red-eyed Rachel leaves with her updated clothing while Mrs. Crenshaw stands on the porch and watches her cross the dark, desolate road. Rachel sneaks inside her house, where the lights still illuminate the interior with their energy-saving yellow glow and waves goodnight to her elderly friend. Mrs. Crenshaw signals from afar for Rachel to lock the door, gesturing the motion in the air. Rachel nods, closes the door, and bolts it shut. She heads upstairs quietly, switching off lights as she goes, and turns toward her room when she reaches the second-story landing.
A flirtatious giggle comes from the other side of the house.
Rachel stops in her tracks and slowly turns to look toward her mother’s bedroom. She waits for a minute, hears nothing else, and decides it must have been her imagination. Before she can turn and head for her soft bed, however, a low whisper comes, breathy and mysterious. Rachel frowns as she stares at the bedroom door, unsure if she should go check on her mom.
She inhales a lungful of air and walks to the main bedroom, the door only partially closed. Knowing this is an invasion of privacy, and certain she shouldn’t intrude on her mother’s personal life, Rachel still presses the palm of her free hand against the wood and pushes. Miraculously, there are no creaking hinges to indicate the intrusion.
The dark bedroom is illuminated by one of Rachel’s old nightlights, a bluish glow reflecting from a plastic butterfly against the wall’s electric outlet. Her mother’s back is turned to her where she sits on the bed, legs folded underneath her. Beside her mother, a shadowy silhouette sits closely. The broad-shouldered figure seems familiar enough to make Rachel’s heart skip a beat and allow a sense of elation to creep up on her, but it simply can’t be. She squeezes her eyes shut and regulates her hope, because there’s no way what she’s seeing is real. When she opens her eyes again, the figure is still there beside her mom.
Her mother throws her head back and laughs with abandon like she’s just heard a joke.
Through her snorting, she says, “I remember.”
Rachel is about to step into the room when the silhouette turns its head and she sees the outline of her father’s face. The sudden onset of grief shatters her heart into a million pieces.
“Daddy?” she chokes on her barely audible whisper.
The shadowy figure bolts forward with unnatural agility, standing in front of Rachel, while two pinpricks of iridescent light shine brightly from where its eyes should be. The look is filled with malicious intent, weighed down with a feeling resonating in the same place her conscious resides.
In the back of her mind the little voice, one not belonging to her personal Jiminy Cricket, says loud and clear, “You are undeserving of acting as a witness to this visitation. Leave.”
Those eyes start radiating blinding white, pulsating with what can only be described as a warning, while the rest of the figure remains an indefinable black. It opens its mouth and reveals needlelike teeth, illuminated by thousands of microscopic lights shining from within its unending throat.
Rachel stumbles back, understanding the warning without ever hearing it expressed in words.
Leave now or your mother will suffer the consequences.
She backs up the way she came, eyes pinned to the main bedroom door until she reaches the staircase. Still clutching the clothes, she rushes downstairs and grabs her car keys from the glass bowl in the living room. Rachel makes her way to the front door in a few long strides, unbolts the locks, and runs across the road to seek sanctuary at the Fraser house.
Her knocks are loud, frantic, beats.
She yells, “Mrs. Crenshaw. Mrs. Crenshaw. Mrs. Crenshaw.”
Inside, heavy footsteps run down the stairs, too heavy to belong to the wispy old woman, and the locks of the front door slide open. The door swings inward and Dougal nearly loses his balance as Rachel pushes her way inside.
Mrs. Crenshaw stands at the top of the stairs in her nightdress. “What is it?” she asks, a concerned edge to her question.
“I—” Rachel can’t explain what she’s seen without sounding like a complete basket case. She has no idea how she knows the creature in her mother’s bedroom has somehow, some-freaking-way, convinced a highly intelligent woman that it’s her deceased husband. She slowly formulates the words to make her account sound plausible, but nothing comes out of her mouth.
“Dougal, go check on—”
“No!” Rachel cuts Mrs. Crenshaw off and almost knocks Dougal over as she throws an arm out to stop him from leaving. “There’s something in my house,” she says slowly. “I think my mom invited it in, but I know if you go in there and disturb them while they’re doing whatever it is they’re doing, it’ll turn on her.”
Mrs. Crenshaw’s brow furrows, while Dougal raises an eyebrow.
“Bolt the door, Dougal,” she says, coming down the stairs. “Rachel, the Sky Room is yours to use for as long as you want. The clothes I raided from your closet this afternoon are already in there, so go put on some pajamas and go to sleep.” She moves toward the kitchen, the shuffle more of a slide-slide-step as she hurries.
“What if it comes in here?” Rachel asks.
“Nothing unwanted is coming into my house. Not tonight. Not ever. I promise,” Mrs. Crenshaw says over her shoulder. “Now go to bed, both of you.”
Ten
Fester
Rachel’s unceremonious banishment doesn’t deter her from sneaking back to the MacCleary house the following morning. Right after her mother leaves for work, she jogs across the road, glancing at the forest as she goes. It’d been eerily quiet since Sunday’s hellish exploration. Quiet, yes, but the forest isn’t asleep. The forest doesn’t sleep anymore.
It has never slept, you silly girl.
She mentally shakes herself back to the present as she steps onto the lawn. The profound nihilistic gloom, which seems to cocoon the entire property in a decaying membrane, gives her pause. Rachel’s body responds as all the telltale signals of fear kick into overdrive. Her hands become ice cold, her breathing becomes deeper and more rapid, and the increased heart rate causes her blood pressure to spike. She trembles, forcing her tightening leg muscles to loosen up as she moves up to the porch. The closer she gets to the front door, the heavier the weight of nothingness becomes. The void sticks to everything like warm clingfilm.
Cautious, Rachel opens the front door and is instantly consumed with a terrible thought. What if she somehow loses herself in the vacuum?
Everything in her immediate view appears unchanged, but at the same time everything looks wrong.
“Daddy, if you’re tuning in, I’d seriously appreciate a break right now,” she says out loud, gathering her courage.
Rachel steps inside the house while her heart beats frenetically. When the midnight monster with deadlight eyes doesn’t jump out at her, she makes her way up to her bedroom to pack a few extra things for the hopefully temporary stay with Mrs. Crenshaw—toiletries, pillow, laptop, chargers, her notebook,
and a box full of her dad’s journals. She hauls her meager possessions to the staircase, sets them on the floor, and glances toward the main bedroom across the hallway.
The door seems to pulse with energy, inhaling and exhaling. This significant contrast to the utter lifelessness of the rest of the house doesn’t do anything to quell Rachel’s worries.
It’s alive but not ... living.
She wants to investigate the anomaly, but common sense—and an almost unhealthy obsession with horror movies—forces her to pick up her box and turn away from the temptation. Today isn’t the day to be a hero. She is wholly unprepared for what lies beyond the door, still too raw from losing her mother to whatever promises or lies she’s been fed, and there is unfortunately no back up if things go south. No. Today is one of those days where it’s best to tuck tail and run.
Rachel peers over the box, careful not to miss a step and fall, makes her way downstairs, and exits through the open front door. She pulls it shut behind her, more from habit than decency, and begins her trek back to Mrs. Crenshaw’s house. As soon as she sets foot off the MacCleary property, the veil of dread lifts. The air tastes sweeter, the world seems brighter, and the despair vanishes.
Glad to be free of the morbid poison, she looks back on impulse.
“Infestations can spread,” she whispers, halting her advancement. Rachel turns around and examines the air around the physical walls and roof, searching for some type of indication that all is not well on the inside. Aside from the general feeling, she sees nothing abnormal. The infestation is there, though, festering like an untreated sore. “Diseases can spread.” The thought had come out of nowhere and washed away most inconsequential things swimming around in her head until only those three words remain. For some reason, the epiphany is overwhelmingly important in this particular moment. Because this thing is a disease, a nasty one that cannot go untreated. “I’ve been looking at this all wrong.”
She pauses as one puzzle piece slips into another, and the broader picture starts to reveal itself. She’s nowhere near to rescuing the children from their otherworldly captor—Rachel has no idea where to start her search for the Night Weaver—but as she’s suspected this entire time, everything’s connected. She’s just been so obsessed with the symptoms she hadn’t diagnosed the cause. Rookie mistake.
The Night Weaver Page 10