by Darcy Coates
Dan stared at his mother, unsure of what to say, unsure of what could be said, as the song looped through his head relentlessly.
24
Room for Rent
The sun was close to the horizon when Henrik slowed his car outside the stone cottage. The unassuming two-story building, with its garden of hardy shrubs and winter-dormant rose bushes, blended into the village’s old-world charm. Not for the first time that day, he wondered if the buildings had been deliberately designed that way to lure tourists.
The BOARD AVAILABLE sign in the window had caught Henrik’s attention. He’d planned his trip across the country expecting to spend the night in the remote village and had been surprised to find it didn’t seem to have any sort of hotel or motel. The nearest town was four hours away, and he was eager to get some food and sleep.
Henrik parked off the side of the narrow dirt road. Unless there was a shed or garage out the back, the cottage’s owner didn’t seem to have a car, just two bikes propped against the shadowed porch. Henrik cast a final glance back at the town, its gold lights glittering across the hill, then began climbing the steps.
“What’cha doing here?” a voice asked, and Henrik jumped. He hadn’t seen the boy sitting in the old wooden chair at the back corner of the porch, and an embarrassed flush crept over his face.
“Uhh… I need a place to stay the night.”
The boy’s dark eyes darted over Henrik’s face as a cold smile drew his lips apart. “Oh, really?”
Henrik hesitated, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. He was spared answering when the cottage’s door swung open and a heavy-set woman with a wide reddish face leaned through the frame.
“What? Sam, are you scaring the guests off again?” she asked the boy.
He lurched out of his chair and skulked past the woman and into the house. It wasn’t until Sam stood that Henrik realised he’d underestimated the boy’s age; based on his height, he had to be at least in his mid-teens.
The woman turned to Henrik and gave him a sad, apologetic smile. “Sorry about him, love. He doesn’t mean any harm. Were you looking for a place to stay tonight?”
Henrik hesitated for a second. What’s the alternative? Sleep in the car? “Yes, please. How much?”
“Twenty for just the room,” the woman said, glancing Henrik up and down as though to assess his worth. “Or thirty for dinner and breakfast included.”
“I’ll take that,” Henrik said, fishing his wallet out of his pocket and sorting through the contents for thirty dollars. “It’s been a long day. I’m Henrik, by the way.”
“Barb.” The woman took the money and ushered him inside with a wide smile. This time, Henrik hesitated for only a half second before crossing the threshold.
Henrik wasn’t sure whether Barb was trying to apologise for her son’s behaviour or if it was normal for her to spend so much effort on their evening meals, but the dinner table was so laden with food that he could barely see the surly boy slouched opposite.
“Eat up,” Barb urged Henrik, then turned to her son and added, “Don’t fuss with your food like that. How’d you expect to grow up properly if you don’t eat?”
The boy cast his mother an angry frown then settled his attention on their guest.
Henrik tried to focus on the food, which really was delicious, but the boy’s eyes were darker than ink and felt almost hypnotic as they focussed on him. It was the sort of stare he could have felt without even realising he had company, and Henrik’s skin developed goose bumps in response. He and Barb managed a smattering of small talk, which was more for politeness’s sake than enjoyment. Henrik explained that he was travelling through the country to visit family, and Barb told him how her parents and grandparents had lived in their house for generations. All the while, the child—teen, Henrik reminded himself—scraped his fork across his plate without eating any of the food.
“We don’t get so many tourists through here,” Barb said, trying to push an extra serving of green beans onto Henrik’s plate, despite his objections, “but it’s always nice when we do. We’re in no position to turn down the money. Are we, Sam?”
Sam, unblinking, opened his mouth and exhaled a breathy chuckle. Henrik frowned at him. He couldn’t possibly be suffering from a mental condition, could he? Insanity… at such a young age?
Barb didn’t seem happy at her son’s response, and she scowled at his plate. “Eat. Why are you always so picky about your food? You’ll grow up looking like a skeleton.”
Again, the boy’s mouth opened, and this time, his laugher, harsh, furious, and mournful all at once, rang in Henrik’s ears.
“Enough,” Barb said, dropping her cutlery beside her plate and pulling her son out of his chair. “If you can’t behave when we have company over, you can eat in your room.”
The boy’s face turned murderous, and for a second, Henrik was afraid he was about to hit his mother. But then he turned, slouched through the doorway, and disappeared into the shadowed room beyond.
Very clearly embarrassed, Barb sighed and brushed a strand of hair out of her round face. “I’m so sorry.”
Henrik waved away her apology as casually as he could. Raising a child with mental issues in the middle of the countryside seemed an insurmountable task. The town didn’t appear to even have a proper hospital—just a single doctor’s surgery he’d passed near the town’s outskirts.
Barb gave him a tight smile. “Well, if you’ve had enough, shall I show you to your room?”
Upstairs was dark to the point of being dingy. Henrik placed his suitcase on the end of the narrow, quilt-covered bed and began sorting through it for his nightclothes. The lamps set into the walls were in desperate need of cleaning, and they sent heavy shadows about the room. There was at least three months’ worth of dust on every surface.
Barb tapped on the doorway to announce her presence then entered, carrying a bundle of quilts. “In case you get cold tonight,” she said, settling them beside Henrik’s luggage. She hesitated then added, “Just so you know, I’ve locked Sam in his room for tonight.”
“Oh?” Henrik glanced up from the luggage to see Barb was facing the bedroom window. She had a sad drawn look about her eyes, and he turned away, not wanting to embarrass her.
“Yes. He has… problems with people staying here. It’s my fault. We need the money, so I don’t turn anyone away. But he hates it now that he understands it. I forgot to lock his door one night, and he saw me carrying the body out back to bury it. He’s never really been the same since.”
The quilt dropped from Henrik’s hand. “What—”
He didn’t even have time to turn before the garrotte slipped around his neck.
25
Snow Hunting
“Slow down,” Ryan begged.
Max’s boots dug up clumps of snow as he forced his way over the hill. He stopped at its crest and planted his fists on his hips to survey the valley in front of him. “Check this out! Hah, it’s someone’s holiday cabin.”
Ryan tried to keep up, though he had forty kilos on Max and had become winded hours before. Despite the freezing temperatures, he was panting and sweating by the time he gained the hill’s top. “Good for them.”
“Wanna have a poke around?”
“What? Are you nuts?” Ryan stared at his friend, whose acne-scarred face had the manic grin he wore whenever he was about to get them into trouble.
“Why not? It’s obviously a vacation house, and they’re not going to be living in it off-season.”
“I don’t want to get…” Ryan trailed off, and Max laughed.
“Don’t want to get arrested? Who by? The snow police? C’mon, ain’t nobody crazy enough to be around here ‘cept for us. Let’s have a look in the rich guy’s house. It’ll give us a break from hunting.”
Hunting had been Max’s plan for that day. He’d taken his dad’s gun and given Ryan a knife for the excursion. Ryan had been squeamish about the idea of gutting rabbit and deer, but after four hours of wildly off-mark shots and
creating too much noise for them to have any hope of getting close to their prey, he was starting to think he might not actually need to use the blade.
“C’mon,” Max said then took off down the other side of the hill in a windmill of waving limbs.
Ryan sighed and followed at a more sedate pace, being careful not to slip in the thick drifts. His friend was already at the cabin’s door when Max reached the foot of the hill.
“He didn’t even lock it!” Max yelled, shoving open the heavy wood door. “He’s basically asking for people to look through his stuff. What a moron.”
“Hey, slow down.” Ryan staggered after his friend but hesitated on the house’s threshold. The building looked expensive; he could imagine it belonging to one of the suited businessmen he sometimes saw picking up their children after school. He’d always envied those families; their kids had the best backpacks and shoes, showed off the latest games the day after their release, and talked about flying to France or Bali for their holidays.
That was, if he were honest with himself, the lynchpin of his friendship with Max. They’d bonded over their hatred of “the rich brats,” as they called them. Max was erratic, loud, and pushy, but Ryan had to admit, Max had made him see and do a lot of stuff he otherwise wouldn’t have. Stealing. Skipping classes. Going hunting.
He sighed and entered the building. Max had dropped his backpack, gun, and gloves onto the wooden table that took up nearly half of the living room, and Ryan added his own backpack and knife to the pile. The room was large, richly furnished with furs and antlers, and surprisingly warm after the chill from the outside. He couldn’t see his friend.
“Hey, Max?”
Max didn’t reply for a moment, and when he did, his voice was strangely choked. “Get in here.”
Ryan followed the voice down the corridor leading to the kitchen. A large freezer took up part of the room. Two marble benches and a collection of shelves covered the rest of the walls. It was clearly a hobby hunter’s area to clean, prepare, and freeze the deer he’d shot.
Max stood in front of one of the benches. His face had paled. Ryan approached him carefully and slapped his shoulder. “What’s up?”
“What does that look like to you?” Max asked.
Ryan’s stomach flipped as he turned to the marble counter. It was coated in dried blood and some sort of long fur. “Uh… he’s not good at cleaning up after himself, is he?”
Max carefully plucked one of the strands off the bench. He raised it to eye-height. It would have been too thin to easily see except for the dried gore stuck to it. “Ever seen an animal with fur this long?” he asked.
Ryan hadn’t. The strand was easily forty centimetres. “What’re you saying?”
“This is hair.” Max dropped the strand and stepped away from the counter.
Ryan opened his mouth to disagree, but no counter-argument came to him. He raised his eyes from the blood-stained bench to look about the kitchen. It had all of the hallmarks of a hunter’s home; multiple blades hung from hooks on the walls, boxes of plastic bags and wrap lay nestled in the corner, and a large bin sat in the corner. And, of course, there was the freezer.
“Don’t open that!” Ryan said sharply, but Max ignored him. Of course he won’t listen to me. He never does.
Max’s face was blank as he raised the lid and stared at the box’s contents. Ryan leaned forward, afraid of getting too close, but desperately curious to see inside.
At least two dozen plastic bags were arranged neatly in the deep freezer. Ryan saw a lot of flesh, but he couldn’t even begin to guess what—or where—it had come from. He thought he saw pieces of skin that looked pink, though.
Max reached into the box and picked up one of the bags. He dropped it immediately, but not before Ryan saw the woman’s features inside. Her lips were tinged blue from the cold, her eyes frozen open in an expression of shock, her long hair painted red by the blood that had run from her severed neck.
Ryan swore under his breath and grabbed Max’s arm. “We’ve gotta get out of here.”
For once, they were in perfect agreement. They scrambled down the hallway and back into the living room, where their equipment still waited for them on the table.
Max froze partway across the room. Once again, he was struck by how much warmer the cabin was compared to the icy landscape. There’s no way it should be this balmy. Not unless…
He glanced towards the fireplace, where coals still glowed faintly in the grate. He tried to swallow, but his throat had tightened unbearably.
“Where’s my gun?” Max said, anger rushing into his voice, but not quite capable of masking his fear. “What’d you do with it?”
“Nothing!” Ryan turned towards the table. Their backpacks and gloves were still scattered over the mahogany surface, but his knife was also missing. A piece of paper had been wedged under his backpack, though, and he pulled it free with shaking fingers.
I’m in the mood for some sport, the note read. You have a two-minute head start. Run.
26
Witch’s Book
Avery’s feet pounded across the hard, compact dirt as she raced after her twin sister. Their mother’s words still rang in their ears: “You can explore, but stay close to the house and be back within an hour.”
It was their first day at the Carillon farmstead. The removalist truck had just left after depositing all of their earthly possessions. The teens had been cramped inside their car for nearly six hours, and both were itching to use their feet.
“Beat you!” Zoe crowed as she slammed her outstretched hands into the closest of the dark, twisted trees. Avery, breathless and flushed, staggered to a halt a few feet behind.
“It’s not fair. You had a head start.”
“Story of our lives.” Zoe poked her tongue out then began dancing into the forest. It was a joke—Zoe had been born first, by barely twenty minutes, and liked to claim she was more mature. Avery had nicknamed her Granny in retaliation.
They wove into the forest, both admiring the towering trees that had likely been saplings when their great-grandmother had built the homestead. They’d never visited Carillon before—their mother had mentioned something about an old family feud—but, to everyone’s surprise, the property had been bequeathed to them after Great-Grandmother Pearl’s death.
A few feet into the woods brought them to a well-worn but narrow path. Zoe whistled as she saw it. “Look, it’s still got her footprints in it.”
“No, you’re joking.” Avery leaned close and saw, to her shock, there were indeed imprints of boots left in a section of dried mud. “But she’s been dead nearly fifteen years.”
“Maybe her ghost still walks this path,” Zoe whispered into Avery’s ear, forcing Avery to flinch away from the tickling breath.
“Cut it out.”
“Scaredy cat.”
Zoe laughed again and darted into the woods, disappearing amongst the trees. Avery had to jog to catch up. When she did, she found Zoe standing ahead of a small cottage-like shape.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Beats me.” Zoe approached the door and tried turning the rusted handle. “Like a shed or something.”
The handle squealed and broke off, and the twins glanced at each other guiltily.
“Don’t tell Mum or Dad.”
“Deal.” Avery rubbed at her forearms, which were developing goosebumps since she’d stopped moving. “I don’t like this place. Let’s head back.”
The door had been set at a slight angle and ground inwards as gravity fought against rusted hinges. Inside was dim, but Avery could see a large stove, a wooden bench, and close to a hundred bunches of crumbling, long-dead herbs and leaves hung from a rack on the ceiling.
“Whoa.” Zoe stepped inside and turned towards a shelf holding a collection of jars. “This is sick. Look, Ave—rabbits, lizards, and I don’t even know what this one is.”
The jars held a collection of preserved animals. When Zoe picked up one that contained a
rabbit, the creature’s fur swirled as it slowly rotated.
“This must’ve been Grandma Pearl’s,” Zoe muttered, replacing the jar and examining a series of dusty knives left out on the bench. “It’s like… it’s almost like…”
“I want to go home.” Avery had her arms wrapped around her torso as she hesitated in the doorway. Her voice shook, and she licked her lips before repeating, “Let’s go. Please.”
Zoe turned a wide-eyed face towards her twin. “It’s like she was a witch.”
“Please! I want to go.”
Zoe sighed, grimaced, and returned to the doorway. “Fine, all right. Stop being such a baby.”
Their beds still hadn’t been reconstructed, so Avery and Zoe slept on their mattresses on the floor. Even though this new house had twice the rooms as their old city apartment, they chose to continue sharing a bedroom.
Avery slept uneasily. Sometime after midnight, a dull light brought her back to awareness, and she rolled over to see Zoe had pulled her blankets up over her head and was reading a book by torchlight.
“What’re you doing?” she mumbled.
“Shh.” The blankets shifted as Zoe settled farther down. “I couldn’t sleep. Just reading.”
Avery scrunched up her face. The boxes containing their books were all downstairs, and she knew Zoe couldn’t have walked over her without waking her. “What book?”
“None of your business.”
“I’m serious. Tell me.”
Zoe, looking irritable, flipped the blankets off her head and held up a narrow dark volume. “I found it in the cottage, okay? Now go to sleep.”
“Zo! Are you crazy?” Avery sat up and scrubbed the sleep out of her eyes. “Put it away! What if it’s cursed or something?”
“Jeeze. I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you’d flip out like this.” Zoe rolled her eyes and shuffled around to face Avery. “It’s not cursed. But listen to this. It’s a book on spellcraft. Herbal potions, incantations, hexes, stuff like that. I think Grandma Pearl really was a witch.”