by Darcy Coates
At the end of his lane, the road split. Left went towards town; right led into the countryside. John paused, considering his options. He didn’t dare turn around, but he could hear the spectre coming closer, moving to stand in his shadow, to breathe its fetid, icy breath across the back of his neck.
He turned right. If he was going to die, he would do it in a discreet place where his body wouldn’t cause too much distress. The forest, perhaps, or he could sit on the bridge over the river and hope to keel into the water and be swept away.
John was faintly surprised by his serenity in the face of his own death. He’d seen so much of it in the previous year of his life, had called up so many spirits, that mortality no longer held any horror for him. At least, not the kind of horror normal people tasted.
He was inevitably asked the same questions at each séance. Does it hurt? Are you happy? The replies were always comforting, but a theory had grown in John over his year of conducting séances. If I were trapped in a realm of constant suffering, would I reveal that to my grieving wife when there is nothing she can do? Or would I lie, knowing that at least one of us would be happier for it?
John wiped the back of his hand over his lips. The fingers were shaking. Death no longer followed at a safe distance, but stayed near enough to touch, those sickening rattles echoing in John’s ear with every exhale.
He was tempted to bargain, but he already knew the creature was beyond reason. It wasn’t the intelligent, scythe-carrying skeleton often portrayed in stories. Death was impassionate, uncaring, animalistic in its thoughts and intentions. No silver tongue could persuade the being away from its course.
The river wasn’t far ahead. John had been hoping to sit on the edge of the railing while he waited, but to his frustration, he saw a man already stood there, leaning on the wood and watching the water below.
“’Lo!” the stranger called as John neared. He didn’t see the extra shadow trailing John; no one ever saw it.
John gave a curt nod, intending to cross the bridge and find a quieter place to die, but the stranger turned towards him, a lopsided grin growing over his face.
“You’re the medium, aren’t you? My aunt had you for a séance last week.”
“Ah—” John hated to stop when the spectre was so close in his wake, but a strange thought occurred to him. He stopped next to the man, close to the edge of the river, and gave him a quick look-over. He was young, no more than twenty-five, and had dressed casually, probably planning to spend the day outdoors. “Do you have much interest in the next life?”
The man laughed and clapped John on the shoulder. “I intend no offense, understand, but I firmly believe your kind are charlatans, the lot of you.”
John’s smile was tighter than he would have liked it. He looked behind them; Death stood close, its bony, unnaturally long fingers raised to caress John’s shoulder. The world seemed to lose colour when he looked at the spectre. For a moment, all he could see was the flash of light playing over its sightless eyes.
It’s impulsive. Animalistic. I wonder…
He reached into his pocket. His companion had returned to gazing over the edge of the bridge, teeth sparkling in the dull sunlight. “I’m sure your antics are good for an evening’s entertainment, but I don’t believe for a second you do anything more than comfort the grieving.”
“You’ll believe soon enough.” John flipped the knife out effortlessly and drew it across the man’s throat. A gush of red poured from the cut, and the man’s smile finally disappeared into a horrified shriek.
John pressed his hand over the man’s mouth, silencing him, as they watched his lifeblood drain into the river below. He spoke quickly, desperately. “I won’t ask your forgiveness. But death expects a victim. Please, stand in my stead.”
There was so much red, so much more than John had anticipated. His companion’s eyes rolled back into his head, and the grabbing hands stilled and fell.
John let the man slump over the bridge’s railing. Death no longer watched him, but the creature’s mouth opened a fraction to reveal the flash of discoloured teeth. It draped itself across the dying man and ate. John watched for a moment, sweat pouring down his face and his limbs, so unsteady that he was afraid he might collapse. Then he threw the knife into the river, skirted around the feeding shadow, and ran.
45
After Closing
Soren woke with a snort. His neck hurt. The pain radiated down his spine and into his left arm. He sat up, trying to figure out where he was, and bumped his head on something hard.
What…?
He glanced up and saw the underside of a scratched wooden desk. Familiar smells reached him then—paper, disinfectant, and the tang from the sickly sweets kept in a bowl on the help bench—and he remembered. The library. I slipped under the desk to have a nap before going home. What time is it?
Soren pushed the chair out of his way and crept out from under the bench. The lights were out, and the library was deathly quiet. He’d slept through closing, he realised, with a flush of mingled embarrassment and light anxiety.
There’s got to be a way to open the doors from the inside, right? I won’t be locked in here until morning, will I?
He got to his feet and cringed as pins and needles shot down his leg. He held still, one hand grasping the back of the chair, the other resting on the desk where his schoolbooks were still stacked, while he waited for the blood flow to return to the limb.
The librarians mustn’t have checked the library very thoroughly before going home. I was well-hidden under the desk, but there was no way they would have missed me if they’d tried to take my books.
A scratching sound drew Soren’s attention. Something was moving near the back of the library. He frowned and crept forward to see around the nearby bookshelf. There shouldn’t be anyone else here, not at this time of night.
As he leaned forward to see around the shelf, Soren caught a glimpse of a small figure crouched near the back of the room. It seemed to be digging through the small bin in the corner. Soren stared at it, mesmerised and unable to comprehend what he was seeing, as the figure’s dexterous limbs moved. It was bone-thin and naked, and though it was hard to see with only the backwash of the streetlights filtering through the library’s window, he thought its skin was grey.
The being in the corner of the room suddenly stopped its rummaging. Its head swivelled, the neck spinning past a normal human’s range, to face Soren. He caught a glimpse of red-pink eyes behind strands of long, greasy black hair, then he ducked out of sight and pressed his back to the shelf as his heart thundered in his ears.
What was that? It’s not human, that’s for sure.
He held his breath and listened. After a moment, the faint scratching sounds resumed. Maybe it didn’t see me. Maybe it’s blind.
Against his better judgement, Soren edged closer to the edge of the shelf and carefully extended his head forward to see the corner of the room. The bin was still there, but the creature had gone.
Soren’s mouth dried as he pulled back again. Cold sweat built across his torso. I’ve got to get out of here.
He was near the back of the library. The entrance stood two dozen paces away, past the help desk. Soren, moving as quietly as he could, turned to grab his books.
The creature stood directly behind him, within touching distance, its huge red eyes framed in heavy shadows.
Soren froze. He opened his mouth—whether to speak or scream, he wasn’t sure—but no noise escaped him.
The being’s eyes narrowed, and it reached towards him. The fingers were far longer than they had any right to be, with at least five knuckles each. They ended in sharpened claws, and Soren felt as though his heart might explode as they stretched towards his face.
He jolted backwards without realising what he was doing and hit the library shelf. His feet skidded out from under him, and Soren grabbed at the shelves as he topped the ground. His weight was enough to pull the heavy structure free from its bolts and bring it crashing down on
both himself and the creature.
The books poured from the shelves as it fell, and Soren caught a half-second glimpse of fury blazing in the monster’s face before it was smothered. The bookcase landed on Soren’s leg, which was still numb from when he’d fallen asleep, and he grunted through his teeth.
Get up, idiot! Run!
Soren pulled his legs out from under the books, gained his feet, and staggered towards the library’s door. He thought he could hear the skittering, clawing noise again, but when he turned, the room behind him was still except for the settling pile of books.
The library’s doors had motion sensors to open them, but they’d been turned off at closing. Soren tried to wedge his fingertips into the gap between the doors and pull them open, but they wouldn’t move.
There has to be a spare key or something.
Soren turned to put the doors at his back. He could see the fallen shelf’s silhouette in the back of the room, but saw movement. Is it still there, under the books? Did I kill it?
Soren’s breaths came as thin wheezes as he moved around the help desk and searched knick-knacks hidden there. In the darkness, his hands brushed over paperclips, erasers, pencils, pens, letter holders, and a glass still half-full of water, without finding any keys.
He swore under his breath then fell still as he heard the noise again. Like fingers brushing across paper. He raised his head to look over the top of the help desk, but he couldn’t see any sign of motion or of the red eyes. His lips formed another swearword, but he didn’t dare speak it.
There’s got to be keys. Got to be!
Soren turned to look at the wall behind the desk, and then he saw it: a door set between the shelves had been left open. It seemed to be some sort of storage closet, though Soren didn’t remember ever seeing the library staff use it.
I’d be safe in there, I bet. I could barricade myself inside and wait until morning.
Without a second thought, Soren crossed the distance and stepped into the room, pulling the door closed behind himself. He fished his phone out of his pocket and turned it on to use its light. The glow was too dim to allow him to make out details, but what he could see made his heart freeze.
A cot had been set against one wall, with a bucket just below it. The cot had blankets and a pillow, but they were grimy with age. A single chair sat against the opposite wall, taking up the rest of the cramped room.
It… lives here? Why? How? Does one of the librarians own it, and they let it out at night?
Soren backed up against the door, struggling to draw breath. I can’t stay here. Not in its home. I’ve got to get out. Even if I break the glass doors—I could use the chair—
He opened the door a crack and edged out of the room, moving his feet in slow sweeps across the carpet to minimise noise, intent on the sliding glass doors.
The sound—that faint crackle of nails on paper—came again, and Soren stopped, every nerve in his body on fire, every hair on his arms standing on end. It’s not coming from anywhere ahead of me. Not behind me, either. It’s…
He raised his eyes to where the creature clung to the foam tiles lining the ceiling. Its jaws opened into a vicious smile, exposing rows of sharp teeth. Then it let go, dropping towards Soren.
46
Growth
A tapping sound startled Mary. She dropped her embroidery and crossed to the window, where Emma’s wide smile was distorted by the glass.
Her friend beckoned, clearly wanting to speak.
Mary shook her head as she pointed back at the house. “I can’t,” she mouthed. “Mama will be home soon.”
Emma wasn’t deterred. She beckoned even more eagerly and pointed towards the lane bordering the property.
Mary huffed a sigh. “Very well, don’t work yourself into such a frenzy.” She snatched her bonnet off the side table and slipped through the house. The maids were all busy preparing for lunch. If she were lucky, her mother would stay late at Mrs. Crenshaw’s, and Mary’s absence wouldn’t even be noticed.
“Lord, I thought you’d never come,” Emma hissed as Mary joined her in the garden. “I’ve found something. Come on, come on.”
Emma took Mary’s hand, and she had to pick up her skirts to keep up with Emma’s pace. “I can’t be out long. Where is it?”
“In the forest. Don’t worry. It’s not far.”
Mary tried to pull her hand back. When she spoke, her voice was a little harsher than she’d intended. “The forest? Are you mad? You know we’re not supposed to—”
“It’s only a little way in.” Emma refused to lessen her grip. “You’ll love it, I swear.”
With one final glance back at her home, Mary huffed and allowed herself to be dragged towards the tangle of dark time-worn trees near the town’s edge.
When they were children, she and Emma had played in the woods constantly. It was a wild land of hidden glens, streams, and seemingly magical clearings. But, eventually, both Emma’s and Mary’s parents had insisted they keep to the roads. “It’s time to grow up,” they’d said. “It’s time to focus on worthwhile tasks, to better yourselves as young women, to give up the foolishness of childhood.”
But it would be a lie for Mary to say she didn’t sometimes daydream of the woods. Her protests to Emma were for show and to assuage her conscience, nothing more.
By the time they reached the wood’s edge, they were both running, their cheeks flushed and their breathing ragged. Emma’s eyes seemed unusually glossy. “Come on,” she cried, leading the way between the thick black trunks. “It’s only a little further.”
“What are you showing me?” Mary’s dress snagged on a branch, and she gave a little cry as it tore. “Ah, Mama will be furious—”
“Never mind about that. Come on!”
This time, Mary flushed with anger. “What do you mean ‘never mind’? I’ll be in so much troub—”
“It’s through here. Come and see!”
Mary pouted, but obediently climbed the bank of rotting wood to see what Emma was so eager to show her.
Her friend knelt in a little hollow. Ahead of her was a cluster of strange fungi. Long and tapered like a lady’s fingers, their bases were a green-grey and their tips yellowed. They were strange, Mary thought, but not so noteworthy as to justify a torn dress.
“Smell them.” Emma bent close to the plants, her eyes glassy and her cheeks pink. “I’ve never smelt anything so delicious.”
Reluctantly, Mary eased herself into the hollow. As she neared them, the fungi’s aroma surrounded her. Emma was right; it smelt like honey, like freshly baked cakes, like lavender and cinnamon and apples and spring rain…
She was kneeling behind her friend and marvelling at the plants. The dress no longer seemed so important. Being home in time for Mama no longer seemed important. She only wanted to sit and watch the finger-like mushrooms for a little longer.
The sun was near setting when she shook herself out of her fugue. “We should go.”
“Yes,” Emma agreed. Her voice was slurred, and her eyelids half-closed. “In a minute.”
“We can come back tomorrow,” Mary promised. Only a vague sense that she would regret staying much longer made her stand. “And the day after. But now, we need to go home.”
Their walk back to the village was far more subdued than the dash away from it had been. They held hands but didn’t speak, both lost in their thoughts and unwilling to break the trance.
As Mary had suspected, her mother scolded her both for leaving home and for tearing her dress. Her mother screamed at her, pointing to the grass stains on her knees and the leaves in her hair, but it didn’t bother Mary. She only nodded when appropriate and apologised when her mother’s silence suggested she was expected to. Her thoughts were still with the fungus.
She barely slept that night. She dearly wanted to go back to the plant, to see what it looked like at night, but she didn’t think she could find the way in the dark. Besides, she didn’t want to just see it herself. She wanted to s
how it to someone else. That was the purpose of pretty things, wasn’t it? To share the joy with others?
Her mother had explicitly told her not to stir from her room the following day as punishment, but Mary only waited until she saw her mother’s hat bob down the street below her window before dashing outside. She knew exactly whom she wanted to lead to the growth.
Her family, being one of the wealthier in the village, rarely spoke to the farming family near the woods, but they had a daughter around Mary’s age. She found the girl tending to the chickens. It didn’t take much to convince her to come to the forest.
“Where are we going?” the girl asked. Mary belatedly realised she couldn’t remember the girl’s name, but that no longer seemed important.
“You’ll see,” she replied, and laughed at how closely the conversation mimicked hers and Emma’s from the day before.
The hollow already had a visitor. Emma was kneeling next to the fungi. Her hair was dishevelled, and she still wore her night dress, but she didn’t seem to care as she turned a dazed smile towards Mary. “Oh, you brought a friend.”
Her fingers were sticky with a thick orange liquid. It looked like honey, but as Emma turned back to the growths, Mary realised it had come from the fungi. Emma had broken one in half and dipped her fingers inside. As she sucked on them, her eyes fluttered closed while she relished the taste.
Mary wanted to sample the plant, too, but some distant, subconscious caution held her back. Don’t eat anything that grows in the forest, her mother had said countless times. It could be poisonous.
She closed her eyes and contented herself with the smell. The farmgirl had been mute, but very slowly settled beside her to be near the mushrooms. Her wide eyes were already developing a dull glaze.
Mary stayed as long as she dared, watching the little plants and listening to Emma lick her fingers. When she finally rose, the sun had fallen, but she felt neither hungry nor cold. Even keeping the same position all day had not made her sore. The farmgirl obediently stood with her as they turned back to town. Emma stayed.