The Bone Carver

by Monique Snyman

  “I was,” she says. “I came out to stretch my legs a bit before I went in to relieve you from babysitting Greg.”

  “He’s out cold.” Rachel waves her hand over her shoulder, as if she couldn’t care less. “I think he has a concussion.”

  Mercia snorts as she walks into the light, her hair mussed and pillow lines creasing her right cheek. “Maybe you kicked some sense into him.” She makes her way up to the porch and leans against the bannister. “I’m actually impressed, Rachel. Never thought you to be a badass.”

  A smile tugs at Rachel’s lips.

  “You should own it, girl,” Mercia says. “Seriously, stop hiding who you truly are just because you’re scared of what others think. You’re so much more than the weird girl who lives near the forest.”

  “You’re selling me short. I’m also the weird girl who always has her nose in a book.”

  “Yeah, well, I was trying to spare your feelings.” Mercia winks. “What’s the time, anyway?”

  “Just past midnight.” Rachel laughs under her breath. “Want some coffee?”

  “Please.”

  Rachel gestures for Mercia to enter the house and follows her inside. She is instantly overcome by the oppressive atmosphere lingering in every corner, an unmistakable presence accompanying any Miser influence. It weighs her down, cloys at her skin and mind, every part of her screams at her to run away as far and fast as possible.

  “The last time I felt anything so off, there was a poltergeist living it up in Holland’s lake house.” Mercia glances over her shoulder. “Holland had thought it would be funny to play with a Ouija board after some party I wasn’t invited to.”

  “What happened?”

  “What do you think happened? Things flew around the house the entire weekend we spent there.” Mercia walks into the kitchen, and leans against the island.

  “You didn’t, like, clean out the place with magic?” Rachel reaches for the coffee machine.

  Mercia barks a laugh and shakes her head. “Unlike some witches, I tend to steer clear of making contact with anything outside of this world. There are things out there—horrible things. You don’t want to get too close to them.”

  Rachel switches on the coffee machine and readies the mugs.

  “My magic hasn’t settled yet,” Mercia continues. “At this point, it’s still volatile. I can do a bit of everything, but not much of anything either. And the brain injury isn’t helping with the whole being a witch thing. I can, for example, use some elemental magic, but if I’m not careful, a simple rain spell can turn into a hurricane. Same goes for reaching out to the dead—I can communicate easily enough, but possession is a serious concern.”

  “Did you try finding Astraea Hayward after she went missing?” Rachel asks over the boiling water.

  “The girl who vanished in front of Alice’s Vintage Emporium?”

  Rachel nods.

  “No. It never occurred to me to try to find her.” Mercia grimaces. “One thing I know for sure is that if Astraea Hayward was dead, my oumie would’ve said something. Anyone who dies in Shadow Grove goes to visit her after passing over.”

  “So, if she’s not dead then where is she?”

  Mercia shrugs. “I—”

  A door slams shut, the sound resonating from somewhere on the first floor. Rachel and Mercia look at each other, eyes widening. Both spring to action, running out of the kitchen to find the front door firmly shut and the sofa empty. The sound of an engine starting reaches Rachel as she pulls the door open, and she sees Greg’s Mercedes backing up dangerously fast, almost reversing all the way up Mrs. Crenshaw’s driveway.

  “How did he get out of those knots?” Rachel asks aloud.

  The drawn-out croaking coming from the living room is answer enough.

  Mercia punches the doorframe and makes an indignant noise of frustration. “Your mom is really getting on my nerves.” She pushes her fingers through her hair.

  Rachel pivots and marches to the living room where her mother sits on the armchair, staring at the empty sofa with her mouth open. Saliva dribbles down her chin and onto her chest. In her hands is a picture, a black scan of some kind. Rachel moves closer and sees the sonar scan of a fully developed baby in the womb. She raises an eyebrow.

  “So you can tear up all the photographs in the house, but not the scan? What gives, huh, Mom?”

  Her mother turns her head slowly to look at Rachel where she stands, still gaping. Only then does Rachel see the bold red letters on the back of the scan, spelling out a single word. Mine.

  Rachel throws her hands in the air. “I give up.”

  She picks up her laptop from the armrest of the chair her mother now occupies, makes sure she has her cellphone in her pocket, and backs out of the living room, her eyes never leaving Jenny.

  Mercia stands in the open doorway, waiting. As Rachel reaches it, she notices Ziggy’s glow, no more than a speck in the dark, moving closer, quickly winding across the open field beside Mrs. Crenshaw’s house.

  Rachel gestures for Ziggy to enter the house before she closes the door on the world.

  “Now what?” Mercia asks.

  “I’m going to sleep.”

  Rachel seethes as she heads up the staircase, balling her hands into tight fists as she clutches her laptop against her chest, her teeth grinding together. It is entirely possible that this is a side-effect of whatever the Miser Fae is doing—after all, it seems like everyone in town is affected in some way or another—but there is only so much she can take.

  Even Rachel Cleary has her limits.

  Eighteen

  We are the Hollowed Ones

  Every evening, just before bed, Rachel asks Ziggy the question she yearns to hear her mother ask her. “Did you have a nice day?”

  Tonight, Ziggy answers with two, not as bright, flashes.

  Rachel sighs as she places her hand on the glowing sphere, causing the golden light to ripple down Ziggy’s surface. “Yeah, me neither, Zigs. Tomorrow is another day, so let’s get ready for bed and hope for better.”

  Ziggy doesn’t seem as happy-go-lucky as usual. The Fae light simply drifts off and hops onto the pillow, before rolling underneath the covers and hiding in the most inconspicuous place on her bed—a winking emoji throw-pillow.

  Rachel turns to her closet, searching for something more comfortable to sleep in. Shorts and a T-shirt seem inappropriate attire for the oncoming cold, but she’s still unsure if she’ll sleep comfortably by wearing winter pajamas. Besides, with her mother acting like a whack-job, she might have to go outside during the night on short notice.

  Creak.

  The soft sound infiltrates her busy mind.

  Creak.

  Closer this time. Rachel suspects it’s the old house settling as the winter draws nearer. Nothing to get worried about. She hopes.

  Creak.

  The light goes out. Rachel spins around just as a clammy hand clasps over her mouth and nose. A heartbeat passes before she’s slammed up against the wall and pain shoots through her shoulders. Whatever sound she wanted to make is lost in the back of her throat. Her eyes widen. Elongated fingers cover almost the entirety of her face, the index finger touching her ear. There is nothing in front of her, nothing at all. Panicking, yet physically paralyzed, she stares into the darkness as her lungs burn for oxygen.

  Sour breath crashes against her face like a tidal wave.

  “Mine.”

  The crackling whisper sends a jolt of fear through her body, far more insistent than the pain in her shoulders. She’s barely able to roll her eyes to look to where the voice is, but manages a glimpse of bone white skin covered by ancient, filthy bandages.

  “All mine,” the husk of a voice continues. It sounds as if the owner hasn’t spoken in years.

  Another hand moves up her bare arm, making its way to her elbow. The devil begins whispering terrible things into her mind—warning her of what could happen. The caress turns darker as the creature grabs onto her forearm and
wraps those impossibly long fingers around her wrist. The grip tightens, squeezing until her eyes water from the pain. The soft skin on the inside of her wrist aches as fingernails dig into her flesh, deeper and deeper, almost gouging at the muscles beneath.

  To round the entire hellish situation off, Rachel’s lungs scream for air.

  The unseen force keeps her pinned against the wall, while one hand remains fixed over her face and the other squeezes her arm even harder. If she could scream, she would, but even a whimper is an impossible feat. How long will it take her to suffocate when she’s utterly defenseless? Not too long—a couple of minutes at most.

  “Forever.”

  Never in Rachel’s life has a single word sounded so ominous, so terrifyingly final.

  A ball of sunshine erupts from underneath the bedcover, illuminating the gloom with golden rays. Ziggy flies with such speed that the force of the impact makes the Fae light shatter into a million pieces. The hands disappear, and she slides down to the floor, gasping for breath

  As Ziggy puts himself back together, Mercia steps into her bedroom. With a flick of her hand, the creature becomes fully visible and hurdles across the room.

  A tall, emaciated body with elongated limbs wrapped in bandages is pinned against the opposite wall. Shiny, oversized black eyes bulge from a gap between the bandages, staring at her from across the room. If Rachel didn’t know any better, she’d have thought the creature was an alien, not a Fae.

  “What the hell are you supposed to be?” Mercia says, studying the figure.

  A switchblade grin cuts across the Fae’s face, revealing tiny, pointed teeth. Shuddering, Rachel scrambles to her feet, under the monster’s unwavering gaze.

  Mercia glances over her shoulder to Rachel. “You know this guy?”

  “No.”

  “Cool,” Mercia says, turning her attention back to the Fae.

  “What is it?”

  “Looks like a water spirit of the Fae variety,” Mercia says. “They’re usually harmless, but this one has been corrupted.”

  Before Rachel can fully come to grips with what’s happening, the Fae spontaneously bursts into flames. A tiny, involuntary shriek escapes her as she watches in horror. Fire licks up the bandages, engulfing the frail being faster than she thought possible, turning it into ash. There isn’t any smoke filling her bedroom, no scream accompanying what should be agony. Rachel expects, at the very least, panic and writhing as the blaze consumes the creature, but there’s none. There’s just the unnerving grin and amused stare.

  A sickening crunch fills the otherwise quiet bedroom. The creature’s neck twists by itself, stopping at an awkward angle, before the fire is extinguished by unseen forces. Bones snap and crack as the half-burned Fae folds in on itself, smaller and smaller.

  “You didn’t have to kill it right away,” Rachel says. She stares at the unoccupied space where the midnight intruder had been.

  “I didn’t. He just kinda went ...” Mercia turns around and gestures. “Poof.”

  A bloodcurdling scream pierces the night.

  Rachel comes to her senses.

  “I wouldn’t go out there right this second if I were you,” Mercia says.

  “My mom, though.” She frowns.

  Mercia tilts her head. “Well, duh. Why else would there be phantom screaming coming from outside the house? Your mom’s fine.”

  “I need to go,” Rachel says. She takes a step toward the bedroom door.

  “Ever think that maybe this is the real bad guy trying to lure you out into the open by preying on your weaknesses?”

  “Caring isn’t a weakness,” she snaps back, but halts her advancement.

  Mercia’s eyes soften for a brief second, before cool calculation takes over. “Okay, listen up, Rach. Fae don’t simply kill humans for the sake of killing humans. It’s a sport. They toy with us for weeks, months, and in some situations—especially if it’s one sick mofo doing the torturing—they’ll draw the suffering out for years. Whatever’s out there has its sights set on you, and if you’re going to be predictable, you’re as good as dead.”

  “But my mom is down there by herself. What if—?” Rachel gestures to the door.

  “She’s in the walls. Trust me, she’s fine. I made sure to put her in a protective barrier,” Mercia says. “Just take a break.”

  Rachel closes her eyes and shakes her head, defeat weighing her down. “We should, at least, find Orion.”

  “No, you need rest.” Mercia makes elaborate movements with her hands as she whispers something under her breath. After the show, she simply says, “There. Your room is now guarded against the evil eye. Get into bed and sleep.”

  “What about you?” Rachel drags herself back to her bed.

  Mercia’s soft smile seems like a beacon of hope in an otherwise bleak existence. “I’m going to keep an eye on your mom and make sure Greg doesn’t come back to do whatever he’s set on doing to you.”

  “We need to find out where this Golvath is, Mercia. The town is tearing itself apart and this guy is doing all of it.” Rachel squeezes her eyes shut. “What doesn’t belong, huh? What is new all of a sudden? There’s something out of place, I just know it.”

  “Sleep now. Think later. You want to beat this thing? Well, then you need to be at one-hundred percent.” Mercia walks toward the door. “I mean it. Sleep.”

  Ziggy puts himself together, molten lava moving across the carpet like metal shavings being pulled by a magnet. The smaller, albeit shining golden sphere hovers back to bed, seemingly lackluster after having to protect her again.

  “Okay, sheesh.” Rachel climbs under the covers, and pulls them high up to her neck, before Mercia closes the door. Ziggy settles on her pillow. “There’s no way I’m going to fall asleep,” she whispers.

  Two dim blinks, as if saying she should heed Mercia’s advice.

  Nineteen

  Right in the Sternum

  The next morning, after she’s finished her morning rituals, Rachel heads downstairs, toward the kitchen where Mercia is feeding her mother grits. She studies the two at the table, surprised to see her mother’s hair brushed and her clothing changed.

  “You took care of her?” Rachel is unable to keep the emotions from her voice.

  Mercia shrugs.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  “I figured out how to handle her after you went to bed,” Mercia says. She makes choo-choo noises as she brings the spoon of grits closer to Jenny’s mouth. Her mother laughs and parts her lips wide. “There’s breakfast for you on the stove.”

  Rachel moves to the stove, opens the pot of grits, and finds a bowl on the drying rack. She spoons enough breakfast in for herself, before adding some butter, sugar, and milk, and draws up a chair.

  “My mom called this morning,” Mercia says, still feeding Jenny. “Hawthorne is still under lockdown. Apparently the patients, and even some of the staff, have lost their minds. The handful who haven’t been affected are holed up in some office. That’s not important, though.”

  Rachel looks up, bracing for bad news.

  “They found ten different little bone sculptures in one of the rooms at Hawthorne, each one more heinous than the other, and they all depict a patient,” Mercia says. “Two of those—I guess, one would call them omens—came true, according to my mom.”

  “That’s not good,” Rachel says.

  “I told my mom the same thing.”

  “Phalanges,” Jenny says. She raises her hands and wiggles her fingers, giggling. “Ten phalanges.”

  “Jenny, here comes the plane.” Mercia whooshes as she makes the spoon fly.

  Rachel takes another bite of her grits.

  “Rachel, are ye home?” Dougal’s voice comes from the front door. “By the Wee Man—What happened here? Rachel?”

  “We’re in the kitchen,” Mercia calls.

  Dougal rushes in, wearing the previous day’s clothes. His hair is disheveled, bags are visible under his eyes, and his skin tone is paler
than usual.

  “Ye look like hell,” he says to Rachel. His gaze moves across the scene before he fixes his stare on Jenny. “Yer ma looks worse.”

  Rachel shakes her head, shoulders already curving forward in defeat. The day hasn’t even begun properly and she can easily go back to bed.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Mercia mumbles. “Food’s on the stove. Help yourself.”

  “I don’t know where ye come off actin’ like it’s yer house, but don’t mind if I do.” Dougal walks to the stove. “Nan said I should come check on ye. Good thin’ I did.”

  “How is she?” Rachel asks.

  “Better. The doc said she’s recoverin’ fine. He doesn’t care for the way they handled her at the hospital here.”

  “Ten phalanges,” Jenny barks out, her eyes darkening. “Ten metacarpalssss.”

  “What’s yer ma on about?” Dougal asks.

  “Bones,” Rachel says in a weak voice. “She probably knows there are more accidents about to occur.”

  Jenny bursts out laughing.

  Mercia sighs loudly. “Why can’t this Fae take a break?”

  Dougal walks over and takes the last seat at the table. He glances at the wound on Mercia’s head, which is already scabbed over, and asks, “What happened to yer head?”

  “Greg,” she says.

  Dougal raises an eyebrow as he takes a bite. “I hope ye kicked him in the baws.”

  “The what?” Mercia asks.

  “Ye know. He’s family jewels.”

  “Balls,” Rachel offers.

  “Oh. Um, no, but I got a few good kicks in,” Mercia says, shrugging.

  Mercia’s voice grows distant until it’s non-existent. Rachel glances up, sees her mouth moving, watches as Dougal responds. Her mother meets her eyes, a crease forming on her brow. Meanwhile, the birds quieten outside, the world becomes voiceless.

  “I need to find Orion,” Rachel says the words, but can’t hear herself speak. “I need ... to—” She stands, blinking rapidly as the world spins. She moves a hand to her neck, but the pendant she’s so used to sitting there is gone. She exhales through her nose, feeling something rummaging around in her head. Searching. Searching. Wanting to know everything she knows, but there’s a specific something it wants—no, needs.