by Sam Millar
What was that? He craned his neck slowly, feeling something touch the back of his skull. The whisper carried upon a breeze and brushed along his senses, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Shivering, he accidentally dropped the pilfered cigarette into the snow. The snowy ground quickly devoured it.
Stillness. The whisper was gone, replaced by a stretching silence. Adrian became motionless, listening intently, but all that could be heard was the wind skimming over the hardened surface, its soft groans hissing like punctured tires.
The wind. That’s all it was. Not his mother’s voice asking him what on earth he was doing with a cigarette—and stolen from his father, into the bargain. Just the wind playing games, spooking him.
The night sky was surprisingly pale, and although it was semi-dark, there was a yellowish glow to it. He wished the sky was clear so that he could see the stars, the stars that had stopped his mother with a sharp intake of breath on a frosty night and left her motionless, speechless, and utterly still on their way to church, one Sunday.
He remembered how she had stood in the street, her mouth agape with awe and wonder, as if she had seen a UFO. “What is it, Mum?” he had asked, feeling uncomfortable as people walked by, looking at her—at him.
“God,” she had said. Then almost prophetically: “When you think things have become too dark in your life, Adrian, always remember that only when it is dark enough do we get to see the stars.”
Snow began falling in fat flakes and the woods around the lake became silent. A breeze turned the resting snow into quivering white sails, like invisible mice running over it. Every once in a while, Adrian could hear a branch of a tree groaning under the strain of so much snow, and the thud of snow falling to the ground from up high in the trees. Only now, at this particular time of night, could he appreciate the bleak complexity of the tree branches besieged with ice—even if they looked like an elevated bone yard to his now galvanised imagination.
Resigned to not finding the place, he backtracked over the eastern part of the wood and emerged, just where the lake began, over near Fulton’s Bend. He could see a cropped-out slice of the lake, frozen, some thirty yards off in the distance, framed by withered trees bent by nature and age. His icy breath streamed each time he opened his mouth, and then paddled right back, as if seeking shelter from where it had just been evicted.
“What on earth …?” Stopping suddenly, Adrian thought he could see something stuck in the centre of the ice.
From the safety of the lake’s lip, he stared, squinting his eyes as the full moon pushed through the night and reflected blindingly across the hardened surface. What is it? he wondered, squinting his eyes at the object. A bird? A carcass of a seagull, trapped by the ice and wind?
Probably one of the swans, though he hoped it wasn’t. He didn’t like to see any bird hurt, but if it came to a toss-up between gull and swan, well, he would have to vote for the swan. He still held the memory of the crow fresh in his head, the taste of its blood on his tongue.
Scurrying as close as possible, he wished he had brought his father’s binoculars for a clearer view, even if they would probably afford him little at this time of night. The mist was less heavy out from under the trees, so he could see just a little bit more. Standing perfectly still, he was absorbed by the flat expanse of the lake’s glassy surface. It was a clean freeze. No ripple lines scarring the surface.
“A bird. Got to be some sort of creature. What else can it be?” He was having a conversation with himself as he needled his eyes along the surface, trying to gauge its thickness.
Don’t do it, a balanced voice of sanity advised him, knowing he wouldn’t listen. Anyway, he hadn’t come this far to be put off by common sense, as curiosity soon won over apprehension.
Cautiously, he placed his right boot on the ice, springing his knee slightly, testing the resistance. It seemed okay. Pretty solid.
Delicately standing with one half of his bodyweight resting atop the icy surface, Adrian brought the rest of his body on board and breathed a sigh of relief when he didn’t go crashing through, plunging into the darkness of murky cold water beneath.
Okay. You’ve proven your point. If you really wanted to walk across the lake, you could. But you’re too smart for that, aren’t you?
Sucking in his breath, he brought his right boot forward, followed slowly by the left. He tested the ice again, slightly forcing his weight. If he fell through at this stage, it wouldn’t be too bad. The water would barely reach his chest.
Easy … easy … He moved slightly, with each step gaining confidence, momentum. He wanted to giggle. Something was tickling his stomach. Adrenaline coupled with nerves.
Creeping closer, he realised it wasn’t a bird. Wrong shape. Wrong everything.
Something told him to backtrack as his eyes played tricks, making the middle of the lake wobble and warp.
Steady, he encouraged, inching his way, closer and closer. Don’t be a chicken … don’t look back.
Cramps were beginning to plant themselves in the calves of his legs. Coupled with the cold, they made him feel as if he was walking in slow motion. But he willed himself on, knowing that shortly he would be within touching length of the object.
“Fuck the night!” He almost fell backwards, slipping on his arse. A tiny arm, protruding from the ice like a macabre handshake, invited a touch. But it was the eyes he focused on. Blue. They looked like bluebottle flies, fat and greasy, staring up at him, ready to feast on his face. He stood still, hardly daring to breathe. Then the revelation struck. “A doll? I risked my life for a stupid doll …”
The doll was caked in the ice like a display at a fishmonger’s window. Its features were eerily human with a pallor that made him think of his mother’s powdered face in the coffin.
Regaining his composure, Adrian quickly reached down, feeling the tiny hand with his fingers, the plastic round and worn smooth by the elements. He kept feeling the hand until his own fingers went numb, losing all sensation.
Without warning, the ice made a sound, a whisper. There was a movement beneath his feet as tiny fissures began to emerge, webbing out in competing directions. A sickening feeling was quickly entering his gut.
“Oh … no …”
Instinctively, he stepped back, but not before reaching for the arm, pulling on it forcefully as if to keep his balance.
The whooshing sound reminded him of dirty dishwater being sucked down the kitchen sink, as the doll ascended Lazarus-like from the icy enclosure, journeying with him backwards as he skidded, slip-sliding like a drunk or a clown hoping for laughs.
But there was nothing funny about landing with a thud on his arse, his unmanageable body crashing downwards on the icy surface, opening a new, gaping wound—a wound large enough to pull him in and under, startling him with its freezing touch. Within seconds, he was under the ice, and the freezing water assaulted his ears and mouth. It tasted brackish and vile.
Submerged and disorientated by the mass of filthy water, he pushed frantically at the iced ceiling, trying to get his bearings, groping in the darkness for the entrance wound, finding nothing but resistance.
Don’t panic. There has to be a way out.
But his burning lungs were not part of the positive thinking as they inflated, ready to explode, contradicting his false hope.
Think, you stupid bastard!
The water came rushing up his nostrils, flooding his head. A dull drumming sound was echoing in his brain, counting down from five, mocking him.
Five …
Think!
Four …
Shut up!
Three …
It’s over. No point in struggling. Open your mouth and let the water take you … He felt his body being jolted slightly by the water’s undulation.
Two …
Directly to his left, a new colour caught his eye. It was bright, like a lamp shining through the ice, drawing him to it like a moth to a flame.
The doll floated serenely above him
, like a buoy, its plastic skin aglow from the moonlight, guiding him to the blowhole. It was the spot where he had fallen through, and if not for the fact that he was so drained—physically as well as mentally—he would have laughed at the irony of it: being saved by a doll after he had tried to rescue it.
With a tormented howl, he emerged through the gaping hole, his mouth sucking the beautiful icy air, suck suck sucking, drinking the air too quickly, making his throat gag and choke.
Possessing little strength, Adrian pulled his exhausted body to the icy surface, managing to snail gingerly along the cracked lake, stopping only when solid, snowy ground was reached.
“Alive! I’m alive!”
He lay on his stomach, impervious to the cold, breathing in large pockets of air. They tasted better than any meal he had ever sampled.
Adrian knew that he had to move quickly, get home and into dry clothes, if he wanted to avoid sickness, but his eyes remained focused on an eerie figure obscured in the thickness of trees. It was a woman—of that he was almost certain—ghostly white, studying him.
He moved quickly, running as fast as he could from the cold; running from the woman in the woods.
Chapter Nine
“If we do not find anything pleasant, at least we shall find something new.”
Voltaire, Candide
SOME PEOPLE LEARN to live with adversity—or at least to avoid compounding one problem with another. Charlie Stanton, however, was a singular failure in both regards, and tonight looked to be no different from any other unfortunate night as the wind picked up in advance of the gathering storm, and hard, dirty hail began to fall, battering the top of his balding, exposed head.
The filthy weather matched Charlie’s foul mood as he reflected on this morning’s takings—or lack of them. He hadn’t made much money, begging outside the church, putting on his saddest face to all the Sunday worshippers. Cheap fuckdog, he had whispered as each parishioner ignored his mumblings to spare a little food for a starving man. Some bastard had the fucking cheek to hand him a tin of fucking peas. Peas! Cheap fuckdog.
Charlie’s initial plan was to seek shelter in the wasteland once covered by dodgy motels, greasy cafés and iffy bars. He could remember having meals and a few drinks not too far away from where he now stood, when times were good for everyone—especially Charlie Stanton. He could even remember visiting one of the motels—‘Alexander’s’, it was called in those days—accompanied by a lady of the night, two days after losing his job at the docks, seeking solace in sex and booze, finding only an empty pocket when he finally awoke, alone, the lady and his wallet gone, worsening an already dire situation.
Now, all of the buildings had been transformed to ruins, their naked stomachs roofed by tin-covered wrecks of concrete and decaying brick, seemingly forgotten by everyone except the homeless and avoiders of the law. Only one building remained moderately intact, untouched by property developers or nature, looming defiantly in the background, bleak and uninviting: Graham’s Orphanage.
The orphanage had been part of the town’s outer landscape for decades, and had even been used as a backdrop for a Charles Dickens film. At the height of its power, it held over two hundred children, most of whom occupied the large, eel-like dormitories. Legal wrangling over ownership had prevented much-needed restoration work from being carried out, allowing the great building to decline even further.
The cold began to nip, forcing Charlie to pick up his pace. Even as he carefully avoided the slippery patches of ice and mud, his mind was preoccupied with finding shelter quickly in the old building. The booze had narrowed his memory of the filthy wasteland, and he was finding it difficult to manoeuvre and remember in the gloved darkness. The remaining cheap wine coursing through his veins granted him some warmth, but he knew it was only a matter of time before even that deserted him, leaving him to succumb to the cold.
Walking determinedly ahead, Charlie was slightly fearful of ending up like Ben Mullan, dead, his frost-riddled body discovered next to a rubbish skip on the outskirts of town, parts of his feet devoured by foxes and rats.
Quickly pulling the collar of his overcoat up to his ears, Charlie began to hum a little ditty, mocking the anxiety eating at his stomach: “When Jack Frost comes—oh the fun. He’ll play mischief on everyone. He’ll pinch your nose, ’cause he’s so slick, but just be careful, or he’ll bite off your dick …” Charlie grinned at the words. “Jack, you cunning bastard, you won’t get—arghhhhhh!” He went crashing through the dilapidated basement’s storm shutters, jagged wood shredding his face, spiking it with enormous splinters, banging his head on the way down.
Then darkness came …
How long he remained unconscious was debatable. Had he been sober, there was little doubt he would have been dead.
“Could have snapped your stupid neck,” admonished Charlie, unnerved, desperately trying to orientate himself in his surroundings as he removed a match and groped to strike it. The tiny head turned the darkness white—only for a few seconds, but enough to see a rusted sign dangling on a nail, directly above his head: “Place all dirty linen in baskets provided. Divide sheets from pillowcases. Failure to do so will mean removal of all privileges.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll sort all that out in a minute, once I have a browse. Wouldn’t want to lose privileges on my first day, sir. And you wouldn’t mind kissing my smelly arse, sir?” Charlie chuckled. “You’re one lucky bastard, Charlie Stanton, landing in a pile of shitty rags, breaking your fall.”
Teasingly allowing the match to burn his skin, Charlie struck another one as he eased himself out of the large metal, linen basket. Old yellowed newspapers littered the floor and he quickly coned one, lighting it like a medieval torch. The air in the basement hung unnaturally, the smell reminiscent of stale tyres and cat piss. But there was another smell, a recognisable stench sitting just outside Charlie’s grasp. He tried to remember, tried to call up where he had been in contact with any part of it before, but couldn’t pull the random composition together.
Abruptly, his eyes caught a small movement, coming from the far corner. Rats. They seemed to be glaring at him, their yellow eyes gleaming in the semi-darkness, their sharp teeth ready for snapping.
“Get the fuck, you dirty bastards!” He swept the torch in the rats’ direction, loving the power he had to make them disappear—if only until they regrouped, gathering up their courage to repel him. “I’ve dealt with slimier fuckers that you bastards. I’m here to stay. Now get the fuck out, and have your tailed arses frost-bitten!”
As he progressed onwards, fronds of filthy web brushed against his face. He set the torch on them, also, listening to their crackling, loving the power he now possessed in his new kingdom. Finally, he bent and scooped up more paper, building another, thicker torch, all the while looking about for old wooden crates—anything to start a small fire, grant some heat and protection.
Just as he bent to retrieve some kindling, he became aware of something in the far corner, jagged light encircling it. Barely hidden by the shadows, in the semi-darkness it looked like a person, genuflecting, praying.
“Who the fuck’s there?” shouted Charlie, anxious. “Come on out. Don’t try anything stupid. I’m armed with a knife, you bastard. Come on! Out fucking now!”
Standing there, Charlie looked thin and awkward as a snapped-neck chicken, barely able to refrain the shite from bursting out of his skinny arse. His hands were shaking badly; so much in fact that he thought the flaming torch would drop, leaving him in total darkness with the rats. What he wouldn’t give for some cheap wine, something to help calm his nerves, make his balls grow larger.
The figure refused to acknowledge Charlie’s command, and the old vagrant heard sounds behind him while his imagination went into overdrive. Were there two of them, waiting to ambush, kill him for his shoes? He spun round quickly. “Back you bastard!” To his relief, a group of rats ran for cover, knocking over empty tins in their wake.
Bending down slowly, Charlie p
icked up a brick before inching forward, cautiously. “I’ve a little drop of wine here, pal. Care to share on a cold night like this? Warm you up, good and—” He flung the brick, as hard as he could. It hit something, bouncing off with force.
Hearing bones crunch, Charlie ran forward, screaming at the top of his voice, “Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!” He lunged at the figure, dropping the smouldering torch in the process.
The stench oozing from the corner was horrendous. “Oh fuck …” The revelation that he was now wrestling with a badly decomposed corpse made him shiver. Yet, ever the opportunist, he felt a surge of anticipation and excitement at the thought that the corpse just might be harbouring a secret—a monetary secret, a dark face of profit, something beneficial to Charlie Stanton.
Tossed to the side of the corpse, he could make out remnants of rags that probably once covered it, devoured and moulded, replaced by battalions of webs.
The corpse was nothing more than bones and fragmented skin, and he now discovered that the ghastly thing was completely naked, as if this was how it had been left. A small metal rod protruded from the anus area. It resembled some sort of metal dildo.
“Weird … fucking disgusting …” whispered Charlie, wondering if the metal was brass. Good money in brass.
Quickly sidestepping the corpse, he bent to search the pile of raggedy clothes huddled in the corner. Who knows? Perhaps the guy—was it a man?—had left something, other than a metal dick sticking out of his arse?
With expert fingers, Charlie kept searching, all the while making sure his eyes avoided the face of the corpse—or what would be left of it.
“You cheap bastard,” said Charlie, a few minutes later, fully believing that luck wouldn’t be in tonight. “You cheap fucking—” Only now did he have the angry courage to look at the face; only now did he see that there was no face to confront.