Lamplight

by Benjamin Appleby-Dean

  Landing light. He'd compromise, see if it came into the room enough. Keeping his eyes fixed on the doorway, Tom felt for the switch and flicked it. Electric yellow shone from above him.

  He could see outlines – the bed and chair and desk and all the crap on the floor. No sign of Steven or anyone else.

  Tom went back into the room and began to rifle around. The bed was empty, and there was nothing on the desk but papers. When he started on the floor he had better luck – it didn't take more than a few shirts thrown aside to find something hard and spiky and plastic.

  Back out, landing light off and down the stairs. He wasn't going up there again.

  Now all he needed was to charge it. Hall would be safest but Tom couldn't remember where the sockets in there were – behind furniture probably – so he headed back into the living room. Still empty. He pulled his now-useless laptop cable out of the socket behind the sofa and plugged the phone in.

  The screen took a few moments to come back on, and Tom was just worrying it might be broken when the logo came up. He couldn't pull it out, not yet – it'd take at least a few minutes to get him enough battery to last the light.

  The phone cried, and words sprung into the screen. He had messages. The first was from Jenny, blaming him for not answering, and the other was anonymous.

  "Come on man get out of my room"

  Steven's style. How could Steven still be texting when he wasn't even there? Was he being held somewhere, with them making him watch while they took his body and wore it? It didn't make sense. Had to be another trap, but either way –

  – someone knew he was here.

  Tom texted Jenny back but there wasn't any answer. Another nameless message came through: "u may be okay but its too late 4 me"

  Was everyone in on it? Hiding behind their anonymity to laugh at him?

  Either that or something much worse. Tom was sure the thing he'd seen upstairs wasn't Steven, which meant these shadows the girls had been so scared of weren't just taking people but occupying them. Parasites. That explained so much – if They needed humanity as hosts of course They would keep Themselves hidden. What use was a panicked species compared to one that was lazy and complacent?

  This was bigger than he'd known. He had to tell someone, and Tom took his phone online, looking for the usual sites.

  There was a noise coming from the street outside. Metal, scraping. It might be a bicycle or passer-by – but Tom hadn't seen either of those for hours.

  He got up – and the front door slammed so hard that the house shook.

  Tom dropped his phone. He ran into the hall, and found the bulb blazing so fiercely that his eyes stung. His head swam, and there was a sharp acid taste at the back of his throat.

  The front door was closed and it couldn't be the wind.

  Despite the overwhelming light the hallway was still full of shadows – behind the coat-rack, up the stairs. Tom's own shadow had turned tall and gangly and didn't look like him at all.

  Light. They were in the light. Tom dived for the switch and nearly lost his balance, flicked it off as he staggered against the wall. Nothing happened – the bulb shone as strongly as ever, and the shadows were thickening.

  Something stung at the side of his head. Tom put his fingers to his ear, found it sticky and painful.

  He couldn't get out in time. They were coming. They were coming.

  Tom glared at the lightbulb hanging out of reach. Had to stop it somehow. He looked for something to throw and the hall was mostly empty but there were Steven's shoes sitting beside the door.

  The first shoe missed, falling onto the stairs. Tom clutched the side of his head, feeling as though he might black out. He shaded his eyes, took airm with the other hand, threw and –

  Crack. Broken glass. The hallway went dark, and the shoe thudded to the carpet.

  He had to get the other lights. Had to get his phone – no he couldn't it had barely charged, would be useless now. Tom ran for the living room, slammed his hand onto the switch.

  The light cut off, but almost immediately came back. There was a fizz of energy in the air, and the house felt full of static.

  His balance was going. Tom felt like he was standing on the edge of a precipice, and the stained carpet in front of him was a thousand feet away. He wobbled on the spot, leaned on the doorframe to stay upright.

  The shadows on the opposite wall didn't belong. Shouldn't be there. They were stretched out or squashed up, parodies of people.

  Tom snatched the TV remote and lobbed it underarm at the light. It shot past and shattered against the wall, showering plastic and batteries.

  Nothing else to throw. Cushions were soft and useless. Tom fell backwards into the hallway, grabbed hold of the shoe and threw it again – but this missed too, landing in the middle of the table and scattering papers. He couldn't aim. Head was swimming too much.

  The shadows were growing sharper, more solid. Tom looked at the angle between them and the light and realised – their owners were here too, stood invisibly before him. The part of his brain that could still think said : first stage. First form. They need you before they can grow.

  Throwing was useless. Tom crawled into the living room and hooked the stray shoe over his hand like a glove. Throat burning, he levered himself up onto the table –

  – the shadows were growing which meant their owners were coming closer –

  – managed to stand somehow, lash out with his protected hand at the bulb, felt it connect –

  Glass cracked. The room went dark and the shadows vanished.

  Tom's feet went under him and he fell backwards, landing half-across the sofa. The back of his head smashed against the wall and his spine bent the wrong way. Everything hurt.

  There was a standing lamp in the corner, never used. Not even plugged in. Tom looked dully at it, and his eyes seemed to bring it to life. The shade glowed, the corner of the room lit up.

  The shadows were still there. Tom elbowed himself off the sofa, feeling his back scream in protest. He could taste blood. The shoe was still over his hand and all he had to do was run forward –

  – Something skidded under his foot. Glass cracked. Tom lost his balance again and fell forward, broken laptop sliding under his feet and bringing him to the carpet. His chin clicked, sending the impact up through his skull.

  The air moved. Something brushed against the back of his neck. Tom struggled to raise his head, saw the shadow on the opposite wall bending over him –

  The base of the lamp was in front of him. He grabbed it with both hands, pulled the whole thing over. The bulb was just there and he jack-knifed forward, bringing the shoe down –

  The light shattered and he was back in darkness and safety.

  Tom was agonisingly aware of every part of his body, lying there. Even his teeth hurt. He could feel wetness at the back of his skull, and his back throbbed each time he tried to move.

  He couldn't stay here. There were too many lights left – kitchen bathroom bedrooms landing. Time to grab the phone and get out.

  Walking was too painful, so Tom crawled. Bits of laptop were spread across the carpet and jabbed into his hands and knees. The phone was still on the floor, wired in and charging away, and he managed to get it out of the wall and force phone and plug into his coat pocket.

  He used the doorframe to pull himself upright, staggered back into the hall. All he had to do was unlock the door and –

  Light. Why was it light? He'd broken the bulb so where was it coming from?

  The landing was aglow, bright yellow shining down the stairs. Tom looked for the shadows, saw them twitching and flickering ahead of him –

  – across the front door.

  He was trapped.

  Back door. Tom flopped and wobbled his way towards the kitchen, but the light was on there too and the shadows were on the floor this time, right by the door, cutting him off.

  Upstairs. He had to kill the landing light or he'd never get out.

  Breathi
ng hurt. Something else came up every time he breathed out, searing the roof of his mouth and the back of his tongue. Tom tried to run, fell onto the stairs. He crawled like a frightened child.

  The shoe was still over his hand but the light fitting was just out of reach, and behind it a door was open –

  "What're you doing?" said Steven.

  Fifteen

  It sounded like Steven, but the voice was muffled and bubbling. The door was in the way, blocking the bed, and the voice was coming from behind it.

  Tom looked to the light and to the stairs behind him. The shadows were moving, creeping along the walls and upwards. He only had seconds but –

  – he had to know. Had to see. That was how he'd always been.

  He pushed the bedroom door open, and something was sitting on Steven's bed, something that lifted one hand in greeting and said "Hey, man, what's going on?"

  It didn't look much like Steven. Not anymore. The skin was rippling like water as something shifted underneath, and the head was swollen so badly that the features had sunk into it, leaving glassy flesh.

  Parasites, Tom thought. Wasps laying their eggs in spiders. Hatching.

  He staggered backwards to the landing, felt the air move, the tickle of breath on the back of his neck –

  – threw the shoe. Hoping. Desperate.

  The bulb exploded, and there was nothing behind him.

  Tom realised too late that he was still falling, felt empty air at his back, grabbed for the banister and missed –

  Fell downstairs.

  Every step stamped itself on his back. Explosives went inside his skull.

  He was somehow still conscious and Tom could just about make out movement on the landing, the bedroom door opening as the light shone forth –

  His back wouldn't move and his head was one big bruise but he somehow rolled over and crawled. Scrabbled along the carpet. Propelled himself to the front door and reached for the latch and pulled it open.

  Tom could feel fresh air on his face.

  He rolled across the threshold and managed to pull the door shut after him.

  Drowning in bruises, he blacked out.

  When the world came back, Tom didn't know what time it was. He checked his phone – still alive, still working – and found a couple of hours had flown by.

  The step was cold against his back. The ground against his legs. He was freezing, and every bit of him ached, but the pain wasn't as overwhelming as before.

  What had happened? Why hadn't They come after him while he was lying here?

  Tom's brain was working better than the rest of him. It remembered the anonymous messages, the way lonely people were preyed upon. It didn't fit together with him lying there, not unless it wasn't about physical loneliness but about the state of mind, what it did to people.

  They needed their hosts awake and disconnected. That had to be it. Vulnerable minds.

  Which meant he had to move again, no matter how much it hurt. Had to find someone to link up with, someone who would believe him, who wouldn't take the time to argue.

  Tom sat up as he concentrated. Tried to stand up but his legs wouldn't manage it, and had to haul himself upright using the door-knocker.

  Steven was gone. Terry wasn't answering and wouldn't listen anyway. Donald or Lynette wouldn't believe him. Jenny was gone too – she must be, or why would she send him those weird anonymous replies? That only left –

  Amy.

  Amy, who'd already done him so much damage. She didn't deserve the chance to help him – could stay and rot where she was, and he hoped those things filled her up till she was twice as fat.

  His feet began to listen to him again, and Tom walked unsteadily down the garden path and out onto the street. Had to keep moving meanwhile. That was always safer.

  His mind wouldn't let Amy go. It had her swollen up like Steven's head, curves melting into wax, and the image made him retch. He had get rid of it somehow.

  Assuming he wanted to forget what she'd done, why would she listen? What could he say to persuade her?

  He'd have to apologise, and the taste of the word was worse than the acid in his throat or the blood on his tongue.

  Tom kept tight hold of his phone as he walked, and tried to compose a message that'd apologise and explain in one go. She wouldn't read two.

  It was a while before any reply came back, and by then Tom's legs had nearly given up. Only fear kept him walking – fear of the way those shadows had moved, of their sharp-cut fingers and their twitching walk. Fear of Steven's bloated distorted face.

  He as walking down streets he didn't recognise, trying to get to town. It wasn't far now. Maybe there he could sit, rest. Drink something.

  His phone cried, and Tom checked it. She wanted him to be at the hospital.

  He didn't know if he could make it that far. Tom considered a taxi but his wallet was empty and he didn't trust waiting. Waiting was what made them find you. Made the lights come on.

  Besides, he ought to go. He needed checking over, and at St Martin's there'd be people and activity and all the protection he needed for tonight.

  He texted back. "On my way." He couldn't manage kinder words, and didn't think she deserved them. This was necessity and nothing more.

  Tom's eyes kept shutting as he walked, but now there was a new image behind them. Not the shadows, or Steven, or Amy bloated – but Amy as she looked when she posted pictures of herself. Amy curved and embarrassed and begging to be touched.

  Maybe he could forgive her. Maybe he ought to. Conflict brought people closer, and this might be his only chance.

  The thought lent him new strength, and he staggered on invigorated.

  Amy could feel the eyes of the nurses on her, and wondered how long it would be before they got impatient. Tom hadn't said when he'd arrive. Looking busy might buy her time, so she kept her phone out, tapping randomly at the screen.

  The last message from anonymous-Jenny was still there. Amy typed out a reply. "How can you see him? Where are you?"

  The reply didn't take long: "i don't kno its dark here"

  Same as before. She didn't know how to answer.

  As she stood looking down at the screen, a thought came to Amy: if she could talk to Jenny this way, why not the others? Why not Hazel or Jack or Steven?

  Why not Jessica?

  Her palms had gone all sweaty, her breath short. Amy brought Jessica's name up, typed with trembling fingers, "Hello, are you there?" She mentally added words to it: please be there. Please.

  For an age, nothing happened. The night seemed colder, the wind picked up. The nurses tapped impatiently on the glass and Amy waved to them, mouthed incoherently in the hopes it'd put them off.

  The phone buzzed, shrill as a bird.

  Words appeared. Grey-faced, nameless.

  "Amy is that you?"

  Amy nearly dropped it, so slippery were her hands.

  "Yes it's me is that you?" was the best she could manage, and this time the reply came swiftly.

  "I dont know anymore things are slipping away too fast"

  There were words that Amy needed to say more than any other, but typing them was hard. Thinking them was agony.

  "I'm sorry," she sent, and found tears running down her nose and dripping from the end.

  "What for again?" came the reply.

  Amy had to push herself to tap out the next words. She felt as if she were standing in front of a crowd of silent faces. Exposed, judged.

  "I'm sorry I didn't come back. I'm sorry I left. I'm sorry for –"

  – she was going to type about that other night, the thing in the pub toilets, but the words wouldn't come and instead she hit send.

  Nameless message. Anonymous, staring like those faces she imagined.

  "I don't remember"

  Amy dropped her head, pressed her forehead to the phone and tried to stop her insides spilling out. She could barely breathe. Jessica was going from her all over again, fading between sentences.

 
More words. Amy stared at them as if from underwater.

  "I can't remember I don't know why I'm sorry, everything's going away"

  "It's okay." Amy typed that without thinking, trying to reach out, to reassure.

  "Can you tell me who I am please?"

  Amy stopped and looked at that message. Breathed in. Breathed out. Thought about her words.

  "You're my friend, you're Jessica, don't you know that? What happened to you? Where did you all go?"

  "I'm in the dark," said anonymous-Jessica. "It's dark here and I can't remember how to get back, he shows the way but not to us never to us"

  Amy stood still for a moment, wiping the tears from her cheeks. Trying to think. She concentrated so hard that she bit the inside of her cheek, felt it bleed. What did it matter when she was this damaged already?

  This time she messaged them both. Jessica and Jenny. "Can I help you? Can I show you the way back here?"

  "pls help" said the first answer, anonymous-Jenny again, but the blank-faced Jessica messaged "I don't know maybe you can. There's light when he opens the way maybe then you can."

  "i dont know can u make the light come back?" followed the one Amy guessed to be Jenny. She knew then they couldn't talk to each other, wherever they were.

  She had to do something, make what little amends she could. Had to before the guilt ate her alive. Amy had been putting it off so long she could feel it teetering above her, ready to crash down.

  It was more than that though. She could feel the fragments of an idea. A plan.

  She messaged them all, then. Everyone who'd vanished – Hazel, Jack, Steven, Jenny and Jessica both; but not Terry. Whether he was alive or dead, Terry could rot.

  "I can help you but he has to be there. Can you help me as well? Please, can you?"

  The quickest reply seemed to be Jenny again. "ill get him for u"

  Jessica second – Amy knew her words by now, knew how she spoke down to every letter. "I can try if you can"

  After that came a flood of questions in different styles and words – Amy wasn't quite sure how to tell one of the rest from another but they all forgot who she was, forgot themselves, fell to pieces in the blackness. She asked, explained, pleaded.