He was on his knees now, blood blurring his vision. The pressure in his chest was powerful enough to suck the air from his lungs. Something sharp pierced his left eye. Mike managed one last shriek before pitching forward. His head slammed into the bitumen with a wet crunch. In his mind, voices, childish and petulant, whispered a chorus of accusations. Their voices followed him into the blackness.
Chapter Twenty
Annabel sat between her mother and father, facing Sergeant Gibson across the kitchen table. She was nervous. She’d never spoken to a policeman before, except for the time Constable Leary came to her school and spoke to her class about bicycle safety, but this was different – more serious. She liked Sergeant Gibson and was glad he was here to help her, but it still felt weird to be sitting in her kitchen talking to a policeman.
He started out by telling her that she wasn’t in trouble and that he just wanted to talk to her. Then he asked her about school and about her favourite TV shows.
“Tell me about the girl?” His voice changed, got quieter.
“It’s not a little girl.” Annabel’s face felt hot, her voice was too loud.
“It’s okay.” Sergeant Gibson nodded. “You just tell me what you saw.”
She looked at her mother, who also nodded for her to continue.
“The first time I saw it, it was in the backyard standing near my swing. I thought it was a little girl…You know, lost or something, but then I saw it was a monster.” She could feel that Sergeant Gibson didn’t believe her – not about the monster part. A wave of disappointment swept over her, and tears formed in the corners of her eyes.
“You don’t believe me.” She looked down at the table, not wanting him to see her cry. If he didn’t believe her, how could he stop the thing from coming back and getting her?
“I do believe you think you saw a monster, but if you tell me everything you saw, well, it might help me understand a bit better.” He spoke in a very kind and patient voice. Annabel felt mean for being so disappointed in him. The feeling only added to her misery, making it hard for her to speak.
“Okay.” She kept her eyes on the table. “It was wearing a sort of raggedy dress and had awful grey skin and a scary, jerky way of walking.” When she looked up, Sergeant Gibson was leaning forward, frowning as if he was thinking about something. Her mind buzzed and a word popped into her head. Virus. Annabel had no idea what the word meant.
“It wanted to come in, but couldn’t. I could feel it wanting to, it was angry because it couldn’t get in.” She looked at her mother.
“It’s okay, love.” Lisa spoke softly and put her arm around her.
Annabel looked back at Sergeant Gibson.
“Did you see it again after that night?” he asked.
“Yes. It came back last night and it tried to force me to come outside.” She hung her head – she hadn’t told her parents about that part. Her mother’s body tensed against her. She didn’t need the buzzing to tell her that her mother was upset.
“You mean the girl spoke to you?” he asked
“No.” She shook her head, trying to explain. “It did this.” She put her hand up and made a come here gesture to show him what she meant.
“Okay. Is there anything else you can tell me, Annabel?” He sounded tired.
Annabel thought for a moment and then decided to tell him everything – not even her parents knew everything...
“It wants to kill me. It likes killing children.” The words came out in a rush as if she had to say them quickly or risk never getting them out.
Her mother gasped. Her fingers tightened around Annabel’s shoulders. She’d frightened her mother. Hurting her was worse than hurting herself, but she couldn’t stop.
“It will keep coming back until it finds a way to get me and it won’t stop killing children until it does.” Tears ran down her face. She didn’t bother to wipe them away.
“That’s enough!” Her mother’s voice was angry, hard in a way Annabel had never heard before. She was staring at Sergeant Gibson. For a moment no one spoke. The awkward silence continued until her father finally broke it.
“You can do whatever you think is best, Sergeant Gibson, but I want you to know that we believe our daughter. If she says that that thing out there is dangerous, then we believe her and I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to protect my family.”
Annabel brushed her tears away and sat up straighter in her seat. She wanted to jump up and hug her father, but didn’t want to look like a baby in front of the sergeant. Instead, she leaned against the comforting warmth of her mother and waited for him to speak.
“Okay.” Sergeant Gibson nodded. “I’m going to take a look around outside and then drive out to the orchard and see if I can find any trace of this…” He hesitated and then continued, “This, whatever it is. I’ll leave you my card. If it comes back, I want you to call me, day or night.” As he spoke, he reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a card, and passed it to her father. Annabel noticed he called the thing it, not she. He got up to leave, but stopped and turned back to Annabel. “You’ve been very brave,” he said. “If it comes back, get your dad to call me and I’ll come straight away. Okay?”
Annabel looked into his clear blue eyes. He knew she was telling the truth and it scared him. He was waiting for her to respond, so she nodded and tried to smile. It seemed to be enough. He smiled back, turned and walked towards the front of the house.
Her father got up and followed him. She could hear them speaking at the front door, but couldn’t make out what they were saying, so she gave up listening and turned to her mother.
“I’m sorry, Mum. I didn’t mean to upset you.” A fresh stream of tears ran down her cheeks.
“I’m very proud of you.” Lisa smiled, but there were tears in her eyes.
Annabel’s mind buzzed. She hadn’t just upset her mother, she’d terrified her. For the first time in her life, Annabel wished she was different. She didn’t want to feel her mother’s fear. Knowing the strongest person in her world was terrified made Annabel sick with fear and guilt. She’d caused this. It now occurred to her that maybe she was the bad one because she knew things about people that she wasn’t supposed to. Maybe her knowing those things had brought the monster. Now people were dying.
She closed her eyes and let her mother hug her, wishing she could turn off the thoughts in her head.
Chapter Twenty-one
Maggie tried to focus on the road, but couldn’t help checking the mirrors every few seconds to make sure no one was following her. She turned on the radio, hoping to distract herself, but the harsh, annoying pop music only intensified her anxiety. She wanted to drive home as fast as she could. Instead, she headed to Doug’s house. He’d be suffering. She had to let him know that he wasn’t alone – that meant putting her own fears aside, at least for a while.
After five minutes of knocking on his door, it became clear that either Doug was out or he wasn’t answering. With no other choice, Maggie decided to leave the lasagne on his front porch with a note:
Dear Doug,
I’m so sorry.
If you need anything, call me or come by. If I don’t hear from you before, I’ll be back again tomorrow.
Eat something.
X, Maggie
The torn sheet of note paper tucked under the plastic tub didn’t seem like much. She thought of knocking again, but decided to let him be.
****
Turning all the lights on from the front door to the kitchen, Maggie walked through the house. It would be dark soon, and the constant maelstrom of fears and questions wouldn’t leave her alone. She put the second lasagne in the fridge, to be heated up later, and dumped her bag on the counter. A glass of wine would help steady her nerves, but keeping a clear head when she saw Harness was more important. She needed to convince him of things that she was still struggling to fully understand. To do that, she needed to be completely sober… at least until she’d finished her story.
With ple
nty of time to kill before preparing dinner, Maggie made herself a cup of instant coffee and went outside to sit on the back veranda. She usually sat on the back steps looking at the garden, enjoying the smell of clean country air. Tonight felt different, as if the world had changed. She chose to sit on one of the wooden outdoor chairs she’d bought shortly after moving in.
The chair was part of a set of two, and a small table. She’d bought it with plans to sit outside in the summer, eating her meals and watching the sun fade. In reality, she’d only used it a few times, opting for the convenience of eating inside with a plate on her lap. Now, sitting at the little table for two, she realised the reason she avoided the spot was more about loneliness than convenience.
Maggie watched the creamy liquid cooling in the cup and thought of Harness, picturing the little lines that appeared around his eyes when he smiled. She wanted to see him, and not just because she needed to tell him about Manjula and the Acheri. She had feelings for him… strong feelings. Being with him felt right somehow, like that was where she was supposed to be. It didn’t make much sense, but two nights ago they left Agnes’s party together and since then everything had changed. The world shifted from normal to terrifying and she wanted to hear Harness’s deep, steady voice, look into his erudite blue eyes and know he believed her.
Her thoughts jolted back to Prapti. Unable to ignore the chill creeping up her spine, Maggie looked over her shoulder and then out into the fading sky. In the distance, dark shapes swirled, creating a black funnel that appeared to be moving. It took her a few seconds to make sense of what she was seeing – birds, hundreds of them circling the town. In spite of the temperate evening air, she shivered and sipped her coffee, grateful for the warmth of the cup in her hands.
Chapter Twenty-two
Drumming, like flesh against wood. Looking down, Agnes realised she was naked and clamped her arms over her breasts. Dim, sickly light exposed her location: the upstairs hallway of the house she’d shared with Stan. The old house she’d demolished fifteen years earlier to make way for the modern, angular brick and glass structure where she now lived. Impossible yet somehow, she was back in the building that housed her grim past. Inside the very walls that witnessed her darkest hours.
A nightmare. She’d had many of those over the years. But even as her mind rationalised what was happening, her body felt alive with terror. Turning to run, the bones and muscles in her legs refused to move. Her feet shifted of their own accord, taking her forward. It’s not real…None of it’s real. Yet the malevolence oozing out of every brick and timber felt all too real. The hallway was decorated in faded yellow and brown flowered wallpaper. The gaudy blooms curling off the walls took on a life of their own, brushing against her naked flesh. She stumbled forward, trying to avoid their touch, and found herself facing the doorway to the room she’d once shared with Stan.
The door pulsated; with each thump the wood swelled in and out like the brown lung of a long-time smoker. The door shuddered and flew inwards, revealing the bedroom. Agnes struggled to turn away, desperate to not see what was inside the room. Thrashing and resisting, the invisible pull only propelled her closer to the doorway.
She recognised the thing on the bed and shrieked! Stan Wells lay on filthy sheets drumming his feet against the footboard. With each thump, his naked body shuddered. His grey skin was mottled with black spots. Greenish fluid leaked from lesions on his face and stomach.
Stan’s milky eyes shifted to Agnes. A sly smile spread across his face. A knowing smile that made Agnes lace her fingers through her hair and pull as if she were losing her mind. Maybe I am. The Stan-thing’s mouth flopped open, revealing a blackened tongue. Agnes whimpered. She pushed backwards with her feet and grabbed at the doorframe, desperate to escape the hideous thing on the bed.
Her fingers found purchase on the wood. She turned to drag her possessed body backwards. The bedsprings creaked. Agnes looked over her shoulder. Stan sat up, his blackened penis clearly erect and impossibly large between his fleshy legs.
“Please, God, no.” She shook her head. A long, thin hand snaked around the door from inside the room and clasped Agnes’s wrist, sharp nails piercing her skin. The hand burned as if alive with fire, blistering Agnes’s flesh. Excruciating pain, too real to be a nightmare, seared her skin. I’m in hell.
Agnes let out a sob as her body moved towards the bed. Turning her head, she saw the creature that held her – a twisted monster, eyes burning with hatred. A scream built in her chest, but when she opened her mouth, all that escaped was a defeated rush of air. The monster pulled her towards the bed where Stan waited with open arms.
Agnes woke shrieking and lunged forward, knocking the empty whisky glass to the floor. It bounced on the cream-coloured carpet and rolled under the desk. She grasped the edge of the table, grateful for something to hold onto, and looked around the study. A nightmare. Only a nightmare, it can’t hurt me.
The light in the room was dim, but enough for Agnes to recognise her surroundings. She sat at the desk in her perfect study, clutching the sides of the table. The horrors of the dream still swirling in her brain, body feverish and racked with aches, she broke down.
It had been forty years since she’d cried. The sensation of tears was alien on her skin. Lifting her hand to wipe her face, she winced with pain. Angry red welts encircled her right wrist, in some places the skin blistered and raw. Agnes held her arm out as if distancing herself from the limb. A panicked shriek built up in her throat, spilling out in a series of sobs.
Head pounding and body racked with aches, she thought about getting up and pouring herself another drink. “Steady my nerves.” She spoke to the empty room in a voice that was barely recognisable.
Halfway out of the chair, she stopped. Dampness between her legs –she’d wet herself. Agnes fell back into the chair, eyes wide, and stared at the window where the last weak rays of sun were battling the coming night. A blur of black hit the pane, splintering the glass. The crack jolted Agnes back in her seat. Another crunch as a second bird hit the glass. Agnes cradled her head and whimpered.
Chapter Twenty-three
Just before eight-thirty, Maggie heard Harness’s Jeep crunch over the driveway. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped aside to let him in.
“Sorry, I didn’t have time to go home and change,” he said as he followed Maggie through to the kitchen.
“Hard day?”
“The hardest.” He didn’t need to say any more, by now she knew he meant there’d been another death. For a moment, they were silent, the weight of his words hanging in the air.
“You look nice,” he said, changing the subject.
Maggie smiled. She’d chosen a simple blue summer dress and sandals. Wearing her hair down and only a little makeup, she hoped that the overall effect was nice without looking like she was trying too hard. “Thanks. I hope you’re hungry.”
They ate outside on the small deck. Maggie went against her better judgement and poured herself a glass of red wine. Harness opted for a beer.
“This looks great. You feeding me is becoming a regular thing.” He held her gaze for a moment before continuing. His eyes were unreadable, stony. “When you called me today and asked me to come over, I had a feeling you wanted to tell me something. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you invited me, it’s just that you sounded like something was on your mind.” Maggie could tell he was waiting for her to fill in the blanks.
“I do need to tell you something, a lot in fact, but not yet.” She hesitated, not quite ready to tell her story. “Let’s eat first, okay?” Maggie was relieved when he nodded and picked up his knife and fork. They ate in silence for a few minutes, a silence that felt comfortable.
The veranda lights bathed the yard in a soft yellow glow that reflected off the waxy green leaves covering the railings and stairs. The night was alive with soft noises from chirping insects and cooing birds. Maggie leaned back in her seat and sipped her wine, watching Harness lift the beer b
ottle to his mouth and take a long, thirsty gulp. The wine tasted sweet. The tension coiled in her muscles began to melt away.
Leaning forward, she put her glass on the table. “There is something I want to ask.”
He raised his eyebrows, and the lines at the corners of his eyes vanished. “Okay. Go ahead.”
“Your name.” Maggie bit her lip, trying not to laugh. “It’s… Unusual. I just wondered –”
“No, I wasn’t named after something a horse wears.” He sounded wounded, but he was smiling, dimples creasing his stubbly cheeks.
“Well, you’ve got to admit, it’s not your average name.” Maybe it was the wine, but suddenly she couldn’t stop herself from laughing. It felt good – liberating, as if she were stepping out from under something heavy.
“Okay.” He put down his knife and fork and held up his hands in surrender. “I don’t usually tell people, but for you, I’ll make an exception.”
Maggie rolled her hand in a hurry-up motion and tried to suppress another bout of laughter.
“It was the seventies.” For some reason, that was enough to make her giggle. “Why is that funny?” he asked, laughing along with her.
Not trusting herself to speak, Maggie clamped her lips together and nodded for him to continue.
“Like I said, it was the seventies and my parents, Harriet and Nestor—”
“Oooh.” Maggie picked up her glass. “I get it now.”
“What are all those red flowers?” He used his fork to point towards the trees and sheds, still smiling but obviously keen to change the subject. “They’re everywhere. It makes the place look sort of tropical.”
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