Shadow Over Sea And Sky

by K H Middlemass

  There was a sharp, painful nipping at her hand, the one that rested against the floor in a balled-up fist. Her heart jumped and she suppressed a surprised yelp. Looking down, she saw a huge rat biting at her flesh with its horrid little teeth and jerked her hand back, horrified. She had never seen a rat as big as that in her life, almost the size of a small cat or even a dog. The rat immediately scurried off into the darkness around her, the sound of its scampering feet elevated by the quiet of the room. Emily thought she could hear it squealing at her from its distant hiding place, hissing at her like a vengeful cat, and gracelessly got to her feet. She wished that she had worn some shoes as grit dug its way into the soles. Cradling her bitten hand, she gently ran a thumb along the skin to find two neat little punctures that were slick with her warm blood. The cut on her left hand, which was slowly beginning to heal, was burning again as if in response to this new injury. It pulsed against the shaft of the candelabra, un-soothed by its smooth, cold metal.

  She had to get out of here: not just the attic, but the house itself. She needed to get away from this place right now. The night had been nothing short of an assault on her sense of rationality and reason; too many strange things had unfolded in front of her over too short a course of time. Wolves, rats, impossible dates on impossible paintings; her head was aching from it all.

  She hurried back down the stairs and to her room, thankful that she remembered which way she had come. Back in the bedroom she pulled on her clothes as quickly as she could, trying not to trip over her feet as she yanked on her jeans. She jammed her feet into her shoes and she was out of the door and running through the darkness, searching for the stairs that would take her out of here. When she finally came to the landing, still all swathed in shadow and blackness, she was drawn instantly to a halt by what she saw.

  The curtains that covered the portrait had been opened since she last ventured out of her room. Countess Marika Fenenko’s midnight eyes stared down from her vantage point above. She appeared larger than she had before, like the canvas was stretching further towards the impossibly high ceiling of the house. Standing there, Emily felt dwarfed by it, made small and insignificant by the perfection of the immortalised face before her. Her mind turned to the painting in the attic and her skin prickled from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. She felt sick just thinking about it. She couldn’t match what she had seen with what logic dictated; she had seen Volkov painted into a piece of the past, or what claimed to be the past.

  But she could not stay and watch that face forever. Her feet felt loose and treacherous in her unlaced boots, but she forced herself to turn on her heel and remove herself from the oppressive strangeness of this place. The sound of her footfalls clattered in her ears as she descended the stairs, picking up momentum so that when she reached the lower level she careened straight towards the door, unable to stop even if she wanted to.

  She was grateful to find the door unlocked and pliant in her hands, and before she knew it she was running down the drive, gravel crunching beneath her boots until she lost her footing and fell forwards. She landed heavily on her front, bashing her chin against the ground and scraping her hands and knees with grit. Winded, she pushed herself back up and cast a look at the house from over her shoulder. It seemed larger from where she lay, like it was expanding before her eyes and growing up towards the black clouds above, and her heart constricted to look at it.

  Something was scurrying along the façade of the house, hard for her to make out. It was too dark, but she could see that it moved strangely, jerking quickly along the surface and obscuring the gleam of the windows as it passed over them, like a lizard but much too large. She waited for a moment, heart pounding, and watched as it halted and remained frozen there, the way a spider stops and waits in complete stillness for its prey. Emily turned around and launched herself forward again, running all the way down the hill and into the town below. This time, she didn’t look back.

  When Emily opened the door to her house, she was greeted with the sight of her pale faced mother waiting for her on the stairs. She was alarmed by her worsened condition and how much it showed upon her face as she struggled to remain standing authoritatively. Victoria’s hand gripped at the banister in a way that told Emily how much energy she was expending on this confrontation and immediately went to help her, only to be halted by her mother jerking back from her touch like Emily’s hand was burning hot.

  “Mum- “

  “Where have you been, young lady?” Victoria interrupted, voice tight with anger. Wrapped up in her dressing grown with sweat beading on her forehead, she was hardly intimidating to see or to hear, but Emily realised that it was better to play at being repentant to get this over quicker and get her mother back into bed as soon as possible.

  “Mum, I left a note. I went to Simone’s, remember?” She tried to reason with her in a soft voice. “Are you all right? I think we need to get you back to bed.”

  “I woke up and called for you and there was no one there,” Victoria said. “I was so thirsty…”

  Emily immediately felt a pang of guilt squarely in the gut. Victoria was only half-conscious of the things around her from the way she was speaking. When Emily looked at her face she found glazed eyes looking back at her, vacant and staring. Emily gingerly put out her hand again and rested it on her mother’s back.

  “Where’s dad?” she asked. “Didn’t he come home tonight?”

  Victoria shook her head. “He wasn’t in bed when I woke up. I don’t know where he is. I don’t even know what time it is.”

  “I left a note on the kitchen table…” Emily sighed and decided to give up on that line of discourse. “I’m so sorry, mum. I didn’t think. I’m all right though, nothing happened to me. I just had a bit too much to drink.”

  The lie appeared to go unnoticed by Victoria. Had she been herself, she would have gone so far as to check her breath for proof, but she didn’t, she simply stood there and looked confused. Emily put her arms around her, and there was a moment when they just stood there like that. Then Victoria’s body sagged a little, like all the anger had flown from her body, and Emily took the opportunity to gently turn her around and back up the stairs. Gladly, Victoria went along with it, and didn’t speak again until Emily had wrapped the quilt around her and placed her head on the pillow.

  “May I have some water, darling?”

  The endearment offered Emily some comfort. She took the old glass from the bedside table and went into the ensuite bathroom to fill it up. Sequestered away, she washed the bite on her hand with antibacterial gel and cleared away the worst of the dried blood that had crusted on her skin. She looked down at her hands for a moment, one bandaged and hiding an old wound, the other uncovered but freshly marked with two puckered little bite marks. She hoped that accursed rat wasn’t carrying some horrible disease. Flexing her fingers, she was at least grateful that her drawing hand was still functional; there was only a slight sting when the skin stretched against the bone.

  When Emily returned to the bedroom, Victoria’s eyes had already started to flutter shut as she sank into sleep. She placed the glass on the bedside table for her in case she wanted it later. She was about to leave and get herself back into her own, familiar bed, when Victoria stirred, twisting her body and moaning like she was in pain. Emily hurried back to her side.

  “At night,” Victoria muttered in a half-formed, sleepy voice. “I hear things.”

  Emily got down on her knees and took her mother’s hand. “What things?”

  “Voices,” Victoria said. Her eyes were still closed, eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks. “Voices that call to me. Voices that tell me things.”

  Emily gripped her hand tighter than she meant to; her own body instantly rigid with a cold, pulsing fear. Victoria’s own hand lay limp in her grip, the sound of her breathing deepening. Emily swallowed hard and willed herself on.

  “What do they tell you, mum?”

  For a moment there was nothing but s
ilence.

  “They ask me to follow them.”

  The sound of the door disturbed them both. Victoria opened her eyes and sat up with a sudden burst of energy. “Christopher?”

  There was a rustling, the clumping thud of shoes being removed followed by a weary exhalation. Emily let go of her mother’s hand.

  “Darling?” Victoria called again, sounding desperate. She tried to pull the duvet off herself and get out of bed but Emily forced her back down as firmly as she could manage. She kept her hands on her mother’s bony shoulders. Thankfully, she relented and made no more of it. Instead they waited together as feet trudged up the stairs, until Christopher’s shape filled up the doorway. They both instantly comprehended the exhaustion written into his face. His eyes were lidded and struggling to stay open, his skin looking positively grey in the artificial light of the bulbs that hung above them.

  “I was hoping that you’d still be asleep,” he said softly as he flicked on the light, causing them all to squint in the sudden, harsh glare. He came to the bed and sat down heavily, the springs creaking beneath the pressure. He glanced at Emily with a strange look on his face, like he’d only just realised that she was there. “What are you both doing up?”

  Victoria, for her part, was not quite as weak as to let her husband go without punishment. Her face was already flushed from the effort as she leaned forward and jabbed an accusing finger into the soft flesh of his upper arm.

  “Never mind us,” she said. “What on earth are you thinking coming back at this hour? I woke up and you weren’t there, I was terrified that something had happened.”

  Emily got onto her feet a little unsteadily. It felt strange to stand over her parents like this, like the power balance was all wrong. Right now, her mother and father looked very small and strangely grey in the harsh light.

  Christopher sighed and leant back, putting his arm around Victoria and pulling her to him, effectively halting her protests. With his index finger and thumb, he tightly pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. “Something did happen.”

  Victoria’s face changed quickly, features melting from annoyance to something more serious. Emily reached over to him from across the bed.

  “Dad?”

  Christopher looked at them; his pale green eyes were bloodshot.

  “They found Sarah,” he said in a voice that seemed to carry the weight of the world. “She’s dead.”

  9

  None of the Van Buren family returned to sleep that night. Victoria wanted to get up, but at the other two’s demand she instead remained in bed, turned to the window with her eyes fixed open, hand clutching at the pillow. She wouldn’t sleep, but she agreed that she could at least try and rest. On the landing, Christopher had inferred that Emily should go to bed herself, but instead she followed him downstairs, where she made her father a cup of strong coffee and brought him some painkillers when he complained of a growing headache; he swallowed them dry. They sat at the table for a while saying nothing, both in a mutual state of shock. Christopher drank his coffee gratefully, almost swallowing it whole.

  “What a night,” he said quietly.

  Emily nodded. Her own eyes were so heavy that they had begun to ache, but there was some other force keeping her conscious. She knew that there was no chance her body would let her sleep now, even if she tried. She focused instead on the ticking of the clock, tried to listen to the silence wrapped around each puncture of noise.

  “They found her on the rocks beneath the cliffs,” Christopher said, even though Emily hadn’t asked. She could hardly blame him for wanting to talk to somebody after what he had been through.

  “So, she fell?” Emily was surprised by the sound of her own voice; it was harsh and husky, the way it used to get after a long night of screaming to her friends over the impossibly loud music of a night club; that life seemed so far away now. Christopher shrugged, his mouth twisted in confusion.

  “It’s hard to say. She didn’t look like Sarah; she was barely recognisable…body completely broken…”

  Christopher’s voice cracked and his face crumpled horribly. He covered his eyes with his hand and sank down in his chair. He was trying not to break down, Emily could see that as clear as anything.

  “Are you okay, dad?”

  “Not really, love. Not really.” Christopher sighed. “The last few days have been a nightmare, and now this… this is just beyond the pale. It’s not something I’m going to forget about in a hurry.”

  “Are you sure it was her? I mean, if it’s as bad as you say…”

  When Christopher’s hand drifted from his face, his eyes were strangely vacant and his skin was stony grey.

  “She… it didn’t look like Sarah, but I knew it was her. I just did.”

  Emily swallowed, her eyes pricking a little. “Do you think it was an accident?”

  Christopher gave a weak shrug. “Probably. It looked like maybe an animal had gotten her before she fell but God only knows what kind to do that much damage-”

  “What damage?” Emily interrupted. “I thought she died from the fall.”

  “She did, but not before something had a good go on her first.” Christopher closed his eyes against the memory. When he spoke again, his voice cracked: “Her throat and chest were all torn up, like something had shredded her with its teeth.”

  Emily gasped. She remembered the white wolf that stalked the cliffs that night. “I think I saw something tonight up by the Fairbanks house. Some sort of wild animal.”

  Christopher’s eyes opened again and he looked at his daughter askance. “What were you doing up there?”

  Emily bit her lip. She couldn’t tell him where she’d really been, so her tongue was quick to form a half-truth. “I wasn’t. I was coming home from Simone’s when I saw it. It was dark so I couldn’t really make out much, but its fur was white. In the moonlight it looked like it was glowing.”

  Christopher was quiet. His eyes slid away from hers, brow crinkling. Emily looked at the embedded grooves in his flesh and marvelled at how much stress and worry had gone into the formation of such lines.

  “Oh Emily,” he sighed. “What does it matter? Sarah’s dead. That’s all there is to it.”

  Emily frowned. “But something may have killed her, dad. It could kill other people.”

  “She fell off the cliff, Emily, let’s just leave it at that.”

  “But you said- “

  “I said that we’ll leave it at that,” Christopher snapped. His tone, which was usually so soft and careful, took on an ugly and accusing edge that stung Emily deeply. She blinked and was surprised to find tears in her eyes. Sitting with her father, she realised that he didn’t look like the person that she’d known for so long; in the space of a day he seemed completely changed. How quickly a person could go from one thing to another when the steady, dependable life around them unexpectedly began to crumble.

  “Okay,” she said quietly.

  When Emily had been a little girl, her father had been her world. She had seen him as something truly wonderful, a cuddly and happy man that seemingly lived for her happiness. Now that she was older, almost an adult yet still trapped in adolescent circumstances, she came to see just how much she had drifted apart from her parents and from everything else. She was embarrassed to think that it took a tragedy like this for her to wake up and see just how much distance she had forcibly placed between herself and the people that she claimed to love. Simone had only just come back into her life and her relationship with her mother and father had taken on a weirdly detached quality that should have frightened her but didn’t. Her mother badgered her and she just brushed it off dismissively; her father was still fond and generous, but they lacked the closeness that came so easily to her before puberty crashed upon her like a breaking wave and made her change. From the moment she began to crave something beyond her little existence in Caldmar, things shifted imperceptibly but permanently. Leaving for university had made that severance so easy it was
almost alarming.

  Emily went to Christopher and wrapped her arms around him, resting her cheek on the top of his head. She stood behind his chair for a while, bent awkwardly at the waist but unwilling to go anywhere else. She was gratified when she felt Christopher’s body relax a little at her touch, but still he stayed silent. Emily knew that it was a meagre gesture on her part, but she also knew that there was nothing else that she could offer.

  They remained as statues until dawn had crept into the sky. Eventually Christopher pushed himself heavily to his feet and announced that he was going to grab a shower before he had to leave again. Howard Wilson had already been informed, of course, but he had plans to visit him this morning and express his condolences.

  “Then there’s the matter of the funeral to arrange,” he said wearily. He ran a hand through his thinning hair, ruffling it uselessly against his scalp. “And another one so soon.”

  He left the room, and Emily went back to her seat at the kitchen table. She took Christopher’s mug in her hands and turned it around, looking at it with strange focus. She had given it to him when she was still a child, a Father’s Day present that she had bought with the coins saved in her piggy bank over many months. It was a silly thing, really, painted red with a clown throwing juggling balls, with a speech bubble proclaiming that Christopher was indeed the world’s greatest father, but he had kept it for all these years and still used it. The colours were long faded now, more a shadow of the past than anything else. Did Sarah have any such token from her own children? She imagined Sarah’s son, whom she had known from school, offering a similar gift to her for Mother’s Day in a poorly wrapped box, pictured the genuine delight she must have felt to have opened it up, and felt a short stab of pain in her chest. What would happen to it now, she wondered. Would it remain shut up in some cupboard to collect dust, wilfully forgotten to spare the pain, or thrown away and lost forever in a tip somewhere? What was a gift when the person was no longer alive to appreciate it?