by Amy Cross
As she starts coughing, I head back inside and take another jar. Emerging a moment later, I open the jar and tip it upside down, and then I wait as its collection of sliced faces begins to slip down onto the floor. A shudder passes through my chest as I see such horror, but at least I know I am doing the right thing, and I cannot help but wonder whether God protected me during the night so that I might perform this very task. Indeed, for the next few minutes, I empty jar after jar onto the forest floor, ignoring Emma's protests until finally the last jar has been dealt with and I find myself standing before a pile of body parts.
But now what?
I have freed them from the jars, but I need to find a way of returning some of the dignity that this wretched witch stole.
“Stephen, please,” she gasps, seemingly losing strength by the minute as she starts crawling toward me. “You don't know what you're doing, you're making the same mistake that I made long ago. You're letting him into your mind, you're -”
Before she can finish, she starts retching, and I'm shocked to see maggots slipping from her mouth. She tries to speak, but more and more maggots are rising from her throat, with some even spilling through her nose.
“You disgust me,” I stammer, taking a step back so that she cannot reach me.
“He is taking you now,” she gurgles, spitting out yet more maggots. “He dispenses with me and chooses you. And within minutes, you have already given him what he wants. At least I stood up to him, at least I kept his powers in check, but with you...”
She lets out a slow, low groan, and it is as if she is suddenly on the verge of death.
“I tried,” she whispers finally. “For so long, I...”
Her voice trails off. I wait for her to continue, but after a moment I realize that her glassy eyes are no longer moving. She is staring at the pile of body parts, and a few seconds later I hear one final gasp leave her mouth. I have seen, many times, the human soul claimed by death, and I recognize that moment now that it is once again occurring before me. Still, I do not dare approach Emma's corpse, just in case she has found some way to fight back. While I am at heart a rational man not given to leaps of logic, something about this forest gives me cause for concern.
Turning, I look over at the large, twisted tree, and I feel the air becoming cooler. Whereas earlier the tree appeared almost as a smudge, now it is clear to see. In fact, I can barely bring myself to turn away.
Suddenly, hearing a faint sound nearby, I look over my shoulder. I half expect to see someone trampling this way through the forest, yet there is no-one around. I make my way to the other side of the cottage, and still I see no hint of movement in any direction.
A moment later, I hear more steps, as if somebody is stumbling across the forest floor.
“Hello?” I call out. I reach for my sword, which should be at my belt, but then I remember that I lost it on the road here. “If there is somebody around,” I continue, “you must show yourself!”
I wait, but there is no reply.
Just more footsteps, and now they seem to be on the other side of the cottage.
Filled with the sense that perhaps somebody is trying to get a jump on me, I make my way cautiously past the edge of the cottage, back toward the tree. The air is even colder now, enough to make me shiver, although I do not wish to appear cowardly.
“I hear you!” I shout, as more footsteps rustle nearby. “Whoever you are, I demand that you show your face! I am not in the mood to deal with idiocy! If you persist with this foolishness, you are liable to end up dead!”
Stopping at the other side of the cottage, I realize that perhaps Emma's associate has returned. She mentioned someone named Chanciechaunie many times, and I cannot be sure that he is not a dangerous man. I reach again for my sword, and again I remember that it is lost. Looking around for some form of weapon, I finally spot the knives that Emma was sharpening earlier, and I hurry over to take the largest in my hand. Armed now, I turn and look around, and then suddenly I see that Emma's body is no longer on the ground.
Just as I am about to call out, I notice that the pile of body parts is moving slightly. A shudder passes through my chest as I step closer, and I see that the parts seem to be sinking slowly into the muddy ground.
“In the name of all that is holy,” I whisper, “what could -”
“Stop!”
I turn just as she lunges at me. Having somehow crept up without making a noise, Emma grabs my shoulders and forces me to the ground, while letting out a shrill, dusty gasp. In just a matter of minutes, her body has become a rotten husk, with scraps of flesh clinging to discolored bones, and her eyes are bulging from their sockets. Maggots are crawling around her mouth and burrowing through her lips, and as she tilts her head a thin gray liquid starts dribbling from a hole in her left cheek. A moment later, more of the liquid runs from her ear.
Horrified by the sight of her, I quickly push her away and scramble to my feet, and then I step back and watch as she tries in vain to grab my leg.
“Don't give him what he wants,” she gasps, still trying to stand. “There's still time! Find a way to -”
Suddenly her right leg collapses under her weight, tearing the flesh as a thick bone bursts out. Emma grunts as she hits the ground, but still she reaches out with her rotten arms and tries to drag herself across the clearing.
“Chanciechaunie must...” she groans. “Chancie... Don't let...”
I step back, too shocked to know what I should do.
“Fight him!” she gurgles. “He is not... your...”
She reaches out one final time, clasping her fingers in the cold air, and then finally she collapses against the mud. The back of her skull crumbles, and I see that her brain has already shrunk and become dry. The only movement now comes from the maggots that continue to swarm all over her leathery skin, but even those wretched creatures now seem to be abandoning the corpse, as if it has become too dry to sustain their colony.
I step back again until I reach the cottage, and then I stare at the horrific sight of Emma's rapidly-decomposing body. It is only now that I realize she was trying, in her final moments, to drag herself toward the twisted tree.
“I must get out of here,” I stammer finally, suddenly overcome by the realization that the air is getting colder and colder.
Turning, I run around the side of the cottage.
And then I stop.
It is as if the air is so cold, I cannot take so much as another step. At the same time, my thoughts feel clouded, and I swear some other voice seems to be creeping into my mind.
“And where do you think you're going?” the voice whispers, curling like smoke around my own thoughts, and smothering my senses. “I have need of you. My last servant refused to fetch the things I need the most. I have been starved and now I am hungry.”
For a fraction of a second, it occurs to me that this might be the voice of the Lord, and that he might be speaking into my mind.
I try to force the voice away, but a moment later I realize I can feel something moving beneath my feet. Looking down, I see the very ground starting to churn, as if something is burrowing just beneath the surface.
“What are you?” I whisper. “Show yourself! Let me see your -”
Suddenly a dark shape pokes through the soil, although it quickly sinks from view again.
“Where are you hiding?” I shout, turning and looking back at the cottage. “I demand that you show -”
Before I can finish, a vast pain crackles through my skull and forces me to my knees.
“You are in no position to demand anything,” the voice continues calmly. “I shall tell you what I want, and how to get it, and you shall serve me. After all, that seems like a fair price to pay for all that I have given you.”
I try to speak, to ask him once again to show his face, but the pain is too intense and I cannot even get out one word. Instead, I drop onto my hands and knees, and my whole body is shuddering now.
“I think you will make a fin
e servant indeed,” the voice whispers in my head. “You will give me what I want. You will make my world less dry. And soon, Chanciechaunie will look upon you with great pride.”
“Are you God?” I stammer, as the pain increases. “Are you the Lord?”
At this, the voice begins to laugh, sending rumbling waves through my skull.
“You will learn soon enough what I want,” it continues finally, as I am forced all the way down to the ground. “And you will serve me forever more! Or at least, until I find one who gives me greater pleasure!”
PART THREE
EMILY CARTER
TODAY
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The crow hops across the lawn with a worm in his beak. After a moment, he stops and stays completely still, as if he's suddenly noticed something nearby. From here behind the recreation room's window, it's impossible to hear what's going on out there, but the crow definitely seems concerned.
Suddenly he takes to the sky, carrying the worm higher and higher until they disappear together into the gray. After they're gone, I watch the empty lawn for a few hours.
Chapter Thirty
“Are you ready, Emily?” the nurse asks, holding the rubber cylinder toward me. She smiles as I let her slip the cylinder into my mouth. “There. That's better, isn't it?”
I wait as she adjusts the machine.
“Who are you?” a little girl's voice whispers suddenly, in the back of my mind.
“Never mind that,” another voice replies. “You want to come with me, don't you?”
I turn, but there's no sign of anyone.
“Okay, are you comfortable?” the nurse continues, turning back to me. “You know the routine by now. Here we go.”
I remain completely still and calm, staring at the ceiling as I hear the click of a switch. It's about to happen again. I can taste onion in my mouth, and I'm starting to fall asleep.
Chapter Thirty-One
Light rain is falling outside. The crow has another worm.
***
“I think you're making the most remarkable progress,” Doctor Hamlin continues with a smile, as he sits opposite me in the recreation room. “I'm going to extend the treatment to the full twenty-four procedures. How does that make you feel, Emily? Optimistic, perhaps? Hopeful for the future?”
I stare at him for a moment, trying to work out exactly what he means.
“Fine,” I whisper cautiously.
He seems pleased.
I smile. For him.
“And your husband seems very encouraged too,” he tells me. “He was actually asking me earlier about a time-frame for you to go home. I explained that it's still a little too early to be thinking along those lines, but I'm glad that's a discussion we can be hopeful of having some day. Doesn't that make you feel more positive, Emily? Do you remember how I told you that the treatment would be good in the long-term? I was right, wasn't I? Craig said he can already see a change in you, after just a few weeks.”
“Craig?”
“Your husband. Remember?”
I pause, before looking around the room.
“Is he here?” I stammer.
“He left about five minutes ago,” Doctor Hamlin continues. “He was sitting right here, though, for about an hour. He was talking to you. Do you remember that?”
I turn back to him.
“Do you remember, Emily?”
“No,” I whisper.
“Well, that's okay. Your short-term memory is bound to be a little unstable at the moment, but that won't be the case forever. Once the E.C.T. is over and you get home, you'll start to notice an improvement.”
“Sure,” I reply, “but what about...”
I hesitate for a moment, worried that I might inadvertently say something that brings on new treatment.
“A little girl's voice,” I whisper.
“What was that?”
“I just -”
“Luke! Luke, stop!”
Startled, I turn and look across the room. A large, balding man is being held back by two attendants, who quickly force him into a chair and slide a needle into his arm. Whatever's wrong with him, the needle seems to knock him out, but I'm more concerned about the name I heard.
“Luke,” I whisper.
“Don't worry about him,” Doctor Hamlin says with a smile. “He's fine.”
“Not him,” I reply, watching as the guy is wheeled out of the room. “The other Luke. The real Luke.”
“You know somebody else named Luke?”
“And Alice,” I continue, turning to him.
“Luke and Alice?” He makes a note. “I don't know that I've heard your husband mention anyone by those names.”
“They're...”
I pause, but suddenly the memory has faded again. I know the names Luke and Alice mean something to me, but my mind is too foggy for me to think back too far. Still, these memories are swirling around the drain in my mind, and they refuse to completely disappear.
“Don't strain yourself too much,” Doctor Hamlin says, getting to his feet. “I should go and check on some other patients, but I'll be back to see you later, okay? And Emily...”
I stare at the window.
“Emily?”
He clicks his fingers, and I immediately look up at him.
“You're doing very well,” he says with a smile. “Very well indeed. At this rate, I should think you'll be home before Christmas. Doesn't that sound good?”
I open my mouth to reply, but I'm not really sure what to say. After a moment, I turn and look back out the window, watching the lawn and waiting to see if the crow returns. I've only seen him a few times so far, but he's strangely reassuring, and I'd like to know that he's okay.
There's no sign of the crow, although after a while I notice what looks like a man in the distance, watching from the forest. I can't really make him out very well, and I suppose there's no reason to worry, so I simply keep my eyes fixed on the lawn.
I hope the crow is safe.
After spending several hours looking out at the garden, I finally feel a sudden urge to move. Getting to my feet, I turn and shuffle across the room, although I don't really know where I'm going. There aren't many options, and I suppose I'll end up back in my room. As I pass the door to the TV room, however, I realize I can hear raised voices inside, and a moment later I peer through and see several other patients watching a news report.
“It's disgusting,” one of them sneers as I step into the room. “This country is falling apart! How does a lunatic like that get hold of a gun?”
“Or more importantly,” someone replies, “how does a gun like that get hold of a lunatic?”
On the screen, a reporter is speaking directly to the camera, while the remains of a ruined building can be seen in the background.
“You can't catch everything,” another patient mutters. “The gun didn't make that asshole shoot those people. If you ban guns, what do you ban next? Cars? Knives? Hands? It's not exactly difficult to kill.”
“What happened?” I whisper.
One of the men turns to me, and I step back, feeling a little startled.
“Another shooting,” he says with a sigh. “I swear, there must be one every day at the moment. It's like the whole world is going crazy.”
I turn to leave the room, but suddenly the image on the screen changes and I see what's left of a church. Thick smoke is rising into the sky, and fire crews look to be still working to deal with the situation. A moment later, a man's photo appears on the screen, with a name underneath.
“Carl Hodges,” I whisper, feeling a shudder run through my chest.
I recognize him from somewhere.
“That's the creep,” a woman explains. “Shot five people dead in a church last night and then burned the place down, before turning the gun on himself.” She turns to me. “That's what always drives me crazy. These idiots always kill themselves, instead of actually facing justice for what they've done. If you ask me, it's the cowardly way out.
”
The image changes, and I see pictures of five people. I recognize their faces, too, although I still can't quite remember where I've seen them before.
“Elizabeth,” I whisper, reading the names beneath the photos, “James, Marie...”
“Those are the poor bastards who were shot,” another patient tells me. I've met him before. He's a friendly guy named Marvin, perhaps a little too friendly but – ultimately – harmless enough. “Apparently they'd met in the church for some kind of group support meeting, and one of the members just went absolutely nuts. I swear to God, I don't think I want to live in a world where people aren't even safe in church. I mean, I know I'm not exactly a picture of sanity, but at least I only ever hurt myself. I never turned on anyone around me.”
He sighs.
“It's things like this,” he adds under his breath, “that make me think I'm better off in here.”
As the others continue to talk, I step closer to the screen and watch more pictures of the ruined church. I know I recognize the town, and the church, and the people in the pictures, but I feel as if there's some kind of block in my mind. Since my ECT treatment began, I've become accustomed to this shoddy memory, and up until now I was able to accept that some things had simply slipped away from me. Right now, however, I can't shake the feeling that this news story is somehow important.
I should remember these people.
“Are you alright?” someone asks suddenly, nudging my arm.
I look over at him, before realizing that I can feel tears running down my face.
“I'm fine,” I stammer, reaching up and wiping my eyes. Suddenly filled with a sense of crippling embarrassment, I turn and hurry out of the room, although I stop again once I'm in the corridor. Leaning against the wall, I take a deep breath and try to stay calm, but it's almost as if some hidden part of my mind is horrified by what I just saw on the news.
Finally I start sobbing uncontrollably, and I sink down to the floor as one of the attendants calls out to me.