Stirring Embers: An urban fantasy action adventure (The Light and the Void Book 1)

by Willem Killian

  There was a small wooden balustrade along the edge of the hole, and she used this to balance herself as she got onto the wooden floor. The floor seemed solid enough (just like every other thing in the house), and Charlene didn't even feel it give. She wondered if there was a concrete floor below the wooden planks. She shook her head and wondered at her sudden interest in the build of the house.

  The attic was an open expanse with no furniture of its own. Instead, it seemed to be nothing more than a storage room for old boxes and some mismatched garden furniture. It offered two beautiful bay windows on opposite ends, where the pitch of the roof would be, and was capped by two brick walls. The one closest to her was obviously the exterior wall of the side of the house, and the other split the attic from the rest of the roof.

  This would make a beautiful room, she thought. She couldn't see any pipes for plumbing, which meant no bathroom, but that didn't matter. This could be turned into a beautiful studio or study. She walked over to the window, which would be directly over the middle of RW's room. The view was spectacular. She was able to see the town hall, the church, and even a part of the town square from here. What was more impressive with the extra bit of height, was how the house loomed over the town and the valley below it. Even the top of Hoyden's Hill in the background seemed to bow down before her. It truly looked as if the entire world lay at her feet. A strange feeling seemed to overcome her, as if this is how it was supposed to be.

  “Watcha doin'?”

  The voice startled her before she could properly identify and assess this new feeling that was a mixture of superiority and destiny.

  Charlene whipped around and threw an instinctive punch at the intruder. Luckily, Rosewater had jumped in and away when she planned to scare her friend. Charlene's fist missed her nose by inches.

  “Whoa there!” Rosewater called. “It's only me.”

  “Moron!” Charlene countered. “I could have knocked you over and you could have gone flying down the stairs and broken your neck.”

  Both girls looked at the stairwell, which was a good ten feet away, and looked back at each other with equally wide eyes.

  “In your dreams,” Rosewater quipped.

  “Yeah, you're right.” Charl conceded. “I would never be that lucky.”

  “Bitch,” Rosewater hissed in mock defiance.

  “And don't you forget it,” Charlene smiled and held her arms outstretched, and Rosewater accepted the hug.

  “What are you doing up here?” Rosewater asked as the bonds of friendship were re-established.

  “I don't know really,” Charlene answered. “I thought I heard something.” She frowned and thought about it. “Actually. I woke up, thinking I heard something. I got up and something told me to look in the attic.”

  “Why?” Rosewater said, looking around, indicating the emptiness with an expansive hand gesture. “There's nothing here.”

  “Well, I know that now,” Charl rolled her eyes. “It's the first time I've been up here.”

  “Me, too,” Rosewater answered.

  “You've never been up in your own attic?”

  Rosewater shrugged. “No reason to.”

  Charlene shook her head, as if disappointed. “Not even out of curiosity?”

  “Nope. It's an attic. What could possibly be interesting in an attic? Besides,” she looked sheepishly at the nearest corner. “There might be spiders,”

  “Ah,” Charlene exclaimed. “And there we have it. The princess of Castle Prouza, is scared of spiders.”

  “And you're not?”

  “Well,” Charlene paused. “Not when they're in your hair!” She feigned a shriek and pointed at Rosewater's hair.

  Rosewater merely rolled her eyes. “Lame,” she whispered, making an L symbol with her thumb and forefinger and placing it on her forehead, sticking out her tongue.

  “That actually means “loser,” loser,” Charlene quipped.

  “Says the one in an attic in the middle of the night.”

  “Touche,” Charlene answered. “But it's not technically the middle of the night. The sun will be up soon. Speaking of which,” she turned towards the window overlooking the valley, urging her friend to join her. “Look at that view! It's a pity we can't see a sunset or sunrise from here.”

  “Wow,” Rosewater acknowledged. “I am impressed. That is spectacular.”

  “Spectacular?” Charlene giggled. “Since when do you use spectacular?”

  “Ever since I became president of the art club at my very exclusive private school,” she said in a British accent, trying to sound posh.

  “I may be a bitch,” Charlene said, “but you are an A-grade brat.”

  Rosewater merely pouted her lips, batted her eyelids, did a curtsy and then winked at her friend. “Should we go wake up Chef?”

  Both girls laughed and turned from the window.

  Charlene walked ahead and Rosewater lingered for a second at the window. Just for a moment, as she had turned her head away from the window, heading to the stairs, she could have sworn that someone had been standing across the street, behind the sugar maple on the Jenkins' sidewalk. Whoever it had been, had been looking at them, his head tilted upwards. But it couldn't have been real. There had been too many shadows under the tree to get a good look. The man had seemed enormous. Like one of those gigantic WWE wrestlers on TV. When she stopped and turned for a proper look, he was gone. She kept staring at the tree for another second or two until Charlene called her.

  A shadow, she thought. It must have been a shadow.

  CHAPTER 20

  Eleanor slept for thirteen hours straight before her body gently coaxed her back to wakefulness. It was the opposite of going to sleep. Thirteen hours ago, she had a quick meal consisting of a ham, lettuce, and tomato sandwich, followed by a glass of water, a trip to the bathroom and then lying down on her bed. She didn't even attempt to get under the sheets. It had been as if gravity had a hold of her and forced her down onto the pillow. She had fallen asleep even before her head landed.

  Now though, she slowly woke. Eyes blinking and unfocused at first, listening to the birds outside, her mind coming awake, her body still asleep. It was a blissful waking experience with no sense of urgency. Her mind and soul were sending messages that she didn't have to rush getting up.

  It was only when her stomach growled that Eleanor became fully aware of her surroundings, sitting up. She got up and shuffled to the bathroom. The en-suite was on the western side of the small three bedroom house, and although it was on the second floor with the rest of the rooms, it was permanently cast in shadows due to an old elm tree.

  Confronted with that dark slab of shadow, everything that had happened in the last few days came back to her. Eleanor, moaned, grabbed at her chest and slid down the door frame, where she ended up in a pile on the floor. For a second, perhaps two, she had been convinced that the Thing was waiting for her in there.

  Now that her eyes had adjusted to the dimness of the room, she could see there was nothing there, but the feeling still persisted. She had faced the Thing in the train, afraid, but still able to stand up to it. But now, here in her own home, her haven from the terrible things out there, she was paralyzed and overcome with an inexplicable fear.

  What if the Thing had figured out how to be invisible from her as well? What if it was in there? Claws ready to rip and tear at her.

  Eleanor closed her eyes and with great willpower, a stubbornness and anger overcame her fear. The realist had taken control.

  She was not about to go through life scared of things she couldn't see. What kind of life would that be? You'd always be terrified.

  No.

  It was a firm and final decision. She would not live her life paralyzed by fear.

  Despite her shaking knees, she stood up with a superhuman force of will alone. The nagging fear subdued, but still in the back of her neck. Her hand reached out to switch on the bathroom light and then she stopped, finger already extended.

  “No,”
she said aloud, dropped her hand and walked into the bathroom. She closed the door, more out of habit than anything else, and went to the toilet.

  She didn't care if the Thing was here, spying on her, thinking of nefarious ways to torture and kill her.

  Eleanor lifted the lid, pulled down her pants and panties in one deft movement and sat down. She extended both middle fingers at the dusky shadows.

  She hoped the Thing was enjoying the show while she was taking a shit.

  Showered, dressed and refreshed, Eleanor looked at her handwritten notes and her attempt at a composite sketch. She had never been much of an artist and her lack of talent was evident. Her sketch looked nothing like the Thing she remembered, but she had the basics right. The sketch was for her and no one else. She wanted a physical thing to refer to, rather than having to recall the Thing in her head all the time. She wanted to remember the over-extended powerful jaw, the sharp teeth, the slits for four ears, the six eyes.

  She had another sketch, which was her idea of a figure drawing. The Thing was captured in its predatory stance on the train. Once she started drawing it, she realized that the Thing did not seem to wear a scrap of clothing, except for a leather duffel bag of sorts, slung over its shoulder. Eleanor couldn't recall having seen any sexual organs, but she was convinced that the Thing was a male, and not some exotic sexless species of monster.

  She laughed out loud at the thought. You wouldn't associate reproductive organs with monsters, but there it was. She had been thinking about a monster's penis. Am I that lonely? This sent her into another burst of giggles.

  Her laughter sounded genuine and carefree and she was happy that the old Eleanor was still there. The Thing wasn't going to get her down. It only had as much power over her as she would allow it. The Thing was powerful enough to kill her within a second and there was absolutely nothing she would be able to do about it, but so what? The realization was liberating, rather than debilitating.

  If I honestly can't do anything about it, then why worry? she thought.

  She gathered all her notes and her two sketches, put them in a folder and placed them in the top drawer of her mahogany desk. She wasn't expecting any visitors, but she wasn't about to take any chances. It wasn't a conversation she wanted to have. She could always suggest that it was research for a new book, but Eleanor had never been any good at lying. Besides, it would be out of character. She made a living researching crime and police procedure, not fantasy.

  Looking at her personal library, you wouldn't find the likes of Tolkien, Brooks, King, Koontz or any other authors who earned their keep by writing about things that never were. Her library was filled with factual books about the law, police procedure, forensics, pathology and other works dedicated to the sciences. The popular fiction selection included books by Leonard, Child, Patterson, the Kellermans, Cornwall, Reichs, Grisham, Baldacci, and scores of others.

  No one would believe that she suddenly had a change of disposition and started to explore the world of fantasy and the supernatural. It would be out of character, which is why she put the file away.

  Over coffee and a breakfast consisting of two eggs, two rashers of bacon, grilled tomatoes, mushrooms, and a single slice of wholewheat toast, Eleanor planned her day.

  She had to send her notes and research off to the self-proclaimed Great Crime Novelist Stephen Delaigne. That would buy her two or three days before he would expect the next batch of work.

  Eleanor realized that she would need to create a work schedule for herself and stick to it. The last thing she needed was to be chasing monsters and then have her employer fire her for not working. She would have to find a balance.

  Jogging, hiking and camping would have to take a backseat for a while. At least until she could figure this Thing out. This meant more time indoors in front of the computer. On a notepad on her desk, Eleanor made a note of asking Peter at the grocery store to have things delivered to her. She tapped the pen on her bottom lip, thinking of other things to help out with the logistics of hunting a monster.

  Was it time to start shopping for silver bullets?

  Eleanor was surprised that she hadn't thought of that before. Probably because it isn't a werewolf, the cynic offered a snide retort.

  It may not be a werewolf, she thought, but many mythological creatures have a weakness for silver. Silver bullets might be something to look into.

  On the very first day after having spotted the Thing, she had taken out and cleaned her revolver. It was a .38 Chief's Special. A solid weapon that Dan Almeida had taught her to shoot. She was familiar with it and it offered a sense of safety at night when she had been sitting alone, doing her monster research. She decided that she needed to get to the shooting range. And perhaps just drive around, trolling for the Thing.

  If she found it, she might as well see if it was bulletproof or not.

  CHAPTER 21

  Rosewater noticed that Charlene seemed occupied the entire morning. She seemed to be daydreaming, and she kept stealing glances at the ceiling from time to time. Even when they were outside sunbathing next to the pool, she caught Charlene looking towards the attic now and again.

  They were getting ready to go to a late afternoon barbecue at Anon Shandrie's house, the current Havensford Independent star pitcher, when she couldn't take it anymore.

  Charlene had looked at the ceiling again, her head cocked to one side as if she was listening for something.

  “What's up?”

  Charlene seemed to come out of a dream. “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Your fascination with the attic,” Rosewater looked up at the ceiling for emphasis.

  Charlene shrugged and feigned innocence. But Rosewater had seen the quick flash of guilt in her friend's face.

  “What's up?” she asked again.

  “I,” Charlene's voice faltered and drifted away to nothingness.

  Rosewater waited patiently. Charlene always told her in the end.

  “I,” Charlene began and paused. She looked from the ceiling into her friend's blue eyes. “I don't know. It's weird,” she paused again.

  “How?”

  “Like,” the frown again, followed by a quick glance upwards. “Like something is calling me.”

  “Right now?” Rosewater asked, still unconcerned, but curious.

  “No,” Charlene shook her head. “Just now, a few minutes ago. Like a whispering. I've been hearing something ever since I got here. It's really been bugging me this last day or so. Like it's getting louder and more consistent. Did you hear anything?” She looked at her friend.

  Rosewater pouted her lips. “This has been happening the whole day?” she asked.

  “Yes!” Charlene said, hopeful that her friend had heard it too at some stage. “You heard it too?”

  “Nope,” Rosewater looked perplexed. “I've been with you all day and haven't heard a thing. What do you hear?”

  “Whispering,” Charlene replied, dropping her own voice to a whisper, as if suddenly shy. Or afraid.

  “That's what you said, yes. But can you hear what the person is saying?”

  “Oh, no,” Charlene said with a deep frown. “It's not just one person. It's like a room full of people. All of them whispering at the same time. I can't make out anything.”

  “Since when have you been hearing these...uhm,” Rosewater paused for a millisecond, trying to find the right word that wouldn't sound too condescending. “Whisperers,” she finished lamely.

  It wasn't the word she wanted to use, but it seemed better than asking someone about the voices other people couldn't hear.

  “Since yesterday morning. After we'd been up there.”

  “Hmmm.” Rosewater ventured. “It could be water in your ears.”

  Charlene looked at her blankly.

  “You know. From after the swim yesterday.”

  Charlene nodded her head and smiled. Rosewater rarely made fun of her and always tried to help.

  “I guess,” she replied with her own smile.


  “Okay, then!” Rosewater exclaimed. “Put it out of your mind and let's see which outfit will make the boys' heads spin.”

  “Jeez,” Charlene shook her head. “You can have one if you like, but as a good Catholic girl, I am not going anywhere near a boy who might be possessed. You can have the head spinners.”

  “Now, now,” Rosewater held a forefinger aloft. “Don't be so judgmental. We can only make that call if they start to vomit green pea soup,”

  “Gross,” Charlene chuckled. “Speaking of judgmental, is our older disapproving sista Eleanor still taking us?”

  “Yes,” RW answered with a smile. “I wonder sometimes if that girl ever had fun when she was younger.”

  “She’s just looking out for us,” Charlene returned the smile. “And she’s been through a lot.”

  Rosewater nodded. They both knew of Eleanor’s history as a reporter and the confrontation with David ICK that ended her career.

  Both girls had their driver’s licenses, Rosewater even had a little 1 Series BMW in the garage, but when it came to parties, Eleanor insisted that she drop them off and pick them up again. Mrs. Prouza of course, couldn't be bothered one way or the other. She just wished them to have fun. And so, the burden always fell on Eleanor. Not that she minded. In fact, she insisted, even if the girls were responsible enough and could withstand the temptation of drugs and alcohol. There was always the off chance, even in Havensford that someone might slip them something. It was her way of being a big sister and looking out for them. RW and Charl didn't mind, and neither did Eleanor.

  “We just need to call her when we want to come home,” Rosewater added.