by K. C. Cross
I just watch his glowing orange-red taillights until they disappear into the woods. “What the hell was that?”
“That was him.”
“That wasn’t him, Pia. You’ve lost your mind.”
“Then where is he?”
“I don’t know. Outside, I guess.”
“Let’s go look.” She flies down the stairs, but I don’t follow. Instead I flip the light on in the bathroom and resume my tour.
It’s super small, but that’s OK. There’s an old tub with a shower, a small vanity, and a very nice antique mirror. I finger the towels hanging off a rack absently, kind of admitting that this is a little weird.
Pia is right. The cottage looks very much lived in, but there are no personal items—no hairbrushes, toothbrushes, no clothes on the floor or anything like that. But someone has to live here. It’s all too… taken care of. And it cannot be the young caretaker giving me the tour.
Unless French countryside is just his style? But honestly, I don’t think that’s it.
“You better come down here and look,” Pia chirps.
I flip the lights off and go back down the stairs. The cottage door is still open, so I walk through it, assuming she’s already outside.
This cottage is a little bit downhill from the main cathedral. So even though I can see the top of the building and the glow of the gas lights, there are no actual lights down here. Just the leftover shimmer of amber filtering through the cottage windows.
“Pia?” I call into the encroaching darkness.
“Over here.”
I slip around the corner to a little walkway, and then look up to find the window Pia and I were looking out just a couple minutes ago. Yep, this is the place.
“Where is he?” I look around, but there’s absolutely no one here but us.
“He went through the gate. I told you. That old man was the young caretaker.”
I just roll my eyes at her, walk down the path, grab the handle of the wooden gate, and pull on it so I can look in the parking lot.
But… it doesn’t open.
“Shit. It’s locked.”
Pia lands on my shoulder. “I think we need to leave. Right now. Something is wrong here. Something is very, very wrong here.”
I pull on the gate one more time—still locked—then turn around and spy the silver ring on the edge of the path. I walk over to it and I’m just about to pick it up when Pia says, “Don’t touch it!”
I straighten. “Why not?”
“It’s magic.”
“Oh, my God. Why are you so stupid today?” I pick up the ring and look at it in the dim light of the moon. There’s an engraving on the outside, but it’s too dark to make out. It’s similar to the design on the cottage doorknob, leaves and a face. Maybe that Green Man guy, but I can’t be sure because there’s not enough light.
“Don’t put it on,” Pia warns.
“I’m not gonna put it on, you weirdo. I’m going to find the caretaker and give it to him. That old guy was probably his grandfather or something.”
Pia climbs over my shoulder, and slips inside the front pocket of my flannel. Burrowing into my chest.
Her warm body is a comforting feeling that I have grown used to over the years and more than once I have found myself hoping that she never goes away. Even if it means I really am crazy.
I slip the ring into my front pocket with Pia and start back up the walkway, irritated with the caretaker. Because what the hell?
My annoyance doesn’t last long. I’m too enthralled with this place and I find myself thinking about the cottage instead. It’s so nice in there. So homey, and warm, and comfy. I really could see myself living there. I mean, not permanently or anything. But I can picture this life. The secluded woods. The old buildings. All that stained glass to stare at on the daily. How hard could caretaking be?
I get to the top of the gently sloping hill and the cathedral comes into full view. It looks a lot smaller on the outside. So much smaller, I pause on the path to consider this. In fact, the front of this place and the back of it don’t look anything alike.
The atrium—that’s what I’m calling that back room that leads out into the cemetery—is clearly visible from here. It’s a wide half circle. And if I squint, I can see the grand staircase of stone steps that we came down through the massive windows. But there is no way there can be two equally grand stone staircases on either side of it.
It’s just not possible. The building isn’t even that wide.
“Huh.”
I expect Pia to say something. Ask me what I’m thinking, at least. She’s reliably nosey in almost all situations. But she doesn’t even poke her head up out of curiosity.
“It must be a trick of the light,” I mutter, continuing on my way.
The stone tombs on either side of the walkway are a lot creepier now that the sun has set. Light filters down the lawn from the cathedral and back patio, making weird, dark shadows on the grass all around me. And there are so many tombs out there. I didn’t quite understand that before. They are packed together. Almost on top of each other.
It’s kinda creepy after dark and I’m suddenly having second thoughts about that cottage.
I look over my shoulder, but the top of the slightly sloping hill I’m now walking down has hidden it from view.
If I get this job, I would be living out there all alone.
“Oh!” I say, more to myself than Pia. “Maybe we should find that Tomas guy? He wasn’t creepy at all. I liked him. And the caretaker said he was staying. So who cares if that guy makes us shiver? Right? He’s leaving. We don’t need to bother thinking about him at all.”
This line of questioning should get Pia’s attention. But she keeps quiet.
I hurry past all the eerie tombs and enter the cathedral once more. Then pause to take in the two staircases on either side of the main one. I go back outside, just to make sure I’m getting this.
Nope. There is no possible way that those staircases exist.
Except… when I walk inside, there they are.
OK. Maybe Pia is right. This place might actually be more than we think.
She’s still huddled inside my flannel pocket. Quiet. Unmoving. This is not like her. Not like her at all.
Well, not entirely true. She hides like this—goes all quiet and still—when she thinks I’m in danger and I should not be distracted.
She went still and quiet when we got arrested for stealing soup when I was seventeen.
She went still and quiet when my mother dropped me off at child protective services when I was nine and never came back.
A chill runs up my spine.
Pia is right. Something is wrong.
I run towards the stairs and take them three and four at a time. A minute later I’m rushing out into the main hall, aiming for the massive double doors through the dark shadows. I grab the handle, fully expecting to find it locked, but it opens easily, and with that same familiar creak.
Then I’m through, and out, and running across the well-manicured lawn in a thick fog, towards the walking gate.
But… it’s not there.
The fog curls around my legs like a snake. But I keep going. Until there is so much fog, I can’t see anything in front of me and I have to stretch my arms out, feeling around for the cold iron. “It has to be here,” I whisper, out of breath from running and panic. “It has to. Gates don’t just disappear.”
And young men don’t turn into old grandpas before your eyes, either.
But that’s just what Pia said happened. I didn’t actually see that.
“Pia.” I don’t know why I’m whispering. There’s no one out here. But I do it again. “Pia?” My voice is more urgent this time.
Her tiny body is still huddled inside my pocket, but she’s not moving.
I stop in the fog, reach into my pocket, and pull her out. She is limp.
“Pia?” I gasp. I put her up to my cheek and she’s still warm, but she’s… lifeless. Which is
kind of ironic, because she’s not even real, but there’s a clear difference in how she feels right now and how she should feel if nothing were wrong.
I pet her back and wings, keeping her pressed up to my cheek. “What is going on?”
And where the hell is my Jeep? I keep walking. The fog lifts just a little, just enough so that I can tell the difference between where I’m at and where I’m going, but I can’t make out anything else but depth. No trees, no grass, no street, no gate. And when I look over my shoulder, I can’t see the cathedral, either.
For a moment I stop and just stand there. Afraid to go forward and also afraid to turn around.
As unlikely as it seems, there is clearly nothing in front of me.
But if I turn, I might get lost. I have no landmarks to orient my way.
“Hello!” I yell. “Can anyone hear me?”
I pause, hoping for a reply, but there is nothing. Literally nothing. Like I’m in some kind of blank space. Some kind of in-between.
And for some reason, the word that comes to mind is… purgatory.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
“Pia. Wake up, Pia. Why are you doing this? What’s happening?” I sound pathetic and small, and this kind of pisses me off. Because that’s not who I am.
I’m fearless, and snarky, and most of the time, I’m downright bitchy.
I am not afraid, or weak, or fragile. Not usually, at least. But right now, I feel like all of those things have taken over my body. And then I truly do panic. My heart starts racing. My chest feels tight, like I’m about to have a heart attack. I can’t seem to get enough breath into my lungs. It’s all ragged gasping. I collapse to my knees, still holding Pia protectively in my cupped hand.
“Help.” It’s not a call this time. Just a sad, weak whisper of a plea.
“Hello?” A deep voice cuts through the fog. “Where are you?”
“I’m here!” I say, getting to my feet. “Where are you?”
“Follow my voice. You’re in the gray.”
“I don’t think I can. I can’t tell where you are!”
“Just follow my voice. You can do it. I’ll keep talking.”
I take a step and then another, unsure if I’m going in the right direction. But then he says, “Keep coming. I think I see you.”
So I keep walking until the shape of the hot dude who called out to me from the second-floor balcony comes into view. Tomas. That’s what the caretaker guy called him. “You. Where did you go?” I ask. Which is an odd first question to a complete stranger. But he should’ve met me at the door, not that creepy kid.
“Oh. Sorry.” He frowns, his dark eyes drooping a bit with his mouth. “I was stuck upstairs.”
“Who are you? Where’s my Jeep? Why is there no gate?”
Tomas hesitantly stretches out his hand. Like he’s not sure if he wants to really offer it. “We have to go back. You can’t be out here. It’s very easy to get lost.”
“But where is here?”
“We can talk about it later. Just… try to take my hand.”
And there’s nothing else for me to do but what he’s asking. I place my hand in his and immediately my entire body becomes warm and the fear that was so acute just a moment ago ebbs and then… disappears.
Suddenly we are walking on grass again. And then the cathedral comes into view. Pia begins squirming in my hand, like she’s waking up from a bad dream.
“Pia! You’re OK!” I hold her close to my heart. She chirps, but no words come out of her mouth. Just bird talk, which I do not speak. “Why are you talking like that?”
“Talking like what?” Tomas asks me.
Shit. He can’t see her. Of course he can’t see her. But he can’t hear her little bird chirps either, so now it looks like I’m talking to myself.
Again.
And he will think I’m crazy, just like everyone else. And that’s… I sigh. Pretty much the story of my life.
“Never mind,” I say, suddenly very tired, my feet very heavy, like I’m walking with lead shoes.
We trudge up the steps and we’re just about to enter the cathedral when I turn and look over my shoulder. Surely the gate is still there. My Jeep is still there. The road… all of it has to be there.
But it isn’t.
There is nothing but the hazy gray fog. It’s so close to the building now, I get a chill and a wave of claustrophobia shudders through me.
I follow Tomas into the sanctuary and he shuts the massive wooden door behind me.
“There,” he says. “It’s OK now. But…” He stops, looking past me. And when I turn to see what he’s focused on, I find him staring intently at the staircase.
“Who are you? What is this place? Where is my fucking Jeep!” My voice starts soft, but by the last demand, it’s loud and echoing up in the high ceilings.
“Shhh!” He hushes me with a firm hand over my mouth. Then he pauses, looking down into my eyes as I gaze up at his. I don’t know what happens, but we have some kind of moment.
The silent moment is broken by a peculiar clip-clop sound that reverberates up from the bottom of the stairs.
I rip his hand from my mouth and turn. “What the hell is that?” I don’t completely understand the panic in my voice, and if asked, I wouldn’t be able to articulate it. But it’s there.
His hand quickly covers my mouth again. “Do not say another word.” Tomas looks down at me. He’s still shirtless. Still cut and handsome. But he’s not confident. He’s not… comfortable. And he holds my gaze long enough for me to discern all the different colors of brown in his eyes. Rings of light brown—almost a wheat color—circle his irises. There are blurry blotches of green too, and some dark parts. His eyes are like a kaleidoscope of all the hues in the woods.
The clip-clop continues on the stairs and I find myself leaning that way, trying to see what’s coming, even though every bone in my body is screaming at me to run.
This makes no sense. But that gray fog outside didn’t make any sense either, and nothing about this place seems to be logical.
The clip-clops become louder. Almost thumping. No, thundering with each footfall, because now I understand what it is I am hearing.
They are footsteps.
But not feet. Not of a human. Human feet don’t clip-clop. Horses clip-clop. Goats. Bulls. Cows. Deer, maybe, but not humans.
So it should come as no surprise to me that the creature—no, the monster—that appears at the top of the stairs isn’t human. And I am so focused on the footsteps, that’s where I’m looking when the feet finally come into view.
But of course, they are not feet. They are hooves.
A horn, a hoof, an eye, a bone…
My gaze wanders up the monster’s legs, covered in thick, light brown fur that matches the wheat-colored rings in Tomas’s eyes. He still has his hand over my mouth.
They are not human legs. They are the legs of a goat, or a deer, or a bull.
I look up and find a bare chest. The chest of a man. The neck of a man. The arms and hands of a man, except for the claws. And when my eyes track to the beast’s face, and meet his gaze, I hope for the eyes of a man too, but that’s not what I find staring back at me.
“What the fuck is that thing!” Even though Tomas’s hand is still clasped tightly over my mouth, I scream these words out. And then I bite him, forcing him to let me go. I run to the door, ready to pull it open and take my chances in the gray nothingness, but the thundering, thumping sound of hooves follows me, and I am abruptly pulled back—flying through the air and looking up at a magnificent painted ceiling—before I fall.
And then three things happen all at once:
Pia flies up out of my hand and turns into a moth.
Tomas yells, “No! He’s gone, Pell! He’s gone! We need her!”
And I hit the ground and everything goes black.
CHAPTER THREE - PELL
When you are cursed, you know it.
No one has to tell you. No one has
to explain it to you. It’s just… there. Like your hand always was.
And when a curse breaks, that realization rushes in.
This is how I wake up this evening. With the abrupt realization that Grant is gone.
Not gone, like he went to the store without me. Not gone, like he took the car in for an oil change. But capital-letter-G gone, as in his curse has been lifted.
And there’s a moment—there’s always that fucking moment—when I think, Hell yeah. We’re done. We’re finally free.
But then… Reality check, Pell.
He’s gone.
I’m still here.
I just had that moment and now I am standing in the middle of the cemetery, surrounded on all sides by lifeless, lost souls, watching the form of an unfamiliar shadow as it runs into the cathedral.
I turn that direction, then sniff the air and turn back towards the unused slave cottage.
Because someone has been here.
Someone who is not Tomas, who is not Grant, who is not me. And there is no one else. Hasn’t been anyone else in more than half a century.
Except now there is.
I look back at the cathedral, wondering about my shadow intruder. But I am drawn back to the scent coming from the opposite direction.
It’s conflicting. It’s a mixture. I can discern it now. Grant and someone else. But Grant’s scent is different somehow. Nothing I can immediately understand, I just know that something has gone wrong here tonight.
So instead of following the shadow, I follow Grant. Slowly at first, my joints aching from the day’s inactivity. But then I am running down the hill and it’s so much stronger down here, the scent of wrong, that I slide to a stop in the wet grass and sniff again, trying to separate out the scents.
Grant.
Not Grant, but close.
And the third scent is definitely not Grant at all.
This is when the situation really sinks in.
Grant has left the sanctuary.
This is not completely unusual because he leaves all the time. The grocery store, the oil change place, what have you. But he never leaves without the ring on his finger and that ring is still here. I can feel it.