Ante Mortem (14 page)

Tim chewed at his lower lip. “Who said that?”

“
It’s from
Richard III
.”

“
You have that underlined?”

Elliot barely kept from flinching that time. “Yeah.”

“
Think you missed the point. But that’s all I needed to hear,” Tim said, moving suddenly—
too
suddenly —for Elliot to realize what was happening.

A rough hand on his shoulder, something knocking hard against his knees in the back, buckling them. He pitched forward, and the wall rushed to meet him.

It was like belly-flopping into a pool, but instead of cold and wet, it was cold and stale. A thick clinging sense of nothing all over him. He spun, though he didn’t know if it was head-over-feet or the other way around.

An invisible hand stopped him, shoved him hard against an equally invisible wall. His head slammed off it; a deafening crack inside his skull, lights behind his eyes the only thing he could see. That cackle, a hundred cackles, shuddered not just through his head, but through his veins.

“
You can’t take me,” he mumbled through the confusion. Something wet dripping down his neck, in his hair. It was hard to concentrate on anything else. He shivered, and the icy hand—three times the size of a normal one—pressed harder against his chest. His lungs groaned under the pressure. “We have a deal.”

Stale autumn wind on his cheek:
We have a new deal. We take back what we gave you. We give it to the new boy.

Tim’s awful fucking smile.

A cracking in his chest, but not of bones. An invisible barrier gave way, a shock to his soul that wracked his body. The hand pushed through, grabbed at him inside, then drew out his
self
.

He saw his body in the dark as it dropped to its knees, then fell. He couldn’t even scream.

Tim curled around himself, leaned against a ramshackle stone. The air wasn’t as cold anymore, but he still shivered. He could hear Them inside, eating, still hungry. There was no enjoyment in Them, just ravenous emptiness.

He should have left, but he was frozen. His face felt wet, but he didn’t think he was crying. He just sat, staring at the picturesque mausoleum in the dark and hugging his knees to his chest, reciting snatches of things he’d read over the last week in his head, trying to find the one that would save him. Tennyson was no good anymore, but neither was anything else. And then there was the shuddering feeling he got every time Shakespeare appeared.

When they were done, he heard that voice in his head—the one from last night, cold and silver.
You may take him back. We are finished.

The wall before him shimmered, knotwork blurring. Elliot stepped through, looked right through him with electric eyes. Something dark and viscous trickled down his forehead, from his shining hair. His fine, full lips were an appalling shade of gray, chalky skin stretched too tight over high cheekbones and forehead.

Tim’s vision blurred.

Would you like some of what we took from him, or something else? Charm magic, perhaps, to counteract your… defects?

Tim choked a little. “I don’t want anything.”

A moment of silence, a ripple through the air. Confusion.

Tim forced himself to his feet, retrieved his pack. Movements stiff, body numb. He avoided looking at the still-beautiful thing that used to be Elliot. “And I don’t want him back. He’s yours.”

It
was
important to have standards.

The first few steps were the hardest. Past the oblong stone they’d photographed, past the cigarette butts they’d pressed into the ground. Toward the angel with the crumbling wings and the weathered rocking horse, the weight of his camera bouncing reassuringly against his back.

* * * *

Hunger Pains

Myrrym Davies

Early evening sunlight filtered through slatted ceiling vents, highlighting the cobwebbed rafters with a dim, orange glow. The rest of the attic lay shrouded in shadows; moldering boxes and cast off furniture lining the walls like cloth-draped sentinels, guarding the room’s hidden secrets.
Sarah ran the beam of her Barbie flashlight over stacks of dusty crates and discarded sundries, a satisfied grin creeping onto her face.

There was bound to be some cool stuff buried there. It was just a matter of finding a way past those bulky boxes and boring old furniture.

She swung the flashlight in a slow sweep and spied a couple of crates she felt she could squeeze between. Her grin widened to a smile of anticipation as she headed towards the back of the room. Today, she would find something really special.

She could feel it.

Sarah might have missed the box had the beam of her flashlight not glinted off its latches. It lay in the farthest corner of the attic, half hidden behind a stack of brittle newspapers, its leather top coated in a thin layer of dust. Sarah blew a stray lock of dirty, blonde hair out of her face and aimed the light at the box, a grin dimpling her cheek as she inspected its cracked, brown casing and tarnished hinges.

Treasure!

Setting the flashlight on the floor, she grabbed the handle with both hands and pulled. Excitement bubbled in her belly as she dragged the trunk from behind the papers, revealing a row of discolored catches along the front. Images of possible treasures flitted through her mind: photographs, curling and yellow with age; clothes from a forgotten era; colorful costume jewelry. The box could contain anything. She would not know until she cracked the lid and peeked inside.

Sarah released her grip on the handle and circled to the front of the trunk, examining the pitted catches. Four simple lever clasps—easy enough to open, provided they had not rusted shut. She lifted the first three with no trouble and gazed at the fourth, a grin spreading across her dust-covered face. This was the part Sarah loved most: the moment of discovery. She loosened the final clasp, reached for her flashlight and raised the lid.

A cracked, wooden face surrounded by blonde curls gazed up at her from a bed of black velvet.

Cool…a doll!

Sarah shone the light over her newest find. It was a pretty thing, with golden hair and a pink satin dress, and much larger than most of the dolls she owned—about the size of a two-year-old child.
It looks really old
, she thought, reaching in to prop the toy up. She repositioned the flashlight and studied the wooden face. Cracked and flaking shellac marred the doll’s features, giving it an almost diseased look. The retractable eyelids appeared glued in a half-lidded state, adding to the toy’s sickly appearance. Twin lines ran from the corners of the Cupid’s bow mouth, curving to meet underneath the chin.

Maybe the mouth opens and closes
, she thought, brushing a renegade curl from the doll’s face.
Like those dummies the ventriloquist guys use
. Sarah pressed a finger against the doll’s lower lip, but the lacquered teeth remained firmly clenched. She reached around to the back, feeling for some kind of lever or button that might operate the jaw.

The doll’s eyes clicked open.

Sarah jerked her hand away and giggled, silently chiding herself for being such a scaredy-cat. She shone the flashlight at the doll’s face, taking in its glassy, green eyes. “Cool,” Sarah said, leaning in for a closer look. The eyes were intricately detailed—from the golden flecks in its glass irises to the delicate lashes on the lids.

They almost look real...

“
Sarah? Where are you, hon?”

Sarah flinched and craned her head over her shoulder. “Coming, Momma,” she said, scrambling to stand up. A chill washed over her as she considered what Momma would say when she learned of Sarah’s whereabouts. Technically, she was not allowed to play in the attic (not until Daddy could inspect it for spiders, rusty nails and anything else he felt little girls should not be exposed to), but Daddy wouldn’t be joining them until the end of the week, and Momma had made it clear Sarah was to stay out of the way while she unpacked…

“
Sarah?”

Sarah sighed and cupped her hands around her mouth. “In a minute,” she yelled.

She stooped to retrieve her flashlight when a dull
clack
snapped in the darkness. Sarah whirled around and aimed the flashlight at the leather box, thinking the doll might have fallen to the floor; but there it sat, propped against the velvet interior just as she had left it. She eyed the toy, a combination of curiosity and unease tickling her mind.

Something’s different
, she thought, taking a step towards the box.

Sarah shone the light over the wooden face and frowned. The doll’s mouth hung slack, the glazed teeth glinting white against the dark, rectangular opening. She took a step towards the box and froze, a definite chill creeping down her back.

The doll’s eyes flashed yellow.

“
Sarah!”

Sarah jumped, nearly dropping the flashlight. She fumbled for a moment before steadying her hand to cast a beam of light onto the doll’s face. The eyes glittered green. A burst of nervous laughter exploded from her mouth.
It’s just your imagination, stupid
, she thought, tucking the flashlight into her back pocket.

Still chuckling, she lifted the doll from the box and made her way to the attic door.

Getting the toy down to the main level took a lot longer than Sarah thought it would. The doll’s large size and unbending limbs made navigating the stairs difficult. Sarah reached the landing between the second and first floors, hitched the doll to her hip, and cautiously made her way down the remaining flight of stairs.

“
Sarah? Where is that child...”

Her momma’s diminutive figure appeared in the kitchen door just as Sarah rounded the balustrade, her foot tapping a short-tempered rhythm on the hardwood floor. Behind her, Sarah’s little sister Laurie squirmed in her highchair, chunky fingers gripping a two-handled sippy cup. The baby banged the cup against the tray a few times, then tossed it onto the floor.

“
Where have you been, girl?” Momma said, a taut scowl darkening her normally cheerful face.

Sarah had seen that expression a lot since the move.

“
Huntin’ treasure,” she said, turning the doll about and holding it up for inspection. “I found a doll. Cool, huh?”

Momma gave the proffered toy a cursory glance and turned to retrieve Laurie’s sippy cup from the floor. “Looks kind of like that old Suzie Sez doll I had as a kid,” she said, placing the cup on the child’s tray. “Only mine was made of plastic, not wood. Where’d you find it?”

“
In the attic,” Sarah said, returning the doll to her hip.

Momma crossed her arms over her chest and frowned. “What were you doing in the attic?”

Sarah shrugged and looked at the floor, her toe tracing an invisible pattern on the polished oak planks. “Staying out of the way?”