Part 10
At the front door, Raphael tested the lock one more time, then looked out the window. The snow fell into the small circle of the front light, and beyond that was a long stretch of darkness. The sky lit with rare lightning, revealing thick gray clouds that blocked out the moon and stars. Far down the road, a car's headlight appeared, turned and vanished again as the wind blew a flurry of snow up against the window. He winced as the draft cut across his plastron, and he retreated back to the fireplace.
"Place is freakin' freezin'," Raphael muttered, and he threw another log on the fire. There was a small burst of sparks that lit the room, and then the light faded back to a warm glow.
A warm glow that was too small. The light barely touched the edge of the couches, leaving the staircase in silhouetted darkness. The kitchen light barely came in through the curtain and the front light only outlined the window. Only the fire provided any comfort, giving more warmth than the overtaxed heater.
Resting on the futon pile, Leonardo held the bowl in both hands, sipping the hot soup as fast as he could stand the pain. During their examination of the journal, his dinner had cooled, and Raphael had insisted on reheating it. Leonardo hadn't cared, but he'd given in when he realized his brother was already irritated and halfway toward pouring it down his throat as soon as it was boiling.
"Relax," Raphael said, pushing back the edge of the bowl to slow him down. "You try going up there and I might pitch you down the stairs."
"You can try," Leonardo muttered. "I don't like them going up there alone."
Raphael shrugged. "So what that they're two flights away from us, surrounded by windows, separated from the snow and monsters by a couple thin layers of cracked, half-abandoned wood that hasn't been replaced in probably fifty years."
"You're not helping."
"Yeah, sorry." Raphael stretched out on the couch, hands clasped behind his head as he watched the paint peel. "I don't like 'em being up there neither."
Leonardo swallowed several more mouthfuls, then drew back with a wince. He felt the heat moving down into him, burning his core but increasingly warm through the rest of him. Too warm. His head started to swim.
"Then..." he said, "how 'bout you go up there and keep an eye on them?"
"'Cause they can take care of themselves."
Leonardo bit back his first comment. Antagonizing Raphael wouldn't get him anywhere. And he didn't want to argue anyway, not with monsters and the winter storm lurking outside. Their arguments could easily send one of them stomping out into the wind, telling themselves they were just going to linger at the doorway for just a moment, just to get away from the yelling. If the wind blew hard enough, they wouldn't even hear bones clacking against tree branches.
"If something happens," Leonardo said softly, trying a different approach. "I can't get there in time. You at least should go up there."
Raphael turned his head enough so that Leonardo saw his look of disgust as Raphael lightly smacked his shoulder.
"Nope," he said. "'Cause then you'd be two flights away from me, surrounded by windows, separated from the snow and monsters by a couple of rusty hinges and weak doors that haven't been replaced in probably fifty years. And you're the one who can't handle slingshotting from hot to cold."
Hard to yell at his brother when Raphael was as worried as Leonardo as their siblings. Leonardo gave up, slumping against the couch and taking comfort in his brother resting behind him.
"It feels worse up there," Leonardo said.
"Is it all stuffed with junk and you can't see nothing?" Raphael asked.
"It's almost empty," Leonardo said. "It's just so...you don't feel safe. Like the lightning could go right through the roof."
Raphael made a small sound of understanding and didn't respond.
The fireplace crackled and hissed as one of the logs split and fell into the ashes. Upstairs, Donatello's weight made the floor creak, and the stairs to the attic sometimes knocked against the entrance as he held it steady. Then came a slow drag and thump, distant coughing, and then soft thuds as Michelangelo crawled back.
"Sounds like he's done," Raphael said. "Sounded like he found something heavy—"
"Holy guacamole!"
The ceiling did nothing to muffle Donatello's voice. Both Leonardo and Raphael straightened, glancing uselessly at the curtains over black windows. If something was outside, they wouldn't see even see a shadow.
"Guess he found something," Raphael said.
"Let's see if he can crawl out again," Leonardo said, but he was already clearing the low coffee table of dishes and the journal. Donatello's laptop he didn't dare touch.
"He got in, he can get out," Raphael said. "And it'll be easier this time. Don just has to work with gravity."
Leonardo paused. "Huh. You think they'll—"
There was a yelp and then the sound of two shells landing hard above them. Dust sifted down from between the floorboards like burning embers in the dark.
"You okay?" Raphael called up.
"...we're fine," Donatello muttered.
Raphael and Leonardo shared a look, and then they listened as their brothers moved slowly across the second floor, coming down the stairs with grunts and mutters to hold it better, to wait wait wait, no not that way, and then the mutual hiss as they carefully turned a sizeable trunk around the corner and brought it down the rest of the way.
"That ain't exactly a book," Raphael said.
"Here," Michelangelo said, tossing the plastic bag at Raphael's face. "You d-deal with it. I d-don't even w-wanna see 'em anymore."
"Serves you right," Raphael said as he grabbed the bag out of the air. "Mister 'I can totally bend that way, ooooh~'."
"I warned you it was cold," Leonardo said, watching him lay the books out on the floor. He grimaced at the amount of mold clinging to several of them, but he couldn't help but pick up one of the worst—under the ice and slime was a picture of a skeleton creeping through a window above a young woman's bed as she slept soundly. The price tag showed that it cost one penny.
"The Thing Out of the Night," he read, piecing together the title. "This must be the penny dreadful she mentioned before."
"What's left of it," Raphael said. "What's left of any of 'em. I'ma be impressed if you can get anything out of these."
Using a napkin leftover from dinner, Leonardo cleaned off a book with a similar cover as the journal. The mold scraped off, leaving the damp board clean of what had once been a fancy design of stars. The pages near the front and back were a complete loss, all stuck together in a wet block. He held it closer to the flames, trying to piece out bits of words.
"Raph, can you pass me one of my shuriken?" he murmured.
"Your swords are sharper," Raphael said, but he grabbed one of Leonardo's throwing stars from the pile by the futon and handed it over.
"Yeah, but they're too long to do this right."
"W-well, w-while you're playing with that," Michelangelo said, pulling a blanket around himself like a cocoon, "there's something w-way more interesting in the trunk."
"Mmf." Raphael grumbled as he shoved himself up, coming to help Donatello undo the last few latches. "Sure, sure. Always did say you had a lot of junk in yer—"
He fell silent when the lid lifted and the fire revealed bones and a human skull nestled in the center.
"No idea who it is," Donatello said. "There's no identifying marks."
"...it's just bones?" Raphael asked, and he reached in and nudged a few to one side, then pulled out a long thin bone that ended in frayed splinters. "Damn. Something smashed him up good."
"Y-you think it's her?" Michelangelo asked. "The diary chick?"
"I'd have to examine the pelvic bone," Donatello said. "And that's not even that exact."
Raphael pushed his hand all the way in, shoving bones aside to see if there was anything hidden beneath. There was only fine dust and scraps of clothing long since rotten to nothing.
"Why would they cart a buncha bones up to the attic?" Raphael asked.
Carefully slicing the shuriken between the pages, Leonardo didn't look up as he answered.
"To keep the things out there from eating them."
Raphael blinked. "What?"
"No, wait," Donatello said. "That makes sense. This probably wasn't bones when they went into the trunk. This was...oh wow. I think I get it."
"Sh-share the knowledge, o s-sensei," Michelangelo said.
Raphael stood and grabbed his little brother, dragging him closer to the fire. He turned Michelangelo around so he could face the flames, gathering up the heat in his hands.
"Dumbass," Raphael muttered. "You ain't gonna thaw with just the blanket."
"Sorry," Michelangelo said. "B-brain's frozen."
"Ain't much different than usual."
"The farm was under attack, right?" Donatello said. "So one of them must have been hurt. Maybe killed. They get the body back, but you can't bury anyone in the middle of winter. Ground's frozen."
"So they stick it in a trunk and forget about it?" Raphael shook his head. "I dunno, man."
Leonardo managed to pry two pages apart, and he slowly pulled the book open, wincing at bit of paper tore together. With the pages stretching out, however, the sides closest to the covers began to pull free, sliding wetly against each other.
"Anything?" Raphael asked.
"Um...I think that's January 24th." Leonardo held the journal up to the fire light, squinting to make out the words. "'It tries'...damn, half of it's gone. 'It tries. The doors. Windows. It tries.'"
"'It tries'?" Donatello echoed.
"It tries to open 'em," Raphael said, coming to his feet and going to the back door. He turned the knob to make sure it was locked. "Fuck. Fuck. Ain't like these'll keep out anything really determined."
"January 25th. Lanterns...Aunt Dorothy keeps the lights...burn the barn. Jacob gone for help."
"January 29th. Marley dead. Dragged...window."
"January 30th. Aunt Dorothy..." Leonardo paused a long moment. "Have taken Marley's rifle."
He put the book down and gingerly edged the shuriken's point under the tip of the page, trying to lift it clear. Mold stretched between the pages.
"Dragged through the window?" Donatello whispered.
"It's only glass," Leonardo said, pulling the page clear, tearing a corner no matter how slowly he went.
"February 2nd. Edward...lanterns. Won't get Dorothy. Won't...Dorothy."
"February 4th. Jacob...forest. ...head."
"February 5th..." Leonardo exhaled, pushing back from the book. "I can't read this one. It's too far gone."
Donatello reached over and took the journal, grimacing at the cold dampness. He turned it this way and that, trying to pull the pages apart, then heaved a sigh and tossed it into the trunk.
"Great...all that work for nothing," Donatello said.
"Not nothing," Leonardo said. "We know she survived."
"How?" Donatello said. "The journal just ends."
"It was kept," Leonardo said. "So were the bones. If she'd died, anyone who found those would've buried them. So she survived and she kept the bones somewhere safe so nothing could get at them."
"How can you be sure?" Donatello asked. "That's just conjecture."
Leonardo shrugged, glancing at the floor.
"It's what I would do," he said. "If..."
If their positions were reversed. If he had to reclaim one of their bodies from monsters in the forest. If they had been even a few seconds slower to reach Raphael. Michelangelo quietly got up and shuffled close to Raphael, flopping next to him and resting against his leg. Raphael grumbled but put his arm around his little brother.
"She would've been almost alone," Donatello said, picking up the book again, scanning what little they could read. "Marley got dragged away. Jacob ran...I'll bet it was just his head she saw in the forest. And 'they won't get Dorothy'..."
He glanced at the trunk again.
"Yeah. That makes sense."
"She would'a had the Jones dude," Raphael said. "Casey's great great grand whatever."
"Two humans," Leonardo said. "One of them's never used a rifle before. Against those things. For weeks."
"Then..." Michelangelo lifted his head. "We have a chance."
Raphael leaned back, giving him a look. "Well, sh'yeah. Mutant ninja, duh."
"You think the rifles are still here?" Michelangelo asked.
Leonardo frowned. "I...I don't think I saw anything like that. I wasn't really looking."
Donatello shook his head. "No way, not in working condition. But they did mention lanterns. If we keep the lights on—"
A heavy thump came from upstairs.
All of them froze, not breathing, listening to the slightest sounds of the house. Leonardo edged toward his swords resting against the chimney. Donatello reached for his staff, laying in front of the couch. Raphael gathered his sai from the floor, then slowly stood.
As Michelangelo picked up his nunchucks, he frowned as Leonardo shook his head. A quick battle of wills followed until Michelangelo realized that Leonardo meant to stay by his side, the two smallest of them safe by the fire. Michelangelo grimaced, but he didn't argue, shrugging off the blanket and rising to his feet.
Another thump followed, the hard knock of bone against wood, the creak of the roof straining under more than the weight of snow.
Raphael gave a nod, motioning Donatello with him. They moved silently on ancient floors that should have groaned with every step, Raphael moving to the dark staircase and Donatello behind him, ready to lash out over his shoulder if needed.
The house shuddered with a heavy crash from above, and the staircase door slammed wide open as biting wind blew into the room, bringing ice and snow in from the night. The fireplace flickered and died low, just glowing logs as the wind roared in the hearth. Michelangelo turned away from the stinging air, instinctively pressing closer to the flames.
The window, darkest and farthest from the light, exploded inward as a long white arm flashed inside and came around the wall, sharp fingertips leaving long gouges against the wood floor as it scrabbled for something soft to curl around. It came up, found the edge of Michelangelo's shell and pulled.
As Michelangelo yelled out, striking its forearm and only chipping away at its wrist, Raphael and Donatello turned to help—a shriek from the staircase brought them back on their guard. Unfolding like a spider from a trap, white bones spread out from the door, growing into the outline of wings that enveloped the room. Its hooves, each as big as Raphael's head, left deep dents in the floor, and as it leaned in to roar again, its long skull head followed, deerlike but with thick incisors that snapped the air.
The knotted mass of muscle in its chest pulsed and rippled over the wound at its center. Raphael narrowed his eyes.
There was a yell—Michelangelo was still fighting, wildly striking at the claws digging into his shell. Leonardo cut into the arm, but the sword stuck fast in the thick bone. With a rough pull, the thing outside brought Michelangelo around into his brother, knocking them off their feet, and then dragged their little brother up against the window. There was a scream—the sound of jagged glass on skin—and then the window was dark, the tattered curtains flapping wildly in the wind, and Michelangelo was gone.
Leonardo, down to one sword, vaulted through the window and followed him into the snow.
"Shit shit shit," Raph growled, dodging the swipe of creature's sharp wing. "Ain't got time for this—"
Donatello's staff shot over his shoulder, startlingly close to his head, and smashed into the creature's neck. A satisfying crack echoed in the room, followed by the thing reeling to one side, then planting its hooves and coming forward again, jaws open, screeching as it aimed its bite at Donatello's face—
His staff connected with the throat again. This time blood and bone sprayed out from the back of the neck, black ichor splashing the wall as the creature stumbled, sliding to the floor.
"Your first mistake," Donatello said, "was forcing yourself in a close environment."
"Witty comebacks later," Raphael said, grabbing his shoulder and pulling him several steps. "We gotta go!"
"Wait wait wait!"
Donatello jumped the couch and landed on his knees at the fireplace. He pulled out the longest piece, a heavy log burning only at one end, and tossed it to his brother.
"Light whatever you can," Donatello said. "I'll be right behind you."
"What're you—"
Raphael cut himself off. No time to ask stupid questions—half the time he didn't understand what Donatello was talking about anyway. With his makeshift torch in one hand, he kicked the kitchen door wide and plunged out into the cold night air. It took only a moment to find the trail, deep deer tracks and blood. He pushed his torch into the nearest bush, now just twigs covered in snow.
And he realized the major drawback in his brother's plan. The bush refused to catch fire, instead smoldering and smoking for several long seconds. Too many seconds. He ground his teeth and forced himself to wait. The ice on the bush was melting, slow rivulets of water dripping down the thin—
The edges of the bush finally burned, blackening and shriveling almost instantly, hissing as it produced steam, then glowing as more of its stems smoldered.
Was that enough? It would have to do. He cursed under his breath and stomped into the forest. It was so dark that any light would catch Donatello's attention.
The snow was up to his knees. He picked up his pace, following the trail, lighting the rare dead leaves on the lowest branches. Long minutes dragged by, minutes neither he nor his brothers had. Where was he? Close to the lake, if he remembered the farm's perimeter. Where was Donatello?
"Shouldn't of split up," Raphael growled, too committed to the trail to go back. "Dumb idea, dumb idea. If—"
He heard a scream farther ahead. Torch held high, providing only a small glow, he charged ahead.
To be continued...