Chapter 8:
If possible, Violet's room was even more oppressive than the rest of the house. The curtains were drawn, casting a dingy light over everything. Moira could only advance slowly- there were things scattered all over the floor. Violet was lying on her bed with the covers pulled up to her knees. Her burnt hands rested on her stomach, still raw and blistered. Her face was deadly pale, the strange lighting in the room created eerie shadows on her face. Moira shuddered at the scene before her. She had never witnessed something so completely uniting every facet of death.
As she walked towards Violet, Tate stayed by the open door. She looked down at Violet, who remained completely motionless, even when Moira lifted one of her hands to look at the injuries more closely. In the gloom she could only make out the texture of Violet's skin: blistered, charred, like molten wax. She would have to open the curtains to be able to examine the wounds more closely.
As she did so, she suddenly started and took a step back in shock. The crow's head was still on the window-sill, where Violet had found it. Only now there was nothing left but the bone and some shreds of rotting flesh. Moira turned away in disgust and looked at Tate. His gaze was fixed on Violet and his hand was gripping the door-frame so hard it seemed he might shatter the wood.
"What happened to her, Tate?"
He jumped slightly when she spoke. His eyes lingered on Violet's still form for just a moment longer. He reluctantly tore himself away from her.
"I don't know. She- Her hands they were in the fire. She was trying to save something I think, I don't know. They just watched, you know. Just sat there and watched, the-" Tate stopped himself and hid his head in his hands.
Moira examined Violet's hands again. They were limp in her grip. With the light she could see that the injuries were far more serious than she had previously thought. In some places the startling whiteness of bone met her eye.
"How long has she been like this for? It's very unusual for the healing to take long."
"I don't know. It was last night, I think. God, - Shit, I don't know." Tate seemed to have a hard time controlling himself.
"I could apply some ointment to the burns, some other little remedies I can find around the house, something for the pain, perhaps…" Moira trailed off. She didn't really know what to do. The situation was so strange. It shouldn't be. Even under the already ridiculous circumstances of their ghost life it was absurd. Why should she not heal? She was no longer made of flesh and blood. All injuries were only brief moments of intense physical pain that left no mark. Moira knew this from experience.
The heat was making her dizzy. She didn't know where to turn, what to do.
"Will you do that, then? Moira! Moira, will you get ointment and all the rest?"
Tate was staring at her intently. His eyes on her were too much. She couldn't possibly force herself past his looming presence to go down to get the medicine. She couldn't face Violet; the sight was more than she could take. She couldn't face the window. The crow's head was staring at her. She could feel its empty eye sockets boring into the back of her head with mocking derision. She had to turn her gaze inwards and saw only the blackness in her mind and her mother beckoning to her. Moira sank to her knees, then to the floor as she fainted.
Constance sat down by her kitchen table, the book in front of her. She was drawing out the moment- almost avoiding to open the book. She leant back in her chair, took one last drag of her cigarette, blew the smoke towards the ceiling and simply placed the still glowing butt in the ashtray. Thin wisps of smoke rose from it, making her think of burning incense. Constance felt almost esoteric and scoffed at herself.
There was no avoiding it. She had brought the book into her house for one reason only and that was to read it. She saw no reason why she should not stick to her plans. Constance was a decisive woman- always had been, had always had to be. Yet, why was she having trouble deciding on doing something as simple as reading a book?
The truth was that she had a sense of foreboding, which she was trying to ignore, though not very successfully. Her instincts had hardly ever betrayed her. Constance had always had to rely on them as much as on her rational mind.
She finally propped her elbows on the table and looked down at the cover. Her fingers trailed across the soft leather. Her touch told her it was remarkably soft, but her mind ignored it. She laughed at the bold lettering.
" 'Tales of the Pure, the Obscure and the Sinister'. Well, well. A story book, it seems."
She laughed a little too loudly in an attempt to ignore that the hair on the nape of her neck was standing on end.
Constance lifted the book up and looked at it from all angles. It was a little black here and there from being placed in the fire-place, but that was all. If someone had tried to destroy it, then they hadn't been successful.
The orange light of the setting sun slanted through the window, tinging everything in fiery hues and throwing strange, elongated shadows. Constance got up to switch on the kitchen light. She figured it would be a long night, so she poured herself some whiskey to ease into it.
When she sat back down, something had changed. The book still made her skin prickle, but, above all, she now felt excited. She took a sip of whiskey. The warmth it spread in her body was replaced by icy goosebumps as soon as she touched the book again. Before she knew what she was doing, Constance had opened it. She noticed the ink blots, yellowed pages. But more than anything else she noticed the handwritten text. It looked rushed, like someone had only had a short amount of time to complete it, squeezing in everything they could by writing in the margins.
Constance felt herself slowly drifting away. She was so enamoured by the book that she didn't notice how the hours slipped by. In the sky orange was replaced by blue, then various leaden shades and finally the deep black of night. The world outside her window was silent, nothing stirred. Constance had forgotten about everything but herself and the book.
Her senses were heightened to a level of mania. That and the glasses of whiskey she got through made the pictures move before her eyes. The shading was so wonderfully done. The black and white of the ink drawings seemed realer than she did. The girls in the picture appeared to read the accompanying text to her.
When the darkness calls the young girls follow. What could be more suited than their purity's white? The shadows see them:" Make them dance!" they say. They gather at night, in nature's midst. The darkness surrounds them. The mists make their shrouds stick to their skin. It is a procession. The young dead are damned. The shadows would claim them for their own.
These passages of text varied in length and were always followed by songs, incantations or ritualistic dances and spells. Constance knew she should find the book ridiculous; that she should put it down and laugh about it. But the voice that said this was nothing but a quiet urging at the back of her mind.
She turned page after page and the hours rushed on. Before she knew it she had reached the end of the book. On the last page there was a drawing of swirling mists with bony hands covered in translucently white skin reaching out from them.
Constance was mad for more. She turned the book, shook it to find notes that might be hidden, but there was nothing. She once again reached the last page. Her skin was burning and freezing at the same time. She felt everything with an intensity she had never known. Suddenly her eyes were drawn to the binding of the book. It was a little loose around the edges. With careful fingers Constance peeled it away. There was an inscription, written in tiny letters and in a strange reddish-brown ink that wasn't used anywhere else in the book.
Oh, damned soul, what have you done?
You called the shadows, now they stay.
What little truth you now have won
Will not help you on this way.
I wanted all, and some I've found,
But had to give more in my turn.
All around me they abound
I am lost. This is my urn.
The last few words were barely written onto the page, the very last one ending in a line, as if the writer had been knocked.
Constance sat frozen in her chair. Without knowing what she was doing she peeled the skin back further. Suddenly the light above her head flickered. The moment Constance looked up, the bulb burst and sent tiny shards of glass flying in her face. She cursed, trying to get her bearings in the darkness all around her.
Constance wanted to get up to look for a candle, but was paralysed in her chair. A cloud moved away from the moon and the cold, bleak light entered the kitchen. Something tapped the window. Being able to see just enough to make out the silhouettes of things was even worse than total darkness. If we see a little, our mind supplements the rest, creating the things we fear the worst without even knowing it. Where there is simple darkness, there is space for rationality.
Constance managed to shake off enough of her terror to reach for her cigarettes and lighter. Years of extremes had hardened her psyche to a certain degree. She put a cigarette in her mouth and was going to light it, when the flame was blown out by a sudden rush of air from the door. The gust blew an odd cloud of dust from the book and into Constance's face. It stung her eyes and made her cough. Her eyes watered and washed enough of it away for her to be able to see again.
When she moved her eyes to the door she started. Drawn in the silver of the moon and the black of the night stood Michael. A child in nothing but form, the proof of which was painted on his face. His eyes studied her with a hunger no child should possess; the look of it on a supposed innocent's face was revolting enough to make her want to retch. His mouth was stretched into a diabolical grin. Constance could only stare at him in sheer horror. When he began walking towards her, she whimpered like a cornered animal, her usual composure forgotten. Her scream got stuck in her throat when she looked behind him.
He had two shadows.
A/N: Hi everyone. Thanks for sticking with me and reviewing! I hope you liked this chapter. I'll honestly try to update more frequently, but please forgive me if I don't. :)