Candle in the Attic Window(59)

Elizabeth was stroking the locket when she caught sight of the boat for the first time. It was a blotch of pale colour on the vast darkness of the water. She half-stood as the wind whipped her hair about her face in a frenzy. Unconsciously, her hands clenched and she warred with the sudden impulse to flee.

She had never seen a boat before, but the word and the shape lurked in her memory. And with the word came fear. Hard, cold fear that clambered up into her belly and sat lodged like a lump of badly-chewed rat. Elizabeth did not know why she was afraid, and that only made the fear worse.

Breathing hard, she crouched and watched the boat for minutes, then hours, watching it draw closer and closer. As it grew dark, she lost sight of it at last and the trance was broken. Abruptly, she turned and dove into her home, slamming the door and latching it. Head down, she let a wracking sob escape her and trembled uncontrollably. Her stomach heaved as she pushed away from the door and she looked around wildly.

Suddenly, the house, her home, seemed horrible. Everything sent a razor-caress of disgust across her nerves – the anatomy books on her shelves, the odd table that sat in the centre of the room with its runnels and score-marks and the stains on the floor. Her hand flew to the locket hanging from her neck and she squeezed the soft metal.

Eyes closed, she slid down to the floor and sat weeping. And then, after a time, she sat sleeping. She dreamed that night of the sea and her birth and the way the water had smelled of iron and oxygen, and how that smell had clung to her for weeks following. She dreamed of how she had hurt all over, as if her limbs were held on by red-hot pins, and walking brought new agonies each and every day until finally, the pain had faded.

She dreamed of those first days, when the books had been full of blurry hornets rather than words and how she had destroyed three in a rage, scattering pages across the island. Three books full of cramped writing, with neither pictures nor poetry. She had torn them page from page the way she tore rats and had watched the white shreds become caught in the cold wind rolling off the sea. The sight of it had calmed her immediately, though she could not say why.

Elizabeth awoke with a start. Her nostrils flared as she took in the smell of the day and the sea. She pushed herself to her feet and away from the door. Her hand hesitated inches from the knob. Then, with a growl, she yanked the door open and stepped out.

Birds cried out as they swooped over the beach. She gazed at them, then down towards the path that led to the beach.

The boat sat among the rocks where its occupant had pulled it ashore. She bit back a whimper and contemplated running back inside. But the house wasn’t safe. Nowhere was safe. Not now.

Elizabeth didn’t know why; she simply knew it was so. Safety had been an illusion, now stripped away. Slowly, unwillingly, she started down the path, pausing only to scoop up a length of driftwood.

The boat sat silent as she approached. She circled it, stepping unheeding through the surf, her bare feet dancing awkwardly over the rocks. She tapped it with the stick and when no response was forthcoming, her lips peeled back from her teeth. She had strong teeth, capable of breaking bone and grinding muscle to paste. She bared them now as she climbed into the boat and searched it for any sign of its occupant.

Wet tarps and empty boxes filled it. She swung a tarp around her shoulders, suddenly cold, and used the stick to smash a hole in the bottom of the boat. Then, grunting with the strain, she shoved it back out into the water. The rocks shifted loudly beneath her feet as she pressed her shoulder to the prow and heaved. The boat glided along against the current then began to dip as the water blossomed through the hole she’d made.

Elizabeth could not say why she had done what she’d done, but it was satisfying all the same. A blow struck against ... whom? She shook her head and turned, the driftwood creaking in her grip.

Above her, at the top of the path, a man-shape watched her. Her heart stuttered in her chest and her eyes sprang painfully wide. She stumbled back and the sea clutched at her ankles, shocking her back into herself. Above, the man-shape ducked out of sight.

Elizabeth screamed. A moment later, the tarp fell from her shoulders as she sprang into motion, running up the path, the driftwood swinging wildly. She fell several times as she scrambled upwards, such was her hurry. At the summit, she hurled the driftwood blindly and it clattered against the house.

There was no sign of him. Breathing, she whirled, head cocked like a hound’s as she sniffed the air. Familiar scents dug into her mind, but she could not bring the memories they had hooked into the light. Frustrated, she hissed and swung her arms.

Where was he? Where?

Her eyes fastened on the door. It was open, ever so slightly. She grunted, as if struck, and shivered. Was he in there, in her house? Was he watching her even now?

Her breath came faster, painful rasping knife-stabs of oxygen that bruised her lips in their escape. Her hands writhed into fists and sprang open again over and over. She took a clumsy step forward, but then hopped back.

Why was he here? Why had he come back? She shook her head and whined. Had he come back? Who was he? Why was he tormenting her? Her fingers dug into her scalp and she yanked at her hair, shuffling back and forth as her eyes stayed locked on the house.

Finally, explosively, she lunged for the door, striking it with her shoulder. The hinges popped and squealed. She was very strong, and not just in her hands or feet, and the door fell in and she fell with it. She was up a moment later, crouching on all fours. Books sat on the table, neatly piled as in preparation to be moved. Clothes were folded and placed in a trunk. She scrambled around, peering beneath the table and behind the bookcases. Where had he gone? He had been here; she could smell him.