Candle in the Attic Window(73)
The cast-iron stomach I thought I possessed revolted at the sight and I stumbled down from the stool just as the bile rushed up. I hunched over in the shadow of the witch’s hut and vomited as I heard the second man scream from within, Grandfather now taunting them through the open window. Then Grandfather went quiet and I felt his chill touch on my neck, even as my stomach projected more mango and acid into the widening puddle.
“Malis,” Grandfather said, his mirth suddenly replaced with an edgy desperation. “Run home, now!”
Shuddering from my convulsing stomach and the scene repeating itself in my head, I somehow managed to stand up. Instead of fleeing, however, I shakily got back onto the stool. That idiot pride in my recent graduation would not allow me to leave without first ensuring none could benefit from my ministrations, the fractured state of my psyche such that the horrors of the night paled beside the thought of failing to uphold my convictions. Or so I told myself; perhaps I was just too scared or fascinated to run.
The man the corpse had bitten bled out on the floor next to a toppled chair, his head nearly severed from his vicious neck wound. The witch – Theary, I corrected myself – lay twitching in her doorway. Beside her, the man with the machete she had fought lay sprawled, his head snapped all the way around. The risen corpse had vanished and then I heard footsteps in the mud rounding the hut to my left.
I slowly turned, fear bringing my nausea back with renewed vigour, and then Grandfather’s frigid fingers slapped my cheek and passed partially through, saliva freezing to my teeth. The blow invigourated me to flight, just as the murderous corpse rounded the hut and saw me. Then it and I screamed together as I tumbled from the stool and ran. Grandfather was shouting, and before focusing on the mist-masked trees blocking my way, I saw him drift between me and the pursuing corpse. My bare feet sank to the ankles with each step, but I propelled myself faster and faster through the mist, wet leaves slicing and slapping as I ran into the night jungle.
That wretched wail came again from just over my shoulder, and then a fallen tree reared out of the fog to trip me. I hurled myself into the air, clearing the rotten wood but entangling myself in sharp, thin vines. Grandfather shouted again, somewhere nearby in the mist. I clawed at the vines, but, in my panic, I could not get a grip on them and so, instead, yanked and thrashed and rolled until I came loose, shallow gashes opening all over my slick, muddy body. I stumbled away from the wreckage of the dead tree and the vines. As I frantically spun myself in a circle, nothing moved in the ever-thickening fog. The vegetation had thinned somewhat and I hurried forward, but after only half a dozen paces, came up short, a sudden epiphany freezing my legs and darkening my vision in the manner that heralded another blackout.
Forcing myself to regulate my breathing, the black rings closing in around the fog widening and fading, I staved off unconsciousness. Not vines but wire had caught me, I had suddenly realized, meaning I could only be one place: the Dead Field. Another echoing howl rolled out of the fog, the corpse of the man who had killed my parents loping closer, my feet paralyzed by the justified fear of what lurked under the mud.
Biting my lip until the pain returned my body to me, I spun around and carefully stepped back the way I had come, hoping the fact that I was still bipedal signaled a clear path.
Click.
Not even two steps, I thought, clamping my eyes shut and setting my jaw, willing away the sharp metal digging into the sole of my left foot.
A shadow darted through the mist before me and I screamed. I had to; otherwise, I would have moved my legs, my body demanding some response to the approaching shape. I resolved to lift my foot just as the evil corpse reached me, in the hope that it would share the deadly blast. I was too scared when the time came, however, and instead found myself babbling at the corpse not to kill me.
“Shut up!” Grandfather hissed, his profile solidifying through the fog. “Shut up, Malis, please.”
I squatted down in the mud, too scared to cry.
“We’re in the Field,” he said. “We have to find you a ... Malis?”
I shook my head frantically, the silence of the Dead Field even worse than the baying of the corpse had been.
“Are you ...”
“Yes,” I managed, my voice cracking. “My left. Will it hurt? Tell me, I –”
“Shut up.” He knelt down in front of me . “Stay still and jump back when I tell you. This may hurt; I don’t really know.”
Grandfather laid his cool palms on the top of my muddy left foot and pressed down. It felt the same as the first time I swam in the ocean instead of a sun-fermented pond, my entire body charged with a cold so intense it burned. I saw the backs of his hands disappear through my foot, his wrists now brushing its top.
“Now,” Grandfather said, “jump backwards.”
I did, staring intently at the ghost of my grandfather. His hands were buried in the muck, his face taut, and then I saw his failure. His eyes widened and we both heard the trigger rise without my weight on it, his spectral palms lacking sufficient corporeality to keep the weapon from discharging. All this transpired in an instant, as my foot lifted and I stumbled backwards.
Nothing. I did a nervous little dance in the mud until I finally suppressed my body again. Grandfather blinked and raised his palms towards me, a smile tickling his cheeks.
“A dud. You are so lucky, Malis,” he said, with the same tone as if I had brought a pit viper into the house thinking it a water snake. “Now, do not move. Please.”