I rush to my bedside table, hands shaking, throw open the small drawer, and dig through the contents to find a matchbook. Without a second thought, I flick a match along the red strip, and the sting of phosphorus rends the air. Beside the door, the hearth stands empty.
I toss the papers and then the flickering match against the coals, staring in stunned horror at my own actions. The flames lick the paper like autumn at the edge of oak leaves. Tears slip down my face, the firelight reflecting in the moisture while it leaves tiny tracks down my cheeks. I watch until the Blessed Scriptures are ashen, and my heart hollows out space in my chest.
When I sink my fingers into my pockets, the cold brush of metal breaks me from my stupor.
The bell.
A part of me wants to throw it out the window, crack it against the earth of Mother’s garden beds to be buried with the snows, forgotten until some other poor unfortunate digs it up between their fingers and lays it bare. Leave it to the mud, where it can be swallowed once more.
Maybe, if I cannot hear it, the creatures of mist and teeth will not come for me.
Another piece, the one that sparked at the sight of a corporeal monster—a face—the part still picturing Ransom Black’s eyes, still feels his fingers on my bare and bloody skin when he didn’t shrink away, wants to hold the bell and keep it with me always. A tribute to the one inkling of freedom I have had in years. The one glimmer ofacceptance.
Something scritches at my door.
Not Father.
My eyes dart to the window, down the hill toward the graveyard, where he still stands, cloak dripping wet. I cross and snap the window shut.
It comes again, the sound. A slow, stuttering thing, as though whatever awaits on the other side isn’t fully there. As if their finger isn’t made from bone or blood, but dust. My heart spasms, breath coming hot. I unravel the bell from its wrappings.
The sound comes once more, dry and thin as a barren twig.
I do not want to look. What if it is simply another monster come to lure me to the reaching branches of the hungry forest? Come to show me faces that no longer belong to the living?
My skin aches with nerves, a knot firmly set in the center of my chest. I try to refine my breaths. My lungs squeeze, heart fisting against my ribs.
My stomach turns, and my skin flares. Pain grows roots at the base of my skull. I toss my head back toward the ceiling, gurgling a scream at the back of my throat.
A soft scratch.
Why? Whynow?
There is a telltale feather touch on my chest, the moment before my heart squeezes and stops, and I am sent head over heels, just trying to breathe. I stagger, head thick, the air around me stodgy, and I try to straighten just as my spine cracks like a twig.
No. Not now. Not today.
My finger itches for my throat. I want nothing more than to feel the anxious tremor of the vein beneath my skin, but I hold it firm at my side and bend my knuckles until the creases turn white as hoarfrost. My vision blossoms black. I blink.
No.
This fear is a wretched, wicked thing, and I don’t want it anymore. Before I can stop myself, before I can think another thought, allow some other slip of my heart to guide my mind, I turn toward the door and hold out the bell.
It is strangely heavy for how small it is, like lead shot careening through my fingers. A wind blows up from the fields beyond the vicarage, rattling the glass panes of my window, sending rain against it like bullets. I focus on the bell, fisting my empty hand at my hip and wiping sweat along the wool of my skirt.
Bells are for protection, are they not? To be used as a warning against death and danger approaching? To keen against the ever-growing dark?
I give it no second thought. My wrist snaps, and the note that rings out is as clear and true as snow on fallen leaves. My breath catches at the sound, hooking in the wet, pink folds of my throat. But it isn’t fear this time. My stomach bubbles, skin spreading with heat, and I realize, for the first time in so very long, it iswonder.
A cold wind stirs at the back of my neck, bringing with it the scent of salt and old bones. The sharp tang of lemons. I stare at the closed door, the warped wood. The heat of the paper still smoldering in the fireplace is a comfort on my skin. The chill breezes again, closer this time, frosting my eyelashes. My skin stiffens, heart thumping wildly.
No, no, no.
But I cannot stop it. Nothing can. I am powerless in the face of my own body. This cage of bones and flesh. My fingers fumble the bell, knees scraping the wooden floor, one palm run through with slivers. I release a small shudder of breath when the blood there pricks black.
And that’s when I see it floating through the door of my bedroom. White as smoke.
The monster.
