shadows and stones - an original fiction series of gothic, horror, dark fantasy

I noticed the spider a while ago, its intricate web placed precisely where two of the stone walls meet. Whenever sunlight filters through to the area where he dwells, I watch him working industriously to expand his web, or tearing it apart to wrap some foolish insect who has fallen into the trap. An hour ago, or perhaps two, he caught another spider, enveloping it quickly in sticky webbing before it could escape to build its own web. He settles down hungrily to eat it and I find my mouth watering in envy, despite all I know of how spiders devour their prey. I envy him his food, his happiness, his health. I wonder what spiders taste like. Insects and bugs are supposed to be nutritious, but I haven't grown that desperate yet.

The rat who lives here also falls under my scrutiny. A big, sleek animal, he mocks me with his well-fed contentment as he strolls nonchalantly across the empty stone floor to drink from a puddle beneath the tap. It's a daily ritual, his journey to the dripping faucet. I have reached the point where I can predict when he will emerge from the darker corner and waddle to his goal. Then, after his thirst is satisfied, he will sit near my corner, ostensibly grooming himself, yet in reality staring back at me: watching me as I watch him, while both of us wait for the same thing - for me to die.

I had expected death a long time ago. Daily I am surprised to find I am still here, alive to ward off the rat who dreams of chewing on my bones, even though they won't yield much food to him. Mama always told me I was the perfect size, not too tall, not too short, slender without succumbing to the tragedy of anorexia which plagues so many teenage girls, yet muscular too - my swimming trophies were proof enough of that. Her heart would break if she could see me now, my body devouring itself in an effort to stave off death by starvation. The muscles are gone and I resemble a poster child for Third World relief efforts.

Funny, I had never thought about how long it took to die from hunger: no one really does, I suppose. We see pictures of walking skeletons on the news and imagine they have only been suffering for days, when in reality it may have been weeks or months. I've lost track of how long it has been for me, here without a clock or wristwatch to track the passage of time. Perhaps the rat knows, but he won't share his secrets as we watch each other in silent anticipation.

Sometimes I wonder what he would taste like, the rat. Would it be the standard joke we always hear about new and different foods? "Tastes like chicken." Will I taste like chicken? Does his mouth water as he contemplates my bony calf where it shows through the hole in my jeans? Or have I been wrong all this time, and he merely studies with interest this new and different denizen of his stony universe? I study him. His sharp protruding teeth, hairless feet and tail, and those tiny black pits that are his eyes, I study them all and wonder how the fragile bones inside him can support such a mass of fat and fur. It seems unjust, that he should be so healthy while I am dying.

Would he taste like chicken?

The spot of sunlight, which allows me to watch both spider and rat, is shrinking. Another day ending, or perhaps beginning? If I knew which direction the sole window faced, I might be better able to tell the exact time, but its barred presence is almost three stories above me. With no means of climbing the height, I cannot see outside, cannot determine exactly where my prison is. All I know is the stones upon which I sit are terribly cold, as are those forming the wall upon which I lean.

Mama warned me to dress warmer for the flight. "It's always so chilly on airplanes, dear, and England isn't known for its heat waves." I only laughed and told her that's what jackets are for. A black leather biker's jacket was a gift from my Aunt Marcia for my graduation. It was too warm to wear at home this time of year, but in England I thought I could finally show it off, so I dressed without a care for the weather, counting on the jacket being there.

Is it still in the trunk of his car, along with my luggage? Or does he have it somewhere near him, taking perverted delight in the scent of my cologne on its surface? Have his filthy hands gone through the clothing Mama packed with so much love and care? Am I here merely to satisfy his twisted desires as he watches me die? Does he realize I am freezing in my tank top and jeans?

"Could I kindly have a blanket, you fucking bastard!"

I shout my request, startling the rat who scurries into a darker corner opposite me. Good, I don't like it when he is so close to me. I can't sleep with his beady eyes watching my every breath, waiting for me to take the last one.

"I wasn't talking to you." I mumble to the rat. I know the bastard who put me here will have heard my shout; he has heard others. Occasionally, he will even respond to my screams and cries with monosyllabic comments, yet he never gives an answer to my questions: why me, why this, what are you?

"Oh Mama," I whimper silently, "you were so terribly wrong about him."

Two stories above her head, where there had once been another floor, an empty doorway gapes. Its black maw opens to a long corridor at the end of which shines a solitary light. He sits on a cold, uncovered area of the hardwood floor, in the room from which the light shines. There is no furniture, although the marks of where some once stood still show on the carpets laid out here and there. His back is pressed against the wall and he faces the corridor, which opens into the tower where the girl is also sitting on a cold hard floor, pressed against a wall.

He has opened himself to her, feeling the emotions of fear and anger tearing through her at intervals. Even the hatred, he knows is directed towards himself, he welcomes, just as he welcomes the pain wracking her dying body. The emaciation of starvation is as clear on his limbs as on hers, and he also shivers in his fireless room.

He had not believed it would take so long, and a fragment of doubt forms within him. What if he has made a mistake again? What if she is not the one, not strong or determined enough? What if he loses her as he has lost before?

An echo of her shout reaches him down the length of the corridor. A blanket? Yes, she would be cold in there, surrounded by stone and without the sun to give warmth. He reaches a weak hand to the bell cord hanging close beside him. A woman appears at the entrance to the room. From her promptness he realizes she has been hovering just outside in her concern for his welfare, and that of the girl.

"A blanket," he commands, then waves her away. He is too open, and though the woman is not of the family, his closeness to her bloodline allows him to sense some of her fear and concern. The girl is far more important; he must allow no distractions from others. Yet the woman does not leave. He hears her whisper in disobedience to his orders for silence.

"Please, my Lord, can I bring you a little food?"

He does not answer the pointless question. The woman, along with the rest of the household, had been told in the beginning that he would not eat until the girl did, would not sleep unless she did, and would suffer as she did. Did the woman really believe he could take food into his body while feeling the girl in the tower starving to death?

Closing himself to her sounds he hears neither her eventual exit nor her return as she places the rolled blanket at his side, but he knows it is there while he sits waiting. Finally, he senses the girl drift off into sleep, though not before a longing burns through her for the touch of her mother. Grasping the blanket, he rises, walking down the corridor to the tower at the far end, suppressing the pain that each movement brings to his tortured limbs.

We are picnicking in the park, Mama and I. It is a beautiful spring day and temperatures are nice enough to wear shorts or a light sweater. Mama and I have always loved going on picnics, sitting in the emerald grass near the pond and watching the squirrels play tag in the trees. Because she knows how much I enjoy the squirrels, Mama has packed one of the feeder cobs you can get at the pet store. As soon as we arrive I carry it to a nearby tree and hang it from a branch so we can all share our meals together in the sunshine.

Mama laughs and I am warmed by the sound. I so missed her happiness while on my vacation to England. Not that Mama's cousin, Edward, didn't do his best to help me enjoy my stay, but being without her was like having an important piece of myself removed. I'd tried so hard to get her to join me on the trip, but she had demurred. It was my graduation present, she had argued, I deserved to enjoy myself without having a mother tagging along. I never felt that way about her and she knew it, just as she knew I hated to leave her alone, in a house that has been too empty since Dad died seven years ago. I knew the real reason she wouldn't accompany me, though. My trip was a gift from Edward, and mother didn't have enough money to send herself nor would she ever ask a favour from her wealthy, distant cousin.

So I tell her everything, hoping to make up for leaving her with no one but boring Aunt Marcia during the long months away. The elegance of Buckingham Palace, the mystery of Stonehenge, the crashing of the waves against the cliffs of Dover, I describe in infinite detail sights she has never seen, nor probably ever will.

Towards the end of my narrative I feel a tug on my shoe and glance down in surprise. One of the squirrels, perhaps looking for an easier handout than the cob, has come all the way up to me, begging cutely for a bite to eat. Mama smiles, handing me a slice of bread to break up for him. I roll onto my stomach, which scares him away, but only for a moment, then he is back again, smiling at me in that winning way that small animals seem to have perfected. I break off a big piece of bread, reaching out with it. I know, of course, that you should never feed wild animals, but I cannot resist their little faces and tiny hands. This squirrel, however, betrays me, sinking his sharp teeth into the soft skin of my palm instead of the bread. In outrage I scream, swinging my arm around to dislodge the attacker, hearing clearly the thud as the rat's body smacks into the wall opposite me.

The rat, not a squirrel.

Stone walls still stand where I had envisioned trees, and the sun is still only a window letting in a little light. I have been dreaming again, of picnics and home, and of a trip that went as it should, and not as it has. Stupid dreams, and stupid rat for destroying my only moment of peace.

As I lean back in disgust at my stupid hopeless dreams I notice there is something new on the floor nearby. What I took to be soft spring grass in the picnic of my dreams turns out to be a blanket, one of those warm fuzzy kinds they sell on street corners back home. Unlike the one waiting on my bed in Denver, this one does not have beautiful horses galloping across it. The cold faces of a wolf pack stare up at me instead. They look as though they are seeking prey to fill their bellies. Appropriately enough, a smear of blood from the rate bite on my hand has landed on the blanket, directly on the muzzle of one of the wolves. I don't bother to wipe it away; I hope it stains. One day perhaps, the police might have reason to suspect him; the traces of my blood on the blanket may be their only link to how I ended my days. I squeeze out a stream across the largest wolf's face, then smear the blood into the fabric. Vengeance feels good, but it makes the bite ache.

Damn rat. I glance over in time to see its fat form scuttling away to a darker corner. Pity I hadn't killed him when I threw him to the wall, but my arms are weaker than they used to be. I give up on the rat, burrowing deep into the warmth of the blanket my captor has provided. I wonder why he has bothered to give it to me. Why should it make a difference to him if I freeze to death or starve?

Bastard.

Is he sitting up there somewhere, behind the open doorway, listening to every move I make and calculating how to torture me next? Or do the sounds of my suffering give him some kind of sexual pleasure, like the perverts in the movies? I've tried to be quiet, not to give away anything, but it is so hard when I don't understand the rules of the game he is playing. Maybe silence is what turns him on.

Mama had always told me Cousin Edward was older than her; somewhere in his sixties, greying, unmarried. A nice country Englishman who wanted to treat me like the daughter he never had. If this was how he treated family, I don't think any daughter of his would have survived to my age. And yet, at the airport he had been all I imagined a gentleman to be, suave and elegant, making me feel shabby in my jeans. Silvering hair lay in perfect waves against the sides of his head, not one strand out of place, yet laugh lines and soft wrinkles gave his face the warmth of a favorite uncle or grandfather. Even his clothing was just as I imagined it would be, perfectly pressed trousers and spotless cable knit sweater that looked like something out of an issue of GQ.

As he carried my luggage to the car, I walked behind him, admiring the strength evident in his stride. For a man so much older than I, there was a feral sexiness about him. Mama would be so amused when I shared this with her, she had confessed years ago to having secretly been in love with him once, merely from the sound of his voice. She had never seen photos of him; I had planned to make up for her loss by taking plenty.

During the drive to his home Edward pointed out sights to me as we passed them on the road, laughing at my delight in the simplest things, like sitting in the wrong side of the front seat as a passenger. One minute I was following the gesture of his wrinkled hand, admiring a herd of the longhaired sheep that seem to dot every hillside. The next moment I looked back to enjoy the way his smile lit up his dark eyes, only to find a young man, no more than twenty-five, seated behind the car wheel and wearing Edward's clothes.

I think I screamed. I'm sure I did, but whether I fainted or he knocked me unconscious, I don't know. I only remember that familiar voice of the Edward I thought I knew, the one I had heard dozens of times over the telephone planning the trip, saying "Damn, that should have been enough." before I slipped into oblivion.

Mama. What would he do to Mama? Had he told her I was missing, or that I was dead? For the thousandth time I picture her, standing by the telephone, waiting for a call from me that will never come, receiving instead a call from the police telling her I am dead and Edward is my killer. I remember how she looked when the call came about Dad, who had been killed in the line of duty arresting a burglar. She had stood by the phone, unmoving except for the single tear running down her laugh-lined face.

Is she by that phone now, crying for me? Her phantom stands before me and I want to touch her, reassure her that I am still alive, that I love her so much. Though my hand merely passes through the image, I can feel the wetness of tears upon my fingers and I too begin to weep.

"Please don't cry Mama, please don't cry."

She is getting worse, he feels it. As she slips, weeping, into sleep, he knows it is only a short time now before the crisis point is reached. Unbidden tears course down his own cheeks as the desperate longing for her mother passes through her into his own heart. Only a little longer, he wants to reassure her, only a little longer, and it will all be over. At least she is warm now, the blanket has helped, though he remains cold, unwilling to alleviate his own suffering lest it cause him to miss the critical moment. This time he will not fail because of a lack of understanding, this time he will know everything and make certain she is saved.

"If only it had worked in the car," he mutters to himself.

Slowly the door to the room opens, and the woman enters respectfully. "My Lord, the mother is on the phone. Will you speak to her?"

He is terribly tired. Sleep has been impossible during the long ordeal, but the mother must not suspect, must not have any reason to fear for her child. He nods to the woman and she brings in a phone on a long cord. Clearing his throat, he prepares for the call. His voice must be perfectly that of the elderly English gentleman, Edward, whom he has been for her for so many years.

"Elizabeth, how are you my dear?" His tone is cheery in the bleak room.

"Fine, Edward, fine. Is Eva well? Is she causing you any problems?"

"Don't be silly, my dear. I've enjoyed having the child here, she positively brightens my dull existence."

"Good. I just wanted to be sure."

"Would you like to speak with her, I believe she is just outside with the horses. I can send for her." He knows she will decline, not wanting the girl to feel she is being checked on. Not wanting Eva to suddenly feel homesick.

"No, Edward, let her have her fun. The postcards have been more than enough and these calls are expensive. Thank you again, for everything."

More meaningless chatter, and then good-byes. He hangs up the phone, exhausted even by this short pretense of healthfulness. And the lying. It will be so good when he no longer has to lie. A hunger pain wracks him - the girl's, not his own. She is asleep, but he feels the building tension within her. Only a little longer, he prays for her sake, only a little longer.

This time I know I am dreaming. I'm with Sasha, playing in the open fields that used to be behind our house. There are more houses there now, have been for years, and Sasha, my beloved dog, has been dead even longer. For now, though, we are chasing the ground squirrels from hole to hole. Fatter than their tree living cousins, they play tag with us, knowing I would never let Sasha harm them. Not that she stands a chance of catching one. A big, playful lump of a husky, she has the hunting instincts of a milch cow, unable to even catch a wounded bug in our living room, let alone a live ground squirrel. I encourage her, though, because I know how happy she is in the attempt.

In my dream, however, it is different. I watch mesmerized as Sasha chases down a squirrel, crushing it between her powerful front jaws. Smiling that irrepressible doggy smile, she rushes to where I am standing dropping it at my feet, proudly displaying the trophy she has fought for. I don't know whether to praise or scold her before she is off after another and another. Soon there is a pile of tiny bloody corpses lying about me and she keeps bringing more and more. Horrified, I want to stop her, but I can't make any sound no matter how I strain. So large is the pile I can't get around it, can't escape to catch Sasha and stop the bloody rampage she is on. I don't want to see her kill anymore, yet in looking away from her activities, I can only look down at the corpses.

Reaching down, I pick up one of the mangled remains. This one is less damaged than some, almost looking as though it is only sleeping there in my grasp. It is a fat squirrel; so fat my fingers won't stretch all the way around its girth. So fat I can picture it roasted with new potatoes and gravy. So fat my mouth waters just looking at it resting in my fingers.

I wake up to the taste of fur in my mouth and scream.

It isn't fur, only the blanket. I can feel the damp spot where I chewed on it in my sleep. My lack of control sickens me, though I imagine Edward has been sitting up there enjoying the screams. I clamp my teeth down, determined not to make any more sounds. Then I see the rat watching me from the corner.

"Die, you fucking bastard!" I scream, throwing a handy stone towards his head. It misses, but I don't care, I've scared him: made him run and hide. I am so tired of his tiny eyes, and tiny paws, and tiny whiskers scrabbling about on the stones waiting for me to die. Why should I die first? I am, after all, a human being. He is only a rat! Is it not the way of the universe that the weak perish to feed the strong? I am still stronger than you rat, so beware. Pushing away the blanket I stand, showing my defiance to the tiny beast.

"I'm still stronger than you!" I shout at the rat, or maybe at Edward wherever he sits listening.

He hears the shout and knows it is time. The strength is pouring into her now; the crisis point has been reached. Pushing off from the wall he rises and heads down the corridor. At the tower doorway he stops, looking down. She is standing, glaring at the rat, which glares back in curiosity. They are both unaware of him above them, watching. He can already see the changes in her, already see it is happening.

Soon it will all be over.

In moving towards the rat I see the blanket again. Wolves over wolves they are staring at me, the one with the bloody muzzle almost seems to be moving, to be egging me on. As I watch him move, I realize they are not wolves, they are all Sasha, Sasha with the blood of ground squirrels covering her teeth. She has come back from the dead to save me. In my dying dreams she has shown me what to do.

I whirl on the rat. He looks nervous now, as well he should: the tables have turned. I am no longer waiting to meet my own death, now I am moving towards his. Stepping forward, I feel awkward in my hightops, they seem to constrict my movements, pulling me down. Without looking I remove one and then the other, using my feet as levers to work them off. Now I can feel the cold stone on the soles of my feet. This is right, this is how the hunt should be.

Crouching I move at him, but the rat has sensed the change in atmosphere and scurries away before my hands can grab him. I howl in frustration as Sasha had a hundred times in the field behind the house, but my howl is deeper, throatier, wolf-like. Movement makes my body hurt, whether because of the imminent moment of death or because of the imminent acquisition of food, every part of me seems to have heightened sensation. My nails seem to be stretching out of their beds as I grasp for the rat, claw-like in their attempt to snag his body, while my nostrils broaden to catch every possible scent, as though it will help me determine which way he will move, where he will go.

"I'm going to eat you, little rat-" My voice is hoarse, rasping. There is a dangerous edge to it.

"-I'm going to eat you, little rat-" He is afraid, I can taste his fear in the air, smell it in his breath.

"-and you will taste-" I pounce, missing. My hand, paw-like, smacks onto the stones.

"-just-" He is hiding, I sniff but his scent is everywhere, my ears twitch as I hear a scraping in the corner beneath the spider's web.

"-like-" I rush again, both hands this time, claws out, I will crush him between them.

"-CHICKEN!" I howl, but it isn't a human sound anymore.

My jaws, powerful, multi-toothed, clamp down around the rat's fat hairy belly and I can taste the blood squirting into my throat, sending power into muscle and bone. I am still alive. I sing my joy to the heavens, oblivious to the blood smeared across my muzzle and the bits of fur caught in my teeth.

He watches, fascinated. It's working, he recognizes it as he watches her crouch and pursue the rat across the deep tower floor. This time he has not made any mistakes, has not overestimated the girl's strength. This time he has chosen the right time and method.

Her movements become less human, more graceful and animal-like as she now runs on all fours, her ears lengthening, hands bunching into large powerful paws. Within moments she is a girl no longer, but the image of the animals on the blanket lying discarded on the floor. Still pursuing the rat, she corners it and crushes it in her strong lupine jaws. Bloodied, fulfilled, she howls in triumph. He listens to the song echo in the cold stone tower, smiling. At this moment she reminds him of himself, the way he had been so many centuries ago. He waits until the exhausted wolf curls up upon the floor to sleep. Gradually it returns to the form of the girl.

Smiling, exhausted yet ecstatic, he leaps from the doorway, becoming, in a moment of thought, a huge raven flying down to her side. Reshaping as a man, he settles on the floor beside her, smiling again. Taking the blanket he wraps her in it, cradling her body, once more healthy and strong, in his own powerful arms.

"Welcome to the family, Eva Lockwood." he whispers to the sleeping form. "Welcome home, little sister."

�

episode i: journey into darkness - episode ii: tea party - episode iii: awakening
episode iv: the book of grief - episode v: paterfamilias - episode vi: breaking points
episode vii: the dark of the mind - episode viii: decisions
episode ix: momentary distractions - episode x: exorcising demons i
episode xi: porcelain visions - episode xii: the nature of jackals
episode xiii: exorcising demons ii - episode xiv: the invitation
episode xv: body & soul - episode xvi: mothering sunday
episode xvii: imbalance of power - episode xviii: interlude
episode xix: between life and death

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