Ain't No Sunshine

by mcgoverin

Summary:

Two chairs sit tucked beneath the kitchen table, which currently drowns in student papers. One chair is yours; a worn cushion tied to the seat. The other is bare, kept just in case. With the dishes done, you sit at the table with a sigh, shuffle the piles by year group, and dip your pen into the inkwell. You lose yourself in the rhythm of it –

Tick, cross, note, tick

- until the candle gutters low and your neck begins to ache.

Outside, deep in the shadowed bush beyond your clearing, a pair of red eyes flicker in the dark. Watching. Waiting.

But you do not see them.

Not yet.

Chapter 1: the one who stayed behind

‘Ow!’

You jerk your hand back sharply, eyes flicking down to see a bead of scarlet blooming on the pad of your thumb. You lift it to your lips quickly and suck the wound instinctively, blood sharp and metallic on your tongue. Frowning at the rosebush, you crouch once more, taking care to twist off the offending thorn before reaching for your pliers and cutting through the stem. The rose drops into the basket at your feet, joining the rest. A full dozen now.

‘You alright there, Miss Daisy?’

You glance up and lock eyes with the man peering over the shrubbery, concern etched across his face. Broad-shouldered and awkward, Bobby wipes the sweat from his brow with a gloved hand, unintentionally cutting a streak of soil across his cheekbone. He’s been weeding the boarders all afternoon, kindly volunteering without fuss after the school’s latest town hall plea. You’d caught sight of him earlier as you taught the children their arithmetic, bent low among the violets, and had given him a small wave when he looked up. He’d grinned like he always does. Wide, earnest, and so very young.

He's a big lad, six foot, and built like the side of a barn. But his manner is sweet, and he’s hopelessly smitten with you. You’d let him down gently last summer when he’d mustered up the courage to ask you out, and since then, he’s been respectful of your boundaries and kept his feelings to himself; never pressed, never lingered too long. Still, he turns up for every odd job going at the schoolhouse, always ready with his quiet smile and callused hands.

‘I’m fine, Bobby,’ you say with a smile, lifting the basket into the crook of your arm and brushing loose soil from your skirts. ‘Just a little prick from the roses.’ You brandish your thumb to show the tiny cut, already clotted into a speckled scab.

‘Oh good, good. You want me to fetch a bandage or something?’

His brows are furrowed and the concern in his eyes is gentle, soft as a lamb. Too kind. You feel guilty.

‘I’m alright, Bobby, truly. But thank you. I just need to get these in water, then I’m heading home to the stack of unfinished marking that’s currently decorating my kitchen table.’

He nods, though you see his disappointment in the set of his shoulders, and ducks back into the flower bed to finish the last of the weeding.

You head back into the shade of the schoolhouse, the door groaning softly on the un-oiled hinges as it swings closed behind you. The air inside is still, faintly scented with chalk dust and ink, and the silence that reaches the rafters is comforting. The children are long gone but you feel their energy as it lingers in the worn floorboards and crooked coat hooks. Two tiny jackets still hang, forgotten until Monday.

You place the old reed basket gently on your desk, careful not to crush the roses. Taking a dusty vase from the shelf, you carry it to the sink that sits tucked in the corner. The tap squeaks as you give it a twist and the water runs slowly, swirling dreamily around the bottom of the vase. Once it is three-quarters full you use two hands to transfer it back to your desk, mindful not to spill it on the floorboards, now darkened in places from years of use. One by one, you lift each blood-red rose from the basket, stems still dewy and petals heated by the memory of the sun. You inspect them closely, snapping off any missed thorns with the side of your finger, the motion practiced and precise. Once satisfied with your arrangement, you set the vase on the windowsill. The late afternoon sunlight filters through the red flowers and fractured glass, painting the rough interior walls with a soft, ruddy glow. You let out a quiet breath, and the spell breaks. There’s still tidying to be done.

Crossing the room, you begin to straighten the chairs, each one a little different and mismatched. Some creak as you align them, their legs uneven on the wooden floor, and your eyes drift over the initials and carvings that litter the desks, etched by years of restless hands. You pick up a lonely slate and return it to the supply cupboard, where the shelves are lined with spare pencils, textbooks, and a jar of pens, all their nibs broken.

You run your hand along the old blackboard, still dusty from the day’s lessons, before wiping it clean with an old cloth, watching the faint outlines of equations and spelling lists disappear into smears. Behind you, the room settles, the kind of stillness that only comes at a day’s end. Moving towards the windows, you unlatch each one and draw them shut. The wood is swollen from the summer air, and you have to really lean into the frame to get the second one closed. Bobby’s no longer in view, but his tools still lie scattered. He’s likely circled around to the shed for supplies. The final latch clicks with a familiar, satisfying snap.

The small potbelly stove sits cold and quiet at the back of the room, and you open the door to check the ash pan out of habit. Just grey dust and the scent of old fire. With everything in place and a few stray crumbs swept up you collect your satchel and pause for a moment. The schoolroom, though plain and sparse, carries its own kind of beauty. Life lives within these four walls, you think to yourself, and you glance once more at the roses on the windowsill. The remaining lamplight catches the glass of the vase just so, and for a second, it throws a ripple of red light across the wall, like blood in water.

You blink, and it’s gone.

Just the glass. Just the roses.

You extinguish the lamps before stepping out into the evening, the late summer air rushing up to great you, thick with the hum of insects and the earthy scent of warm dirt. Locking the front door, you tuck the heavy brass key into your pocket and start down the path toward town, dust rising around your skirts. Behind you, the schoolhouse stands silent, the windows dark.

 

---

 

The walk from school to your little cottage is long, but you welcome the solitude. It gives you time to let your thoughts wander after a full day of teaching. Everyone in town knows you, being the only teacher for the forty-five children. You teach them their reading, their spelling, their sums, and when they squabble and scrape their knees and scrawl naughty words in the outhouse, it falls to you to set them right. Farmer Heinz’s youngest daughter used to be your aid, until she left last spring to marry a banker and settle North. She’s sent only one letter since, and you try not to resent her for it. A part of you wishes you’d had her courage.

As you stroll, your eyes drift to the far sides of the paddocks where the gorse grows wild and ivy climbs unchecked up the fence line. Beyond it, down a sagging trail of flax and nettle, stands the old abbey.

It was one of the first buildings raised when settlers clawed their way into these valleys, eager for glittering promise. Before the streets were cut, before the schoolhouse, the grocers, even the hotel, there stood the abbey; hewn from heavy Southland stone, grey as sorrow, with timbers darkened by salt air hauled inland from the coast. Your mother told you how the men laboured by lantern-light to finish the bell tower, driven by a kind of fever, wanting the comfort of God close at hand while they dug greedily into the hills.

In just a few years the stone has aged almost beyond recognition, drowning now in moss and overgrowth, as if the earth itself wishes to reclaim what ambition once stole. The stained-glass windows are cracked, some hollow altogether, their coloured shards long since picked over by curious children or swallowed by the soil. The bell tower leans slightly now, like it sighs beneath some unseen weight. You remember hearing its toll as a child, regular as a heartbeat, calling the nuns to prayer, the faithful to kneel, and the pupils to silence.

You attended mass there with your schoolmates every Friday, small hands clenched tightly around borrowed rosary beads, the cold air of the nave heavy with incense and muttered Latin. The saints watched from their alcoves with eyes of painted glass, lips set in pious judgment. The nuns were worse; black-clad, sharp as carrion birds. Sister Edith, with her thin mouth and ruler that cracked across tender knuckles at the smallest slip, and Sister Mary, whose eyes glistened with a fervour that frightened you more than any tale of hellfire. They taught you your letters, your catechism, your mortal sins, and the deep, unyielding guilt of simply being born wanting. When they died, Mary first, then Edith, alone in that echoing place, no new sisters came to take up their vigil. The abbey doors closed, iron-banded and final, and the bell fell silent. Occasionally you catch your children whispering dark things to each other, about something that lurked and turned in that place, something bitter and wrong. You never gave much credit to their stories, even smacking your ruler on the desk in warning when they got out of hand. But there’s something about the way birds avoid the roof now that makes your stomach twist.

That was the year you had taken over as head teacher, you remember. You hadn’t planned to stay, you had dreamed of bigger places, of boarding a steamer and seeing the sea not only from the cliffs but from the deck of a ship, waves crashing below you and the sky a dome above. You used to draw maps of places you’d never seen and learn the names of ships from newspapers your mother would feed the hearth with. But when the abbey had closed and no one else stepped up, when the children faced a future without schooling, you had said yes. You would step up, just for a year. That was eight years ago.

It’s different, the way you teach. You still hear Sister Edith in the back of your mind sometimes, her voice like frost. But you correct your students with patience, you soothe their tears, you never let your hand rise in punishment. The memory of your own knuckles, bruised blue, will not allow it. You like to think you have shaped something gentler here, that your classroom is not ruled by fear, but by small discoveries, laughter, and hope.

Nestled beside the abbey is the old graveyard, its dead tucked up close to the sanctuary of God, or so the nuns used to say. The iron gate hangs crooked, and all the headstones lean at odd angles, some too worn now to read. Your mother swore she’d never find peace buried in a grim place like this, under the watchful eyes of stone saints and the restless spirits that surely linger there. She would shiver and shake her head at the mere mention of it.

When the bishop deemed the ground unhallowed after years of neglect, a new church was built in the town centre, its own graveyard fresh and bright with white headstones and floral bouquets, leaving this one to fall from grace like the abbey itself. You’ve stopped in a few times over the years, always meaning to visit just one grave. The small one.

You pause at the paddock fence line now, heart heavy with the old ache. From where you stand you can see the willow that leans over her grave still, draping it in sorrowful green. Miriam Lewis. Sweet, soft-voiced Miriam Lewis. You remember her hand in yours, and the way her laughter used to burst up from her belly like birds startled from a tree. How her parents, long childless, had looked on her like a benediction, grateful beyond measure for her bright little soul. You were both eight when she had slipped on the slick stones and drowned in the creek, overflown after a summer downpour. You’d only looked away for a second.

You wonder if Miriam is lonely there, in the company of so many who had gone hard and old, their hearts long grown brittle. After she died, her parents packed their things and left town, leaving behind only that modest stone, half-swallowed now by the grass. You think of visiting, crossing the paddock to tend the weeds back, but the thought of stepping over that threshold, past those crumbling arches, makes your skin prickle. Instead, you press your palm over your breast, as if to quiet the small frantic pulse beneath, and turn your eyes back to the path, continuing on your way. Your chest feels heavy.

 

---

 

You stroll beneath the broad limbs of oaks that line the narrow road, their leaves whispering overhead. School Lane, so aptly named, curls around the back paddocks of the township, quiet and dappled in green, before spilling out onto Stratford Street where the small police station squats with its neat picket fence and low iron gate. The gaol stands tucked beside it, built of darker stone, its barred windows narrow as knife slots. A constable leans against the post outside, hat tipped low to keep off the sun, one hand resting near the chain of his watch. He lifts his chin in silent greeting, and you give a polite nod, feeling the way his eyes track you as you pass, not out of menace, simply habit. In a place this small, every coming and going is accounted for. From Stratford Street, the road widens into Main Street proper, and the township begins to open before you. Buildings made from timber and corrugated iron line each side of the busy street, whitewashed where people can afford it. The butcher’s wooden sign swings in the light breeze, and barley sweets in glass jars beckon from the window of the general store. The post office stands solid and official, the telegraph wires humming their invisible tune as you pass, and the hotel, with its wide veranda and dusty windows, shelters two farmers sharing a cigarette, the air forever tinged with the smell of spilled beer and damp wool.

Nicholas Carney tips his hat to you as you approach the seamstress and shoemaker’s, its awning bearing both names in cheerful painted script. He’s seated on a stool in the shade beneath it, bent over a half-finished boot, fingers dark with polish.

‘Afternoon, Miss Daisy,’ he says warmly. ‘You keeping well?’

‘Well enough, Nicholas,’ you reply with a smile, lingering near the shop’s doorway. ‘Thought I’d steal a moment with your better half if she’s free.’

‘Go on through. She’s been chained to that Singer all morning, could use the rescue.’

The bell above the door rings softly as you step inside; the interior is a snug chaos of stacked boxes, spools of thread, bolts of fabric, and polished lasts waiting to be shaped. In the back room, the steady thrum of Suzy’s Singer sewing machine fills the warm air. It's the only one of its kind in the area, leaving her always in demand, especially before Easter and Christmas.

Suzy herself sits straight-backed at the table, dark black hair pinned up off her flushed neck, needle flashing with each pedal of her foot. She glances up when you enter, face brightening.

‘Well, look what the cat’s dragged in. Sit, sit.’ She gestures to a battered chair by her worktable. ‘Save me from going cross-eyed.’

You place your satchel on the floor and sit down gratefully, smoothing your skirts. The two of you fall quickly into easy talk: the small happenings of the township, the fresh scandal of Mrs. Penwright’s nephew caught kissing a girl behind the bakery, the price of butter rising again. You speak of the coming church fundraiser dance, and how Mrs. Kirkland is determined to outdo last year’s supper spread.

‘She’ll be doling out slices of sponge like communion wafers,’ Suzy says dryly, leaning back in her chair and wiping old sweat from her brow. ‘And watching every mouthful. God help the ones who don’t offer her enough praise.’

You snort a laugh, but it’s cut off by the shop bell ringing again. A moment later, Eileen McCready sweeps into the backroom, her little girl clinging to her skirts, bright eyes peeking out at you. The child gives a shy, gap-toothed smile, lifting her hand in a tiny wave. You wiggle your fingers back, your own smile gentle.

Eileen does not spare you more than a glance, her eyes flickering over you, assessing and faintly cold, before settling on Suzy. ‘I’ve come about the dress. For the church affair. Is it ready?’

Suzy wipes her hands on her apron. ‘Nearly, Mrs. McCready. I’ll have it finished first thing tomorrow morning, so it’ll hang fresh.’

‘See that you do.’ Eileen’s tone is clipped, her chin lifted in faint disdain. Her gaze darts to you again, then back to Suzy. ‘Come, Millie.’ She leads her daughter back onto the shop floor, the child giving you one last bright look before the bell tinkles behind them.

When they’re gone, Suzy exhales hard, rolling her eyes. ‘God preserve us. Eileen McCready thinks herself Queen of England these days. All because she married well and managed two bairns before her hair’s begun to grey. We used to share a slate in the same schoolroom, and now look at her, too fine to say a kind word.’

You huff a small laugh. ‘Nicholas seems unbothered by your pairing.’

‘He’d be unbothered if the roof fell in. Long as he’s got boots to mend.’ Suzy leans back in her chair again, stretching her arms over her head. ‘Lord, the fuss over that dress. I’ll be glad to see the hem of it.’

Your eyes move to the bolt of pale damask from which Eileen’s dress is being cut. The pattern is delicate, faintly gilded where the light strikes. Suzy catches your lingering look and arches an eyebrow.

‘You wanting to match Eileen McCready, Daisy?’

You laugh outright, shaking your head. ‘Hardly. Was actually thinking it might make for handsome drapes.’

Suzy laughs too, a bright, throaty sound. ‘Come by the weekend, then. There’ll be scraps enough to stitch your windows pretty, and I’d rather see that fabric catching sunlight in your house than trailed through mud by the likes of Eileen.’

‘You’re a saint, Suzy. Thank you.’

‘Only to you. Now off with you, before Nicholas decides my gossiping is running off the customers.’

You stand, collecting the satchel from your feet. ‘I’ll call in Sunday. Take care of yourself.’

‘Always do.’

You walk through the shop and step back outside, giving Nicholas a friendly wave as he glances up from his careful stitching. ‘Mind she doesn’t work you to death.’

‘She already does!’ he laughs, shaking his head affectionately.

Back on the street, you pass the bakery, its window fogged from heat and yeast, while above the rooftops and chimneys the spire of the new church peers down at you, the iron cross at its tip black against the paling sky. On the wind, you catch the faint strains of hymns from the Friday service. Just ahead, you spot one of the Barr boys, probably William’s eldest, chatting with the storehand at the grocer’s delivery door. There’s a crate of eggs balanced against his hip.

William and Wallace’s father, James Barr, had been trampled one morning by a furious bull, a violence that split the very seam of childhood. No one knows exactly what spooked it, although some whisper that he had struck it first. Either way, it tore through him like paper, his scream carrying across the paddocks. The boys were pulled out of school that afternoon; William had been your desk-mate, Wallace two years younger. For a long time, you harboured a tender ache for William, tucked carefully behind your breastbone. You’d danced together once at the school gala under strings of lanterns, his hand awkward but warm at your waist, your heart drumming so wildly you feared it might break loose. You’d thought, in the soft, secret way of girls, that he might be your future. That one day you would share a name, a porch, a child. But life had turned its face. You’d watched them fade from loud and vibrant boys into quiet, hollow-eyed men almost overnight.

Now, their farm is one of the best in the region. Good milk, strong stock. But whenever they come into town, whenever you pass them at market, there’s still something missing behind their eyes. It’s like they never really came back that day. You wonder if William remembers that dance. If it twinges in him the way it still does in you.

At the far end of Main Street, you turn off down a narrower lane that branches between the last cluster of houses. Here, fences lean beneath the weight of honeysuckle and wild briar, and you catch a glimpse of someone’s washing strung on a back line. The lane soon dwindles to a simple dirt track, marked by the trunk of a great oak, that winds its way out into open country.

It’s a good twenty-five minutes from here to home, and you settle into the walk with an old familiarity. The track climbs gently at first, then grows steeper as it snakes up the low shoulder of the hill. Your breath deepens, your skirts swish about your ankles, and while your chest lifts heavier than on flat ground, your lungs are well accustomed to the slope. You’ve walked this path in sun and rain, with arms full of books, with your mother’s hand in yours, and later alone, learning to love the hush that comes when the township slips entirely out of sight behind you. It’s the privacy you treasure most about living here. In town, everyone is always watching, always knowing, always talking. But in the hills, amongst the tussock and stones, it’s just you and the wind. Here, you can truly breathe. The air smells of dry grass and warm earth, and cicadas sing shrilly as you keep an easy pace. A few birds dip and dart overhead, chasing invisible insects, and the hills glow warm under the slanting sun. You see a hare startle and dart across the trail ahead.

Near the crest, the trail levels onto a small plateau cradled by the rise of the larger mountain beyond. Nestled there, hidden from prying eyes, stands your cottage. Once a goldminer’s hut, it bears all the plainness of its origin; stout timber walls, a sloping tin roof, and two modest rooms inside. The outhouse squats a little way off, painted a dull grey. Behind your cottage rests the old barn, more a sheep shed than anything, its doors bolted.

In the fenced paddock beside it, your horse grazes peacefully. She’s a skinny, sway-backed filly, the smallest of her mother’s foals, once destined for the slaughter yard. You’d won her on a whim at the fair when you were eleven, correctly guessing her weight to the ounce, your prize squealing and stamping beside the bewildered showman. She’d proven her worth in all the years since, carrying you down into town countless times. Nowadays her knees are stiff and the path too rutted for her to risk. Still, she’s lively enough for gentle rides uphill, where you let her pick her pace among the wild broom and long grass. You unlatch the paddock gate, clicking your tongue. The old girl lifts her head and ambles over, nudging at your pockets for treats and you stroke her soft muzzle, running your hands along her warm neck to feel for any new burrs or bites. Satisfied, you give her a scratch between the ears, whisper that she’s a good thing, and leave her to the last of the clover, no need to rug her tonight with the air still summer heavy.

Mouser, your tabby cat, sprawls across the porch, soaking up the last of the day’s warmth. She perks up as you crouch down to scratch behind her ears, yawning wide and rolling to her feet, head rubbing against your dusty boots. You fish your house key from your pocket and unlock the door with a practiced turn, stepping inside. Mouser skirts in around your legs, heading straight for her food bowl, and you kick the door shut behind you with a solid thud. The main room is already cool with the coming night, and you strike a match, touching it to the stub of a candle in the wall sconce. Then another on the kitchen table. Another on the mantle. Each flame blooms into life with a soft hiss, their amber glow chasing away the dim, and you move to turn the gas tap, lighting the stove with care. You quickly shake out the match, dropping it into the bin at your feet. The warmth is comforting, though it doesn’t take long for the room to grow stuffy, so you open a window and remove your layers, content to move in your chemise and petticoats. Leaning on the counter a moment, you roll your shoulders, letting the warmth unknot the day’s stiffness.

The icebox stands solid and white beside the sink, and you remove from its shelf the leftover cottage pie, setting it in a tin dish atop the flame to warm. Mouser winds between your legs, impatient and determined not to be forgotten. You follow her obediently to the hearth and bend down to scoop her portion into the bowl that sits there. She tucks in greedily. Darkness has fallen properly now, and you eat your dinner by candlelight, cross-legged in the old armchair. It’s sturdy, mended with worn crochet and padded with patchwork pillows. Outside, the breeze blows a gentle melody through the windchimes and lifts the scent of your flowerbed through the open window. You don’t light the fire, though you long to. Just for the crackle of wood, the scent of smoke, and the way it draws memory up from the bones. You find yourself glancing into the back room, still smelling faintly of soap and starch. A large copper tub rests beside the window, half-filled with water from your last wash. The workbench beside it is cluttered with wooden pegs, soap shavings, and an old washboard. All ghostly echoes of the work your mother once did to keep food on the table. You haven’t touched much of it, leaving it as she left it.

Tears prickle in the corners of your eyes, but you blink them away, scrape up the last of your dinner, and rise to do the washing up. The pump groans a little as water splashes into the basin, cold and clear from the ground. Mouser is already curled up at the end of your bed, fast asleep, her little whiskers twitching with each breath. The bed sits crammed in the corner; it’s quilt thick and warm. Hand-stitched, it’s been repaired more times than you can count. Nearby, a single milk bottle with a pink carnation sits on a wooden stool. The sight is inviting, but you don’t retire to bed yet. There’s marking to be done.

Two chairs sit tucked beneath the kitchen table, which currently drowns in student papers. One chair is yours; a worn cushion tied to the seat. The other is bare, kept just in case. With the dishes done, you sit at the table with a sigh, shuffle the piles by year group, and dip your pen into the inkwell. You lose yourself in the rhythm of it –

Tick, cross, note, tick

- until the candle gutters low and your neck begins to ache.

Outside, deep in the shadowed bush beyond your clearing, a pair of red eyes flicker in the dark. Watching. Waiting.

But you do not see them.

Not yet.

Notes:

something in me went crazy this past weekend and i decided that i needed to extend the crap out of this fic because having the entire story progress over one weekend is too romeo and juliet for my liking. expect similar updates to my chapters in the coming week/s with a focus on character building, world building, more info, more lore. yay!

Chapter 2: a stranger at the door

Notes:

Thanks for the kudos and comments on the last chapter! <3

Your footsteps make no noise on the grass as you walk, the light bending strangely around you. You’re young again, small enough that your pinafore hangs loose from your shoulders, your knees scabbed from climbing fences. A soft breeze curls through the grass, stirring scents of warm earth and crushed fennel. Somewhere close by, honeybees drone lazily.

You’re five, maybe six, sitting cross-legged beneath the knotted old elm by the school paddock. You watch as the other girls walk past in tight, giggling knots, their heads bending together like conspirators. They would not play with you, you remember that well. The whispers followed you everywhere: your unknown father, your hair, your face - how you looked too much like someone from the old country, someone not like them.

But Miriam is there, and she takes your hand anyway. Miriam, with her freckled shoulders and long golden hair. She would grin, gap-toothed, and tug you into her games. Clap-hand chants, skipping ropes, flower chains. You can see her face so clearly now; the dark freckle on her chin, the earnest set of her mouth when she promised you weren’t strange to her. How once she pressed a daisy crown on your head and pronounced you a queen.

‘Come on!’ Miriam laughs now, dashing ahead through the field, her feet bare and nimble over the stubbled grass. You chase after her, your breath light with joy. It’s a game of tag, like those endless afternoons long ago when the paddocks were kingdoms and you were knights and princesses and sometimes both.

But now the sun has slipped behind the hills, bruising the sky an ugly purple. A shiver crawls over your skin and the ground seems to darken underfoot, the grass slick and cold, ghosting against your calves. Your legs move slow, heavy, as if you wade through deep mud.

Miriam is just ahead, her braid swinging like a pendulum down her back as she runs, and the hem of her nightdress – why is she wearing her nightdress? - catches on thistle and grass seed. You call out to her, but your voice is thin, swallowed by the grey hush of the landscape. It’s like trying to speak underwater. The paddock stretches far; the fences have vanished and the trees loom with gnarled fingers instead of branches. Still, you give chase.

She doesn’t turn, but you know it’s her. You know the shape of her shoulders, the tilt of her head as she weaves through the trees like a bird through mist. You remember the way she wiped your tears the day your father left for good, pressing her small hand to your cheek and promising not to tell anyone you’d cried.

‘Miriam! Wait!’ you try to scream. Still no sound, and still she runs.

The light dims further, thick as dirty milk, and you burst through a patch of weeds, grass staining your pinafore and cold sweat soaking your back. The old abbey stands ahead of you, rising out of the ground like the bones of a corpse buried long ago. The bell tower slouches, the roofline a jagged snarl against the sky, and the windows gape like empty eye sockets, stone weeping with black ivy. Miriam slips inside. You follow her. You don’t want to, but you must.

The flagstones are slick beneath your feet, and the air smells of rot and old incense. Candle niches along the nave are long cold, but something flickers far ahead, deep in the heart of the chapel.

‘Miriam?’ you whisper, and your voice echoes far too loud, bouncing back at you in strange, unfamiliar tones. You move down the aisle, past crumbling pews and sagging velvet kneelers, toward the flickering light that pulses like a heartbeat. Each step feels wrong, too long or too short, and the walls breathe, almost imperceptibly, as if the entire abbey were alive and watching. The altar is covered in a yellowed cloth, and something lies atop it, wrapped tight in linen. You reach out, your hand obeying of its own accord.

You feel her breath first, hot and wet against your neck, the rest of the abbey cold as a tomb. You turn your head and look behind you.

It’s not Miriam.

Her hair is hanging loose, lank and dripping with what looks like creek water. Her eyes burn red as coals, glowing from deep within blackened sockets. Her skin has shrunk against her skull like wet parchment, pulled tight over bone, and when she smiles, her jaw unhinges too wide, revealing jagged teeth like broken glass.

Your breath catches.

‘Miriam?’ you breathe, but it comes out as a broken whimper, barely audible.

She lunges.

Her damp hair slaps cold across your cheek, leaving a slick smear that stings, and her fingers snap into claws as she grabs for you, mouth opening impossibly wide, a deep scream pouring out of her. The sound is terrible, guttural, hungry. You stumble back as she rips into you, tripping on a loose stone, falling hard. She’s above you now, straddling your chest, blood running from the corners of her mouth in twin streams, dripping onto your dress, onto your face. The bells begin to toll, but they’re cracked, twisted, ringing backwards.

You scream.

Suddenly, your head snaps up, heart lurching, a choked gasp escaping from your lips. For a moment, you don’t know where you are.

Paper clings wetly to your cheek, held by a tacky smear of drool. You peel it away with a grimace, blinking blearily against the heavy night that has settled over the room. The candle stubs have guttered to nothing, all but one. The stubby little taper hunches in its holder like a dying man, flame stuttering with each draft that slips beneath the door.

Shadows dance freely on the walls, long and crooked, turning familiar furniture into misshapen strangers. The inkpot has tipped, knocked by a flailing hand, and black liquid pools across the tablecloth like oil, narrowly avoiding the stack of graded papers but seeping deep into the embroidered ferns your mother once stitched by hand. You curse softly under your breath and flex your cramping fingers, stained blue-black to the knuckles. You right the inkpot and push your chair back, rising unsteadily, joints stiff with sleep. Crossing to the basin, you reach for the hand-pump’s cool iron spout but stop when you catch sight of the cat.

Mouser is no longer curled on your bed. Instead, she crouches by the door, ears pricked, body rigid. The fur along her spine stands bristled, her green eyes locked on the door as though it’s a living thing. She makes a strange sound, a low, rumbling growl you’ve never heard from her before, and bolts beneath the bed in a blur of grey. A shadow moves across the window.

Then, three knocks. Heavy. Deliberate. Knuckle on wood, echoing like a rifle crack through the silence of a forest.

You freeze, and the candle flickers violently.

No one calls this late. Not unless there’s trouble. Not unless something has gone very, very wrong. Your mind skitters over every terrible scenario. The Barr boys trampled by their cattle, Mrs. Wendelken and her bad heart, one of the little ones falling from the old rope swing near the gully. Some accident, some fire, some loss too awful to name. You fumble for the candlestick, heart pounding in your throat as you strike a match and light the wick. The brass base is warm from where it sat on the stove, and your hand trembles as you lift it. The flame throws your warped shadow against the wall behind you as you cross the room., each floorboard creaking beneath your bare feet. You reach the door, wood swollen with night damp, hinges cold as bone. You stand still a moment, drawing breath into your lungs, steadying your thoughts. You can handle this, you remind yourself. Whatever it is, you’ve handled worse. You’ve mended broken bones with only boiled linen and prayer. You’ve stood at gravesides. You’ve lit candles for children who never made it past spring. Your fingers wrap around the iron doorknob. It sticks, then turns with a groan. There, on the threshold, haloed in candlelight and shadow, stands a man.

His fist is still raised, as if to knock again, and you’re struck by him, this stranger. He’s not one of the men from town, you’d know if he were. There’s a softness to him, a lingering gentility that doesn’t suit the red-faced farmers or the oil-fingered mechanics who mill around the hotel bar and general store on Saturdays. He looks road-worn but not coarsened.

You look him over carefully, initial fear turning to confusion as the candle’s flicker dances over his face, carving out the fine planes of his cheekbones and the strong line of his mouth. His hair is dark and a little unkempt, curling damp at the temples where the mist has caught it. He’s dressed plainly, his shirt a simple blue button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tucked into brown trousers held up by faded suspenders. The banjo slung across his back gives him a rakish sort of look and his boots are caked in dust, the leather dull and cracked, suggesting he’s walked a long way indeed. When he shifts, lowering his fist to instead clutch the banjo strap that crosses his chest, the gold wedding band on his left hand catches the light.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am,’ he says, his voice lilting with something old-world. Irish, you think. It drapes over his words like velvet, smooth and gentle. ‘But I’m in need of some assistance.’

You hold his gaze, your hand tightening slightly around the candleholder. His eyes are a striking blue, bright even in the dim. But there’s something strange about them, something too deep, too knowing. Gold flecks swirl near his pupils, gleaming when the flame shifts. You lose yourself in them for just a breath too long.

‘Ma’am?’ he prompts, his brow creasing with concern. His voice is low, coaxing, and far too lovely for your liking. It’s as though he’s leaning closer without moving. You blink hard, throat dry, and shake yourself.

‘You lost?’ you ask, voice sounding breathless in your ears. You scan the dark behind him, half-expecting to see a packhorse, or even a broken-down motorcar. But there’s nothing. Only the trees shifting under the rising wind and the wide, black road that curls away and down into the bush.

‘Well, yes, ma’am, I suppose I am,’ he says, chuckling under his breath. ‘Forgive me for startlin’ you - name’s Remmick. I’m a travelling musician - banjo mostly, bit of singing when I can find a willing crowd. I’ve been roamin’ about these parts lookin’ for work. A few coins for a tune, that sort of thing. Enough to keep bread in my pocket. And now, if I can be so bold,’ he says, pausing. ‘Somewhere to rest for the night.’

He ducks his head, tilting it just slightly as he peers up at you through his long lashes, almost shy. There’s something practiced about it, the way his mouth quirks, as though he knows exactly how handsome he is. But it’s charming all the same. A cool draught snakes in through the open doorway, curling cold around your bare ankles, making the linen of your shift flutter. You shiver, the candlestick flickering in your grip. Only then does the reality of your half-dressed state truly strike you; corset unfastened and discarded, a thin shift and your petticoat preserving your modesty.

You flush crimson, heat rising to your cheeks, and your heart trips against your ribs.

He doesn’t look away. In fact, his eyes soften, drifting down your figure for the barest second before returning to your face. That small, brazen flicker leaves your skin burning.

You step subtly behind the doorframe, fumbling for a shawl that hangs nearby to pull up over your shoulders. Your heart drums against your ribs like it wants out, torn between wariness and something stranger, something that feels dangerously like fascination. He’s handsome, you admit that much. But you’re no fool. And you know better than to let strange men into your house, not when the nearest neighbour’s a half mile off and the moon’s cloaked behind heavy cloud cover.

‘I-’ You hesitate, then lie through your teeth. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t let you in. My husband’s asleep in the next room. He wouldn’t take kindly to me letting in a stranger at this hour.’

Remmick’s expression doesn’t change, he keeps smiling, but something subtle shifts. The air between you feels thinner. His eyes gleam with a glimmer that could be amusement, or something sharper.

‘Of course,’ he says. ‘I’d never wish to impose on a lady.’ His gaze lingers on you, a touch too long, and the way he says lady causes something to coil inside you, something you resent, even as it tightens in your belly. ‘Forgive me. I hope I’ve not overstepped my welcome at your doorstep.’

‘There’s an old shearing shed out back,’ you offer suddenly, a part of you still wanting, irrationally, not to disappoint him. ‘Bit tumbledown now, but the hayloft’s dry enough. There should still be bedding up there. I-’ you glance aside, embarrassed to admit it, ‘I used to sleep there sometimes, when I was a girl. After I read Heidi. It’ll be enough to keep you out of the elements. My old filly tends to bed down outside on warmer nights like this, so you won’t be disturbing anyone.’

For a moment, his expression shifts into something more intent, more predatory. Then it melts back into charm, into that easy, rolling warmth. He chuckles, genuine or not, and dips his head again, slow and gracious. ‘That’ll suit me fine, ma’am. You’re very kind.’ His voice is softer now, more intimate, as though you two share a sheltered secret. ‘I’ll find a way to repay you for your generosity.’

You smile despite yourself, trying to shrug off how his words slide over you like silk. ‘That won’t be necessary. I only hope it keeps any chill off.’ He keeps his eyes on you, deep blue pools that seem to move, the gold swirling slowly, like autumn leaves caught in a current.

You can feel your pulse fluttering as you lift the candlestick to light the lantern from its hook beside the door. When you pass it to him, your fingers brush. A spark leaps up your arm, startling you. He feels far too warm, like someone who’s been standing by a fire, despite being out in the dark. Something in your chest stutters.

Remmick’s hand closes over the lantern handle, lingering against yours. He holds you there with a look, his mouth curving into the faintest smile – knowing, patient, almost hungry. You draw your hand back and, in the lantern glow, his eyes seem to smoulder, the gold flecks shifting again like sunlight through whisky.

‘Sleep well,’ he says softly.

You nod, unable to find you voice, and watch him turn from your door, stepping into the night. The lantern casts a gentle sway of golden light ahead of him and you feel that tight pull again, an ache inside you that makes no sense at all. He rounds the side of the house toward the shed, and the darkness seems to fold itself shut behind him. You close the door with a shiver and press your back against it, heart beating oddly fast. After a moments pause, you turn the key in the lock with a soft, decisive click. The house is still as you cross the room, your feet padding softly over the woven rug. Crouching beside the bed you peer under it, cheek pressed to the cool wood. ‘Mouser?’ you whisper.

She’s wedged tight into the far corner, eyes wide, tail wrapped close.

You click your tongue. ‘Silly girl,’ you murmur, trying to coax her out, but she refuses to budge. Eventually, you straighten with a sigh and make for the basin, scrubbing your ink-stained hands with the stiff-bristled brush. The water clouds violet, ink unfurling in spirals down the drain like blood from a wound. You shake your hands dry and begin clearing the table. The spilled inkwell, the stack of student work, the smudged and ruined tablecloth. You gather the cloth in your arms and carry it into the back room, placing it in a bucket to soak. You add a little soap to lift the worst of the spill and the scent of it lingers in the air, mingling faintly with something older. Mildew, maybe.

Returning to the main room, you wipe down the table and snuff the final candle, hanging your shawl back on its peg. Your body aches with exhaustion now and Mouser finally joins you as you crawl into bed, burrowing under the quilt. She trembles faintly, still rattled, but the moment your hand settles over her back, she begins to purr, cuddling into your ribs. Sleep comes slowly. You lie in the dark, heart fluttering, thinking of Miriam and her strange, ruined face. Of Remmick’s eyes. Of how close you’d come to saying yes. The purring lulls you and eventually, your eyes slip shut.

 

---

 

Remmick enters the hayloft quietly, the old wooden ladder groaning under his weight. He holds the lantern low, casting long shadows across the beams and bales, as he steps over the ladder’s top rung. The air smells of dust, straw and memory. He flicks his eyes over the scene before him.

The blankets are still there, musty now, but dry. Pinned into the beams above are colourful drawings; painted hills, flower chains, endless rows of your name, scrawled in clumsy cursive. Dust motes spin in the lantern light like ghosts of childhood. Children’s books, weathered and dogeared, line a sloping bookshelf stacked in the far corner. A battered copy of Heidi rests atop the shelf, her spine cracked, pages loose.

You haven’t been up here in years.

Remmick kneels, smiling faintly, his fingertips brushing over the book’s worn cover. He picks it up, studies the yellowing pages with distant interest, then lets it fall back. He moves to the open window where he sits, lantern at his side, and peers out across the clearing. The wind rustles through the gorse and the far paddocks, but all he hears is you. He can’t see you. Not with his eyes. But he listens. To your heartbeat, slow and steady in the dark, and the pulse of blood through your veins. To the slow rhythm of your breath. He was so close to having what he wanted. He had almost charmed his way in.

His lips curl in irritation and he scowls. He thinks of the ship; the damp reek of bilge water, the endless pitch and roll of the hull beneath him. Stowed away in the blackness below decks, his ribs had pressed painfully against the wooden slats, and his throat had burnt with thirst. The deckhand he’d cornered down there was simply unlucky - a frightened and pathetic man, with calloused hands that trembled as Remmick’s mouth closed over his throat. He’d kept the man alive, barely, stretching the blood out over long, hungry weeks, feeding slow, careful sips while the ship rocked its way toward a distant shore. Rats squealed and scuttled over his boots at night, and sometimes he caught them too, their tiny bones crunching between his teeth, hot blood smearing his lips.

But hunger was a vast thing, a black chasm with no bottom. Eventually the crew had found him, found them, really; the withered, dying man clutched in Remmick’s arms, skin grey and eyes pleading for the end. The horrified sailors had shouted, their rough hands grabbing for tools and pistols, and the rush of power had risen up in him, sharp and furious. How quickly it all had changed. The warm spray on his tongue, the way screams snapped into gurgles. By dawn, they were all dead, bodies littering the deck, necks torn ragged. The ship drifted aimless, unguided, until it found the jagged rocks that waited patiently under a pale sky.

He’d crawled from the wreckage, salt-burned and snarling, picked what debris suited him, then staggered through unfamiliar forests thick with shadow and fern. Birds fell still when he passed; wild pigs squealed in surprise and then lay silent, deep crescents littering their sides. But it wasn’t enough. His hunger had grown almost hallucinatory; his teeth ached, and his veins crawled with want.

Then, finally, deep in the green hush of the woods, he’d caught your scent. Not just blood, but warmth, breath, life. Fragrant and rare. He’d followed it unthinking, climbing rocky slopes and ducking under tangled branches until he found himself crouched in the undergrowth just beyond your window. Watching. He runs his tongue over his teeth now, remembering.

You’d been bent over your pages, candlelight painting soft gold across your hair, your mouth parted faintly as sleep crept up. He’d watched your head slowly tip forward until your cheek pressed into your papers, eyes fluttering behind your lids. Dreaming of laughter and schoolyards and games of make-believe with a long-dead friend.

How easily he’d slipped inside your mind then, with the faintest whisper of his power, warping the light and twisting your sweet memories into something cold and breathless. He was there with you in the grass. You just couldn’t see him.

He pressed his thumb against the sun and smudged it purple. Crooked a finger at the trees until they bent like old men. He tightened his hand around your friend’s laughter and hollowed it out; let it ring empty. He painted Miriam’s eyes red, drew her teeth long, and pressed cool fingers to the pulse fluttering in your throat just to feel that panic.

When you ran, he ran alongside you. When you stumbled on stones slick with moss, he guided your feet. When you reached for her hand, he turned it to bone. All the while, he tasted your terror on the back of his tongue. Delicate as honey, sharp as citrus.

And when your heart convulsed awake, tearing you from his arms, he only smiled. Because it meant you were alone again, trembling, your pulse wild and bright as a lighthouse beam over the mist.

Then he sauntered up to your door, voice low and lilting, eyes soft with concern. The perfect mysterious stranger, appearing just when you most needed comfort. How beautifully you’d blushed under his gaze, how delicious your heart had stuttered when you lied, how close he’d come to being invited across your threshold. To curling his fingers under your chin and tipping your throat bare.

His jaw flexes, frustration twisting hot and tight. Too clever, you. Too cautious. It unsettled him, how near he’d come to being invited in – unsettled him even more how the faint brush of your fingers had been enough to send a thrill down his spine. He’d wanted to press your hand to his lips, to pull you from the safety of your threshold and push you down against wood of the porch. To feel your heartbeat against his chest as your neck opened under his teeth. Sharp fangs press subtly into his lower lip, flooding his mouth with warm saliva and causing a stream of thick drool to drip down his chin.

But that would be careless. And he could not afford careless, not yet. He was half-starved, desperate, and he needed the security of an open home. When you’d denied him that, he swallowed his fury and smiled instead.

So close, little hare. Next time, you’ll call him in yourself.

Still sitting by the window, he breathes out slowly, absentmindedly wiping his chin. Then he snuffs the lantern with a hiss, setting it aside and plunging the loft into shadow.

Then he rises.

The hay rustles beneath his boots as his silhouette unfurls with unnatural grace. One moment he’s crouching, the next he’s leaping silently to the ground below, the impact barely stirring the soil. Remmick slides into the dark, silent as smoke, slipping between trees and shadow. His eyes burn faintly red beneath the branches. His hunger gnaws, sharp and relentless, as he turns toward the distant lights of town, toward warmth and blood and music.

Notes:

v2, edited 8/7/25

Chapter 3: blood in the grass

The morning breaks slow, the sun’s soft, yellow rays filtering through the embroidered curtains and caressing your face. You’re warm under your many blankets, Mouser curled tight in the crook of your knees, and you groan internally at the idea of getting up. This is the kind of light that doesn’t warm, instead settling in your bones and making the hearth feel further away than it is.

You roll the stiffness from your shoulders and rise slowly, careful not to disturb the cat. A southerly blew in overnight, and as you pad barefoot across the chilly floorboards you feel goosebumps rise along your arms. You fill the old kettle and place it on top of the stove to boil, splashing water from the basin on your face to wipe away the last remnants of sleep. Stealing a glance at your bed you see a lump, Mouser, wriggling her way deeper into the pocket of warmth you’ve left behind. You managed a fitful sleep, but the dream of Miriam still claws at the edge of your mind. Her sunken face. The glowing red eyes. That horrible scream, inhuman and endless, echoes faintly even now.

Your stomach twists and you dry your face quickly with a threadbare towel, hands trembling slightly. Maybe from the cold. Maybe not. It was only a dream, you tell yourself. The result of poor sleep and a long, stressful week. An overactive imagination. That’s all. But the wind rattles the windows like bones in a tin, and the old cottage groans in reply.

You glance out, still holding the towel, to where the sheep shed hunches beneath the morning mist, dew glistening on its corrugated roof. The hayloft window is open. Nothing moves inside.

You suppose he’s gone, slipped away in the blue hour before dawn, making his way toward the next town. He said he was just a traveller. Still, disappointment lingers in your chest like a swallowed stone.

You should probably feel uneasy. After all, there’s a perfectly suitable hotel in town, and plenty of open doors closer to the road. So why your porch? Why your home? On one side of your cottage lies the long trail to town. On the other, a thick, green hush of bush, wild and unknown. For your own sake, you shake the thought loose and dress, pulling on an olive-toned wool skirt, hem slightly frayed, and a pale cotton blouse. You lace your boots tight and knot your apron overtop. You fuss with your hair, consider a hat, but abandon the notion. No one in this district is quite that prim for everyday wear. The kettle screams and you remove it from the heat, pouring yourself a mug of tea. You think for a moment, but don’t pour a second.

The marked papers are stacked neatly where you left them, the tablecloth still soaking in the bucket; you vow to deal with it later. For now, you simply stare out the window, waiting for the tea to cool, palms braced on the bench. No birdsong greets the day, and the trees across the clearing are motionless. Even the flies, ever present in summer, seem to have taken leave.

Eventually, you pack a few things into your satchel - some lunch, a bit of money, a novel you’d recently purchased off a travelling bookseller - and wrap your shawl snug around your shoulders. You step onto the porch, boots thudding softly against the worn planks. The rocking chair creaks lazily in the sudden breeze, and the windchime stirs, hollow and metallic. You decide to check the shed before leaving, and Mouser, bored of sleeping, weaves between your feet, mewing once before darting toward the blackberry bush. The grass is slick with dew, and you boots squelch slightly with each step. The shearing shed is still as you unlatch the door and step inside, the air warm with the scent of dry straw and old timber. You climb the ladder to the loft but hesitate before cresting the top, choosing instead to peer over the edge.

The bedding’s been disturbed, slightly, and you have fond memories of your mother helping you stack those bales together to form your makeshift bed, covering the itchy hay with soft linen and a warm blanket. Resting open on the single pillow is Heidi, a long-dead daisy pressed between its pages like a secret. Your prized childhood possession, bought by your father on your eighth birthday. It had sat untouched up here for years. Your eyes skim the childish scribbles that decorate the walls, your own private hideaway. You’d forgotten these.

But someone else had seen them.

The lantern you gave him sits by the hayloft window, dark. And yet you feel watched.

You back down the ladder, more quickly this time, and leave the shed door ajar behind you. The memory of his eyes, how they’d caught the lantern light and glowed red-gold, flickers, unbidden.

Back inside the cottage, you reclaim your mug of tea, tepid now. You sip anyway, jangled nerves soothed by the familiar taste. You need to head into town, there are errands to run, but you hesitate. Something about the morning feels off-kilter. Like the world hasn’t settled properly since last night. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, still feeling the heavy hush of the land around you. Still no birds.

You finish your tea with a final gulp and decide to trade your shawl for your jacket, buttoning it over your blouse, smoothing down the front. Finally, you step off the porch with intention, choosing to walk instead of ride. You want time to ground yourself. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself.

 

*          *          *

 

The walk to town is one you’ve done countless times. Usually, it soothes you: the crunch of gravel, the cicadas in the brush, the golden warmth of summer light filtered through green tree leaves. But today, something is different. The air feels too quiet, like it’s holding its breath, and the shadows stretch too far. The silence presses in, thick and wrong. You try not to let your thoughts stray to Miriam, to the dark places of your subconscious. But they find their way there all the same. By the time the town comes into view, your mouth is dry.

You expect the familiar hum of a busy Saturday morning, the market, the laughter, the hollering of children at play. You long for it, for something routine and normal to snap you out of your strange mood. Instead, the main street is quiet. The usual stalls are gone - never even set up, from the looks of it. No banners flap. A horse and buggy rolls past, slowly, the man on the reins not bothering to tip his hat. A bad sign.

You pause outside the grocer’s, noting the drawn curtains and the way Mrs. Kirkland from the bakery hurries by without a word. You step inside. The bell above the door rings gently, and the grocer, Paddy, looks up from where he’s slicing a wheel of cheese.

He nods grimly. ‘Morning, Miss Daisy.’

‘Morning,’ you answer, setting your satchel down gently. ‘Quiet today.’

‘Aye,’ he says, wiping the knife on a rag. ‘Not like our usual Saturdays.’

You nod, trying not to seem too eager, but desperate to find out what’s going on.

‘Something happen?’

He hesitates, jaw working.

You press gently. ‘I passed no one on the road. Market’s not up and running. Feels like something’s gone wrong.’

He leans against the counter, arms crossed. ‘You know young Tom? The butcher’s apprentice?’

You nod, frowning. ‘Of course. I taught him two years ago. Bit of a handful, but a good kid all the same’

‘He didn’t show up for work this morning. Due at dawn. No word. Not like him. Old Bert went round to check on him and his old lady.’

A sinking feeling curls in your gut.

‘They didn’t answer,’ Paddy continues, quieter now. ‘So Bert went round the side of the place, looked through the windows. What he saw… well, they say he fainted dead away. Big man like him.’

You raise an eyebrow. ‘Truly?’

He nods. ‘Tom’s mother - Mrs. Halvorsen, you know - was found in the parlour. Ripped to shreds. Looked like some kind of wild animal got at her. Blood everywhere. Tom… they found him by the back door. Torn up the same. Door wide open. Blood in the grass, all the way to the bush line.’

You can’t speak for a moment, dumbfounded.

‘No one saw a thing,’ he adds, eyes flicking to the window. ‘None of the dogs barked. No screams. Just… nothing.’

You swallow hard. ‘Has anyone gone into the bush?’

He shakes his head. ‘Not yet. Will's gone to get that constable from a few towns over, if you remember. The one that came down when him an’ Wally’s pa was trampled. But folk are spooked.’

You murmur a quiet thanks, fingers cold despite the warmth of the shop. Your mind reels and your hands shake slightly as you retrieve your satchel. Paddy watches you; concern is etched in the deep lines of his brow.

‘You alright, Miss?’

You nod, but you can’t stop the tears from falling. Embarrassed, you duck your head and scrub at your face quickly. Paddy moves to approach you, already beginning words of comfort, but he’s interrupted by the ring of the shop bell again, and you’re thankful for the distraction, for time to pull yourself together. You can mourn privately. It’s the stockboy, Matthew, and he nods his head when he sees you, before addressing Paddy.

‘Everyone’s heading to the church now to start.’

‘Thank you, Matty.’ Paddy says, and he touches your shoulder gently. ‘We’re on our way.’

He turns back to you as soon as Matthew exits.

‘Miss Daisy, if you need time to steady yourself you’re welcome to stay here, but I suggest you join us at the church. This’ll be important going forward.’

You nod. ‘Thank you, Paddy. I’m fine. We can go.’

He looks like he doesn’t quite believe you, but lets you lead the way, the two of you stepping back out into the town. You see a few familiar faces, all drawn tightly, as you make your way to the church.

It’s more of a chapel, and colder than you remember. The whitewashed walls almost glow under the pale sun, the steeple casting a long shadow across the quiet street. Tall, narrow windows trap the cool air, and your breath catches slightly in the hush. The pews are nearly full, but not with the usual ease of a Sunday service. There’s no hymnbook clatter, no whispers of greeting. Only the creak of old wood and the shifting weight of fear. People are already clustered in small groups, voices low and full of worry. The Reverend stands at the front, silent, hands clasped loosely in front of him. You find a seat in the back beside Paddy, who quickly folds his arms as he sits, face set. Your head is still reeling, throat still tight. The pew feels harder than it used to, like it’s taken offence at your presence. You’re not a Sunday worshiper.

Someone’s voice rises in the quiet. Old Mr. Greene, hard of hearing and quick to anger.

‘So, what’s our solution?’ he says, voice cracking like a whip. ‘Can’t just sit around wringing our hands while there’s something out there tearing folk to shreds.’

A ripple of murmurs immediately rises - agreement, concern, panic. Someone else speaks, a younger man near the front.

‘You think it’s a dog? A wolf?’

‘A dog doesn’t tear a boy in half,’ someone answers.

You close your eyes. The words swirl like ash around you.

‘We ought to arm ourselves,’ says Mr. Greene again. ‘Gather the rifles. Set traps. Go into the bush proper.’

‘No,’ says Nicholas, his voice sharp and irritated. ‘You’ll get yourself killed. You think whoever did this’ll wait patiently while you stumble through the trees, shooting anything that moves?’

‘So, it’s some madman, then?’ Mrs. Kirkland demands, rising slightly in her seat. ‘Is that what you’re saying? That someone in this town did this?’

Gasps rise, and accusatory arguments begin to break out. Someone stands abruptly, knocking their hymnbook to the floor. Reverend James raises a hand.

‘Please,’ he says, his voice quiet but firm. ‘We are gathered to find calm, not blame.’

‘We need answers,’ Mr. Greene growls. ‘Not calming words.’

From the side, a figure rises. Dr. Thorn, the town doctor. You’d barely noticed him before, sitting stiffly beneath the oil painting of Saint Cecilia and her organ. His face is grey with exhaustion and his hands tremble slightly as he grips the back of the pew before him.

‘I examined the bodies,’ he says, and everyone falls silent. ‘Both of them.’

You could hear a pin drop. The room hangs on his breath.

‘I’ve treated wounds from axe mishaps, cow hooves, rusted fencing. I’ve seen what dogs can do when they’re rabid. I’ve stitched up more torn flesh than I’d care to count. But this-’ his voice cracks, and he clears his throat, visibly swallowing something sour. ‘I won’t mince words,’ he says, forcing his voice steady. ‘I’ve examined the bodies of Thomas Halvorsen and his mother, Margaret. What I saw wasn’t the work of any man.’

A murmur ripples through the congregation.

‘Thomas’s torso was torn open,’ the doctor continues grimly. ‘His arms were shredded, deep claw marks raking from his collarbone to his hip. His leg was nearly removed at the thigh. His mother-’ He stops, adjusts his spectacles. ‘She’d been dead longer. Her injuries were more…extensive. Limbs half chewed through. Bite radius far too wide for any dog I’ve ever seen. Punctures through bone.’

‘Christ Almighty,’ someone mutters.

‘I took plaster impressions of the bite marks,’ Thorn goes on, ignoring the interruption. ‘They don’t match anything local. Not wild pig. Not boar. Not even a feral dog. It’s… different. Claws like a tiger. Jaw like a bear. No creature like that has ever roamed these hills.’

‘There are wild dogs,’ says Farmer Heinz. ‘I saw one myself not two weeks ago, black as pitch. Big.’

‘Not this big,’ Thorn says. ‘Not this strong. These wounds, this… carnage. It’s something else. Something worse.’

‘So what are you saying?’ someone calls out from the front. ‘You think it’s some - some monster?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Mrs. Addleton huffs. She runs the general store. ‘It’s a lunatic. A man. Some escaped convict maybe, half-starved and mad.’

‘No man has teeth like that,’ Thorn snaps.

The room explodes into argument, louder this time, fuelled by fear and disbelief. Voices clash - men, women, neighbours. Some stand, gesturing wildly. Others shrink into themselves, whispering, frightened. Grieving. Mr. Greene pounds a fist against the pew, demanding once again that they form a hunting party. Bring guns. Bring dogs. Track it before it kills again.

‘But what if it is a man?’ someone else asks. ‘And we go out there and shoot the wrong person?’

‘You think a man did this?’ Bert shouts, face red and furious. ‘Go look at those mutilated bodies - you tell me if a man did that!’

‘Enough!’ Reverend James’s voice booms through the chapel, silencing the room.

‘We won’t solve this with anger,’ he says, walking slowly to the centre of the aisle. ‘Nor will we by pointing fingers or chasing shadows. We will wait for Constable Everett. He’ll know what to do. Until then, I suggest you stay home after dark. Lock your doors. And pray.’

Reluctantly, heads nod. But there’s no resolution, no unity. Just frightened agreement to wait and do nothing. The townspeople begin to rise, filing slowly out into the morning light.

You don’t move. You’re cold again. Colder than before. You think of your dream. Of Miriam’s twisted face. The jagged mouth, full of fangs. Her eyes, burning through your memory.

Dr. Thorn’s words loop in your head. Claws like a tiger. Jaw like a bear.

You swallow thickly.

But still, you say nothing.

 

*          *          *

 

Outside, you linger on the path that leads down from the church steps. The crowd disperses in every direction, their chatter hushed and brittle. Just as you start to move, a soft hand wraps around your arm. You turn to find Mrs. Wendelken peering at you, her grey hair pulled back into a net, eyes sharp despite the lines age has left behind.

‘Come stay with me tonight,’ she says quietly. ‘Please, Daisy. You shouldn’t be out at that house alone.’

You hesitate.

She squeezes gently. ‘Please.’

The Wendelken house, built by the late Mr. Wendelken, is perched above the creek with wide eaves and lace curtains. It’s big and sprawling; you’d spent hours there as a girl, hands dancing over ivory keys, chords and folk tunes taught by a patient Mrs. Wendelken. Her children are all grown and gone now, and she lives alone. But you think anxiously of Mouser.

Almost like he’s read your mind, Bobbly slides up beside the two of you.

‘If you like, I can fetch Mouser for you,’ he offers. ‘If you’re staying in town.’

Bobby had fetched Mouser for you once before, bringing her down to the vet when you’d needed to stay late at the school. He’d headed off with an apple crate balanced on the handlebars of his Spencer motorbike, returning later with Mouser bundled up inside. She was an adaptable cat and loved Bobby from the start, quite happy to be carted off. You usually wouldn’t worry about her spending a night alone. She was always fine. But the idea of her being out in the bush, after what had happened…

You smile at him. ‘Thank you, Bobby. You’ve no idea how helpful that is.’

He nods shyly. ‘No worries at all.’

You turn back to Mrs. Wendelken as he heads down toward his bike.

‘I’ll come,’ you say, voice gentle, trying your best to be soothing, even if your own nerves are jangled. ‘After I finish my errands.’

She nods, releasing you with a grateful smile. ‘I’ll leave the door unlocked.’

 

*          *          *

 

You spend the afternoon moving quietly through town, sticking to polite small talk and avoiding the one subject that clings to every corner like smoke.

At the baker’s, you buy a loaf of dark rye, its crust still warm. You chat with Mrs. Kirkland about her youngest son and his talent for spelling.

At Suzy and Nicholas’s shop, you pick up the bolt of fabric you’d been eyeing, letting Suzy chatter on about the newest copy of Les Modes she’d ordered from France. It had arrived that morning, and you pore over the magazine with her, laughing where appropriate, and it helps. A little.

But as evening falls and that cold wind picks up, you find your pace quickening.

You climb the steps to Mrs. Wendelken’s home just as the sun slips below the horizon and the first stars begin to prick the sky. She opens the door before you knock and welcomes you into the parlour with the comfort of a mother hen. She’s cooked lamb stew and buttered potatoes, and you eat gratefully, glad to have warmth and company. The house is quiet, the fire crackling softly. After supper, you each take your tea and talk lightly by the hearth. Nothing is mentioned of the day’s horrors.

Later, you bid her goodnight and make your way upstairs to the guestroom. The sheets are crisp, the mattress soft. Mouser is already curled at the foot of the bed, dropped off earlier by Bobby. The cat lifts her head, blinking once, then lays it back down. You settle under the blankets. The room smells faintly of lavender and old books.

Sleep does not come easily. And when it does, it is full of forests, and blood, and voices that whisper and taunt.

Notes:

Next chapter will be largely from Remmick's POV

Chapter 4: where the shadows listen

Notes:

I'm on holiday in the aussie outback and have limited wifi so enjoy chapter 3 & 4 getting posted back-to-back! if i don't post another within the week know that the AO3 author curse has struck and i've been bitten by a red-bellied snake or something

You wake to the sound of music.

It’s faint at first, half-lost in the quietude of night, but it’s distinct. The slow, lonesome twang of banjo strings drifting up through the open window. You had cracked it, just a little. Just enough to ensure the bedroom doesn’t get stuffy in the night. For a moment you think you must be dreaming still, tangled in the remnants of uneasy sleep, but the sound persists, steady and low. You sit up with effort, groggy beneath the weight of borrowed blankets. Moonlight spills in through a gap in the curtains, silvering the wooden floorboards and the edge of the chest at the foot of the bed. The scent of lavender still lingers faintly in the air.

Mouser is gone.

You run a hand across the quilt, expecting her familiar warmth. But the blanket is cool, the room stationary. You swing your legs over the side of the bed and pad quietly to the window, careful not to wake the house. The boards creak gently beneath your toes, protesting the chill. With a cautious hand, you draw back the curtain. Down by the creek, haloed in moonlight, sits Remmick.

He leans against the twisted trunk of a willow tree, one knee up, banjo resting across his thigh. He picks at the strings with an absent sort of tenderness, the tune meandering through the air like a forgotten lullaby. His face is turned slightly away, but you’d know the line of his shoulders anywhere. Something in your chest swells at the sight of him. Relief, perhaps, or something more foolish. You scold yourself for it at once. You're too old to be feeling like this, too sensible. And he is still a stranger. A strange man, at that. Still, before you can think better of it, you unhook the latch and ease the window open further.

The night air rolls in cool and damp, laced with the scent of river reed and woodsmoke.

‘You always play for ghosts? Or is this a special occasion?’ you call down to him.

Remmick looks up, and a slow smile spreads across his face. The moon catches the edge of his cheekbone, sharp and elegant. ‘Evening, Miss,’ he says, his voice like smoke; soft, curling, a little too smooth. ‘Didn’t mean to wake you. Though I can’t say I mind the company.’

You feel a warmth rise in your face, sudden and unwelcome. ‘What are you doing back here?’ you ask, wrapping your arms around yourself. You’re clad only in a nightgown, borrowed from one of the far-blown Wendelken daughters. ‘I thought you’d moved on.’

He gives a shrug, strumming lazily. ‘I did. Played for coin at an inn in one of your neighbouring towns. Good folks there, mostly. But a bit dull. Thought I’d see how the wind felt back this way.’

You hesitate, heart still quickened by the sight of him. ‘You heard what happened, then? About Thomas. And his mother.’

He stills, one hand resting on the strings. ‘I heard,’ he says, but there’s no change in his voice. No real emotion, only the flatness of a man who’s read bad news in an old newspaper and moved on before his coffee’s gone cold.

You frown. ‘Aren’t you worried?’

He smiles again, too slow, too easy. ‘Should I be?’

You don’t answer straight away. There’s something disquieting about his calm, his indifference. Like the news hasn’t touched him at all. But he’s looking at you again, and the silence stretches between you like wire, taut and humming.

‘Play something,’ you say suddenly, the words spilling from your lips before you can call them back.

He raises an eyebrow. ‘A request?’

You nod, defiant now. ‘Unless your fingers are tired.’

He chuckles at that, a low sound that blooms in your stomach, soft and uninvited. ‘Far from it.’

Without another word, he lowers his head, lets his hands fall back into motion. The banjo hums again, slower this time. A new melody unfurls into the dark, strange and winding, older than the stream he sits beside. Then he begins to sing, low and measured, in a language you do not know but somehow recognise. Gaelic, you think. The rhythm of it stirs something in your ribs.

You can’t make out the words, but the meaning slips between them all the same. Longing, loss, the heavy ache of time. The song is a lament and a seduction both. You stand transfixed, fingers curled white against the windowsill. The wind stirs the trees like breath, and for a moment, you feel unmoored, like something inside you has leaned too far over the edge. His eyes lift to yours, and in the moonlight, they catch the light with that strange gleam again; gold, or red, or something that defies the ordinary. Your breath hitches. He holds your gaze as he sings, and though the words are foreign, they feel spoken for you alone.

The song ends, gently, like a sigh. The silence that follows is thick and ringing.

‘Thank you,’ you murmur, unsure what else to say.

Remmick inclines his head, eyes still locked on yours. ‘Sleep well, Miss Daisy.’

You nod, retreating from the window, hands trembling just a little.

 

*          *          *

 

The window closes with a soft click, and Remmick plucks a final note from his banjo, letting it ring long into the quiet. It fades gently into the night, like a dying breath. He remains by the creek, moonlight trailing over his shoulders and hair, the silver glow catching in the dark planes of his face. His hands linger on the strings, unmoving. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Still as a sculpture drowned in longing. When she had looked at him, well, that alone was enough to make eternity seem bearable again.

But he had not meant to stay here. That had never been his plan. He doesn’t keep to places. He drifts, haunted, following hunger like a moth to blood-slick flame. He had only meant to pass through, to take what he needed and disappear back into the forest’s yawning throat. But she had caught him like a barbed snare.

He had smelt her, deep in the trees, hidden beneath dew and leaf-rot and the rank musk of sheep. He’d followed the scent, hungry and pulled all the same. Her heartbeat had called to him. Steady, slow, unguarded. The kind of rhythm a man might mistake for his own, if he lay close enough. But when her door had not opened to him, when her will had proven stronger than his coaxing smile and poetic lies, he had turned instead toward the town, the bloodlust whispering now at the back of his teeth.

Margaret Halvorsen had opened her door.

It had been late, and the house was cold, the hearth long since died down to embers. But she had seen a young traveller with soft eyes and a kind voice, and she had let him in.

‘You’ll catch your death,’ she had said, clucking like a hen. ‘I can fix a cot for you, if you like. Just for the night.’

He’d smiled, murmured thanks, and stepped inside. That had been her mistake.

He hadn’t even let her boil the kettle. As soon as she’d turned her back, he was on her. The parlour had erupted in chaos; the delicate lace doilies, the porcelain lamp, the thin-legged table all spattered with arterial bloom. She had not screamed, hadn’t even had the chance to. He drank deeply.

With every pulse of her fading heart against his lips, her life spilled open like a book. He saw her memories flicker one by one behind his closed eyes, as if projected onto the inside of his skull: the rotting wooden hull of a ship slicing through dark, unfamiliar waters. Her mother, too thin and too tired, coughing blood into a rag. Her sister’s hand cold in hers before they even reached land. A man with callused hands waiting on the pier. Her father. Then dust and woodsmoke, years of scrubbing, bent backs and bleeding hands. The baby growing in her belly like a shame she could not name. The way the townsfolk looked at her. The ache in her neck that never quite left. But amidst it all, a light. A child not her own.

Small hands pressing wildflowers into her palms. Laughter bright as bell chimes. Dandelions floating in jam jars on the kitchen sill. A voice saying, ‘Look, Maggie! I made this one for you.’ A picture of a lamb, drawn with crayons.

The girl who danced through Margaret’s memories was no child of blood, but she had filled Margaret’s world with colour. And Remmick had feasted on it. He had clutched that warmth, drunk it with her blood, until her heart gave out and her head lolled back, mouth slack, throat torn. He had chased the light until the darkness took her.

He had nearly missed the boy.

Thomas had stumbled in, undershirt rumpled, hair tangled with sleep. He’d paused in the threshold, stunned, mouth gaping. But then he’d bolted. Remmick was on him in an instant and the boy had barely hit the ground before his throat was opened, wet and wide.

Remmick drank. And through the boy's dying memories, he saw her again. He saw the same light.

Older now, dressed in slate skirts and ink-stained cuffs. A teacher. Thomas’s teacher. Her voice cut through the boy’s thoughts like sunlight through mist, patient and clear.

‘You’ve done well, Thomas. But remember your commas.’

He remembered sitting in a crowded classroom, his ears red from shame until she knelt beside him. ‘Try again,’ she had said, and smiled. That smile had straightened his spine.

She had made him feel seen.

And even in death, his adoration pulsed through Remmick’s veins like wine.

Her again. Always her.

Remmick had left Thomas sprawled in the grass like a forgotten doll and stumbled, drunk on memory and blood, back into the dark. He had collapsed beneath the twisted rafters of a half-collapsed toolshed, where the roof sagged like an old man’s shoulders and the vines had long since claimed the corners. There he waited out the day, the hunger in him quiet for now, lulled by what he had stolen. When the sun died, he stirred again.

He stole clothes from a line strung behind a settler’s cottage, a clean white shirt, a pair of dark trousers, a jacket a little short in the arms. He washed in the creek, scrubbing blood from beneath his nails, combing his fingers through his hair until he looked every bit the travelling musician again. He lifted his banjo from where he had stashed it beneath a fallen tree and slung it across his back. Then he sought her again. She wasn’t hard to find.

He followed the heartbeat like a sailor to a siren, to a room tucked in the eaves of another's house, candles long since snuffed, moonlight filtering through lace. He could feel her even through the walls. Her dreams flared and dipped, restless with worry. Her light still burned.

He sat by the creek below, picked up his banjo, and played.

And when she came to the window, when she leaned out to speak in that voice he remembered through borrowed memories, it lit a fire in him so fierce it made the hunger retreat. It scorched through his chest, a terrible ache. Not hunger. Something stranger. Lonelier.

She had spoken to him. Smiled, even.

He had been charming, easy, his voice like warm honey laced with iron. He had watched her eyes, the way they softened despite her concern. She had told him of the Halvorsens. He had watched her lips shape the names, watched sorrow crease the corners of her mouth. And he had played it off with a shrug. What did the living expect? That the dead should matter to him?

Still, he had smiled. Teased. Laughed softly when she asked for a song, his fingers already plucking a tune.

And when he sang, he gave her everything.

The words, ancient, raw, Gaelic, slid from his tongue like silk dipped in shadow. He had not sung in his language for decades, maybe longer. He had not heard it since before the blood, before the grave, before the earth turned its face from the sun. But for her, it returned. For her, the words rose like a tide. And she had listened. Eyes bright. Mouth parted just so. He could have wept.

Now, the house lays dark again, the window latched. She’s gone from his sight but still close. Her scent lingers like heat after lightning.

He stands, brushing a hand down his borrowed coat, banjo slung once more over his shoulder. His feet make no sound as he moves, not even on the gravel. He isn’t done. Not tonight. He steps into the shadow of the trees and vanishes.

There are others in this town, others with names and faces and memories to be devoured. And through them, he could find more of her. Their lives would lead him back to her again and again. Until she understood. Until she wanted him the way he wanted her - eternally, beautifully, completely.

She was his sun, and he would drink her light forever. And soon, she would let him in.

Willingly.

The forest closes behind him, falling like a velvet shroud. Ahead, beyond the rise, a few town lights still flicker faintly through the mist.

He smiles.

Chapter 5: the weight of rain

You sit in the conservatory with Mrs. Wendelken for breakfast, a damp, pewter sky leaning heavily against the windows. The gentle hum of rainfall settles over the house like a lullaby and Mouser curls up in front of the empty fireplace as you eat, a faint rise and fall beneath her fur. Steaming tea, boiled eggs, buttered toast with plum jam, and dishes of porridge laced with cream are shared between you and Mrs. Wendelken as you ease into early morning conversation.

‘Did you sleep well, my dear?’ she asks, passing you a cup, her silver hair pinned precisely as always, even in her dressing gown and slippers.

‘Well enough,’ you answer, taking it with both hands. ‘Thank you.’

You don’t mention your nighttime visitor.

She watches you a moment, a softness in her gaze. ‘You know,’ she says, settling her saucer with a quiet clink, ‘your mother used to sit here just like you. She’d bring in the washing and clean the parlour while I tried to get my three girls to practise their scales. You were hardly more than a tot then.’

You smile at that, sipping your tea.

‘It was supposed to be part of an arrangement - cleaning in exchange for discounted piano lessons,’ Mrs Wendelken continues, ‘but she was so diligent, and you were so bright I insisted on paying her regardless. She was too proud to accept charity and never took a cent for the work, bless her heart, but I wouldn’t take a penny for teaching you either. It was one of the purest joys of my week. You were such a clever wee thing, always made the stories in the music sound like something brand new. You reminded me what music could be.’

You swallow around a lump in your throat, surprised by the sudden wave of emotion. ‘Thank you. I never knew that.’

You remember your mother’s hands, always red from lye and cold water, always moving. ‘She was grateful to you,’ you say softly.

‘And I to her.’ Mrs. Wendelken sips her tea and gives your hand a gentle pat. ‘She was a good woman,’ she says simply. ‘Too good for this town.’

You return your empty cup to its saucer and lean back slightly in your chair, staring through the window into the grey. Your chest is tight.

‘I do hope you’ll consider staying another night - the rain’s set in properly now and it’ll only worsen by midday. You’re welcome here, always.’

The conservatory looks out onto a little patch of garden, roses, mostly, and ferns left wild around the stone path. You watch as rain beads along the glass panes, trickling in threads. You breathe in deeply and turn your gaze back to her, smiling at her kindness, but shaking your head. ‘Thank you, truly. But I’ve things I must do. Lessons to plan. School resumes tomorrow, and I'm a wee bit behind.’

She nods, understanding but unconvinced, and reaches for an umbrella leaning by the conservatory door, handing it to you. ‘Then at least take this. There’s no wind yet, so it should serve you well. And do have a bath before you go. You’ll feel better for it.’ The umbrella is black with a wooden handle, well-kept despite its age.

You nod, grateful. ‘Thank you. I think I’ll do just that.’ You’re touched by the way she fusses without fussing.

She leaves shortly after to attend Sunday morning service, dressed neatly in her best wool coat and gloves. You stand by the window and watch her disappear beneath the awning of her own parasol, her steps neat and brisk. You envy her composure. How easily she moves through the world. In her absence you move through the house alone, the silence a different kind of comfort. It’s strange, the way another’s home can feel like a sanctuary when your own suddenly feels distant, unreachable.

As instructed, you make the most of the indoor plumbing while you can, drawing a hot bath. The bathwater runs warm and clear, steam rising to blur the mirror, and you sink deep into the warmth with a sigh. It soothes some of the tightness from your limbs, but not the tension curled low in your stomach. Not the memory of that voice, singing in the dark.

You wash the grime from beneath your fingernails and scrub behind your ears like your mother once taught you to. The scent of lilac soap fills the small bathroom, and for a little while, you feel almost new. You dress again in yesterday’s clothes, still faintly creased from where you’d folded them the evening before, and gather your satchel and purchases, the fabric wrapped neatly in brown paper. Mouser is waiting for you by the hearth when you return to the conservatory, tail flicking lazily. You scoop her up gently and bundle her into the apple crate Bobby had brought her in, layering a towel over her to keep the chill off. She doesn’t protest, only blinks sleepily, and curls into the blanket that’s been tucked in for her.

On the porch, you manage to prop open the umbrella and balance the crate in your arms, its wide canopy sheltering you both well enough. The rain is steady but falls straight and soft, no wind to speak of. A silver veil draped over the quiet town. You descend the steps carefully and turn toward the grove, taking the quieter path through the trees.

You’ve always preferred this route. It’s slower, sure, but it skirts the heart of town, and with the whole village either at service or shuttered indoors, you embrace the solitude today. You’ve never liked the weighted glances of the congregation, their judgement an old wound that never quite scabs over. But let them think what they will. You find peace in your own ways.

The path is lined with a mixture of tall and young trees, their leaves damp and shining. Mushrooms grow in rings beneath the ferns, and the smell of wet bark and moss is thick in the air. The sound of your boots on the path is softened by the mud, the occasional drip of rainwater from the canopy above joining in irregular percussion. It’s beautiful.

Mouser begins to grow restless about halfway home. At first, it’s just a low, unhappy noise. Then her soft grumbles turn sharper, more distressed. You stop beside a mossy log and crouch, setting the crate down gently to check on her. She’s breathing fast, ears flat and eyes wide.

‘Easy, girl,’ you murmur, reaching in to soothe her. ‘It’s just rain.’

But before your hand finds her, she lashes out with a sharp hiss, quick and sharp, her paw catching your wrist. You gasp, more in surprise than pain, and pull your hand back, stumbling. Mouser bolts, leaping from the crate, claws skittering on the wood as she vanishes into the underbrush.

You’re stunned. The scratch on your arm blooms red and angry, stinging already. Mouser has never acted like that before. Never. You call her name once, twice, heart hammering, and move to follow. But you’re unbalanced and the slick mud shifts beneath you, and you fall back. A moment of vertigo. Then a pair of hands catch you from behind; steady, cold, certain.

‘Careful now,’ a familiar voice says, low and amused. ‘You need to watch your step.’

His arms are around you, steadying your waist, and you look up into his face, wet from the rain, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. He’s damp and unbothered, as though the cold has no hold on him. His shirt is unbuttoned at the throat; the fabric is soaked through and clinging to the lean line of his chest. There’s a smile in his eyes, pale gold, bright against the grey, and something stirs in you, deep and dangerous.

Remmick.

He pulls you upright with ease, settling you beneath the umbrella again as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

‘I-’ you start, voice caught somewhere between embarrassment and relief. ‘You startled me.’

He steps back, hands raised in mock apology, but not far. ‘Didn’t mean to. Just happened upon you.’

‘You’re soaked,’ you say, breathless.

He shrugs, unconcerned. Rain beads along his collarbone.

‘I like the rain. Reminds me I’m still in the world.’

Your wrist stings, and he notices, his eyes lingering on the scratch. He touches your elbow gently, the way one might brush a moth from a sleeve. His eyes flick to the apple crate, then back to the scratch. ‘What happened?’

‘Mouser bolted. She’s not usually like that,’ you murmur. ‘Something must’ve frightened her.’

‘Likely just the weather,’ he says. But there’s something indistinct in his gaze. ‘Do you need to go find her?’

You hesitate, scanning the tree line. ‘She’s clever. And she knows the way home. If I follow, I’ll only scare her more and she’ll go deeper.’

Remmick nods slowly, but his gaze lingers on your arm. You realise then how close he still is, your umbrella barely stretches over the both of you, but he really doesn’t seem to mind the rain one bit. He reaches down to the apple crate, lifting it with one hand.

You start to protest. ‘You don’t need to -’

He cuts you off with a soft smile. ‘I insist. I don’t like the idea of you walking alone with a bleeding arm. And no cat for company.’

The thought of his company instead quiets the unease the morning has stirred, and you relent with a breathless laugh. ‘Alright then. Thank you.’

He balances the crate in his arms like it weighs nothing and falls in step beside you.

The rain deepens as you walk, but the woods remain quiet. Your boots sink slightly with each step, and you lift your skirt to keep it from the mud. Remmick watches you as much as the path ahead, his expression obscure.

‘You’re up early,’ you say eventually, not knowing what else to say.

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ he replies, voice low. ‘And I like walking in the rain.’

A beat passes before you ask, ‘Where have you come from? Truly?’

He tilts his head, thoughtful. ‘Up the road. Down the hill. Round the bend.’

You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. ‘That’s not a real answer.’

‘Maybe not,’ he says, with a shrug. ‘But it’s the one I have.’

You watch the way his boots make no sound on the wet leaves. ‘You said you’d gone to the next town.’

‘I have,’ he says. ‘There’s an inn with an owner who enjoys music and minds his own business.’

‘And they let you play?’

‘They let me eat,’ he replies with a grin. ‘And yes, I play. Folk songs. Some of my own.’

You look at him sidelong. ‘The song you played last night - was it yours?’

He hesitates. ‘No. Older than me, though not by much. It’s an old tongue. My mother’s.’

‘I thought I recognised it,’ you murmur. ‘Though I don’t know why. I’ve never heard it before.’

He looks at you then, not just with his eyes but with something deeper, something that strikes like a candle lit suddenly in a dark room. ‘You’re the kind who listens with more than just ears.’

You’re not sure what to say to that, so you stay quiet. The rain makes a steady hush around you, softening the trees and blurring the world to edges of grey. You glance at his hand, how it grips the crate, and his long fingers, a simple band of gold sitting worn and quiet at the base of his ring finger. You’ve noticed it before but never had the courage to ask. You want to now. You want to know everything. But your instinct pulls you back. If someone wears silence like armour, it’s not always wise to try to pry it off. Still, your eyes linger a little too long. Remmick catches the glance but says nothing.

‘Do you often travel alone?’ you ask instead.

‘I don’t travel with people.’

His words are simple, final. But not unkind. There’s a sadness there, a hollowness beneath the charm. And something else, too, something sharp-edged and waiting. But still, you walk beside him. Still, you match his pace. And when your hands brush once, then again, you don’t pull away. He looks up at the canopy above.

‘You’re not afraid of the woods,’ he says quietly. ‘Not many would walk out here after what happened.’

You shrug. ‘They’ve always felt like home to me. Like they’re watching, yes, but kindly. Like old aunties with secrets.’

He laughs, and it’s like velvet; dark, soft, and somehow thrilling.

‘I suppose I’ve always liked secrets,’ he murmurs.

Your cheeks warm despite the slight chill, and you look down, the rain continuing its steady rhythm around you both. The trees begin to thin, and you can just make out the chimney of your cottage through the mist. It’s close now, just beyond the next bend, and though your limbs ache with tiredness and your wrist still burns where Mouser scratched you, you find yourself slowing, wanting the walk to stretch just a little longer. Just a little longer with him.

 

*          *          *

 

Water drips gently from the umbrella as you prop outside the door, entering your cottage with a sigh. The rain’s hush fades to a muffled rhythm on the roof as you cross to the kitchen table, placing your satchel and the paper-wrapped fabric down before easing onto your chair. Your skirts are damp at the hem, the mud clinging stubbornly to the soles of your shoes, and you grimace at the small trail you’ve bought in accidentally. The laces of your boots are heavy with rain, reluctant to loosen. As you lean to untie them, you glance up.

Remmick is still at the threshold, standing just beneath the lintel with the crate resting steady in his arms. The rain has soaked him to the skin, and his shirt clings to him, dark with wet. Mud cakes his boots and his hair drips against his cheekbones. He doesn’t speak, only watches you. Unblinking, unreadable.

You rise, brushing your palms on your skirt. ‘Leave the crate and your shoes outside, if you like. But you’re welcome in,’ you add, trying not to sound breathless.

His eyes meet yours and there’s a brief pause. Then, he bends down, setting the crate beneath the eaves and shedding his boots on the porch. He steps forward, barefoot now. Just a pace. Then another. When he crosses the threshold, a chill rushes down your spine. Not of fear, but something stranger, like a bell tolling in your blood. Something in your chest tightens.

‘I’ll set the fire,’ you murmur, kicking your own boots off and rising. You turn from him, unwilling to let him see your face.

You kneel at the hearth and begin to set the kindling, fingers working swiftly, though not without tremble. The match strikes on the third attempt, catching the curls of paper and coaxing the fire to life. Warmth slowly begins to creep into the room.

He watches you work from the centre of the cottage, his hands loose at his sides. His presence fills the space like a shadow stretching at dusk, comforting and unsettling all at once.

When he speaks, his voice is low and curious. ‘The first night we met, you told me your husband was asleep in the next room.’

You pause, the warmth of the new flame brushing your hands. Then you straighten, still facing the hearth.

‘I did,’ you say, and it’s not hard to keep your voice steady. ‘I lied.’

He already knew that. Your heartbeat had been the only one for miles, loud in his ears and beating like a jackrabbit.

Silence stretches, but not an accusing one. Only waiting.

‘I panicked. You were... unexpected. I thought it safer to invent someone. Someone watching over me.’

Another beat.

‘I understand,’ he says, and you glance back from where you kneel to find him not angry, but seemingly amused. ‘It was wise.’

Smoke curls gently up the chimney as you brush your skirt clean and rise. ‘Would you like a bath? You’re soaked through. I can draw one for you.’

His lips quirk. ‘You’re offering to let a strange man into your washroom?’

You smile despite yourself. ‘You’ve crossed the threshold. That makes you a guest.’

He tilts his head at that. ‘You’re kind.’

You shake your head. ‘No. Just trying to be decent.’

He steps closer. ‘Still. Decency’s rarer than you think.’

You turn and busy yourself then, moving through the small cottage to gather what’s needed. In the rear washroom you draw water from the cylinder, boiling several pots on the stovetop and carrying them carefully. The bath is modest, a galvanised tub set near the firebox, warmed gradually with each kettle poured in. He sits at the table and watches your every motion, silent and still as a statue.

When the room is ready, you gesture toward the back. ‘You’ll find a towel in there. There’s soap, though it’s flowery, I’m afraid.’

Remmick’s eyes are bright with something indecipherable. Amusement, maybe, or gratitude. His smile is slow.

“I don’t mind flowers.”

He moves past you, his arm brushing yours, and the heat that flares up has little to do with the fire. The washroom door shuts behind him and you quickly cross to the table, tidying the clutter of letters and marking books that have accumulated across the surface. But your hands tremble slightly. You try not to think of him in there, bare skin in steaming water, flowery scent clinging to his body. Still, your ears strain at the faint sounds behind the closed door, the soft rustle of fabric, the splash of water.

You gather your wits and turn to the stove, deciding on a simple stew with carrots, potatoes, and a bit of salted beef from the icebox. Your bread from the day before sits, still wrapped in brown paper, untouched and waiting. Mouser has yet to return, but you leave the window cracked slightly, just in case.

You hear the door open again and turn, absentmindedly.

Remmick stands there, steam curling from the doorway behind him, barefoot on the wooden floorboards. A towel sits low on his hips, clinging to him like a final boundary. Water beads along the lines of his shoulders, tracing the muscle of his chest, the sharp line of his collarbone. The candle behind him outlines him in gold and shadow. He looks, impossibly, both ancient and new. Your breath catches in your throat, forgetting entirely what you were doing.

He leans slightly on the doorframe. ‘Apologies, but my clothes are unsalvageable.’

You stare.

Then blink.

Then tear your eyes away. ‘Of course. Of course, just-just a moment.’

You miss the smirk that plays at the edge of his mouth as you hurriedly drop to your knees beside the old trunk at the foot of your bed. Your hands scrabble with the latches until they pop open. Inside: old jumpers, woollen socks, trousers neatly folded but smelling faintly of cedar and dust. Your father’s things. Relics you’ve not touched in years. You grab a pair of trousers and a shirt that might fit and move to the door where he stands. You avert your eyes, thrusting the bundle towards him.

‘These might-these should fit,’ you say, flustered.

As he takes them, his fingers brush yours. Electric. Your breath catches.

‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘For everything.’

He closes the washroom door, and you exhale at last, hands trembling. You return to the kitchen and unwrap the bread from your bundle, slicing it into thick pieces. You set the table with care, two mismatched plates, and the heavy ceramic bowls your mother once used only for guests. The darkness has crept its way in, and you light a candle just as he emerges again, clothed now in your father’s shirt, slightly loose on him but not awkwardly so. He’s rolled the sleeves to the elbows. He’s barefoot and his hair is towel-dried, loose and curling at the ends. The effect is disarmingly domestic. He looks home spun. Mortal. As though he belongs here. You don’t know what to do with that feeling.

You sit together and eat in the hush that follows long conversation. The fire crackles. Rain drums the roof in its slow percussion.

Remmick is the first to speak.

‘You cook as well as teach,’ he says.

‘I do what needs doing.’

He lifts his spoon. ‘Tell me more, then. About you.’

You hesitate. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Anything,’ he says. ‘Everything.’

You stir your stew. ‘There’s not much to tell. I teach. I clean. I mark papers and split firewood and try to make the little ones laugh. I read - when I can. I wanted to travel once, but… you get tied to things.’

He watches you, his spoon forgotten. ‘What tied you?’

You look away. ‘The children. Some of them remind me of myself. And of my mother. If I’m not there, who’ll listen to them?’

You feel his eyes on you like heat, like pressure. ‘You could still leave.’

You shake your head. ‘Not without guilt.’

‘But you like it?’

You continue to stir the stew, round and round. ‘Most days. I like the children still brave enough to dream out loud.’

‘And you?’

‘What about me?’

‘Do you still dream out loud?’

You stare into your bowl. The words rise before you can silence them.

‘I used to want to leave. The moment I turned sixteen, I thought I’d board the first train north, or south - anywhere. Start over. Find a little house in the city and read in cafés and ride trams and live somewhere no one knew my name.’ You swallow. ‘But I stayed. For the children. Someone has to. Some of them don’t have anyone else. I couldn’t leave them to it.’

Remmick watches you in silence. The candlelight casts shadows across his face, softens the planes. There’s something fierce and admiring in his eyes. But beneath it, a kind of hunger that isn’t physical.

You tell him about your parents then. Your mother’s work-roughened hands. Her silence. The story of your father, how your mother never spoke ill of him, but never smiled when his name was mentioned either.

‘He gave me things,’ you say, looking at the candle. ‘Books. Once, a doll with real porcelain skin. But never time. Never love.’

Remmick’s gaze darkens, a subtle shift. ‘And he left?’

‘He and his real family moved north. Just after my mother died.’

He is silent for a long moment, and when he finally speaks, it’s quiet, like the creak of an old floorboard. ‘I’m sorry.’

You nod. ‘So am I.’

Her devotion is a kind of holiness. That stubborn, aching love for children that aren’t hers, for a town that can’t properly love her back. It smoulders in her like an eternal flame. He wants to press his mouth to that light and take it into himself. Forever.

And yet he only asks, softly: ‘Do you regret staying?’

You shake your head. ‘Not today.’

Silence falls again. You take another bite, and the candle burns low. Shadows in the room stretch long and climb the walls like vines.

‘I don’t know why I’m telling you this,’ you say, half-laughing. ‘It must be the weather.’

‘Or the company.’

His voice is soft but heavy, weighted with meaning. You meet his eyes, and again you feel that dangerous pull, the feeling that if you leaned an inch closer, the whole world would tilt.

But then your eyes fall again to his hand. To the ring.

‘Can I ask...’ you begin, careful, and barely above a whisper. ‘Your ring. You wear it always.’

He looks down, as though surprised it’s there. His thumb brushes the metal.

‘It’s not mine,’ he says at last.

You stare. ‘Not yours?’

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes this time. ‘People are more trusting of a married man. Especially women who live alone.’

There is a long pause. Something in your chest turns to ice.

‘That’s a strange reason,’ you say slowly.

He doesn’t look away. ‘Is it?’

You suddenly feel too exposed. The candle flickers and the wind picks up outside, pushing rain harder against the windows. Something shifts. Not quite fear, but caution. A wariness stirred from some deep well. He sees it. You don’t speak. You both watch each other across the flicker of the flame. There’s something else in his face now. Something shadowed, and still.

Your lips part to speak - but there’s a knock at the door.

You flinch, startled, and in the same instant, your spoon slips from your hand. Remmick moves fast, too fast, catching it before it hits the floor. He smiles at you faintly and doesn’t break eye contact as he sets it back on the table. You swallow thickly. The knock comes again, and you rise quickly, grateful for the interruption, and cross to the door, heart in your throat.

It’s Bobby.

His hair is plastered with rain, face pale beneath his oilskin cap.

‘There’s been another attack,’ he says.

Notes:

Longer chapter this time - I'm also taking creative liberties like allowing Remmick to move during the daytime when it's overcast or rainy because of my day/night alternating chapter format. Simply need more of him!

Chapter 6: still breathing

Bobby stands on the threshold like a figure summoned from a dark tale; coat soaked through, curls flattened to his broad forehead, cheeks red with wind and weather. The heavy rain had muffled the sound of his truck approaching and his sudden presence crowds the porch. He squints past you into the gloom of the cottage, then blinks, surprised. You follow his gaze. Remmick has not moved from his seat at the table. He is a shadow cut from finer cloth - still, composed, watchful. Firelight plays gently on the side of his face, outlining the lean edge of his jaw, the arch of his brow. The moment stretches, taut.

Bobby’s jaw works slightly. ‘Sorry, Miss. Daisy. Didn’t know you had… someone in,’ he says, voice roughened by cold and something else. His eyes flicker to yours, uncertain. The wind is blowing earnest now, streaking the back of his coat with rain, rogue droplets collecting on his boots.

You force a smile, heart thudding. ‘This is Remmick. He escorted me home - found me on the path when Mouser bolted.’ You gesture vaguely to the apple crate on the porch. The towel is still there, sodden now; the crate sitting empty. ‘She gave me a fright.’

Bobby nods slowly, but he doesn’t relax. ‘You all right?’

‘Just a scratch.’ You lift your sleeve to show the red line across your wrist, now puckering into a red welt. ‘Could’ve been worse.’

His eyes linger on it. Rain drums steadily on the roof, and for a moment, none of you speak. Outside, the storm has grown more confident. The trees are bowed with wind and the afternoon sky has gone to ash.

‘Come in,’ you say, stepping back. ‘You’re drenched.’

Bobby hesitates a beat too long, then ducks inside, shaking water from his coat. He doesn’t greet Remmick, who himself does not stand, and you can feel the weight of his unease gather like fog. You bolt the door behind him, more from habit than fear, and his boots leave muddy ghosts on the rug.

Bobby stands there, awkwardly holding his hat. ‘You’re the one with the banjo, ain’t cha? Heard you were playing up at the White Fern Inn.’ He won’t look at him, and his tone is flat.

Remmick inclines his head with a small smile. ‘Aye. That’s me.’

‘Thought I recognised your face.’

Bobby avoids your eye as he sits heavily in your chair, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. ‘Didn’t know if I should come knockin’ - but reckoned you needed to know.’

‘Give me a moment,’ you say gently, aware of the tension bleeding into the air like ink in water. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

You’re already gathering the remnants of dinner that still clutter the table, pushing aside the bread and spooning leftover stew into a basin. You gather everything quickly, stacking bowls, setting the kettle for boiling. Remmick moves as if to rise, but you wave him off with a look. He obeys, watching you.

Bobby’s eyes track your every movement and the lines between his brows deepen. You know what he sees: the second plate at the table, the damp towel by the fire, your flushed cheeks. He says nothing, but the air between the three of you thickens. The childish hurt in him is heavy as a stone dropped into deep water.

You set the kettle onto the stove and turn, leaning against the counter, the kettle hissing gently behind you. For once, your cottage has more people than dining chairs. ‘What’s happened?’

Bobby swallows and shifts his weight in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘It’s Eileen McCready.’

You straighten. You teach the McCready children. Both sit in your front row.

‘She didn’t show for service this morning,’ he says. ‘Which… well, isn’t like her. She’s a pillar, y’know? Always on time. Always dressed like she’s about to host the bishop himself. You know.’

You nod.

He frowns. ‘No one saw her. Her husband, Bill, he’s away. Took the kids up to see his mother for the weekend, and she stayed back with the dog. Anyway, so folk got concerned. A few of us went to check on the house.’

He pauses, and the kettle ticks gently behind you. You don’t interrupt.

‘The front door was locked, but the back was ajar,’ Bobby says. ‘Didn’t look forced. Just like she’d stepped out and left it swinging. Inside was… tidy. Her cup of tea gone cold on the table.’

You know where this is going, and the dread in your stomach unfurls slowly, like paper in flame.

‘We found her behind the old mill. Her and the dog.’ His voice catches slightly, and he clears it.

‘Dead?’ you ask, your voice small.

He swallows. ‘It was worse than the others. Much worse. Like... like something had torn at her. Not just feeding. Like rage. Her throat-’ He gestures to his own with a curled hand, but stops, letting it fall limp back to his lap. Grimacing. ‘You don’t want to hear the rest.’

But the images conjure themselves anyway. Your hands tremble, breath coming in thin. Across the table, Remmick leans back into his chair, fingers cradling his glass, watching the dance of candlelight over the surface of his water. His face is blank. Not cold, exactly, but untouched. As though the words pass through him without finding purchase. Your stomach turns and you press your hands against the counter, knuckles white. The storm has darkened the windows to pitch; only the fire and candles throw any light.

‘She was out in her slippers,’ Bobby says. ‘Her dog ran off, we think. She chased it out back. Found it behind the mill, torn up something awful. They reckon it still would have been breathing at that point. And then-’

‘She didn’t stand a chance,’ you murmur.

‘No.’ He looks at you, and his voice drops. ‘I didn’t know her well. But you did, didn’t you?’

You nod slowly.

Remmick is calm, still leaning comfortably in his chair. But in his stillness, something churns beneath the surface. He remembers.

 

---

 

He had found his way to her back door, hidden by the shadow of the house while the little mutt yapped from the kitchen tiles. She’d stepped on to the porch, muttering, and the dog had shot into the night. She had called after it, her slippers soaked through and slapping against the wet earth. Her hair was pinned back haphazardly, housecoat belted at the waist.

She’d spotted the dog behind the mill, ripped open, ribs exposed, sides heaving beside a rubbish pile. It whimpered when she fell to her knees and reached for it. She didn’t cry out, only managing a soft, panicked noise.

He had not charmed her as he had Margaret Halvorsen, he had not needed to.

She turned just as he reached her, breath still forming.

There had been no finesse this time. No words. Just blood. Her scream barely found air before his hand crushed it back into her throat. Her memories spilled like brackish water, hot and bitter. He saw a girl from good stock who had never struggled. Who never wanted. Who watched others suffer and did nothing.

And then, flickering like a lantern through fog, he saw her once again. A child, alone at her desk, always reading. That girl. A girl with wide eyes and ink-stained fingers. That same girl who grew, strange and apart, who the others laughed at and excluded. He saw Eileen’s envy bloom like rot under her polished exterior. Envy of your freedom, your kindness, your peculiar, quiet joy. For your laugh, your stillness. For the way you stood alone and did not flinch when others whispered. Even as her life spilled, she burned with it. That jealousy. He had fed until there was no more warmth left in her to envy. He left her broken and emptied, the dog whimpering once more before its breath gave out.

 

---

 

Now, across the table, he lifts his eyes to watch you. Your hand shakes as you pour the tea. Bobby doesn’t seem to notice, or he pretends not to, as you pass a cup to him. He murmurs his thanks, clasping it between both palms. You place the other in front of Remmick, but don’t pour one for yourself.

‘I won’t stay long,’ Bobby says. ‘Will got back with the constable this morning. He wants folk to stay indoors. After dark, especially. Doors locked. Curtains drawn.’ He rubs the back of his neck. ‘Might be… I dunno. Wild animal. Or something worse.’

‘Something worse,’ you echo, barely audible. A muscle ticks in Remmick’s jaw. You notice it and wish you hadn’t.

Bobby glances at Remmick again. ‘You said you were just travelling through, didn’t you?’ he says with a hint of challenge.

Remmick’s smile is slow, and easy. ‘Still am.’

Bobby doesn’t smile back.

And though you try to steady yourself, the silence between them pulses with unspoken tension. Remmick’s presence fills the small cottage like smoke, curling into corners, into shadows. Your eyes dart to the window, to the rain that falls heavier now, lashing against the glass. You can’t help but think of Eileen. Of her pink slippers and ruined throat. And the dog, still breathing.

Still breathing.

Remmick shifts slightly, stretching his long fingers around the cup as if testing its warmth. His gold ring glints, dull in the candlelight. The kettle lets out a low, tired hiss as you set it back down on the stove, and no one speaks.

Eventually, Bobby shakes his head. ‘I should get back,’ he mutters, rising.  His gaze drifts again to you. ‘Mrs Wendelken’d feel better if you were at hers again tonight. She said as much. With… things the way they are.’ Remmick’s eyes flick to him but Bobby ignores the stare, choosing instead to watch you.

‘I’ll be fine,’ you say, too quickly. ‘I appreciate it, truly. But I’m home now.’

He nods, wet curls dripping onto his collar. ‘Right. Well. Just- if anything happens-’

‘I’ll come straight to town.’

He gives you a look full of things unsaid. Then turns to go, pulling his sodden coat back on, droplets of water flicking on the floor.

You wait until his boots have faded down the steps and the sound of the rain swallows the noise of his truck. Then you close the door, sliding the bolt home with trembling fingers.

The silence that follows is vast.

You turn back to the table slowly, the warmth of the kettle and cups already fading from your palms. You do not sit. You stare at him across the candlelight. The fire has burned low, casting long shapes up the walls. The storm howls in earnest. The shadows in the corners breathe.

He speaks first. ‘You’re frightened.’

It isn’t a question. His voice is soft, nearly tender. You nod.

‘Not of me?’

You at him, then down at your feet. ‘I don’t know.’

The silence returns, immense and ringing.

‘You’ve been here since that first night,’ you say, voice low, eyes rising to meet his. ‘Since the Halverson’s were killed.’

He doesn’t answer at first.

‘I have.’

‘And they only began after you arrived.’

Still no denial. Just the quiet hush of rain and the low crackle of wood in the fading fire. His eyes are gentle. Too gentle.

You look away, arms crossed over your chest. ‘The ring isn’t yours.’

He looks at his hand. His thumb turns the ring slightly on his finger.

‘No,’ he says softly. ‘It isn’t.’

‘Whose is it?’

He keeps turning the ring. ‘I remember the man it belonged to,’ he begins. ‘I remember the love he gave. The pain he left. The mirth he had once, before everything changed.’

He looks up at your, through his lashes, the way he did that first night. But this time, he’s genuine. ‘I keep the ring because I want to understand that feeling. Because I don’t want to forget.’

You back away a step, almost hitting the door, and the hair at your nape prickles. ‘And I’m supposed to find that comforting?’

He stands. Slowly. Not as a threat, but like a storm rising from still water.

‘No,’ he says, voice quiet as dusk. ‘I don’t think you’re ready to be comforted.’

You meet his eyes and find no malice there. But neither is there safety.

‘I don’t know who you are.’

‘Then don’t guess,’ he says. ‘Ask.’

You open your mouth - but the words refuse to come.

He moves in three quiet steps, and the shadows crawl along the walls. Not with menace. With history. With weight. With the echo of lives not yours. The firelight turns his face to something carved. His gaze is steady and the energy between you is sharp, painful. Not unlike hunger. Not unlike need. You should send him away.

‘You should go,’ you whisper. And yet your arms fall to your side.

‘I will,’ he says. ‘If you ask me to.’

You say nothing.

And he stays.

Chapter 7: after the storm

Like breath on cold glass, the silence in the cottage thickens, spreading a fragile film that might crack at the slightest touch. The storm claws and wails at the windowpanes, rattling them in their frames as though eager to get inside, and you stand almost flush against the door, one palm splayed on the wood behind you, feeling its tremor under the wind. Before you, he waits. The fire guttering in the grate throws your mingled shadows high upon the walls, long black shapes that twist together, stretch, and merge, until you cannot tell where one ends and the other begins. Your shared heat wavers between you like a living thing.

Your thoughts race, each one darker and chasing the tail of the last. Eileen, dumped like rubbish behind the mill, her throat torn wide, gaping like a second mouth. Blood soaking into the mud as if the earth itself thirsted for it. Her little dog, belly split, still whimpering with its last rattling breaths.

Margaret, kind Maggie, killed in her parlour, her soft domestic kingdom violated, lifeblood splashed across her walls. Young Thomas, collapsed by their back door, eyes wide in frozen astonishment, as though death himself had come calling and he was too polite to protest.

And then Remmick.

Standing here with his stolen ring, the gold dull and ancient on his finger, holding memories that do not belong to him. The way he watches you now, hunger and grief and something wilder threaded all together in the shadowed lines of his face. And yet.

And yet.

Something in you quivers that is not purely fear. It is as if your heart recognises a shape in the dark that your mind will not name. As if some part of you longs for the ruin even while your reason reels back. You swallow hard, breath trembling, the taste of ash and storm on your tongue. His eyes do not leave yours and his presence pours over you like dark water. The quiet stretches out, taut as a wire, and you wonder, if it snaps, will it cut you clean through?

Your breath comes shallow. His eyes, catching the glow of the fire, seem lit from within, steady and patient as though he means to wait forever. You realise, with a start that tears up your throat, that you do not want him to wait. Not tonight. Not with the rain raging like grief outside and your hands shaking from something that is not quite fear.

He does not move, but he watches you with an intensity that sets every hidden place inside you alight. It is you who breaks first. With a strangled sound you surge forward, your fingers tangling in the collar of his shirt. You crash your mouth against his and the taste of him, cool and earthy, floods your senses. The decorum drilled into you since girlhood evaporates like dew on hot stone. Somewhere in the dark corners of your mind, a voice gasps at the impropriety, at the sheer abandon. But it is lost beneath the roaring of your blood.

Remmick makes a sound deep in his chest, something raw and almost startled. His hands, large and ungloved, grip your waist, your hips, your back, greedy in their sweep. When his tongue finds yours, there is a sudden, startling rush - he can taste you. The small, vital warmth of your life blossoms on his tongue like wildflower honey and it steals the breath from him. He groans into your mouth; a sound of such aching hunger it seems torn from him against his will.

He breaks the kiss only to gasp your name, your true name, sweetened by the hush of his accent, before kissing you again, harder this time, as though trying to drink something out of you that he’s needed for centuries.

Then he lifts you, impossibly effortlessly. Your skirts bunch, legs wrapping around his lean waist, ankles locking behind him. Your back presses to the rough edge of the table as he sets you down on it, the bare wood cool through your blouse. A teacup topples with a delicate chime before shattering on the floor. Neither of you so much as flinch.

His mouth is everywhere - your lips, your jaw, the tender spot just beneath your ear that makes your breath hitch. His hands wander with desperate reverence, palms flattening over your ribs, thumbs brushing dangerously close to the curve of your breasts. When your fingers dig into his shoulders through his shirt, he shudders like a beast under your touch. Time folds in on itself. The storm outside could be hours or centuries away. You only know the heat of him pressing between your legs, the tremor in his breath, the small, pained sounds you make that seem to burn him alive.

Then, too quick, too sharp, he bites your lower lip.

You gasp, the taste of your own blood blooming on your tongue. Copper, warm. For a heartbeat it only deepens the dizzy heat pooling in your belly. But then, like a lantern crashing to the floor, the metallic taste floods your mind with darkness once again.

You see Eileen’s slippers soaked through, her hair fallen loose as her throat opens under the press of pale hands. Margaret’s mouth gasping, Thomas’s eyes wide with a betrayal that doesn’t have words. You see Miriam’s pale little face twisting, jaws unhinging, that scream, that final rattle-

You jerk back with a strangled sob, shoving at his chest with all the force your terror can muster. Surprised, he stumbles a step, his hands falling from you as though burned. You slip from the table, nearly falling in your haste. Your skirts catch on the edge, pulling at your waist, and your feet find the floor cold and unsteady. You back away until you collide with the counter by the sink. One hand grips the edge so hard your knuckles whiten.

Remmick stands there, breathing ragged. A thin smear of your blood streaks his lip, the corner of his mouth, his chin, mingling with a thread of your shared saliva. He looks almost undone; his eyes are dark and dilated, chest rising and falling like he’s run a mile. His gaze meets yours, and for one ghastly moment you think he will come for you again.

‘Get out,’ you whisper.

He doesn’t move. His throat works around a swallow, a muscle flickering at his jaw, but still, he only stares at you, like he cannot quite comprehend the distance now yawning between you.

‘Get out!’ you say again, louder, voice cracking on the edge of hysteria.

He flinches then, the smallest recoil. His eyes soften, sorrow swamping the strange hunger there. Slowly, he turns, unlatches the door, and slips out into the storm without a word. The door closes behind him with a sigh that feels almost mournful. You stand there shaking, your hands finding your mouth. Then a heave works through you from belly to throat and you lurch to the sink, retching. Bitter bile and fear spill into the basin. Tears burn your eyes but refuse to fall. Outside, the wind wails across the fields, carrying your shame and confusion into the dark.

 

*          *          *

 

The storm has blown itself ragged by dawn, leaving the world sodden, branches torn from the trees, the ground strewn with slick yellow leaves. You wake atop the covers in your clothes from the night before, the wool of your skirt twisted under your hip, your cheeks stiff with dried tears. The fire has burned down to a whisper and your head aches in a dull, punishing way that seems to echo in your teeth.

You go about setting the cottage to rights in silence. Washing your face, though it does little to soothe the raw look in your eyes. You scrub out the sink where bile has dried in sour streaks and sweep up the shards of teacup that lay scattered like tiny bones across the floorboards. Then you tackle the dishes, the basin water turning cloudy around your red hands.

It feels like penance. Or perhaps an attempt to restore some small order to your life, something that could be tidied, unlike the tangled thoughts that had plagued your sleep.

When at last you turn, you find Mouser waiting by the window, damp and bedraggled from wherever she spent the stormy night. Relief claws up your throat and you move to let her in, scooping her into your arms, crushing her tiny body against your chest until she lets out a protesting squeak. She squirms free, dropping to the floor with offended dignity, and stalks straight to her bowl.

You bathe then, as though to scour away what remains of last night. You scrub your skin until it glows pink, linger over your hair, your fingernails. You dress modestly in a navy blouse and long dark skirt, buttoned high at the neck, as if armour might yet be woven from such careful propriety.

Your bicycle is wet, the leather seat dark with moisture. You run an old tea towel over it, hands catching on the rough stitching, then set off toward town, your skirts tied up just enough to keep from the chain. The sky has cleared to a wan, autumnal blue. The storm ushered in a change of season overnight, leaving the air sharp and laced with the scent of wet leaves.

When you arrive, Suzy is out front sweeping the shop’s steps. She brightens when she sees you, waving her hand in quick little arcs.

‘No school today,’ she calls as you dismounted. Her face is serious but softened by sympathy. ‘Folk’re too frightened to let the little ones out of sight. Can’t blame them.’

You feel a small, selfish pang of disappointment. Teaching is your routine, your purpose - and a convenient way to push away thoughts that otherwise might circle like crows. But you nod regardless. ‘It’s probably wise.’

‘Come sit with me a spell,’ Suzy says, inclining her head toward the back room where her sewing machine lives. ‘I could use the company.’

So, you did. The morning passes quietly in the soft hum of her machine, the bright little room smelling of starch and soap. You perch on a stool by her worktable, hands folded in your lap, trying to match her easy calm. But every so often she’ll look up and catch you staring into the middle distance.

‘Folk are saying all sorts,’ she says after a while, guiding a hem under her needle. ‘That it’s a mad dog, or a wolf come down from the hills. I even heard old Mr. Winslow telling Alf he reckons it’s a spirit, come to punish us.’

‘A spirit?’

‘Mmm.’ Her lips twitch wryly. ‘Though spirits usually don’t leave folk torn from ear to ear. More of the rattling-chains sort.’

You try to smile, though it felt brittle.

Then she flicks her eyes down to your feet - and laughs outright. ‘Lord above, Daisy, I ought to be worried about you. Look there.’

You follow her gaze to where your satchel lies, flopped open by your boots. Poking from the top is a slim yellow book, its title picked out in striking red.

Dracula.

‘You planning to study up on how to fend off monsters proper?’ she teases, voice light but eyes curious.

You flush. ‘I bought it off that travelling bookseller a few weeks back. Thought it might be something different. Haven’t even started it yet.’

‘Well, I read about it in Cosmopolitan,’ Suzy says, leaning forward conspiratorially. ‘Apparently, it’s quite the fright. Didn’t make much of a splash when it first came out, folk thought it was just a lurid bit of nonsense, too fanciful. Not the sort of gothic tale proper readers took seriously. But seems it’s found its teeth since then.’

You laugh despite yourself, the sound a thin relief. ‘The bookseller said something like that. That it didn’t win prizes or any such thing but lingered on all the same.’

‘Sometimes stories stick where you least want them,’ Suzy says, eyes distant for a breath. Then she shakes her head. ‘Anyway, there’s a meeting at the chapel this afternoon. Constable’s wanting to keep folk calm. Or maybe scare ‘em into sense, I don’t know. You’ll come?’

You nod. ‘Of course. I’ll see you there.’

She gives your arm a squeeze before returning to her sewing, the machine clicking steadily, a strangely comforting sound. You sit there a while longer, but your mind had already begun to drift, pulled toward darker thoughts like iron to a lodestone.

By midday you make your way to the schoolhouse. The building stands empty and still, the bell silent. Inside, the little desks sit neatly arranged, the slates stacked away, your chalk waiting where you’d left it. Usually by now you would be halfway through spelling, the children giggling at their mistakes. The quiet was unsettling, like a church left open at midnight.

You settle at your own desk and pull Dracula from your bag, its cover bright against the old wood. For a long time, you only turn it in your hands, thumb brushing the red letters. Then, you open it, and the first lines unfurl in careful type, drawing you into a foreign gloom of castles and wolves and distant thunder. It was easier, somehow, to face the monsters on the page than the possibilities that crept along your own doorstep. Outside, the afternoon sun shines pale and sharp on puddles, gilding the edges of dying leaves. The storm is over. But the season has changed, and with it, you fear, so have you.

Notes:

monkey covering eyes emoji

Chapter 8: neighbours watching neighbours

The chapel looms ahead, perched on its slight rise above the road, its steeple dark against the paling sky. As you chain your bicycle to the old hitching rail, the bell tolls once; an odd, hollow sound that seems to echo longer than it should. Townsfolk are filing inside already, their voices hushed, the men stiff in their Sunday jackets from the day prior. Women clutch their children’s hands tight, or pull shawls close about their shoulders, as though bracing against something colder than the breeze that’s picked up.

Inside, the air is faintly damp, scented by old wood, candlewax, and the autumn wind that still drifts through the cracked doors. You take a seat near the back once again, half-hidden behind one of the thick beams that hold up the gallery. The pews creak beneath shifting bodies and you can see Suzy seated three rows ahead, her husband’s broad back filling the space beside her. Next to you, Mrs Kirkland clutches her rosary, though no prayer has been offered.

The constable stands at the front, his hat in his hands, brow furrowed as he glances over their gathered heads. He’s a stocky man, shoulders wide as a bullock’s, with small eyes that dart restlessly. A hush slowly overtakes the chapel, the voices dying out until the only sounds are the faint rustle of skirts and the coughing of a child somewhere near the side aisle.

He clears his throat. ‘Right. Thank you all for coming on such short notice.’ His voice is not naturally loud, so it has a forced quality that makes him sound almost apologetic. ‘I know we’d all rather be about our normal business, but with these… unfortunate events… it’s better to speak plainly.’

You watch him from your seat, your hands clasped tight on your lap. The sun slants through the high windows in long bars, lighting dust motes that dance lazily in the stillness. Outside, the wind rattles through the half-bare trees. You shiver.

The constable continues, glancing at a slip of paper he pulls from his breast pocket. ‘It’s no secret that this town has had three attacks over the course of one weekend. First poor Margaret Halvorsen, her son Thomas, and now Mrs McCready. Each more violent than the last. No theft. No clear cause. Except blood.’

A ripple moves through the pews. Someone whispers a prayer. Mrs Kirkland’s beads click as her lips move.

‘My men and I’ve spoken to folk ‘round the areas,’ he goes on, though he doesn’t sound much heartened by it. ‘Looked for prints, for any sign of dogs gone rabid, or strangers with ill intentions. Thus far… nothing concrete. But we’ll keep watch. I’ve spoken to Will Barr, and he’s offered to ride the roads each evening to see any prowlers off. We’ve more eyes on the main street and around the mill.’

At this, there are some nods, though more than a few look down at their hands. You know the locks on many doors will be checked several times during the night, bolting shutters that haven’t been closed in years.

‘What we need now is calm,’ the constable says, though his own voice betrays a tremor. ‘Stay indoors after dark. Keep children close. If you’ve dogs, keep ‘em tied or in the house - can’t have them chasing shadows and leading folk out unawares like poor Eileen. If you hear anything strange, see anything that doesn’t sit right - come to us at once. Don’t go investigating on your own.’

His words hang heavy. The chapel feels smaller for it, as though the walls have drawn closer, pressing them all together under the dim beams. Someone near the front begins to sob, quickly muffled by another’s shoulder. You lean forward, elbows on your knees, trying to slow the rabbit pulse in your throat. The constable looks out over the congregation, his mouth working before he finds more words.

‘And there’s… well. There’s talk. About what sort of creature could do such things.’ His eyes flick briefly up, almost toward the rafters, then down again. ‘I’m no superstitious man. I think we’re dealing with something flesh and blood. But if it puts your minds at ease - light candles in your windows. Say your prayers. Keep watch. There’s safety in neighbours looking to neighbours.’

A murmur of assent travels through the crowd, though the fear does not lift. If anything, it settles deeper, like damp in the bones. You catch Suzy glancing back at you, her brow drawn, and you manage a thin, wan smile. She mouths something you can’t quite catch, but it seems meant to comfort.

Afterwards, folk linger in the aisles and on the steps outside, voices dropping to urgent hushes the moment you draw near. You hear snatches -

‘...like an animal, they said…’

‘...Bill McCready’s beside himself, poor man…’

‘...never seen blood like it…’

You keep to the edges, your hands clasped tightly around your satchel, feeling the novel’s slim weight through the canvas as though it might anchor you. Dracula. A horror story for dark evenings. Yet the dread that coils through you is not born of fiction. Above, the chapel’s bell gives another slow, mournful chime, though no one has pulled the rope. A trick of settling wood, perhaps, or the echo of old prayers. Still, it makes your heart race.

You stand a while on the steps, the pale blue sky spread above, clear and cold, birds wheeling far off as if nothing in the world has changed. The leaves rattle dryly at your feet, and you pull your shawl tighter about your shoulders. The constable’s words repeat in your head: stay indoors, keep close, keep watch. It’s a small comfort. But in this bright, fragile hush after the storm, with the memory of hands on your skin and a darkness deeper than any night pressing at your thoughts, you cling to it all the same. You linger longer than you mean to, letting the sun warm your face. It’s a false kind of comfort; the air holds a bite that promises the cold to come.

You’re just gathering your skirts to step down when a familiar voice calls your name.

‘Miss Daisy!’

You turn to see Bobby striding down the aisle of the church, hat in hand, his broad frame filling the space between the doors. There’s relief in his face when he sees you, though it quickly knots into worry.

‘Was hoping I’d still catch you here,’ he says, shifting awkwardly. ‘Thought I might wait out front to escort you to your Mrs. Wendelken’s.’

You try for a small smile. ‘That’s kind of you, Bobby. But I’ll be all right. I’m headed home just the same as usual.’

He frowns at that, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘I wish you wouldn’t. Least not by yourself. You know, folk are scared for good reason. I’d feel a damn sight better if you stayed in town - with Suzy and Nic if not Mrs Wendelken again. Just until things settle.’

Your heart gives a little twist at the earnestness in his eyes, and you reach out, resting your gloved hand lightly on his arm. ‘I appreciate it, truly. But I’ve locks enough, and shutters that bar from inside. There’s even Ma’s old shotgun in the cupboard. Never fired it, but… the weight of it is comfort enough.’

That does seem to ease him some, and his shoulders drop a fraction. ‘Aye. Well. Long as you keep it close. But let me drive you, at least. I won’t sleep easy knowing you’re pedalling that old bicycle all the way out there alone.’

‘All right,’ you say at last, too tired to argue further. ‘Thank you, Bobby.’

His grin is swift and boyish, and it breaks your heart a little with its simplicity. Together you wheel your bicycle to his truck - it’s an ageing beast that rattles and wheezes but keeps on. Bobby lifts your bicycle into the back as though it weighs nothing, then helps you into the cab. It smells faintly of sheep wool and dust.

The road is rutted from the storm, shining with endless shallow puddles that catch the early evening light. Bobby keeps the conversation simple, asking about lessons, if Mouser’s been keeping the mice down, how your flowers are faring after the storm. Not once does he mention Remmick, though you feel him there all the same, like a shadow draped across your shoulders. Bobby’s hands are tight on the wheel, knuckles pale, and sometimes he glances sideways at you, his jaw working as though he might speak but thinks better of it.

It’s still bright when you reach your path. The cottage looks small and meek under the wide autumn sky, its roof dark with damp. You offer, out of habit and genuine care, ‘Come in for tea, Bobby?’

He shakes his head, though his smile is warm. ‘Best not. I’ve promised Bill McCready I’d join him and the other lads tonight, keep watch around the mill and the back road. But you bolt yourself in, mind. And if there’s anything, anything at all-’

‘I’ll send word. Or come running myself,’ you promise.

He nods, tips his hat, and climbs back into his truck. You watch him drive off, the rattle and spit of the engine slowly swallowed by the hush of the paddocks. Then you draw a breath and turn toward your door, alone again with only the whisper of wind for company.

Inside, you waste no time. The light is already changing, slipping from gold to a cold, doubtful grey. You turn the heavy lock until it clicks and slide the bolt home. Each window is shuttered tight, curtains drawn close. You light candles on every flat surface until the room glows soft and golden, trying your best to banish the edges where darkness might creep in. You go about your tasks quietly, at last taking the stained tablecloth from several days ago and scrubbing it in the washtub until your knuckles ache and the water runs indigo. You wring it out and hang it near the hearth to hopefully dry. You aren’t hungry, not really, but you force down a bit of bread and cheese, your stomach sour.

Later, as the last colour bleeds from the sky beyond your curtains, you move through the final small labours of the evening. The kettle hisses on the hob for your final washing and you scrub the plate and mug from your meagre supper, setting them to dry on a coarse linen towel, then wipe down the table with long, deliberate strokes, your palm smoothing the damp cloth over every old knife mark and scar in the wood.

You light the small lamp that sits by your bed, the wick fluttering like a startled heart before it settles. Each button on your blouse is a brief struggle with fingers that still tremble. The dark navy fabric slides from your shoulders, followed by your petticoat and the whalebone-stiff stays that sigh when you loosen them. You hang each piece carefully on the wooden peg by the wardrobe, your movements methodical, as you peel away the day layer by layer. Last to slip free are your chemise and drawers, the soft linen cool against your calves before you step free of it.

Your nightgown waits folded on the bed; the high collar and narrow cuffs are slightly yellowed despite countless washings. You draw it over your head, the thin muslin whispering against your skin, and tug the ties snug at your throat and waist. Once dressed, you dampen a cloth in the basin and scrub your face until your cheeks glow, chasing away the day’s dust and the faint, remembered press of hands that are no longer welcome. You splash cool water against the back of your neck, shivering at the small shock.

At last you blow out the candles, save your bedside lamp, and turn back the coverlet. Mouser is already there, curled into the warm hollow where your hip will lie. You smile despite the ache lodged deep in your chest. You remember finding her all those years ago, the day after you scattered your mother’s ashes past the dunes where the gorse sprawls thick and golden. How you’d come home hollow, only to hear a faint scuffle beneath the house. Crouching down, your skirts had caught on the damp grass, but there she was. No larger than your palm, ribs sharp beneath patchy fur, a tiny, half-feral scrap with a dead mouse dangling absurdly from her jaw. Even then, so little, she had proven herself a hunter. You’d coaxed her out with a saucer of milk and tucked her against your breast, the fragile thrum of her heart oddly comforting against your mourning.

Now she stirs, blinking sleepily up at you with eyes like polished coins before butting her head into your side. You slip beneath the covers, drawing them high under your chin, Mouser’s small body a warm certainty against your ribs. With hands still unsteady, you reach for Dracula on the bedside stool. You open it to your marked page, the print sharp and orderly by lanternlight, and begin once more to slip beyond your own uneasy threshold into a darker, older dread.

At first the reading is only a distraction. But before long you’re pulled under by the weight of its gloom; the anxious train journeys, the letters written by candlelight, the breathless accounts of wolves and pale figures at windows. The clock’s hands slip unnoticed across its face and it’s only when you reach the pages where at last the ancient terror of vampires is laid bare that a chill curls in your gut.

You think of Remmick standing on your threshold the day before, how he lingered there, dark and drenched, with the storm lashing about his shoulders like a living cloak. Water trickled down the length of his frame, pooling at his feet - yet he waited. Not a single toe crossed over your sill until you, mistaking it for politeness, bid him come inside. That small action, offered almost unthinking, had passed your lips like an unknotted ribbon, unspooling all your careful order with it.

…He may not enter anywhere at the first, unless there be some one of the household who bid him to come; though afterwards he can come as he please…

Your mouth goes dry. The book seems heavier in your hands, its pages pulsing with a cold, uncanny life. You remember the first morning, how you’d risen to find the hayloft empty, only the faintest tracks remaining, pressed into the damp earth beyond the sheep shed door, as though the grass itself recoiled from the touch of his passage.

You recall how he finds you only under moonlight, or beneath a canopy of thick, rolling cloud that dims the sun’s rays. In those moments, the darkness seems to gather more densely about him, as if drawn by secret strings. Shadows cling to him greedily, blurring the lines of his clothing and hollowing the planes of his face until he is little more than hunger given shape.

…His power ceases, as does that of all evil things, at the coming of the day. Only at certain times can he have limited freedom…

The words penetrate like an icicle and you, alone in your bed, clutch at your throat as though to keep something feral from clawing free. Your mind returns to that image of him waiting at your door, the rain sluicing down his shoulders, his eyes steady on yours, patient, almost reverent. How willingly you had opened your home. How eagerly the darkness stepped across your hearth. The book rests in your lap, its pages splayed. You stare into the candle flame, trying to gather your wits, to quiet the racing of your heart.

That’s when you hear it.

Soft, distant at first, drifting on the night air through the shuttered windows, the gentle pluck and hum of a banjo. A simple tune, lilting and low. The same song he played once before, beneath your window, when the world seemed less cruel.

Your breath catches painfully in your throat. Mouser lifts her head, ears twitching, then lets out a low hiss that has her fur raising.

Remmick is here.

You press your hand to your chest, feeling the frantic leap of your pulse beneath your palm, and the novel slips from your lap to the floor with a dull thump. Beyond your bolted door and barred windows, the music goes on, patient and coaxing, as if the darkness itself had found a voice, and was calling out your name.

Chapter 9: it will come back

Notes:

yes chapter title borrowed from hozier because how could i not!! him + ethel cain stay on repeat while i write this

You burrow yourself deep beneath your covers as though they might serve as armour, the old quilt pulled over your head, your breath warm and damp against the folds. Mouser shifts and gives a faint, annoyed chirrup when you jostle her, but she doesn’t flee. With your trembling hands, you seize your pillow and press it hard over your head, trying your best to block out the gentle, coaxing strains of the banjo drifting through your bolted windows. It does little good, the tune seeping through the cracks all the same, winding around your thoughts like ivy; patient, insistent, tender in a way that only deepens your unease.

Your mind spins, still raw from the words you’ve just read.

He may not enter anywhere at the first…

…his power ceases, as does that of all evil things, at the coming of the day…

It should be simple to dismiss. Only a book. A lurid tale meant to thrill idle readers in crowded big-city parlours far from anything truly dangerous. But too many patterns twist together, until you can no longer pick apart the strands.

You squeeze your eyes shut. It’s just a story. A foolish, frightening story.

But your breath won’t steady.

Outside, the banjo plays on, that same sweet, haunting tune he once offered you beneath a milder sky and you wonder, with a twist of something like nausea, whether he waits there hoping for the same tender welcome. If maybe he stands just beyond your door now, head bowed, listening for your footsteps, longing for your voice to grant him passage once more.

Your heels dig into the mattress as you curl tighter, clutching your pillow over your ears until you are almost smothered by the smell of old starch and your own fear. It muffles the song but cannot banish it. Notes slip through in ghostly snatches, enough to set your heart to racing all over again. Mouser shifts nearer, her soft body pressing to your belly. You feel the small huff of her breath and the delicate kneading of her paws, as if she means to comfort you by simple proximity. You clutch at that, at her warmth, her unthinking animal certainty. The room beyond the quilt begins to feel vast, full of dark corners that might shift and attack.

Sleep does not come easily. You drift in and out, caught in a fevered half-dream where your mother’s voice mingles with the banjo’s plaintive chords, the lines from Dracula tangling through it all like threads of red yarn. You start awake multiple times, certain you hear your name spoken low and yearning, only to find Mouser blinking up at you with offended disgruntlement.

When true sleep at last drags you under, it is a restless, fragile thing. Images twist behind your eyes: moonlight pooling on your threshold like spilled milk, footprints that steam in the dewy grass, hands not your own turning the pages of a book that bleeds ink onto your lap. Through it all runs that same soft music, winding on and on into the small hours, until you no longer know if you dream it or if it truly still plays.

Mouser remains nestled against you, her faint purr the only steady anchor in your storm of thoughts. At some point your grip on the pillow loosens, your breathing evens, and you slip deeper into the dark, carried by exhaustion rather than any real peace.

 

*          *          *

 

The banjo rests light against Remmick’s knee, the strings warm beneath his long, deft fingers as he plays. He sits on an old moss-choked stump barely twenty paces from the cottage porch, half-enshrouded by the tangled branches of a pine tree, the paddocks beyond lying open under the bright gaze of the moon. The cottage is dark now save for the one small lamp in her window, a fragile golden eye peering through the shutter slats, out into a sea of shadow. His breath rises pale in the chill air, more by his own conjuring than from any true necessity. Little human affectations still please him, allowing him to feel closer to that warmth he has long since surrendered. Even the banjo, nestled against his ribs, is something tender and foolish, a relic of simpler hungers.

He plays for her, low and coaxing, each note a soft beckon, spun from memory and yearning. The tune is simple, meant for hearth sides and sweethearts’ laps, not dread-haunted cottages bolted against the dark. Yet he shapes every chord as if it were a delicate vessel that might carry some piece of his soul across the grass and through her locked windows.

He can hear her heart. The way it leaps when the first faint strain finds her, the gallop of terror as she buries her head beneath pillow and coverlet. Then the ragged slowing, breaths coming in thin pulls through her nose. Her heart stutters through a dozen frightened cadences before at last it steadies, still quick, but no longer quite so wild. He could count every beat if he chose. Could let the little shocks of it echo through his own chest, like the long, hollow hush of wind spiralling down an old well. Instead, he listens with a reverence close to prayer. She is still awake, her mind churning with dread and half-formed connections, the fragile walls between fact and fiction buckling beneath the weight of cruel coincidences.

He does not wish her to suffer, not like this. The music is meant to soothe, to remind her of the night when he stood beneath her window and played until a smile crept upon her face, shy and bemused. He will not press closer, though some old ravening part of him aches to do so. He will wait, content to give her this space to wrestle with her fear. Let her decide what to believe. He will never lie to her; the truth, unvarnished and monstrous, is all he has left to offer. And he hopes, oh, how he hopes, that one day she might still choose him in spite of it.

Long minutes pass. Her heart flutters again, then drifts into a gentler rhythm, sleep beginning to slip its cool hands over her. Even Mouser’s tiny heartbeat slows to a soft, feline hush. Remmick tips his head back and closes his eyes, letting the moon paint cold patterns on his upturned face. For a moment, it feels as though he is adrift in a sea of quiet breathing, lulled by her nearness. When at last her pulse evens into the slow, rolling tide of slumber, he slows his playing and allows himself to sigh. The noise lingers, hanging in the air like a spider’s silken thread, then fades. He stands. Slings the instrument across his back.

His body moves with that eerie, boneless grace that unsettles mortal eyes; too smooth, too silent, as though he steps between one breath of the world and the next. He casts one final look toward the cottage, a tenderness in his gaze, hollowed by centuries of grief.

Under the glow of moonlight, he turns and slips into the trees, the forest swallowing him like water.

 

*          *          *

 

The shadows ripple about him, drawn to the cold that leaks from his very skin, and his steps blur with unnatural speed, too swift for any mortal eye. Animals go still in their burrows as he passes.

He crosses the open ground beyond the woods, skirting the meandering creek that cuts behind the mill. In the distance, he can sense Bobby, dear, earnest Bobby, stationed near the road with his shotgun across his knees, every thought of her safety blazing like a lantern in the dark. The boy’s fear is almost tender and Remmick feels a curl of desire tighten in his gut at the thought of tasting that devotion, drawing it forth with bright arterial flourish. The imagery tempts him: Bobby’s warm blood cascading over his teeth, that heart so wide and guileless laid bare in his hands. But he moves on, leaving Bobby to his anxious vigil, slipping past unseen with all the ease of shadow and trailing only the faintest eddy of cold in his wake.

Further along the back road, he finds a more acceptable prey.

William Barr leans against the fender of his battered truck, cigarette smouldering between two fingers, eyes half-lidded. A shotgun rests loaded in the bed, the barrels twin black promises against the night. He looks up sharply when Remmick approaches, shoulders tensing.

Remmick does not cloak himself in glamour now; he wants to be seen, though only as the man they think they know. The itinerant banjo-player from the White Fern, the stranger who charmed a room full of drunks with old songs on Saturday and Sunday night, who let the publican’s daughter fuss over his storm-soaked state and smiled without malice.

‘Evening,’ Remmick drawls, his voice pitched low, pleasant. ‘Got one of those for a weary traveller?’

Will blinks, then huffs a half-laugh, recognising him. ‘Christ, you gave me a fright. Thought you might be something else creeping up. Aye, help yourself. Tobacco’s gone to shite with the damp anyhow.’

He holds out the crumpled packet and Remmick takes it delicately, drawing a cigarette and rolling it between long fingers. He enjoys the ritual, the human shape of it. With a murmur of thanks, he accepts Will’s match, cups the tiny flame, inhales, and lets the smoke curl from between his lips in an idle spiral. They talk. Of the weather first, then of the mill’s troubles, then, inevitably, of the killings. Will is careful at first, trying to seem braver than he feels. Remmick nods, listens, asks small probing questions.

What have they found? What measures are they taking? Does he truly believe it’s merely a rabid dog, or something worse?

It amuses him how Will’s pulse changes. The man’s throat bobs; sweat pearls along his hairline despite the cold and still he tries to laugh it off, even when his hand subconsciously strays to the truck bed, fingers brushing the stock of the shotgun.

Remmick steps closer.

‘You’ve a good heart for this town, Will Barr. Always looking out for your own. Always shouldering burdens that’d cripple lesser men.’ His eyes narrow, their colour darkening from navy to an inkier hue that drinks the moonlight. He flicks his cigarette stub away. ‘Tell me - would you keep watch if you knew what watched you in turn?’ His smile twists, then slowly, as if stretching after a long confinement, his form begins to shift.

His shoulders hunch, lengthen. Hands that once cradled banjo strings uncurl into talons, dark nails arching like hooks. Will stiffens against the truck, mouth opening in horror and disbelief, but no sound emerging. The cigarette drops from his lips, scattering sparks that die in the dew-wet grass.

Thick saliva drips from Remmick’s lip, mingling with a thin trickle of blood that leaks from his gums. His eyes flare, pupils pinprick red in vast wells of black.

Will tries to yell, to scream. Instead, he only rasps, fumbling desperately for the shotgun. But Remmick is upon him, one clawed hand closing around the barrel and wrenching it free. With a careless flick, he hurls it into the forest, where it crashes through branches and lands far beyond reach. Will barely has time to turn back before Remmick seizes him by the throat, lifting him clean off the ground. Will’s feet kick at the earth, boots skidding through wet leaves. Remmick lowers his mouth to the man’s neck, inhaling deeply, tasting the fear-slick skin.

Then he bites.

The flesh parts under his teeth like ripe fruit. Hot, living blood rushes over his tongue, singing with terror and the bright throb of a heart fighting to outrun its own end. Will’s hands scrabble weakly at Remmick’s shoulders, nails breaking. A strangled sob bubbles up, cut short as Remmick drinks deeper. Images come in a wild flood.

Will as a boy, arms outstretched between his cowering brother and their father’s raised belt. The sour tang of sweat and fear. His school days, dusty chalk on sunlit floors, stealing glimpses of the fifteen-year-old girl next to him, her hair a haloed by daylight that streams through warped panes. The way Will’s stomach had flipped at your smile. A fumbling kiss one afternoon behind the abbey, your giggles tangling with his, noses bumping awkwardly.

Then his mother, white-faced, gripping both boys by the shoulders, pulling them from class the day their father was caught under their bull’s hooves, his ribs caved like rotten wood. Long years of toil after that - dirt under nails, sweat-soaked shirts, the weight of manhood descending too soon. A brisk marriage, four children, the hard love that never quite softened the ache of old bruises. And you again, always there in passing. Your gentle nods at the market, the small glow of your worry in the back of the chapel just hours ago, still radiant enough to snag Will’s battered heart.

Remmick tears himself free with a savage snarl. Blood fountains, hot and bright, painting his throat and soaking into the old shirt he wears, your father’s, now dark with another man’s ending. Will’s body hits the ground with a wet thud, his limbs crumpling in on themselves, and Remmick wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing the crimson across his jaw. The world shivers around him, edges burning too bright then snapping back to dark clarity. He stands over the corpse a moment longer, chest heaving with the raw thrill of it, tasting the remnants of Will’s memories like echoes that will fade all too soon. Then he turns away, his outline smoothing back into something almost human. The claws recede, the monstrous hunger folds itself neat once more. Only the blood remains, bright and terrible on his skin.

He strolls off without a backward glance, hands tucked into pockets, and cuts across the paddocks toward the distant silhouette of the abbey. The night closes in behind him, swallowing the ruin he’s left behind. Somewhere ahead, the moonlight pools through broken windows, waiting for him to spill new confessions into the shadows.

Notes:

i am incapable of letting this girl have a good night's rest

Chapter 10: Updates

Hello!

Firstly, sorry if this notification is a bit of a letdown - it’s not a new chapter (yet 😭).

I just really wanted to say thank you for all the kudos, comments, and love you’ve shown this fic. When I first started writing it, I never imagined it would get such a response and honestly, that’s what pushed me to keep going and turn it into something bigger and more in-depth (which is what I’ve been working on over the past few months. Trust me, she's not dead yet!)

Here’s where I need your input:

Would you (yes YOU) prefer to wait until I’ve fully reworked and updated all 9 chapters (plus the few extras I’ve slotted in) before I upload them here?

OR

Should I create a separate work to post the 5 updated/extended chapters I already have ready? (They don’t line up with the current version since I’ve deviated from the original timeline.) This will then be where all the new chapters get posted.

Please let me know what you’d like in the comments - I really value your thoughts and thank you again for being so supportive. You make writing this so worthwhile! ❤️