Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
“You,” I breathed. The word slammed down like a gavel between us. “You’re … it.”
“Ah, yes. Me. Much easier on the eyes when the horns have not grown in for the night, yes?” He removed one hand from his pocket and rubbed the length of his jaw with his thumb. As if this were a common conversation.
“The boy,” I said as I tried to control my breathing. “I’m here to help him. That’s all. I don’t need you to—to—” To what? Chase me? Corner me? Keep the boy from me? How was I supposed to reason with this—this—
“Ah, sympathies. I’m afraid you could not remove the child, even if you tried.”
A hysterical sound, mixed between a laugh and a bray, bubbled from my lips. “No, no, no. He’s coming with me. I touched his sleeve—he was crying and—a-and—”
His head tilted again. Waiting. Listening.
Stark embarrassment ate my skin alive. “You’re holding him here, aren’t you?” I took another step back. The man followed. One for one, until the edge of the bramble wall stuck the backs of my arms. I jerked away, dots of blood already welling.
“I do not hold the child here,” he said.
“Prove it,” I blurted. I retreated sideways and he continued lazily after me. “How long have you had him here? What kind of—monster—”
“Fitting,” he cut in.
“Do you have to be, to keep a child? Is he here for some sick—obsession?” Fury twisted my face, the thought springing forward so violently that I had the all-consuming urge to swing my sledgehammer at him. If he was keeping this child here for something like that—
His words went razor thin. “I do not keep the boy. If you suggest something of such a nature again, I’m afraid we will have much more interesting things to discuss than intention, don’t you think?”
The threat rang clear.
I should have bolted already. I should have been fighting my way back to Harthwait, back to the door; instead, I stole every feather of courage and squared my body to his.
“I don’t stand for child abuse,” I growled, pushing as much hate into the words as possible.
“And neither do I,” he said, so quiet, so calm, a shiver bolted down my spine. If he lunged in that moment, I wouldn’t have had time to flinch.
My knees wobbled. If I ran, I might make it. I’d made it once before.
He strode closer, almost to arm’s length.
“The child is not real. Just as much of this place as a figment, so to speak.” The profile of his nose was strong, his mouth full, his chin harsh.
“I find it awfully bold of you to sweep back here, unannounced, after I welcomed you so warmly upon your last visit.”
“You almost killed me.” The clouds rumbled overhead; a fine mist of rain began again, tickling my lashes.
“Kill you, was it?” His eyebrows lowered. “Hm. I am intrigued to hear your definition of attempted murder. I seem to remember grabbing your shoulder, but you were pulled through the door anyway.”
I shifted my body so I continued to face him, but kept the house in sight. Harthwait lurked just above the bramble thorns.
“Why are you here?” If I could stall—or distract—I might be able to make a break for it.
“I could ask you the same.”
“I told you the first time.”
His nostrils flared, eyes narrowed. “And you never answered my question.”
Not a simple statement, but a threat.
“How long? Since I moved in?” Somehow, he knew my name—there was no telling what else he knew or why. “Longer?” Did you know my aunt?
He sniffed. “A while.”
“That’s not an answer. You want me to believe you about the boy? Tell me. How long have you been here.”
“You failed to answer my question the first time, I recall. Tit for tat.”
Something told me if I wasn’t careful, this man would walk me like a dog.
And he was right, no matter how much I didn’t want to admit it: This area was his. Not mine. He wasn’t denying that he’d been here a while. He probably knew it like the back of his hand, whereas I was (clearly) unable to beat my way out of a wet briar patch. So I tried another angle.
“If the boy doesn’t really exist, how do I know that you do?” I spoke through my teeth, struggling to keep the sledgehammer slightly at the ready.
A grin was his response. “You are nervous.”
“Answer one question, and I’ll answer one of yours.”
He huffed. “If I weren’t real, I would not be speaking with you. Go on. Use your little weapon. Hit me.” When I made no move, he slunk forward. Even his shoulders rolled when he walked. “But yes … Landry. I am real.”
I shook my head. “Stay where you’re at.”
He stopped. Then his demeanor shifted, just a bit. He cocked his head as the creature had, eyes assessing, narrowing, like his patience might be withering. “And if I do, you will answer my question. Honestly.”
I nodded. For a moment, we looked at one another.
“What do you want with the boy?” The question was no more than a whisper. Almost pained.
I struggled for words. Instead of throwing a front, I showed my cards. “I felt bad for him. I wanted to put him to rest, somehow, and thought maybe if I brought him out of the room that maybe …” I cleared my throat and blinked. “He cries, every night, down to the minute. I want it to stop.”
He nodded. Hummed a bit, but his jaw remained tight.
“Why can the boy not leave?” I asked.
Not even a hesitation. “He is tied here. He is not real.” Before I had a chance to process that information, he asked, “Pray tell, how did you get in here?”
The grass had wilted while we were in the maze—as if it hadn’t rained for months.
I didn’t realize how close we’d managed to inch toward the front of the maze, or how I’d been able to navigate while walking backward.
But the way he walked, one step at a time, reminded me of a dog herding cattle.
Like he was guiding, and I was blindly following.
“I … am not sure,” I said, candid. “A friend accidently knocked a hole in the wall and we found a door. I felt a tug to it. But then it vanished that night, and I was curious, so I took the wall down. Then I found Haddy. And you.” The sledgehammer drooped an inch.
My hands ached from holding it up for so long.
“Interesting.”
A thought occurred to me. “When I disappeared through the door, what did you see on the other side? When you said it sucked me back in?”
“I saw nothing but blackness.” He tucked his chin and looked up from beneath his lashes.
A shiver skittered down my spine. So he hadn’t seen Harthwait on the other side. “Why?”
“If I knew, I would not be asking you,” he said, lip curled. “I do not have access—”
In the distance, a gong sounded. No, not a gong—but an echo of a clock striking midnight.
Everything went still. The birds in the far trees quieted. Even the clouds hesitated.
“What was that?” I perked, scanning the yard. It rang again. So muffled, I wouldn’t have heard it if I didn’t pay attention. It reminded me of the grandfather clock in the foyer. “I thought I heard—”
A crack split the air to my right. At the edge of my vision, I saw the man’s head snap to the side—like someone took his skull between their hands and broke his neck. I choked on a strangled shriek. Blood should have trickled from his nostrils, but he only blinked back at me.
I whispered under my breath—a prayer, a plea, something—and dropped the sledgehammer.
His skin grew gray, from the broken area of his neck outward.
His shoulders snapped and rolled, reformed, his legs cracked then—spiderwebs of black veins grew from the base of his jaw.
His body reforming, healing, his skin turning gray, his stature expanding.
I covered my scream. Everything blurred, tinged black. The man—the creature’s—jaw unhinged. He tried to speak.
“Show me the—” But he didn’t finish.
From the house, a strangled cry. A child’s cry. I didn’t need a clock to know it was a quarter after midnight.
He bent over; the bones in his shoulders rippled.
The man or the boy? Which did I choose? I pictured myself making it to the child, trying to wrangle him into the house before the crying started and not being able to get him over the threshold. The boy kicking and wailing, blood pouring out of his mouth, and me, clueless about what to do next.
And then I would be leaving this man behind, with a broken neck. Was he right? Would it not work?
What did he know that I didn’t? This was his place. And if anyone knew what might be going on, it would be him.
The crying turned to screaming.
Panicked—I chose the boy.
“No!” he choked. A garbled moan chased me, but he didn’t stand. Didn’t give chase.
“No, no, no,” I muttered. I raced up the front steps. Gnarled ripping sounds came behind me.
I careened into the foyer. Haddy’s cries were quieter, but somehow near at the same time. The grandfather clock echoed a final ring, and I started up the stairs out of instinct. The railing groaned at my ascent. I had just passed halfway to the second floor when the front door burst open.
“Leave him!” the creature roared.
“Papa, hurts,” the boy cried. Yes—he was upstairs. Papa, not Momma this time.
I couldn’t move fast enough. If it wasn’t the creature that was hurting the child, who was?
I reached the attic door as soon as Haddy’s words turned to a low groan. The latch to the attic room was open, giving an inch of light.
I shoved the door. It swung wide.
“Sit still, brat,” a gritty voice said.
A man stood over Haddy, who crouched in the far corner beneath a window, his knees to his chest. Shelves lined the walls, drooped from double-stacked tattered leather books and trinkets.
A globe lay on its side, forgotten, in the farthest corner of the room.
A desk sat centered on the wall to my right, crowded by three chairs.
The skin of Haddy’s bare back tinged pink and red in streaks, but no blood trickled from the marks. He looked older than he had when he’d run through the maze; his face less rounded, his neck a bit thinner, his hair combed into submission.