Chapter 38
I was woken with a nudge. Cold, I rolled onto my side. It was freezing. I must have left a window open.
“Here.” A voice spoke gruffly. “Are you alive?”
Barely, I thought. Everything ached with cold. I became aware of a god-awful stabbing pain in my hand.
I pried my eyes open. A woman in leather boots and a wax coat leant over me. A quiff of reddish curls shook in the breeze.
Can’t even rot in peace, I thought.
“If you’re not dead,” she said, “then you’re trespassing in my orchard.”
Achily, I looked around me. Sure enough, I was lying between two rows of stout trees, pink blossom dotted among the leaves. No skeletons. No skulls. Just roots and hardened earth. I must have passed out here after running away into the woods.
“I’ll give you some time to gather yourself,” the woman said, not unkindly. “But if you’re not gone in an hour, I’ll be calling the police, alright?”
I tried to answer, but something caught in my throat. I gagged. The woman backed away in disgust.
“For God’s sake, get some help,” she muttered then stalked away down the row of trees.
I fished about in my mouth for what I’d choked on.
With my good hand, I pulled out my house key covered in spit and phlegm.
And the curved needle, still attached, still brutal-looking.
Especially now as it sat in my painfully swollen palm next to the black-blood-crusted tear between my thumb and forefinger.
It was a small miracle I hadn’t swallowed the thing, let alone choked.
I remembered all the skulls with the keys inside them, then lay back down on the earth.
What happened to me? Another hallucination perhaps. A fever dream brought on by everything from the last few days.
I’d been so convinced I was dead. It had felt like everything, my body, my spirit, my mind, had gone, and all I had left was this awful ghost of myself, this last imprint, haunting these hills, waiting until I faded away.
All hard to believe now, of course, lying on the floor of this orchard with my bruised body and my throbbing punctured hand, feeling very fucking visceral.
The breeze fluttered my hair.
In the dream forest, I’d found myself wishing I would fade away faster just so it could all be over.
But at the same time, I’d found myself clutching onto all of this awfulness, because at least it meant I was here and that I existed.
I chuckled. How fucking terrible. Holding onto a living deadness because it’s still better than being dead.
The leaves above me swayed in the breeze, hushing me as if I were a squalling child.
But I wasn’t squalling. Not anymore.
I thought of my father.
He was the only one I talked to after it happened.
After I left my job, after that terrible day in the office, I hid in my room, terrified, unsure what would happen to me.
I spent the night browsing property sites just to give myself something else to think about.
Early in the morning—I hadn’t slept—I tried to think of someone I could talk to.
I hadn’t spoken to any of my old friends in years and I couldn’t turn to my colleagues.
Especially now. So, in desperation, I messaged my father.
I didn’t tell him everything, but I did tell him that things at work hadn’t been great, that I felt this constant drive to escape, how I always felt ignored, like I wasn’t really there, like I didn’t exist.
He answered back:
Can we chat later? I’m a little busy right now helping out with the Graysons. I’m sure it’s not that bad.
I never replied.
I changed my search terms on the property sites to cheap and rural. The next day, Sgàthan Sìth came up in my results. I immediately made an offer and started packing my bags.
That high-pitched tone returned in my ears.
I’m sure it’s not that bad.
Anger came to me, lighting fires in my brain and my body.
If my father had said anything else, perhaps I wouldn’t be here.
My limbs felt less like lead and more like fireworks; dynamic, alive.
If Rowan hadn’t gone barging into my business like he did, maybe I wouldn’t be in this orchard.
Sensation returned. I had weight. I had mass.
I had energy. And if my stupid fucking neighbour hadn’t come sneaking up on me in my basement, then maybe she wouldn’t have that stupid fucking half-moon scar on her forehead and I wouldn’t be such a fucking mess.
Anger pushed my aching body off the ground and back onto my legs.
For God’s sake, get some help.
I reached my arms to the sky and yelled wordlessly into the trees. A flock of starlings lifted from the canopy and flit away across the field.
I was angry and it felt like shit, but it was better than feeling afraid, and better than feeling dead.
I thought of everything that had happened.
The disturbances in my house. The incident in the basement.
The phantom party next door. My neighbour, my perfect double on the road.
Now that nightmare in the woods. I’d been right.
I was stuck between two realities. One where I was mad and one where all these unbelievable things were actually happening.
One where my neighbour was the monster and one where I was.
Well last night, she tipped her hand. After seeing all those skulls and their keys, I was ready to choose.
I wiped my house key on my jeans. This was my key. It was anachronistic, but it was mine. And 1b Sgàthan Sìth was my house. It was cold, and quite possibly inhabited by God knows what, but it was my house.
This was my shitty life, my shitty anger, my shitty problems.
Mine.
And I was ready to fight for them.
I gingerly pulled my sleeve over my injured hand, pocketed the key and the needle, and walked out of the woods.
I couldn’t remember how I’d got into the orchard, so I just kept walking until I hit the road.
I found a turnstile and hopped over. I came out at a section of hedge that looked familiar.
Ducking down, I found what I was looking for: my phone, spattered with mud.
I picked it up with my good hand and pressed the button on the side.
Out of battery. Something to be solved later.
I had bigger problems to deal with first.
I looked left and right. To the right was the route back to Sgàthan Sìth, to the left was the way back to the village.
I wasn’t ready to face the house yet. I still wasn’t exactly sure what I was facing there, though after last night I was convinced this was no ordinary dispute with the neighbours.
I remembered how my neighbour’s head had turned, her skin pulling, her grin unnaturally wide.
I needed to know what I was dealing with before I could do anything about it.
My injured hand throbbed in my sleeve. I needed to do something about that, too.
I remembered the old woman from my dream in the woods, tying knots in her lap at The Curtyard.
Time we had a chat.
It made about as much sense as anything else had so far.
Okay then, I thought. Let’s chat.
Filthy, cold and stinking, I headed back to Carlinsrest.