Chapter Eight
CHAPTER
Eight
For the first time since she was a small child, Jane decided that she wouldn’t get a lick of rest until she checked for monsters under her bed.
Whatever oppressive air that had nestled itself between the house’s every brick, every floorboard, every window pane, turned the blue of the guest room even bluer, the dust-tinged air even dustier, and the rain against the windows even rainier. And Jane wasn’t fond of any of it.
Another grumble of thunder reverberated beneath Jane’s knees as she placed the oil lamp beside her on the floor; the pin-knife was gripped in a fist. Though she knew there wouldn’t be any sort of beast beneath the bed, a boogeyman crafted out of shadows and fear, she just needed to be sure…
The ruination of her door, the tracks in the mud, the prickling anxiety, punctuated by an even more uneasy silence, and everybody’s ignorance of whatever was wrong with the house pressed upon Jane’s shoulders in a discomforting weight.
Something was wrong, she was sure of it. If not wrong, then at least off.
The stories of Terence’s grandfather—Jane had taken to calling him “Old Man Hayes,” for he felt too much like a morbid rumination to be given a name, or even some familial term of endearment—only made her feel even more ill at ease.
Checking under the bed was the least she could do to ensure that no intruder or wild animal managed to sneak his way in during the day.
Jane knew the only animal she could possibly find under there would be dust bunnies, yet something cool roiled in her belly, telling her to crawl into bed and turn a blind eye, and wait for the safety of daylight so that Mrs. Foster could take on the responsibility instead.
Then again… if Jane didn’t check, that part of her brain that remained like that of an animal, hellbent on survival, would nag at her like a disgruntled grandmother until she’d give into its whims and look anyway.
The floorboards were cold beneath her as she lay down on her belly.
She had been holding her breath and only dared to let it go when she, at last, saw the entirety of underneath the bed—in all its empty glory, awash in the lamp’s dim yellow glow.
No eyes glowing red, no slobbering teeth waiting to gobble her up, no hands reaching to defile her.
Only crooked shadows that ran along the lengths of the boards.
Heat flooded her cheeks and she huffed out a small laugh that then rolled into a disappointed grumble.
“Christ, Janet… You’re no child, letting your imagination run wildly like that—” she growled under her breath as she started to rise, but as she took the lamp in hand, she noticed its light snag peculiarly across the floor.
The lines she saw were not straight and uniform in a way that would hint at natural patterns or wear in the wood, but rather in shapes that were arched and curved in too-complex designs.
Had there been even more scratches from the thing that’d assaulted her door?
Bringing the lamp with her as far as she could without catching her sheets aflame, Jane flopped back onto her belly to scoot her way beneath the bed.
Dust wavered around her in a golden haze and she bit her lip in an attempt to fight against a rising sneeze, especially as she narrowed her eyes to better understand what she was now looking at.
There were carvings, many of them. Some of them were maddened, nonsensical scratches, as if the carver made a mistake and attempted to claw it out of existence, while others were clearer patterns Jane traced with her pinky.
Horseshoes, crosses, large, unblinking eyes with runes in place of a pupil.
The most prevalent were looping, wheel-like patterns resembling flowers with six petals.
Jane was unsure of what to feel: fear in knowing this was hidden beneath her the whole time, a battling confusion and curiosity as to why Old Man Hayes—as she couldn’t think of anyone else doing so—would make such carvings.
She shimmied back out from under the bed, reached into her bag for a sheaf of parchment and a piece of charcoal, and returned to lay amongst the dust with a new sense of excitement sparking in her heart. With her own scribbles, she started to trace the carvings.
Again and again, she drew horseshoes and evil eyes until a small stack of drawings piled beside the lamp.
If her door weren’t locked and if she weren’t so scared to see those scratches scarring the threshold, she’d sneak down to the sitting room to retrieve one of Old Man Hayes’ books to decipher the markings—and perhaps figure out why they were under the bed.
It’d be a new assignment for her, now that Terence’s fossils had been, for the most part, identified, and, hopefully, one to rescue her from another day riddled with apprehension and boredom—and pouring her deepest feelings of inadequacy to a man she’d only known for days.
Just as a triumphant heat swelled between Jane’s breasts, a scream echoed outside her window. She jumped at the sound, causing the bed to shake when she hit her head against its metal frame. She seethed as pain ebbed in her rattling teeth.
Another drone of thunder snarled against the window until it melted and gave way to a howl, one that came from a mouth, not the sky. It was haunting, shrill, too much like that of a human scream than the bray of a wild beast.
It struck Jane deep in her chest, with emotions reminding her of the thing that’d scratched at her door: Terror. Dread. Horror. But also a deep, unmoving curiosity.
Emboldened by the fact the howls echoed from outside in the rain rather than outside her bedroom door, Jane scuttled from beneath the bed and staggered to her feet.
Dust painted the front of her night dress, charcoal stained her fingers.
The floor was bitingly cold, and she held her excess skirt in one great fist as she took small, cautious steps toward the window.
Her breath fogged the glass when she peered into the night swollen with rain and thunder.
That was when she saw it—just a great, dark mass that moved along the distant treeline, but Jane knew it to be the animal, she was sure of it! What else could it have been, other than some apparition crafted from darkness playing on wavering reeds and shrubbery?
A flash of lightning illuminated its sheer size, and Jane stumbled back from the window with a gasp.
It was a large animal. Too large for her comfort.
It was the size of a horse, if not bigger, with a bulk like that of a bear.
Even from a distance, she saw its eyes glowing yellow.
Was the forest even capable of hiding an animal of that size during the day?
Perhaps it was another poor creature stranded in the marshland by the floods, just as she and the staff were.
But why or how would it end up inside the house to claw at her door?
What kind of animal of that size would even be roaming English marshes, unable to swim and so afraid—if not incompetent—that it allowed itself to remain trapped?
She wasn’t sure if she wanted to explore and find out, not yet, anyway.
That courage was reserved for daytime hours, and daytime hours only.
Jane stared intently, not daring to blink as the shape lumbered into the shadows of the trees, and from their depths rang another screaming howl, like the echoing moan of a man, lost, afraid—and hungry.