Chapter 24
C h a p t e r T w e n t y - F o u r
S y l v i a S w a n
Cold air brushes the hair on my skin and it smells of earthy mildew and iron. Or is it the rotted scent of blood?
The rock walls curve inward and water drips from the cracks, each sound deliberate and echoing in the long cave. Shadows cling to the wall and sway as if they’ve learned how to live here quietly and I shiver.
I step forward without thinking, my boots splashing in the puddles of water.
A long wired bulb swings from the ceiling, the light weak and jaundiced.
As I get closer I see a male off to the side, his back to me.
His sleeves are rolled past his elbows and he’s unmoving except the steady rise and fall of his arms. A cleaver, thick and dulled by use, glistens in his hand as he brings it down on the slab of meat laid across the stone table.
The sound repulses me as it echoes through the cavern, wet and loud.
I shiver.
I can’t discern what the meat once was, its shape is wrong and I can’t find it in me to look any longer. I know I should be afraid but I feel bile creeping up my throat with disgust instead. I step closer, my gaze on him only. I know if I look down everything I ate for dinner will come back up.
The cleaver rises and falls as though my arrival has changed nothing.
He doesn’t turn and I know he can hear my footsteps and the way my breath heightens the closer I get.
The iron smell becomes suffocating and I know for certain it's coming from the rotten meat on the table.
It clings to the back of my throat and kills the hairs in my nose.
My lips part but I don’t know what to say and before I can the cave seizes. The dripping stops and the man freezes mid rise. A creeping feeling settles in me and my mother’s voice breaks the silence.
“Run. Now!” The fear in her voice is unmistakingly real and it doesn’t echo like everything else.
My heart lurches in my chest and the calmness I was feeling vanishes. The smack of steel hitting stone shatters my entire resolve and I don’t care to cast a glance at the man in front of me. My instinct tells me if I turn and look at him I’ll never wake from the horrid dream I’m in.
I turn and run, feeling more scared than I ever have before. The cavern stretches endlessly before me and her voice urges me forward while the darkness crawls behind me, suffocating my every last breath.
A scream cracks from my throat that sounds inhumane to me, it’s raw and too loud for the room that holds it.
My body jerks upright and the sheets tangle around my legs.
My heart beats in my chest as if it may jump out of my mouth.
Sharp iron still lingers in my nose and the echo of the cleaver rings in my ears.
Amos leaps up from his spot on my pillow and settles in my lap. My bedroom door flies open and my father runs in. His eyes are wide with fear as he crosses the room with long strides. Before I can speak he pulls me into him, holding me as though I’ll disappear.
“What’s going on?” His voice is urgent and full of fear.
I don’t say anything, instead I hold him tighter. My fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt and I let out a breath. My room stops spinning and I feel the heat of both him and Amos against my skin.
I’m ok, I’m home. I repeat those words like my life depends on it as a horrible feeling settles in my gut. A soft cry leaves my lips as the word mama comes off my tongue. I hate feeling this weak like my life will fall apart any minute and I’ll be left with nothing.
He pulls back enough to look at me. The fire from the hearth lights half his face and his green eyes seem more vibrant. “Are you ok?”
I look at him, studying the scared expression on his face. There's no way he killed her. He’s no killer but a sinking fear passes through me.
“I…I’m scared.” My voice trembles as I shake my head. There's no other words to describe this aching, hollow feeling in my chest. I remember the cave, the smell, the voice of my mother like it was real.
“It was just a dream, dear,” he mumbles and brushes my hair out of my face. His thumb swipes the tears off my cheeks and he softly kisses my forehead. “Was it your mother?”
I can tell he doesn’t want to ask the question but feels it’s relevant enough. I pause, it wasn't but it was. She was there as always, warning me about the man I'm willing to face for justice.
“Yes…but it was something.” I stop. “Someone else there.”
His brows furrow and his hand pauses in the tangles of my hair.
“Who?” I feel his body stiffen and recognition forms in his gaze.
“Daddy, I think I need to talk to you.” I hesitate because I'm too scared to hear it come from his mouth but it’s inevitable.
I need answers to solve her case.
“About what?” He whispers.
I take a breath, steadying myself and coaxing my tears to stop. The remnants of the dream pressing heavy against my ribs.
“About the mill,” I whisper.
He straightens slowly like my words have weighted him down and he can’t fathom what he’s hearing. He exhales through his nose, his eyes no longer catching mine but purposely avoiding me. He runs a hand down his face before walking to the door.
I go to stop him but he speaks, soft and quiet. “Let’s go downstairs.”
I slip out of bed, taking Amos with me, my hands shaking as I cuddle him to me.
I follow him through the hallway and downstairs, my bare feet cold against the floorboards.
The house is quiet in that deep kind of silence that feels older than sleep itself.
He moves ahead of me silently, as if he already knows what I’m going to say and bracing himself.
He flips the light on in the kitchen and it hums faintly, being the only sound between us. He fills the kettle with water and places it on the stove, hands steady but jaw tight. I linger beside the table, waiting for something, I don’t know.
“Sit,” he whispers, not in a commanding way but more like me standing is making him nervous. “I’ll make tea for us.”
I hum and sit down, placing Amos in my lap. The kettle groans and he turns away from me, his back to me. I feel my pulse in my throat and I swallow to rid the feeling.
He glances over his shoulder and I squirm. “You wanted to talk?”
I cough. “Yes.”
I begin with telling him all the weird dreams I have and the fact that they repeat for days before I have a different one.
I tell him about her hollow eyes and how she always calls for me, warning me about the shadowed man.
I tell him about Lilith and P. Walker. I tell him about the mill and what happens there.
He doesn’t ever look at me and continues to busy himself with the finished tea.
The kettle whistles and he finally turns off the stove.
He pours both of us tea, barely keeping a steady grip on the handle.
He sets a mug in front of me, his gaze on the rising steam between us.
I pause and force my gaze on him. I know he feels my stare because he shifts uncomfortably and his tea sits at the rim of his cup, threatening to waste any moment now.
“P. Walker told me,” My voice trembles despite me trying to keep it even. “that you were once part of the cult.”
His gaze snaps to me and I can see the fear in them.
His face pales and the lines around his eyes look deeper than I’ve ever seen them.
His mouth parts, but nothing comes out. He places the mug on the kitchen table with a loud thump and the tea spills over the edge, burning his hand but he doesn’t seem to feel it.
“He also admitted that the cult probably killed mother.” My bottom lip trembles and I try to remain calm.
A tear falls onto his cheek and my face darkens. I sniffle and close my eyes, willing my tears at bay. My words remain heavy in the air and I bury my hand in Amos fur. The hum of the light starts to be too loud and the air too stale.
I look at him with fear but also hope that he’ll deny those accusations. “Is it true?”
He lowers himself in the chair across from me, the wood creaking beneath his weight. He stares into the tea as if it’ll offer him solitude or strength to utter the word yes. His hands tremble slightly and it’s the first time I’ve seen him so distraught.
“Who told you that it was a…cult?” He asks quietly.
“P. Walker. He knew you and he knew mama as well,” I say.
His eyes close and when he reopens them something has shifted. The man that sits across from me feels older somehow, worn thin by memories he’s kept buried too long.
“I tried to keep all of this away from you. I wanted to keep you safe from the mill, the people in that group, the stories. I told myself silence was better than horrible memories,” he says, almost ashamed.
“It isn't, not anymore.” I surprise myself with the steadiness of my voice.
“Yes,” he finally admits. “I was part of it a long time ago.”
I bury my face in my hands and shake my head.
He continues. “It wasn’t supposed to be what it became.
It was a silly little idea me and my friends had back in the day.
To be vigilantes and solve crimes around town, but one of my friends, he became dark, unfixable, and changed things for the worse.
It surprised me how many of them wanted to join his side. ”
“And was mom a part of the group?” I ask with a shallow gulp.
My stomach twists and I wonder who the friend was that changed everything. What made him go dark? What caused the destruction in the group?
“No, your mother was never meant to be a part.”
I release a sigh and drop my hands on the table. He grabs one in his and grips it like I may never talk to him again. His thumb presses into my knuckles grounding himself as much as me.
“She found out about my past and the group a few years back. I thought I had buried it deep enough but you know your mother was never good at minding her own.” He mumbles the last part.
My throat tightens and I stiffen. He gently squeezes my hand trying to reassure me but it does little to help. I know she was nosy. I would always hear her gossiping with her teacher friends in the kitchen on a late Saturday night, but hearing it from him hurts. I don’t know why but it does.
“And she wouldn’t let it go, would she?”
“She was never good at leaving questions unanswered either. She grew curious, careful at first, but she started looking into the past. She had so many newspaper clippings, records, letters, things that didn’t belong to her.”
He shakes his head.
“When she realized what the group was truly about, she didn’t confront me, she joined them. After a while she did beg me for answers but I wouldn’t speak on them, not ever. She believed she could understand them from the inside. She thought if she had enough information she could dismantle them.”
A chill crawls through me, I can see her as she appears in my dreams—always out of reach, dead.
“They didn’t suspect her at first. She listened more than she spoke but groups like that,” he swallows and wipes away a fallen tear with his other hand. “They notice everything.”
“They found out she was a spy?” I let my tears fall without worrying and my voice wobbles as I ask.
“Yes.” The word is final and settles something dark between us.
A soft whimper leaves my lips and I place my other shaking hand under Amos to keep it still.
“How could you let that happen?” I ask angrily and let him see just how broken I am.
“I tried, dear. I promise I tried. She wouldn’t listen and you of all people know she never does.” He defends himself and the ringing in my ears increases.
I hate it. I hate everything.
“And the man I see in my dreams, who is he?” I ask, almost forgetting him.
His face darkens and he grips the forgotten mug in his hands until his knuckles whiten. “That’s Clandic, my old friend. He’s who killed your mother.”
My brows furrow. How does he know who killed mama?
“How do you know that for certain?” I mumble.
“At the old house there was a letter left on my desk in my study. He signed it and left behind a message that was meant to hurt me.” He stands up and leaves the kitchen.
I hear him shuffling around in the parlor until he comes back into the kitchen holding a burned letter. He places it in front of me and I grab it.
I unfold it and hold it up.
‘If I can't have you then I’ll have your wife. You abandoned me when I needed you most, Jason. Let this be a reminder that you’ll never outrun or hide from us.’
It's a small letter stamped with the symbol from my notebook as well as an unreadable signature underneath it.
“Why didn’t you tell someone?!” My voice rises as I slam the letter on the table. “This is evidence enough to have him arrested. He raped and murdered her with no remorse…to get back at you?!”
My anger gets the best of me and I place Amos on the chair beside me as I stand. My fist hits him in the chest before I can process what I’m doing and a low groan leaves his lips.
“I didn’t want them to hurt you, dear.” He steps away from me and all I can hear is the coward in him.
“You failed me, daddy,” I whisper.
Hurt flashes in his eyes and he opens his mouth but closes it just as quickly.
“I’m going out, I’ll see you later.” I croak as I grab the letter from the table and Amos follows me.
He steps out of my way when I reach the opening of the parlor, not trying to stop me.
“I’m sorry, dear.” He exhales. “I’m hurt too.”
I chuckle, no amusement evident in my tone. “You could’ve saved her but you were a coward.”
I don’t turn around to witness the hurt in his eyes or to make sure he isn’t crying because I don’t care.
I’m lost without her. The one person who understood me better than I understood myself. The woman who raised and fed me. The one who took the downfall of all of this.