Myrna crunched her way up the bungalow’s snow-dusted steps, the December wind nipping at her face. The family of three hugged themselves, shivered on the porch, plumes of white puffing from open mouths. The red-blue-green glow from the Christmas lights around the front door twinkled in their fear-struck eyes. It was a fear Myrna had long grown used to.
The snow had whitened the village of Drumnagoil, made it postcard perfect. She knew tomorrow would bring the grey, slippy slush that would take forever to go away.
The father moved forward, held out his hand. She could see how determined he was not to look at her bald scalp. He failed, stealing a glance, then caught her eyes again. Cigar reek misted her way when he spoke. “Thanks for coming out so late at night.”
Myrna stared at the proffered hand, wished he would put it down. Only when the silence itched at her did she pulled the heavy bag from her shoulder, set it on the porch. It made a heavy, wooden thunk. She took his hand in hers, squeezed hard, pumped it once.
She looked past the thin man and his expensive looking leather jacket. The mother hugged herself, her eyes staring into the white snow. She wasn’t there, Myrna knew. The thing inside the house had snapped at her reality.
It was the small figure hugging into her mother’s leg Myrna tried to get the attention of.
“Right, young lady.” Myrna leaned over, balanced her hands on her knees. “You wanna show me this beastie that’s been giving you bother?”
“Beastie?” said Mr. Smith, his moustache drooping. He stared at his wife, puffed an unbelieving laugh. “Ghost haunts our lives, turns everything into a living hell, and this Irish lady’s calling it beastie.”
The mother didn’t blink as she spoke. “It must, it has to, it must must go away.”
Myrna ignored them, held out her hand toward the girl in the pink dress. She was all dolled up like she was heading to a dance recital, but her eyes said she desperately didn’t want to go.
“It’s alright, sweets. Take my hand. There you go. My name’s Myrna. What’s yours?”
“K-Keira.”
Myrna ignored the pain lancing up her thighs as she kept her knees bent. She held the girl’s gaze, spoke in her kindest voice. “You wanna show me this thing that’s been giving you so much trouble? What did you call her? The Wither Lady?”
The mother sucked in a breath, held a dainty hand over her chest.
Myrna straightened, held back the urge to groan as her bones complained. “You’re going to be a brave girl now, okay? I’m going to get rid of the Wither Lady, but I need your help. We’re a team now, you understand?”
“I… I can’t.”
“You’d be amazed at what you can do. You’ll be safe. We’ll get that thing and vanquish it to Achmacalla forever, how does that sound?”
“Achma-wha?”
“Wait a second. A good worker never forgets her tools.”
Myrna opened her bag, shoved her fingers into her gloves, then slowly took out the heavy wooden box. She held it out in front of her. The swirling symbols and etchings on its ancient lid seemed to glow, pulse, vibrate with life.
“Basically, I suck them up into this box,” she said, answering the girl’s question. “They get sent to Achmacalla, a place where the demons can never bother anyone again.”
“Like a prison?”
“Aye. Just like a prison. You’re a smart wee cookie.” Myrna cleared her throat, ignored the phlegm that burned with last night’s Johnny Walker. “Now, let’s go get the Wither Lady.”
When she opened the door, the dad stepped behind them as if to follow.
“You need to wait here,” said Myrna.
“But—”
“We need to do this alone.” She tipped Keira a wink. “Only special people have the power to do what we’re about to do.”
“But… But… At least take your boots off,” the dad said. “Getting snow all over my—”
“Kinda got bigger problems, don’t you think?” It felt good slamming the door closed on him and his semi-conscious wife.
Myrna balanced the box on one hand, took Keira’s with the other, guided her down the long, dark hallway.
“Does the Wither Lady only come out at night?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Ma’am?” Myrna couldn’t help the chuckle that burbled out her chest. “Aren’t you just the nicest thing? They prey on that, you know. That’s what they feast on. Suck it all up until you’re dry and have nothing to offer the world. Whether it’s a creepy clown thing, a beast made of blue hair, a girl who screams bats, I’ve seen it all. They’re all the same. And they all come out at night.”
Her footsteps clomped wet and heavy on the hardwood floor. They neared the end of the hall where she guessed Keira’s bedroom would be.
Keira squeezed her hand so tight it ached. “Night brings bad dreams.”
“What’s that, now?”
“Something Mum’s said since I started being haunted. Mum’s eyes don’t see me anymore. It’s like I’m the ghosty. Please make the Wither Lady go away. I begged Santa for me not to be crazy no more.”
“Listen to me, hen. You’re not crazy. Just… chosen. Is that the door to your bedroom? Is that where she appears?”
The girl opened her mouth, couldn’t seem to find any words, simply nodded her head. Her curls bounced with the movement.
Myrna let go the child’s hand, stepped over the threshold. The room smelled like the inside of a fresh glossy magazine. Something dry skittered on the floor by her boot. It was a leaf. A large, oval shaped thing with bruises of orange.
She shook off the chill that raced down her back, stood tall. Behind her, the girl trembled, hid in Myrna’s shadow.
“I’m going to go in, draw her out,” Myrna whispered. “You need to stay close behind me.”
The air changed as it always did. It was like stepping through an icy mist. It prickled the skin on the back of her neck. The box seemed to lean forward, anticipating its next meal.
She shifted the box, made sure it didn’t touch the bare skin between her coat and the felt of the gloves. She didn’t want the voices to spike their way into her mind.
“My grandad gave me this box,” said Myrna, stepping slowly toward the pink bed with its rainbows on. “Gave me the box as well as my gift. Don’t you shake so much, lass. We’re gonna get that demon.” She tapped the box which gave a dense thud like it wasn’t hollow inside. “Bottle it up forever.”
“They just stay in the dark forever?”
“Yup. That’s what I do.”
When Keira spoke next, it was with a touch of wintry sorrow that had no business coming from someone so young. “Nothing deserves to be locked away forever.”
The kindness plucked a string inside Myrna’s chest. Here the girl was, haunted, bearing the weight of her parents’ sanity on her thin shoulders, and she was concerned about the demon.
Myrna turned, tussled the girl’s hair, smiled. “You’re gonna shine so bright, my lass. Now, listen. I’m gonna ask you to go in front of me, okay? I’ll be right behind you.”
“B-But—”
“You need to draw it out. Then I’ll say the words, and hey presto, it’ll be gone.”
A dry, scratchy sound gnawed at Myrna’s inner ear. The leaf she’d stepped over danced forward as if pulled on a string. Myrna blinked, shook the unsettling feeling away. “Ready?”
“R-Ready.”
“Wish they were all as brave as you. I’ll be right here.”
Keira softly, softly stepped forward, not making a sound. Her breaths came in little hitches. Her fingers spider danced over the sparkly beads on the front of her dress.
Another step. Another. An ethereal, cold-blue glow crept into the corner of the room on the other side of the bed.
Keira stopped, sucked in a breath. The ammonia tang of urine filled the room, puddled at the girl’s feet.
“It’ll come for you,” said Myrna. “Let it.”
“You promised you—”
“Ssshh. Let it come, lass.”
Myrna tracked the ghost’s ascension from the corner. It rose slowly in the air, floating above the bed. The room filled with the cloying scent of hot charcoal. The stench played on her nostrils, made them twitch. The Wither Lady was a thing straight from a gothic story. Something with no legs, a tattered dress billowing, chains gripped in its two, skeletal hands.
The girl moved back, knocked into Myrna’s boot, would have fallen if Myrna didn’t grab her by the shoulder. Myrna’s heart lurched as the hand holding the box wobbled, nearly fell. She’d be nothing without that box.
“Pft, got yourself a yucky one there, lass. Doesn’t scare me one bit. Not one single bit, you hear me, you floaty bitch? Tell it, Keira.”
The girl’s voice sighed out of her like a dream. “She’s my worst nightmare come to life.”
The Wither Lady smiled a dry, luminous smile. It moved closer, its chains clonking together. It was a silver promise of a noise.
Myrna set her legs shoulder-width apart, held the box in front of her. “You’ve had your fun. Tilleadh gu Achmacalla. Be gone!”
The box opened on its own accord. A warm light spumed from it, circling the demon like gathering crows. With a record-scratch shriek that made Keira cover her ears, the demon was drawn to the box, screaming, shrinking. The Wither Lady clawed at the air as if it swam against an unrelenting tide.
The force of its battle trembled in Myrna’s legs as she held on, made sure she kept her balance. After a few seconds of shrieking and fighting, the Wither Lady was sucked into the box.
Myrna slammed it shut. “Another demon down.”
Warmth flowed into the dark room as her eyes adjusted. No chills ran down her arms. No evil patches of air.
“Is she really gone?”
Myrna rapped the box with her gloved fingers. “All you need is the right tools.”
“Will it ever come back?”
Myrna placed the box on the floor. When she knelt on her knees, both of them clicked with white heat, making her wince. She looked into Keira’s sweet brown eyes. “What was it your mum said again?”
“Night brings bad dreams.”
“I want you to hear me now, my brave girl. You’ve conquered your demon. Doesn’t matter what life throws at you now, you can handle it.”
Keira made a little squeak of a noise, chucked her arms around Myrna’s neck. “OMG, I’m getting you the biggest Christmas present ever!”
Myrna let herself melt into the hug, closed her eyes. “Just hearing you say that’s enough for me, sugar.” @
A few hours later, she watched the shadows recede into the corners of her library, necking a bottle of Johnny Walker black label. A glass would only get in the way. The whisky sizzled in her gullet, shoved its fire up the back of her head.
She sank into her leather reading chair, letting the dark seep into her bones. The snow sparkled and lashed at the windows, breathing its cold fingers into the large, empty home. Tealight candles danced on the mahogany desk, providing the only light.
Always her thoughts turned to Mark. She hated herself for it. Hated herself for searching his name on social media, finding him with his new girlfriend with her luscious blonde hair, #newbeginnings.
She took another gulp, letting the booze tackle the problem. It was the only thing that helped her through the days and nights.
When she tried to haul herself up, the muscles in her lower back screwed her up in pain. She could barely move for the heat of the agony that spread through her. She heard a groan like a demented old woman, then realised the sound was coming from her.
“Thirty-nine going eighty-five.”
Oh, to be as spry as little Keira. She could still feel the ghost of the hug the girl had given her earlier. That’s why she did this. It was her purpose for being, saving those who were haunted for no reason.
“You never did understand that, husband of mine.” The expensive woods they’d furnished the house with sent their smells into her mouth. “You never understood why.”
The house still echoed of that final argument. It was as if the vibrations of it got trapped inside the walls.
“Don’t you see it’s killing you?” he’d said. “You can’t do this anymore?”
“What? I can’t save peoples’ lives?”
“It’s not that.”
“What is it, then? You want me at home, baking you pies, stirring your martini?”
“You don’t have to be such a—” He moved his thin hand across his stubbled face.
“Such a what?”
“Nothing.”
“No, say it. Grow some balls.”
“You’re getting old before your time.”
“Och, wheest.”
“No, I will not wheest. How many thirty-nine-year-olds go bald? And don’t think I haven’t noticed the mountains of pills you have to take just to oil those bones. It’s actually killing you. Just like…”
Myrna felt the anger pulse in her temple. Wanted to throw the mirror in the living room at his head. “Just like my grandad, that it?”
The mention of her grandad brought the hurt back. Watching him die as a bunch of confused doctors did little more than itch their heads was the start of her exile from Ireland. The whole family blamed her for his early death. Her and the gift they both had. No one understood.
Everything has a purpose, my honey bug. Everything has its reason. And ours is to protect people from the ghouls and ghosts that drink peoples’ futures.
Myrna opened her mouth to snap at Mark, tell him where to ram it, but the look on his sallow face stopped her cold. She gulped, stared down at her boots, listened to the October wind moan against the house.
Mark shoved his glasses up his nose so hard it left a red mark. “I... I can’t watch it anymore. It hurts too much.”
“Okay,” she said, not looking at him.
“Okay? Y-You mean, you’re actually listening to me?”
“Don’t push it.” She rotated her wrist. The motion felt like her bones had been replaced by black knitting needles. “Maybe… Maybe I do need to slow down. I won’t ever stop, though. You got that? Maybe I work them into a schedule.”
The day after that argument, the day after they’d made gentle love for the first time in months, she’d received the phone call. Another desperate parent with nowhere else to turn.
“Is this Myrna Hanlon?” The woman’s voice was a desperate crackle. “It’s gonna take him away from me. I… I…”
“Calm down, love.” Myrna walked through to the library with her whisky. She felt Mark behind her like a prison officer following a criminal. “Take a breath. Tell me all about it.”
“You’ll think me mad.”
Mark sat in the twirly office chair, folded his arms, glared at her. Myrna took a slow sip of golden nectar. “I’ve heard and seen it all, trust me. I can help.”
The woman told all about how the demon, a gnarly thing her son Harlan had named Twiggy Snap, entered their lives. How it threatened to turn their little boy into a tree and keep him alive forever.
“I… I keep finding leaves and twigs everywhere. It’s nuts, I know. My man refuses to believe us. But there’s something wrong. I feel it in my roots.”
“You’re not wrong. That’s what they do. I know it can be horrible, especially when they go for the little ones.” Myrna moved the phone from one ear to the other, angled herself away from her husband’s heated glare. She could barely wrestle the words out her mouth. “I can fit you in early next week.”
A static crackle pricked at Myrna’s ear. The woman’s breath burst down the phone. “What?”
“E-Early next week. Tuesday alright?”
“You kidding me? It’s Friday. That’s a whole weekend away. A whole weekend of watching my boy convulse with the fear of it.”
“I know it’s hard, but—”
“Hard? You got a kid of your own?”
“No, but—”
“I thought you were supposed to help people?”
Myrna gulped. Mark leaned forward in his chair, rested his chin on his hands, waited. “T-Tuesday. Best I got.”
“There are leaves in here right now. Hear that? I’m walking through them, kicking up a storm. It’s coming for us. Please? You need to help me right now. It’s coming to take my Harlan away. My sweet boy.”
She closed her eyes. “Tuesday. Text me the address, okay?”
“You fucking—”
Myrna ended the call.
The boy died the next day. Myrna’s marriage died with him.
The reports said it had been a freak aneurysm, but she knew the truth – Twiggy Snap had gotten hold of little Harlan because Mark had stopped her from grabbing her coat, rushing out the door.
The image of Harlan’s gap-toothed smile from the paper followed her into her dreams at night. She watched him contorting, little bones snapping into place, branches growing out of his skin, his mouth, until he was all tree.
“Night brings bad dreams.”
That’s what little Keira had said, and how right she was.
Myrna went to down her whisky, knock the rising emotion away, but nothing slid down her throat. She’d already finished the bottle.
“Fuck!”
She tried to launch the bottle across the room, but her arm muscles gave up. The bottle landed pathetically in the middle of the hardwood floor, didn’t break, rolled to a stop against the wall.
She felt the full weight of everything press down on her. How each case seemed to rob her of her health. How it was too much for Mark to live with. How she’d found his post with his arm around his new squeeze – #newbeginnings.
And she couldn’t stop. Everything has a purpose, her grandad had told her. Everything has its reason.
A familiar tingling sensation played at the skin behind her ear. The attention of it burned into her. Something watched.
She stood with shaking effort, peered into the shadows. The darkness seemed to pulse, move like a slow fog.
“Hello?” she called, feeling foolish.
Movement on the floor caught her eye. At the point where the shadows started, there was a leaf. It moved as if a bug were under it. In the dead silence, the noise it made was like paper being ripped close to her ear.
She hit the light switch.
The shadows hid.
There was no leaf, nothing.
She stepped into the hall, ignored the lovey-dovey photos that still adorned the walls. The only thing that had changed was a bald, oval patch of green wallpaper where a mirror used to hang.
At the top of the stairs was the box. It lay on its rustic, wooden plinth. A tiny spotlight in the alcove where it sat made the light smile across its lid. She thought she could see the box affect the air around it, making a haze like a summer’s day.
She ignored the pain, grabbed the banister, hauled her self up.
Circling the box lay various knick-knacks she’d accumulated over the years. Whenever she and Mark went on holiday, she’d find the weird shops, buying necklaces, pendants, chains. She never wore them, just sprinkled them around the box like some kind of weird decoration.
How many demons lay inside the dark chasm of that box?
She caught her hand hovering over it, close enough to buzz her palm with the charged air that came from the box. She knew not to touch it with bare skin, knew the cyclone of anguish that would enter her brain.
And yet, her hand stayed where it was.
Her fingertips traced the lid.
Voices wailed inside her skull. It felt as if they screamed their way across a forever dark sky, longing to escape.
Achmacalla knows what you are.
The man at the top of the stairs isn’t there again.
You deny the world.
Everything has its reeeassoooon!
Myrna took her hand away. The voices died.
She slid down the wall, clutching her hand to her chest.
As the tears shook free from her eyes, the heavy wind continued to pelt the windows with hard snow. @
The grey slush slipped and moved under Myrna’s boots as she made her way up the broken path. All around her, curtains twitched. Children sat on windowsills, watching with their mean, territorial eyes. A puff of ice-cold wind danced under her collar, making her shudder. Some of the worst demons she’d ever faced lived here in Leckerstone Walk. She braced herself for another.
The front door of the house was open. She found the two parents horizontal on the couch, gazing into swirls of smoke. The green taste of it made Myrna step back into the hall, cough into her gloved hand.
“Can one of you puffers tell me where I can find Nathan?” Myrna’s voice dripped with anger. “Or do you even remember you have a kid? Hello?”
The man held a shaky arm up, clicked his fingers, pointed down the hall. “Room.”
“How helpful. Thank you for your assistance.”
“Room,” he repeated.
The boy cowered outside his bedroom, stepping from foot to foot like he needed a pee. Despite the chill, he wore only a vest top and shorts.
She could feel the box rev up as she held it forward like it wanted to be let off the leash.
When the boy turned, his face morphed. It was little Harlan who stood before her, knowing smile on his face.
Myrna stood, frozen to the spot.
“Please make it go away,” said Nathan, desperate features returning.
The box wiggled, slipped in her grip. Her heart was in her mouth as she clutched at it, stopped it from falling to the floor.
She coughed, tried her best to transform her face into warmth and kindness. Those were traits this boy didn’t see too often, she knew.
“No need to be worried, my lad.” She placed a hand on his bony shoulder. “You’ll be all right now.”
“Dad says I’m making the Moth King up.”
Myrna turned, glared at the other end of the hall where this boy’s parents puffed their brains away, not caring what was going on. “I know you’re not making it up. Trust me.”
“Why did it have to be me? I never did nothing wrong.”
She leaned down, stared into his bright, blue eyes. “Just like headlice making a home in the cleanest of hair, these demons cling onto good boys. It’s really not your fault. They’re nothing but nits. And I’m here to comb them away.”
“You can get rid of it?”
She held out her hand. The boy took it. “Show me.”
“B-But, I—”
“We’ll vanish it together.”
If Keira’s bedroom was a frozen pretty place, Nathan’s was the opposite. It smelled like the bottom of a clothes hamper. A small bin flowed over with shrunken, fuzzy food bits.
From the corner of the room, a sound like rifling newspapers drew her attention. Her skin went cold.
“There it is,” she said, holding the box out. “Ugly fucker, isn’t it? Stay behind me.”
A thing with impossibly long legs grew, tilting its bug head to the side as it reached the ceiling. Its wings rustled as it opened them, revealing two large spots on the wings that glowed like eyes full of hatred. It started flapping those wings. It opened its saliva slick mouth, emitted an ear-aching shriek.
“Tilleadh gu Achmacalla. Be gone!”
When it was done, when she closed the lid, the boy cried uncontrollably into her leg, clutched her like he never wanted to let go.
On top of the green smoke reek that seemed to live inside the walls, a smell like wet, dead leaves played on her tongue. She looked down.
Dry, rusty leaves moved about her boots with stop-motion jerks. “What the?”
When she moved her boot, the leaves sizzled, died, faded like dust.
Myrna rolled her shoulders, set the box on the ground. When she tried to pluck the boy off her leg, he slung his arms round her neck, squeezed. She squeezed back, sniffed his fine hair, gently pushed him in front of her.
“All done, champ.”
“Just like that?”
“All it takes is the right tools. Ask me. Go on, I can see a question burning on your tongue.”
“Why did it have to be a moth? I hate moths. Dad didn’t believe me. Says I was a stupid boy.”
“I bet you got a fright from a moth when you were very young. They find what you’re scared of most, then twist it.” She straightened, winced with pain. “Now you’ve handled the Moth King, you can handle anything on your own. No matter what your old man says.”
She turned, thinking to give the parents a good shouting at. A figure stood in the hall. The boy held his arms out, a scream fighting behind his dead lips.
“What’s wrong?” said Nathan stopping beside her.
“H-Harlan?”
Harlan tried to walk forward, his eyes full of agony. His skin changed. It dried up, became tree-bark rough. It was as if he turned to stone on the spot. Twigs swam out of his skin, sniffing at the air.
“The Moth King is back, isn’t he?” said Nathan. “He’s gonna sweep me up into his sky nest and sit on my chest and whisper his wrong words in my ear.”
“No, wait—”
Nathan ran to his room, slammed the door.
When she looked back down the hall, there was nothing but leaves dancing in the air.
The father yelled from his cloudy living room. “Told you he was making it up. The wee shite. Don’t think you’re getting any dosh off me, you old boot. Come in here thinking you can take his side. I’ll show him what for tomorrow.”
Myrna ignored the cold that ached in her bones as she walked past the leaves, stood in the doorway to the living room. “That wee lad will make more of himself than you ever did. Demons are real. And you best watch out. You don’t want to be getting a demon of your own.” @
The contents of the bottle of Johnny Walker swirled, sloshed against the glass of the bottle as Myrna held it in front of her, squinting at it.
“Nectar of the Gods,” she said, then swigged some more.
She seethed in a breath through gritted teeth. The fire was enough to put hair on her chest.
“Ha, but not any back on my head.”
The Johnny Walker helped ease the strain of the episode with the Moth King earlier that day. The image of the yellow-toothed father made her boil inside. How could you have a child and not care for it? Didn’t they know how lucky they were?
She looked about the library from her horizontal position on the chair. Christmas crept closer – the first one she’d ever spend alone. Going back to her family in Ireland was not an option after being blamed for her part in Grandad’s death. Shame made her face red as she remembered telling everyone she had the same gift as him, how she’d continue his work. His funeral was not the place to do it. It was a step too far in the unforgivable direction. They couldn’t fathom why something in her blood drove her to help those who the demons preyed on.
Everything has a purpose. Everything has its reason.
She’d give anything to hear his gravelly voice again. He was the only one to truly know what the burden was like.
“Is this how you felt at the end?” she said, running a hand over her prickly scalp.
Cold touched her shoulder, shooting its ice up her neck. She flinched, dropped the bottle, swore. She got to her feet, hands held out in front of her, ready to fight, feeling weak as a leaf inside.
The was nothing there.
The bottle rolled its slow, inevitable way across the floor, stopped by the wall.
“Going off my nut.” She stared out the window and its growing mound of snow on the sill outside. “Night brings bad dreams.”
She slowly moved to the hall, feeling heavy. The box called to her from its shrine at the top of the stairs. Before she realised what she was doing, she had a foot on the first step.
Knock, knock.
Someone tapped at the front door behind her. The wind pressed at the house, eking its chill through the gaps in the door.
Knock.
The tapping was mousey and weak, like a child’s knock.
“Bugger off, you wee shites,” she yelled, sounding every bit the drunken Irish woman. “Catch you chapping at my door again, I’ll—”
She opened the door, the threat dying in her throat.
“Mark?”
The door hit the wall when she threw it open, took in the man that stood before her. His head was down as he gazed awkwardly at his shiny black shoes.
“W-What you doing here?” She ran a finger over her ear, tucked her phantom hair behind it before she realised she didn’t have any. She coughed, ignored her fiery whisky breath. “Shouldn’t you be with… her?”
With a slow, liquid movement, he lifted his head. There was a merry shine in his eyes that caught the white of the snow on the stoop. His growing smile was lovely, tear-rending until it wouldn’t stop. It grew, crinkled his cheeks, split his skin open. S
he clutched the door, held it between her and this vision of her ex. “You’re not real.”
“What’s the matter, you cold hag?” His voice steamed through the press of his teeth. “You forget what to do with a man? Let me lick that scalp, baldy. I’ll lick it sooo good.”
Myrna slammed the door on the cackling demon, moved away. Her back hit the banister.
“You fucking arsehole!” She screamed, meaning it to sound like an uppercut, but it trickled out like she’d been the one gut-punched.
Silence fell on the house. The wind outside ceased its whining.
The air moved in front of her. She could almost see a figure whooshing its way up the stairs like a yelling ghost riding the wind. It left a tunnel of icy air settling on the side of her face.
Picture frames rattled, fell down the wall. A picture flopped out of one, landed by her socked feet. The image showed her nestled into the crook of Mark’s arm, happy as she’d ever remembered being.
The plinth at the top of the stairs wobbled. The way the thing started to fall was nightmare slow, like her brain itself was trying to reverse time to stop it.
“No!”
She took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the blaze in her knees. She slipped as she neared the top of the stairs, slapped the ground, crawled her way over.
She got there just in time, staying the plinth and the box that had slid to its edge. Some of the necklaces and other knick-knacks had fallen to the carpet. Relief flooded her with warmth as she giggled like a small child who’d stolen a sweetie.
The box creaked.
The Pictish symbols on its surface glowed with fierce light.
The lid opened.
It felt as if she stood in front of an industrial air grate. Wind whipped all around her. She shielded her eyes against a flash of light that pounded from the box, fell to her knees.
When the light dimmed, she blinked, waited for her eyes to adjust. Her soul yearned to burst its way out of the top of her head. She stood slowly, using the banister for support.
Childish giggles swam up the stairs to her. “
Oooh, fuck,” she said, staring at the empty box.
They’d escaped their prison. Keira’s wise little voice came back to her.
Nothing deserves to be locked away forever.
Somewhere in the dark beneath her, heavy chains clinked. A demon wailed like it was on fire.
A dumb and shiny-eyed boy clapped its hands together in merriment at the foot of the stairs. She blinked and the image was gone.
“You’ve fallen asleep,” she said to herself. “You’ve fallen asleep after necking all that sauce, and this is a nightmare. Night brings bad dreams. Just a dream. A—”
Something crashed into her side. The world went sideways. She tumbled down the stairs, gripping onto the banister to stop herself from breaking anything. Pain rocked her as she stood, quickly shuffled her way down to the bottom of the stairs.
The Moth King hovered above the box, staring down at her with playfulness in its small bug eyes.
Myrna clutched her side. No demon had ever hit her with that much force.
She needed to close the box. How long had it been in the family for? How many demons had been loosed on her?
She put one foot on the first step, wincing at the pain in her side. Another figure ghosted itself up from the floor beside the plinth. Its chains rattled. Its eyes were cold stars.
Other demons appeared, standing in front of the box. A clown with huge, wet lips. A decapitated schoolgirl who skipped on the spot. Many more that she’d forgotten about or had never met. They crowded the top of the stairs like they were posing for the world’s most nightmarish family portrait. There was something like pity in their demonic eyes.
She thought of all the people, the boys and girls who’d be haunted by these demons if she didn’t put them back in their box. The kids would be left on their own, unable to shake the needy parasites.
The scream built from her toes, glowed through her stomach. She let its full force bellow, leaning into it.
“Nobody wants you.”
The schoolgirl vanished. Myrna took another step.
“Get back in your prison.” The clown bowed, left like it was exiting stage right.
Despite the white spots roaming at the edges of her vision, she sucked in a breath, aimed all her heat and energy at the remaining ghosts. “No one wants you here. All of you, be gone!”
Was that hurt in their eyes as they faded one by one?
The demons all vanished. All she could hear was their muffled cries and anguish from the shadows of the house.
She knew what she needed to do. Go upstairs. Use the words to summon the ghosts. Use all her will to get them all back into their dark prison and close it.
Every step up the stairs was an immense, sludgy effort. Her bones felt dry in their joints, grinding, screaming at her alarm systems to stop, rest.
She reached the top of the stairs, sweat prickling at her forehead. A chocolaty dirt scent entered her mouth as she kneeled, sucked in air, tried to catch her breath.
A small shadow spilled over her. Where it touched the back of her hand, she felt the small hairs trying to shrink back into her skin.
The boy stood next to the plinth, resting its hand next to the open box. Out dainty fingers, small snakes grew, hovered in the air. Myrna blinked, realising they were small branches growing out of Harlan’s fingertips.
“Harlan,” she croaked. “Listen to me. Step away from that box. It’ll be okay. It’ll—”
The lies burned her throat. She swallowed the painful knot of it down, tried again. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.”
A tear dripped from the boy’s black eyes. It made its silver way down the channels of dry bark on his face.
“You let Twiggy Snap get me,” said Harlan from a black cavern of a mouth. “It lives inside me, now. We are one.”
Myrna couldn’t stand. Some giant hand pressed on her back, forcing her to stay there. “It was my husband who made me stop. You have to believe me.”
She watched as a thin branch snaked its way through the air, wrapped its way around the box like a hooking finger. The box continued to pulse with life like a heart.
“Why do you trap the demons inside?” said Harlan. “I met a man at the top of the stairs when I died. He wasn’t really there. He told me that everything has a purpose. Everything. Even the bad things. Who are you to lock us all up? You deny us.”
Myrna wanted to scream at the boy, tell him to go away. That he and his kind had no place here as long as she was alive.
A warm hand lighted on her shoulder, stopping the swirl of anger. Harlan stood inches in front of her, meeting her eye-to-eye. His dark eyes overflowed with sorrow. She saw her reflection in them. How much of a broken, skeletal thing she was.
“The nothing man at the top of the stairs asked me to pass on a message. You’re doing it wrong. There needs to be a balance. Everything has a reason for being. Let us be.”
She opened her voice to tell him to stop, that they needed to be banished into Achmacalla forever. The memory of her grandad’s words came to her anew.
Everything has a purpose, my honey bug. Everything has its reason.
Myrna caught movement at the bottom of the stairs. Staring up at her were a crowd of demons. The Wither Lady, the clown, the Moth King, countless others. There were so many she couldn’t see the hardwood floor. They all stared at her not with malice, but with something else, something fateful.
“We had it wrong,” she said. “All these years, we had it wrong.”
“It’s okay.” The boy turned, faced the plinth and the open box. “Let me help you.”
“What? No. Don’t!”
Harlan pushed the plinth. The box fell with it, hitting the floor. It splintered, coming to pieces like it was made of thin glass.
Harlan stood by the ruins of the box. He lifted a necklace with a tree symbol on it, held it in front of his face. “You’ve been looking at it all wrong. We have a purpose in this world. A reason for being. Let us live it. That’s your purpose. Your burden to bear.”
“But… What do I do?”
The boy smiled. It was such a sweet dimple of a smile it brought a tear to her eye. As he held the necklace aloft, she realised he wasn’t all tree anymore. He could’ve been a normal boy, playing out in the snow. “Give us our purpose back.”
A brilliant flash of light made her cover her eyes, groan. She could feel the warmth of that light glow against her skin.
After a time, she came back to herself. She stood. The movement didn’t cause her any pain. She felt spry and nimble like she could go out dancing all night long.
The box lay in tatters. There would be no fixing it, she knew.
She leaned over, picked up the necklace that Harlan had been playing with. It sparkled with energy, thrumming in her palm.
Give us our purpose, Harlan’s voice spoke in her mind.
The pendants and knick-knacks spread on the carpet shone with soft light. @
It was January and this arsehole still had his Christmas lights hanging over his door. The bright sun lit Myrna’s back as she stood there, waiting, trying to still the cringe squirming around in her blood.
Mark opened the door, unshaven, bleary-eyed. “Myrna? What you—”
“If that’s your bald hobo bitch ex, tell her to fuck the fuck off,” Chelsea yelled from somewhere inside. “I mean it.”
“Enjoying your new beginnings there?” said Myrna. “Caught yourself a real charmer.”
“If you’re here to start shit, you can—”
“Calm down. I won’t be long.”
“How did you know where to find me?”
“Not hard since you plaster your happy quotes and smiley pics all over the Facebooks. You should really be more careful in the future.” Myrna sighed, let the crisp winter day enter her lungs. She stood straight, played with the jagged thing in her pocket. “You’re still not planning on having kids, right?”
“What?”
“Kids. You know, children? The little people? Remember, you swore off having them, or has this,” she tried not to screw her mouth up too much when she forced the name out, “Chelsea changed your mind on that front?”
“No kids. Not in my stars.”
“Got something for you. Peace offering type deal. No hard feelings, yeah?”
The sunlight grinned across the silver chain and its moon pendant as she held it out, placed it in his hand.
The weight of it surprised him so much he almost dropped it. “What’s this all about, Myrna?”
“You were always giving me crap for collecting all my necklaces and stuff, remember? Said we didn’t have space for it. Guess I’m having a clear out of sorts.” Myrna stared into his confused eyes, felt herself shrink a little inside. “They need a home. A purpose.”
Beyond the threshold of the house, the Wither Lady appeared, rattled her chains. The demon gave her a look, nodded, then turned and headed into the house. She could almost hear the demon sighing with pleasure as it faded away into its new home.
“Mark?” Chelsea wailed in her scratchy, high-pitched voice. “Fucking freezing in here with that door open. Shut it will you? And shut it for good this time. Bald ho-bag better not show herself at our door again or I’ll claw her eyes out.”
“Darling of a lassie you found there.” Myrna held up a hand to stay his protest, nodded her head as an apology. She stared at his hand that clutched the chain. “Promise me you’ll keep it? Just shove it in a drawer or something. If I ever meant anything to you, you’ll do it.”
He brought the moon pendant up to his face, turned it over in wonder, as if only just awakening. It was the same look she’d only seen at Christmas or birthdays when she nailed the present, drew his emotions out of his face.
She turned her hands over in her gloves, waited. Her fingertips were sore, irritated. She’d done nothing but enchant necklaces, pendants, making new ones when she ran out. It was a peaceful way to bring in the New Year. She’d hold the demon’s hand, clutch the knick-knack in the other. When she chanted the words of Achmacalla, the demon would be bound to the thing she held.
Mark met her eye, gave her a long, open-mouthed look. She almost said, Give it back, come home. Forget her, I'm all better now.
He gazed down at his woolly socks. “You… You look better, Myrna. I mean it. First time I’ve seen you stand straight in ages.” He shifted his head, gestured inside. “I should go.”
He closed the door gently, refusing to meet her stare, and that was that.
She turned, let the sun play over her face, feeling lighter than she had in years. When she walked down the narrow path, she kicked a clump of snow, laughing as it dusted over her. The air danced about her cheeks, lighting up her nostrils. She yearned to go for a nice long walk, take in the freshness of it all.
She held her hand over the pendant that dangled on her chest, touching her bare skin. She couldn’t see it, but felt the jagged edges of the tree made of silver at the end of its chain.
Harlan appeared at her side, a look of boyish wonder on his face. Something in her gut swirled, zipped its happy heat through her.
The contents of her coat pocket bounced against her thigh as she closed the gate to Mark’s home. She’d filled her pocket with the pieces of jewellery so she could do her rounds, fulfil part of her purpose.
She looked down at the boy with his black, black eyes, his tree bark skin. He reached for her hand and she took it, held it tight.
“Right, my dude,” she said. “Before we go save a little girl from a strange pumpkin thingy, how about we make another delivery?”
The boy nodded his head with eagerness.
“I think there was a certain parent who didn’t believe in the plight of a boy called Nathan. A boy who got shipped off to a foster home not long after I took the Moth King from him. What say we teach him a lesson?”
With her demon at her side, she walked down the road, kicking at the snow.
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