A Figure in the Fog

The town of Arthur's Wake is dying. At least, that's what my dad always says. The man tends to wax philosophical when he's drunk, which is often. Most nights I silently sit at the dinner table and listen to the man ramble on about how things had been different when he had been growing up, how back then an honest day's work actually got you something. My mother sits quietly at the other end of the table from my father saying nothing, gaze firmly fixed on an empty space six inches in front of her face, only stirring to refill plates or glasses or to clear the dishes. Many days her unmoving, hollow eyes are ringed with various shades of purple and yellow. On those they weren't, the bruises are simply hiding, concealing themselves in places less visible.
Once last year my old man was in a particularly black drunk. Profits at the factory were down. Rumor had it that the foreman would be releasing a handful of workers by the end of the week and pops reckoned he might be one of them. I had lain in the bedroom I share with my brother staring at the ceiling for as long as I was able, tears quietly streaming down my face, listening to the shouts through the thin walls accompanied by heavy thumps and soft moans. Finally, unable to bear the sounds any more I got out of bed and retrieved my little league bat from where it rested in the corner. I made it to the door when I felt a small hand tug on my pajama sleeve.
Jamie! Don't go, Jamie!
Shut up, Lester!
No, no, Jamie...don't leave me!
Get off!
Jamie, he'll hurt you!
Get off me! Go hide in the closet if you're scared.
No, no, no...
I pulled my sleeve from Lester's grip and gave him a slight shove, enough to knock him back onto the bed. The little boy sat there, pitifully sobbing as I slipped through the door. Noiselessly I crept down the hallway towards the living room holding the bat cocked the way my coach had taught. I carefully poked my head around the corner, eyes growing wide at the scene that unfolded before me. The old man stood in the middle of the room a half empty beer can in one hand, his belt in the other. Mom cowered in the far corner, hands held feebly in front of her, one eye already swollen shut. A red rage overtook me, the emotion more powerful than anything I'd felt in my young life. In that moment I made the decision to kill my father.
I held my breath, stalking ever closer as the man took a long pull from his drink. Whether he was warned by the slight widening of his wife's good eye, or through some devilish intuition, the bastard turned just as I raised my weapon. Screaming in anger and frustration I swung as hard as I could, only to have the bat plucked from my hands as easily as a child pulling the wings off a fly.
You little shit.
The slap hit me hard enough to see stars, my head snapping backwards, and I stumbled against the wall. The next blow crushed the air from my chest and I crumpled to the ground gasping for breath.
Think you're man enough to take a swing at me, huh?
I tasted blood and heard a dull crack when my father kicked my in the ribs. I curled into a ball as the blows continued to fall.
See how you like a taste of your own medicine, boy.
I raised my arm to defend myself as the bat came down, smashing against my forearm. I screamed as I felt the bone snap.
Don't huh? We're just getting started.
My eyes widened in terror as my father raised the bat above his head ready to deliver a crushing blow. Suddenly my mother was there, pinning me to the ground, shielding me with her own body.
Frank, you fucking animal! He's your son!
Get out of the way, whore. The boy's gonna learn.
You'll have to kill me first. Go ahead and do it, then enjoy being locked up for the rest of your miserable life, you piece of shit.
You think I won't?
I know you won't. You don't have the balls.
For a moment I thought he would do it, the bat wavering ever so slightly as the old man's eyes narrowed in drunken rage. Then he lowered the bat and turned his back on the huddled pair.
Fucking bitch.
He walked across the room to where the television blared loudly and dropped into an easy chair, tossing the bat into the corner. Mom slowly got to her feet.
He needs to go to the hospital, Frank.
Then fucking take him.
She helped me up.
Get to the car and lock yourself in, baby. I'll get your brother and meet you there.
We drove to the hospital in silence save for Lester's quiet sniffles from the back seat. My arm had to be set and put in a cast. The break was clean so the doctor assured us it should heal without any issues. They also tightly wrapped my chest in medical tape, though fortunately my ribs were just cracked and bruised, not broken. I lay lightly dozing in a hospital bed, Lester curled up under my unbroken arm fast asleep, while my mother spoke softly to a woman in the hallway. They talked for a while, ever so often shooting concerned glances at me through the doorway. Finally my mother came into the room and gently sat down next to us.
Who was that lady, mom?
No one, honey. She's just worried about how you got your injuries. And how I got mine.
What'd you tell her?
What I had to.
I grit my teeth in frustration.
Why do you stay with him, mom? We could leave...
She smiled sadly.
You'll understand someday. Now, you have to promise me something. No matter what happens, never try to do what you did tonight again.
But...
I mean it, Jamie! I would die if anything happened to you or your brother. I can take care of myself; you just have to trust me, baby.
Lying there in the dark, feeling the slow rise and fall of his brother's chest as he softly snored beside me, I lied to my mother for the first and only time in my life.
All right, mom. I promise.
A nurse came in and adjusted a knob on one of the tubes leading into my arm. I felt my eyelids grow heavy as mom stroked my forehead.
That's my brave boy. My brave, beautiful boy.
“Well,” I thought as I drifted to sleep, “It might not really be a lie. I said I wouldn't try again. Next time I just have to succeed.”
I had slowly healed over the coming weeks. My arm itched under the cast, but the worst part was my cracked ribs ached constantly and sent sharp pains running through my side whenever I took a deep breath.
One night I lay in bed fitfully trying to get comfortable when the dark shape of my father loomed over him from the doorway. Terrified, I remained absolutely still, feigning sleep. To my surprise, the man sat down next to me, quietly weeping.
Oh, my boy, my boy I am so sorry.
He stayed there for several minutes, as I tried desperately not to gasp from the pain radiating from my ribs.
What the fuck do you think you're doing?
Mom stood in the doorway.
I...
No. You don't get to feel sorry for this. You don't get to touch him.
Please, Mary...
Don't you fucking dare. You are not his father, not after what you did. If you touch either of them again, for any reason, I'm leaving you, Frank. And I'm taking them with me. Now get out.
Shoulders hunched, the old man stumbled from the room, closing the door behind him. It was a long time before I managed to fall asleep.
Since then, I've been waiting for an opportunity to kill my father. I've come close a few times, evenings when the bastard was passed out in front of the tv, a slow line of drool slowly dripping down his chin. But something always holds me back; I tell myself it's the promise I'd made to my mother, but a small, honest part of my mind knows it's because I'm afraid. I still remember the pain.
For my father's part, he hasn't touched Lester or me since that night. It probably helped that, somehow, he managed to avoid the layoffs at the factory. Certainly he still gets drunk regularly, and on many occasions slaps mom around, but things never get quite as bad as that time; there is less shouting involved now. The abuse has become almost a casual action, done out of reflex rather than emotion. My anger has cooled from the burning rage it was when I made the decision to kill him, to a low, calculating heat. I'm patient, I watch, knowing that someday I will have my moment.
Until then, I spend my evenings numbly sitting at the dinner table, listening to my drunk of a father go on about the good old days. Lester at least seems to be oblivious to the dark undercurrents in the house. Even now the stupid eight year old is making faces across the table at me trying to get me to laugh. I think about trying to kick him under the table but decide not to; I don't want to draw attention to himself.
“This town is going to hell, I tell ya,” my father speaks between bites of roast. “Unemployment through the roof, homeless bums passed out on every other street corner.” He takes a swig of beer. “And don't even get me started about all the disappearing kids. That little Fontaine girl's the latest one, last week. Her dad stopped by the factory today, out of his goddam mind.”
I feel a hollow pit appear in my stomach as my mind registers what my father has just said.
I speak up without thinking. “What? Morgan's missing?”
“Hmm?” my father frowns. “No, not Morgan. The other one, the sister. Claire.”
Relief washes over me, quickly followed by shame. I've known Morgana Fontaine for years. The first day of second grade another boy had pulled on her raven black braid and I had shoved him away. Morgan, needing no one to fight her battles for her, turned and punched the boy in the nose. Sitting next to each other in the school office waiting to see the principal we quietly joked about the open mouthed, gaping look the boy had on his face as he sat on the ground trying to contemplate what had just happened. We've been friends ever since and, for the last year or so, I've felt my feelings toward her changing towards something deeper than friendship.
Her sister Claire is about the same age as Lester. I know the girl certainly, I often walk the sisters home after school with Lester dragging his feet behind us, but I'm really only there to spend time with Morgan. The emotions I feel about her aren't well defined as of yet, but something in my stomach had heaved in the brief moment I thought she was missing. My relief that she isn't is offset by the knowledge that she is surely devastated by Claire's disappearance. Neither girl has been in school the last two days, and this explained why.
“Mom, may I be excused please?” She hasn't finished her nod before I'm halfway out the door. The Fontaines' house is only a few streets down and I can be there in minutes. I'd meant to go see Morgan before now, but the thought of the dark looks her mother always gives whenever I walk the girls home has warded me off from showing up uninvited.
“Back before dark, boy!” my father yells after me. “Or you'll be the next one on the side of a milk carton!”
Half a block from Morgan's house, I hear a high pitched voice calling my name behind me, “Jamie! Jamie, wait for me!”
I turn and see Lester running as fast as his legs can carry him. I stop and wait for him to catch up. He arrives panting, hands on his knees trying to catch his breath. I frown.
“What do you think you're doing, sprout?”
“Mom said I could go with you. Claire's my friend too!”
“Yeah, well maybe I don't feel like having you tag along.”
“Mom said I had to stick with you, and that if you didn't want me to come you had to walk me back home.”
I grind my teeth. “Fine. But you stay right with me and do what I say, got it?”
Lester nods seriously.
“Right. First things first, keep your mouth shut.”
“But I...”
“What'd I just say? Mouth shut or I walk you home. It won't take that long to drop you off.”
Lester grudgingly nods again, his excitement at being allowed to come somewhat tempered.
“Good. Let's go.”
We continue down the street and make the turn onto Blackwood Drive, reaching the Fontaines' a few minutes later. Walking up the steps with Lester close on his heels, I knock firmly on the door. Half turning back towards the road as I wait, my eyes fall on the dilapidated building a little farther down the street as they often do when I walk Morgan home. 
It must have been really something back in its day, what with its massive stone walls and windows, enormous garden, and high iron fence, but the Wicker House has been abandoned for more than forty years. The walls are dirty and the windows broken, the garden so overgrown it more closely resembles a jungle, and the fence is mottled with rust. The wicked spikes jutting on top of the posts still look plenty sharp though. I feel an involuntary shiver crawl down my spine. People say the place is haunted, and it's easy to see why, even in the daylight.
Quick steps approach from inside the house and I turn back just as the door swings open. Mrs. Fontaine stands there, a tissue held in one hand and her eyes tinged with red. It's obvious she has been crying.
“Good evening, Mrs. Fontaine. We...we heard about Claire. We were hoping we could see Morgana.” I'm always careful to use Morgan's full name around her mother. Morgan hates it, but her mother is especially particular in that regard. “We're terribly sorry about what's happened.” Lester nods solemnly next to me, so far continuing to obey the order to keep his mouth shut.
For a moment I'm afraid the woman will slam the door in our faces and send us packing, but then she bends over and sweeps both of us up in a hug.
“Of course, of course, boys. Come in. It's a trying time, and Morgana needs her friends to help her through this. She's upstairs.”
“Thank you, ma'am.”
Lester follows closely as I go up the stairs and down the hallway to Morgan's room. I knock lightly and wait a moment. All is quiet. I knock again and call softly through the door.
“Morgan? It's Jamie. I've got Lester with me. We came to see you.” There is a moment of silence before she answers.
“Go away, Jamie,” her response from within is muffled through the door, “I don't want to see anyone.”
“Awe, come on, don't be like that. Even your mom said we should come up. And you know how she usually feels about me even standing out on your porch.”
“Please, Morgan?” Lester pipes up from beside me. “We heard about Claire. My daddy told us she's missing. We just want to make sure you're ok.”
I glare down at my brother and briefly consider tweaking him on the ear before I hear movement on the other side of the door. After a brief scrabbling at the handle, it creaks open a few inches and Morgan peers through the crack. The interior of the room is dark, and Morgan squints into the light of the hallway. My heart lurches into my throat. She looks awful.
Unlike her mother, Morgan's eyes aren't red from crying but are bloodshot just the same. Deep circles under her eyes suggest she hasn't slept for the last several days and her raven black hair is snarled into a tangled bird's nest on top of her head. She looks thinner than normal, as if she hasn't been eating. Getting her bearings she eyes Lester with an appraising look.
“Missing huh, twerp? That's what they're saying? That's what you think is going on?” Her laugh has a slight manic tone to it, and continues for several moments too long. Lester and I exchange a concerned glance before she finally regains control of herself. “Heh, sorry about that. Haven't slept in a few days. You better come in before mom changes her mind.” She opens the door wider and makes a sweeping gesture with her arm. I walk through the door with Lester following, gripping my hand tightly.
The room is a mess. It's hard to see details in the dark, but I can smell the dirty clothes strewn about the room and notice piles of used dishes stacked here and there throughout. The only light comes from a tiny lamp sitting on a desk at the far wall, the rest of which is strewn with old newspapers. A small leather bound book that looks like a diary or journal lays open in the middle of the desk. Morgan retrieves the book before moving to the bed where she sits, pulling her legs up and crossing them in front of her. I look around for a place to sit before finally settling for a relatively open spot on the floor, Lester crouching down beside me. Morgan stares at us unblinking, like a bird of prey on its perch deciding what to do with a morsel it had just spied in the field below. I try to think of something to say but found my mind is strangely blank. Instead I clear my throat in the uncomfortable silence. Finally, Morgan apparently makes up her mind.
“What do you know about Tomas Wicker?” she asks.
“What? You mean the millionaire? The one whose old house is down the block?”
“That's the one, yeah. What do you know about him?”
I'm confused by the line of questioning. “Uh, well...I mean, like I said, he was a millionaire. I think he had some oil fields or something. And he was some kind of an explorer, had all kinds of weird stuff he did in Africa and all over the place. He built that house about forty years ago and he had a wife, but she disappeared a few years after that. And, uh...” I trail off.
“Yes?” Her face remains blank but conveys an air of expectation.
“He killed himself,” Lester whispers softly. “He killed his maid and the gardener and then he jumped out of the attic window.
I glare at Lester. “How do you know about that, squirt?”
Lester stares at the ground. “Timmy Boyle told the story at school. But everybody knows, Jamie.”
Morgan's lips curve slightly up into a smile. There is no warmth in it, “That's right. Everyone knows. And everyone's wrong.” She chuckles, slightly patting the book in her lap. “This book...it has the truth. And let me tell you, boys, in this case the truth is a whole hell of a lot stranger than fiction.”
I eye the book skeptically. “Oh yeah? What is that thing anyway?”
“This old thing?” Morgan's tone is playful, but her eyes are deadly serious. “Why nothing less than the journal of Tomas Wicker.”
It takes me half an hour to page through the journal. I don't read it in depth, other than a few passages Morgan had specially marked, Lester trying to lean over my shoulder the whole time. Finally I reach the end.
“Where did you find this thing?”
“Where do you think? In that fucking house, buried under piles of papers up in the attic.”
“You went in there? Morgan, you must be crazier than he was. There's no way the stuff in this book is true. Wicker must have been insane. I mean, he was insane, remember? He killed those people who worked for him, and then he killed himself. The stuff he wrote in here is the rambling of a lunatic.”
Morgan scowls at me. “Yeah? How stupid do you think I am? Seriously? That I'm just going to believe something that's written in an old book?”
I frown. “What are you talking about? You mean you've got more?”
She rolls her eyes and gets up from the bed moving towards the desk. “Loads more. The police report from the night Wicker killed himself. News articles about his so-called wife before she mysteriously vanished. And stories. Tons and tons of stories from people claiming to have seen her after she disappeared.”
“But, that's nothing. Just ghost stories to frighten kids...” I stop as I see her eyes threaten to overflow with tears. Angrily she wipes them away.
“That's what I thought too, at first. But then...” Her voice breaks in a sob. Whispering she speaks, almost to herself, her gaze fixed straight ahead, eyes staring at nothing. “It was just a dare. It was just a stupid dare.”
I feel like I've been hit in the gut, my breath short like the time my father had cracked my ribs. “Morgan, what did you do?”
She turns to look at me. The tears have come back and this time they run down her face. “Oh, God, Jamie. I think I killed my sister.”
I feel the world start to spin.
Morgan takes a couple moments to compose herself. Then she begins. “We'd grown up listening to the stories, you know? Everyone had. You'd think that maybe living down the street from the house we'd eventually get used to it, but I never did. I could never look at it without getting creeped out. I hate being scared, and finally a couple weeks ago I decided to do something about it.” The breath hitches in her throat before she goes on.
“I didn't tell you, or anyone else at school, because I was afraid you'd make fun of me. This just sort of became my pet project. I started at the library. Went through all the old records they had to find out everything they had about the house. There's a lot. More than a lot. Wicker was basically the closest thing this town had to a celebrity back in the day, so the newspapers carried the story for weeks after he died, hit it from every angle. The one thing they had absolutely no information on was his wife.” She moves over to the desk and picks up one of the old newspapers.
“The only hard evidence I could find to show that she even for sure existed was this article here.” She passes the paper to me. The top article on the page is devoted to the Lady Wicker, recounting stories and speculations that various townspeople around had made about her. It is accompanied by a picture of the second story of the house, in much better condition than it currently stands, and I can see the fuzzy image of a woman standing in the window, the only detail a surprising sharpness of her eyes.
“Finally I got all I could out of the papers. For the amount of stories they ran after Wicker's death, they had surprisingly little actual information about him. So last week I decided I'd go inside and see if I could find anything. I figured maybe once I saw what was in there I'd be less scared. Claire insisted on going with me. You know how little siblings are.” She looks pointedly at Lester before continuing.
“I really hadn't thought we'd find anything, but once we snuck in it looked like the house hadn't been touched in all this time. Once the police completed the investigation they just sort of closed the front door and walked away. There's so many creepy stories about the place, I think it's kept a lot of people out who would have gone through it before now. I wish I would have done the same.” She sighs.
“There's still a whole bunch of weird stuff in there. Masks and statues and all sorts of things. The room the picture in the paper shows as Mrs. Wicker's has these symbols scrawled all over the walls. Eventually we made our way up to the attic. The house is all rundown and some of the stairs were pretty rotten but the ladder leading up to the attic was still there. I thought if I saw where he killed himself that would be enough to cure me of my fear. So we went up and poked around. That's where I found this.” She taps the journal.
“It was getting late so we went back home. That's when I first started going through the book. I thought the same thing you did, that Wicker must have been nuts. But the worst part was that my fear hadn't gone away. Just the opposite, all the stuff in the book made me even more afraid, even though a part of me was telling myself it had to be make believe.
“The next day I was talking to Claire about it. She laughed at me, said I was scared of a stupid, empty house. I told her if she wasn't a scaredy-cat that she should go spend an hour in Mrs. Wicker's old room at midnight. I think she was afraid but she didn't want to admit it in front of me. You know how little siblings are.” She looks at Lester again.
“So last Saturday we snuck out again. That's the first day the fog really came in. We were practically on top of the house before I could see it. I offered to let Claire out of the deal, but she was insistent, even though she was so scared she was shaking. I told her that at least I'd lower the terms of the dare; I didn't want to be there any more than she did. All she had to do was go upstairs to the room and wave to me through the window. Then we could go home.
“I had to go in through the gate just to be able to see the window. Claire went up the steps and only looked back once before squeezing through the front door. I don't know how long I waited, standing there staring at the window, waiting for her to come. It was probably only a minute or two, but it felt like hours. Finally, I saw this figure at the window. It was hard to make it out through the fog, but it was definitely person shaped. I thought it had to be Claire. I mean what else could it be? It was there for a moment, and I could tell it was looking at me, but then it moved away from the window. I think I must have been holding my breath, because I remember I let it out then, thinking that Claire would be back down in just a minute and we could leave. I'd kid her a little about not having the guts to wave to me, but in reality I was glad she was moving as quickly as she was.
“Those were the thoughts going through my head when I heard Claire calling me. I looked up and there she was standing in the window, waving at me clear as day, even through the fog. She had this huge smile on her face, so proud of what she'd done.” Morgan chokes back a sob. “She was just trying to impress me, the little idiot. But I couldn't be happy for her, because I knew,” she looks up at me, “I knew she wasn't alone in the house.
“I yelled at her to get down from there, to run. First she looked mad that I wasn't giving her the praise she had expected, then she looked scared. She had this terrified look on her little face when she finally backed away from the window. That was the last time I saw her alive.
“God, I waited there calling to her forever. I was scared that I was so loud I'd wake my parents down the street, but part of me hoped that would happen, that they'd come. I should have gone in there after her, but I was just so scared,” her eyes are tearing up again. “My little sister was in trouble and I was too big of a coward to do anything about it, Jamie.
“I must have stood there for twenty minutes just yelling her name. I never even heard anything from her, not a scream, not a sound. Maybe if I'd heard something, knew for sure that something was happening, that would have spurred me to run in. But I didn't. I couldn't. Finally my voice started to go hoarse and I just sat down on the ground and started to cry. I'm not sure how long I was sitting there sobbing before I noticed that the fog had started to thicken even more.
“Suddenly I became aware of this presence. You know how sometimes you can tell someone is looking at you even when you aren't looking at them? It was like that. I looked up and couldn't make anything out five feet in front of me because of the fog. But even so I could see this pair of eyes staring at me from near the front door.” She shudders.
“I don't know how I know this, but those eyes were happy, Jamie. Happy, and hungry. I thought I'd been scared before that, I thought I'd been out of screams. Boy, was I wrong. I turned and ran so fast it's a wonder I didn't knock myself out trying to get through the gate. Even more wonder that I managed to find my way back to my house through the fog. But I did, screaming and crying and blubbering the whole way.
“By that point I actually had managed to wake my parents up with all the noise I was making. They were at the front door when I just about collapsed on the welcome mat. It took them a while to get me calmed down enough to tell them what happened. My dad grabbed a flashlight and headed over to the house. He searched until morning but didn't find anything, no trace of Claire or of what or who took her. Then he called the police.
She sighs. “They've had me tell them my story over and over again, hoping I could give them some clue about who took Claire, some detail. Even if I could have seen more clearly through the fog, I don't think it would have helped. Did you know there's a lot of missing kids in the Wake? It's been going on for a while now, Jamie; I'll bet even longer than they think or would admit. I'll bet it's been going on since the night Tomas Wicker threw himself out of his attic window. Since the night she got out.” She opens the book on her lap and absently starts to leaf through the pages.
“It's all in here. The stuff Wicker saw, that he encountered. She was one of them, that Thing everyone thought was his wife. He kept her locked away up there in that room so that she'd never be free. But she got free. And Wicker decided he'd rather kill himself than face what he knew she'd do once she was.” She pauses, blankly staring at the book.
“Now hang on a second, Morgan,” I cut in, “nothing you saw proves anything that's in the book is true. I mean, I certainly believe that you saw someone in the house, and in all likelihood they're the one that took Claire. But there's nothing about it other than those eyes that suggests there are ghosts or demons or whatever that are responsible for this. And that could have just been your mind playing tricks on you. It was probably just some homeless guy. They haven't found a body; Claire could still be out there.”
Morgan looks up, a small sad smile on her face. “Oh, Jamie. Don't you get it? They won't find a body.”
I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention, “What do you mean, Morgan? How can you be so sure?”
“Because remember how I said when she moved away from the window that was the last time I saw her alive? I didn't say it was the last time I saw her. It's why I haven't been able to sleep.” Morgan shivers slightly, taking a breath. “Claire comes to me every night, out of the fog. She looks at me through my window with her black, empty eyes, her hand lightly tapping on the pane like she wants to come inside. But somehow I know that's not it at all. It's not that she wants to be let in. It's that she wants me to come out.”
“But, Morgan,” Lester whispers, wide eyed, “your room is on the second floor.”
She throws back her head and laughs, “I know. Wild isn't it?” Her eyes narrow as she looks at me with an accusing expression. “So any more bright ideas or thoughts about how crazy I am?”
I shake my head. “Have you told your parents? The police?”
Morgan chuckles at that. “Told them what exactly? That some demon succubus stole my little sister and turned her into a monster? Come on, Jamie. You know they'd never believe that, even with the journal to back up my story.”
“You could have them stay with you. Show her to them.”
“Already tried it. She doesn't come when other people are around. Just makes the adults give each other concerned glances when they think I'm not looking. No, I'm going to have to do this myself.”
My voice is almost a whisper. “Do what exactly?”
Morgan's mouth draws into a tight, hard smile, “Why, put the bitch back in her cage, of course.”
I only hesitate a moment before I nod. “Okay. What can I do to help?”
----
I silently make my way down the empty streets towards Morgan's house. It wasn't any trouble to sneak out. Pops is drunk as always, passed out in front of the tv. Nights like that, mom goes to bed early to avoid the possibility of waking him up and putting him in one of his black moods. It was too easy to walk out the front door with only the slightest creak of hinges to betray my exit.
Lester didn't want me to go of course; the kid was terrified. But then when he realized he wasn't going to convince me to stay back, he tried to insist on coming himself. That wasn't going to happen. Morgan had already lost Claire screwing around with this house, and whether I'm about to encounter demon women or just some deranged pedophile, there's no way I'm letting the squirt tag along. Not this time.
Morgan had laid out the bones of the plan earlier today. The journal never referenced the thing called Lady Wicker by name, but there were plenty of passages talking about “Her” and “She”. Morgan had also found a detailed drawing that resembled the symbols on the walls of what had been Lady Wicker's prison.
“Some of the symbols were marred, Jamie,” she said, opening book to the page in question. Strange letters that looked nothing so much as random scratches and scribbles covered the paper. “I'm sure that's what let her get out of there. It can't be she's completely free, though, or she wouldn't still be hanging around the Wake. My guess is that whatever did it just caused the cage door to open wide enough so she could stick her head out and snap at anything that gets too close. If we can fix the symbols, it'll close the door again.”
It seemed like a good plan, as far as I could tell, except I would have preferred we go during the daylight.
“You think I don't want that too?” Morgan looked at me incredulously. “Christ, Jamie, going back into that fucking house is the absolute last thing I want to do, especially at night. But there's no way my parents will let me go over there after everything that happened, and they keep a close enough eye on me during the day that there's no way I'd be able to sneak out. We have to go at night.”
And so I reluctantly agreed. I arrive at Morgan's house and crouch down on her porch. The fog is already starting to heavily roll in but I can still make out the ominous outline of the Wicker House farther down the street. A slight noise makes me turn as Morgan slips out the front door to join me.
“Good, you're here. I didn't want to have to wait for you out here alone. No telling if my sister will decide to show up, and I really don't want to find out what happens if she does. Did you bring the paint and brushes?”
I pat the backpack slung over my shoulder. “Yeah. You have the journal?”
Morgan holds it up along with a battery powered flashlight. “To help us see so can we draw the symbols. Let's go, I want to get this over with.”
In silence, we step into the fog.
The heavy iron gate screams loudly as Morgan pushes it open far enough for us to squeeze through. Looking up, I realize this is the closest I've ever been to the Wicker House. The structure squats like an insect, the gaze of its paneless windows radiating malevolence as tendrils of fog curled and wrapped around its eaves. Its empty gaze seems to follow us as we made our way up the overgrown path and slip through the front door.
Once inside, Morgan switches on the flashlight, the white beam slicing through the otherwise pitch black darkness. She plays the light around a bit to orient herself in the gloom and I can see that what she'd said about the house is true; the place looks as if it hasn't been touched in the forty years it has stood empty. Finding the staircase with the light, Morgan slowly moves up to the second floor with me following closely on her heels, carefully avoiding the rotten steps.
The top of the stairwell opens to a long hallway, the door at the far end cracked slightly open. Morgan fixes her light on the opening. “That's the one,” she whispers in my ear, “Come on.” I shiver but don't know if it's from fear or from her closeness, the tingle of her breath on my skin. Silently we crept down the hall, and soon find ourselves in the room.
Morgan passes the beam along the walls and my mouth drops open. The symbols are something to be seen in the journal, certainly, but they are a completely different matter in real life. The number of them is astounding, and it's obvious that they've been painted on the walls with meaning and purpose, far from the jumble of scribbles I'd thought when I first saw them in the book. It seems as if they glow with a faint luminescence, and not for the first time I wonder if conducting the repairs will be as easy as Morgan has made it out to be. Finally Morgan rests the light on the far wall and I can see exactly what she meant; several of the symbols are noticeably smudged, though it's impossible to tell what might have caused the damage. I drop my pack to the floor and hurriedly remove the two brushes and a small can of paint I had stuffed inside.
“Here, hold this so I can see.” Morgan hands me the flashlight as she opens the journal to the page she had marked. Picking up the paint and a brush she moves over to the damaged section. “Okay, shine it over here.” I comply and with a look of intense concentration, Morgan begins to carefully paint.
She's been at the work for several minutes and is making good headway when the fog begins noticeably seeping through the broken window. A feeling that I'm being watched begins to grow stronger and I feel a rash of goosebumps break out down my arms. I glance from side to side attempting to find the cause of the feeling.
“Morgan...”
“I know,” she snaps, her voice trembling slightly, “I feel it too. She's coming. Just keep the beam steady. Finishing this is our only chance.” She continues to work, and I see her brush shake slightly, small droplets of paint falling to the floor. A sudden cloud of fog boils in through the window and as I turn I find myself facing the opposite corner of the room. From its depths peer a pair of shockingly intense eyes. They fix on me. The gaze immediately locks my own and in a moment I feel my will drain away. The flashlight falls heavily to the floor at my feet.
I'm floating in grayness, my mind as blank as the faceless fog surrounding me. I can't remember where I am or what I was doing, but some part of me thinks it might have been important.
Jamie...
At the edge of my consciousness I can barely make out a voice calling my name. What could they possibly want? My mind, content to remain in limbo, rejects the summons.
JAMIE!
This time, my name is accompanied by a sharp pain, jolting me out of the hazy dreams I've been wallowing in. In an instant I'm back to myself. Lester stands in front of me, tears streaming from his eyes, a line of snot running down his nose as he sobs, his hand held back for another slap. I catch his hand as it flies forward. “Whoa! Easy, bud. I'm here, I'm...” my gaze falls on Morgan. The flashlight has fallen so that the beam bleeds over where she is lying on the ground, twitching violently, her eyes rolled back in her head so only the whites are visible. I grab the light and rush to her side trying to hold her head steady.
“Morgan! Morgan, come on wake up!”
“Jamiiieee....” Lester is tugging at my shoulder.
“Dammit, Lester what...?” my eyes move up and my voice fails me.
The fog continues to fill the room, but even through the thick screen of white I can see the ring of children around us. They stand shoulder to shoulder, their expressions blank, their eyes black. Twisting with Lester clutching my arm, I shine the beam about the room to see we are completely surrounded. When the light reaches the front of the room, it falls upon a figure lost in the fog save for the same intense pair of eyes that had almost completely bewitched me before. As we watch, the lines of the figure seem to coalesce and solidify until finally a woman appears before us, as if by magic.
Dressed all in white, she is beautiful, her hair a black even darker than Morgan's, her skin as pale as new fallen snow. Her lips are blood red and drawn up in a cruel, knowing smile. Her eyes are the same as before, twin stars that had seemed to draw me into them with a supernatural attraction, their message one of unspeakable pleasure and pain. I shudder. At my side Lester is crying, the words falling out of him.
“Jamie, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. But I had to come, I just had to. And then you wouldn't wake up, and the kids were standing around us and...”
“Lester, shut up,” I snap. “Remember what I said earlier? If you tag along you have to keep your mouth shut.” The boy quiets as I slowly ease my left arm holding the flashlight under Morgan's back. She has stopped convulsing but her eyes are closed and her breath is quick and shallow. “Now,” I reach for my pack and slip my other hand inside, “when I tell you to run, I want you to run downstairs, out the door and back home as fast as you can, got it?” I grip the small bottle concealed inside the pack. “Ready....RUN!”
In one motion, I flip the cap of the bottle and whip my hand out of the pack in a semicircle, spraying liquid all around me. I had taken the bottle of holy water from mom's night stand but, since my comic books say it sometimes works for ghosts, had added a couple tablespoons of salt to the mix. Whether it's the saline or the blessed water, something makes the woman and her hideous charges draw back, hissing, arms raised protectively. Jerking to my feet, I awkwardly pick Morgan up in my arms and stumble through the door, running down the hallway as fast as I can, Lester dogging my heels. I've just reached the bottom of the stairs, the entryway beckoning open wide before us, when I hear a crash and a scream.
Turning back I shine the flashlight on my brother. In his hurry, Lester stepped on one of the rotten stairs, his foot punching straight through the worm-eaten wood. Worse, I can see where a jagged broken piece of stair has punctured his thigh, the blood leaking out bright red in the beam of the light. With a cry I lay Morgan at the bottom of the steps and rush to help my brother. The leg is wedged tight, and anything I do to try to manipulate it cause Lester to moan in agony. Crying I start striking at the edges of the stair trying to work Lester's leg free while the boy whimpers and sobs. An unnatural silence causes me to stop my struggle and raise my eyes to the top of the staircase. The woman stands there surrounded by her children, the fog twisting around her feet giving her the impression of floating. The message in her eyes is a promise of pain, retribution for the injury caused by the water. From where he is trapped, Lester can see everything.
“Go!” he cries, struggling to talk through the pain. “Get her out of here!”
“Lester, I can't leave you!”
The little boy smiles weakly. “I came to help make sure you got out, Jamie. You have to get out.”
“Dammit!” Tears are running down my face. “I'm coming back, you hear me? I'm getting her out then I'm coming back!” I stumble back down to Morgan. “We're all getting out!” Gripping her under her arms I start dragging her backwards out the front door. As I pass through the entryway I glance up and see the woman has begun to descend the stairs towards my brother, flanked by her hideous children. I redouble my efforts, practically falling down the steps through the billowing fog.
In only a few moments I'm through the gate, intending to leave her there, when Morgan's eyes snap open and she pulls herself from my grasp with a shout.
“Jesus! Jamie, we have to get out of here. I was wrong, so wrong. God, she was in my mind! She wants to use me!” she clutches my sleeve. “We need to get as far from here as we can.”
I shake my head. “I can't leave. Lester's in there. He's the only reason we got this far. I have to go back for him.”
Tears begin to roll down Morgan's cheeks. “Jamie, you don't understand, I can't go back in there. If she uses me the way she wants, it'll mean terrible, terrible things. For all of us. For the world!”
I smile sadly. “I know. And I'm not asking you to. But he's my brother.” I stoop down and kiss her lightly on the forehead. “I love you, Morgan. I just wanted to make sure you knew that.”
“No, no, no, Jamie, please don't go. Please!” I stand and Morgan tries to clutch my arm but I gently pull away.
“I'm sorry,” I say. “Goodbye.”
With that I turn and walk away, her shape gradually dimming in the white cloud until I can no longer see her. From where I left her I can hear her sobs, the only sound breaking the silence. The Wicker House watches, content in her misery, until we too are swallowed by the fog.
----
Epilogue:
I'm drunk, as I often am, more so now than I've ever been before. Since I've been fired from the factory I've only had time, and as far as I'm concerned there's no better way to spend time than to drink. Especially lately. I take a swig from the forty wrapped in a brown paper bag held in my hand.
Mary is gone. She left shortly after Jamie and Lester had...disappeared, I suppose. Been taken. She'd accused me of all sorts of things, even suggesting I had a hand in their disappearance. I took it all, privately resenting the injustice, but knowing on some level that I deserved all that and more. Maybe I wasn't guilty of everything she tried to stick on me, but God knows I have plenty of sins. I've never said any differently.
Still, I know I didn't have anything to do with the boys missing. Christ, doesn't she know I love them? It's the drink that makes me lash out, and the stress I'm under to provide for a family that makes him drink. Hadn't I cut back after that time I hurt Jamie? It's too much to ask to give it up completely. No pleasing her. And didn't I treat her well? Kept a roof over their heads, food on the table? Sure, I may have taken a swing at her every now and then, but lots of husbands do. Nobody's perfect. And I never hit the boys, not after that time.
I wander down Blackwood Drive and find myself standing in front of the broken down house near where we found the Fontaine girl. She'd been out of her mind, shaking and screaming and crying. When we finally got her to calm down, she'd been talking crazy. Women in white, ghost children, absolute lunacy. And somehow my boys were mixed up in the middle of it.
We had searched the house looking for them and found Jamie's backpack in one of the rooms upstairs. Morgan insisted there had been some old journal she'd had with her, but there was no sign of that. Probably just another figment of her imagination. The symbols in the room were sure odd, but for the life of him I couldn't figure out what would make the girl try to cover them up; it was obvious there was a decent sized portion of the wall that had been recently painted over, the paint and brushes still wet where they lay. The place gave me the creeps.
I take another slug of booze. Fucking place. Should probably be burnt to the ground. My boys missing, the girl's sister missing. And now, I hear the Fontaines had packed the girl off to some loony bin somewhere. Couldn't get her to tell a straight story. Out of her goddam mind. Hell, for all I know, she'd had something to do with Jamie and Lester disappearing. Yeah, no probably about it. Someone should definitely burn the place.
Before I've even had time to really think about the thought I'm halfway up the path to the front door. I have a lighter in my pocket. A house this old, with that much dry wood, that's plenty to make it go up like a matchbook. I stop at the foot of the stairs fumbling for my lighter, not noticing the viscous fog that has begun creeping about me.
By the time I look up, lighter in hand, the world is completely white. If I didn't know it, I wouldn't be able to tell the house stood in front of me. I take a step forward and bang my shin, falling on the steps. I struggle to get up, but my balance is off, a victim of the booze. Finally I regain my feet when I hear the voice.
“Hello, old man.”
I drunkenly sway where I stand. Am I imagining things? But no, there's Jamie in front of me. Paler than usual, and his eyes strangely black, but there's no mistaking my boy.
“Jamie? Is it really you?” I feel tears brimming in my eyes. “I've missed you, boy. You and your brother.”
My pale son smiles slightly. “I'm sure you have, pops. But don't worry, we're here now, and our Mother is with us.”
Jamie moves forward and to my surprise I see Lester step beside him. And is that the other Fontaine girl next to them? It has to be. I drop to my knees. “Missed you, boys...missed you so much.” I open my arms and they move into my embrace, their arms tightly encircling my neck. “Missed you...” the words trail off as I see a beautiful woman appear in the fog, her otherworldly eyes alight with joy and hunger.
The cloud continues to thicken until all that is visible are a few shadows that seem to struggle briefly before falling still. There is no sound, as sighs and screams alike are drowned, lost in the fog. Covered in a blanket of white, Arthur's Wake continues to die.
Category:Creepypasta