Howard McFarland kissed the little crown of his daughter’s head and stroked the soft brown fuzz of her hair. She didn’t stir. She was sprawled in her crib with a patch of drool on the sheet, gumming her thumb. Lisa had picked out the purple onesie in the morning. It made the small menace look positively like an angel. He made the mobile spin, hand-sewn stars and birds turning lazily in the dim light. The felted blue sun dipped beneath the blackbird with the crooked eyes.
“I love you,” he said.
He watched the mobile turn. Then he checked that the window was locked for a final time, and left.
As he made his way downstairs, he stopped to adjust his tie. His neck was beginning to feel hot and stuffy. He recalled the forecast from the radio – summer pushing in too early, heavy winds battering onshore from the channel. It suddenly made sense to lose the coat. He shrugged it off and hung the wool gabardine on the coat rack at the front door. He hesitated, then slipped into shoes a little scuffed, a little more comfortable. A russet spring of hair fell right back over his eyes.
With a sigh, he tucked the curl back.
Something stopped him. “Hey, Lis?”
She said, “Yeah?”
His wife was in the kitchen, hands submerged in a basin of dirty dishwater. Water from the faucet splashed against her reddened skin. She didn’t seem to notice. The gleam of her silver ring caught his attention. For a moment, he let his gaze trail upwards, towards the light curve of her cheeks and the amber of her eyes. The lines around her mouth were taut. He leant against the hallway arch and asked, “How’s your mother?”
“Good,” she said shortly.
“She called?”
“Yes. While you were out.”
“Oh. She doing any better?”
“Meadows is a good change of pace,” she said. “It’s got sunlight. Gardens. A fence. At least she didn’t accuse me of being a bitch demon wearing her daughter’s skin again.”
“Oh, Lis.”
She reached over and squeezed the tap shut. “I want to believe the medication’s working, but… I’ve had that hope before. It means less and less every time.”
He was silent.
“Anyway,” she said, “aren’t you late to meeting Jacob?”
“I spend way too much time with that man at the office,” he said easily. “Besides. You know I much prefer your company, darling.”
It earned him a smile. A real one, lines softening.
“The man’s a menace,” she said.
“A well-paying one.”
She laughed. “Go on then. I’ll wait up.”
He kissed her cheek.
The ghost of her warmth followed him. He stepped out into the evening, gravel crunching beneath his worn shoes. As he pulled out of the driveway with the Taurus, it struck him that he was forgetting something. He made a clutch for rationality.
The baby was alright. Lisa was fine. He’d even made sure that the windows and the front door were locked. He distracted himself with the drive itself – it was usually his favourite part of the day, to have the blur of moss tourmaline trees at the corner of his eye as he drove over dust-smoothed backroads. Strips of fallow land rushed past him, interspersed with thickets of gem-dark wildflowers.
But the itch bothered him the entire way.
Howard cut and turned at the junction. He followed the trail of sodium arc lights until the town was suddenly in view, bathed golden in the setting sun. Tires rattling with the steep incline of gravel, he parked in the open lot behind Ornello’s bar. He emerged outside into the crisp cool air and stood beneath the shade of the dead magnolia trees. He took a conscious glance around. He recognized Old Joe at the furthest end – a lump of thrifted clothes, ambling towards the late night market down the street. Josie Sanders was loading bags into her car. She saw him and smiled, big and toothy.
He smiled back.
He kept his head low after that.
Sure enough, as Jacob had claimed, the back entrance was unlocked. It took him past the men’s stalls, where he emerged into a warmly lit space. The air was pungent with the sharp malt of cheap beer and yeast. He chose a spot that gave him a full view – one of the smaller round tables distanced from the rest. The bartender was none other than Ornello himself. The man gave him a thin-lipped nod, eyes black, then went back to scraping dregs out of an old glass.
A shadow fell over him.
“Howard.” Jacob set down two pint glasses – pale amber sloshing – and sat. The silver of his hair caught in the light, accentuating the droop of his mouth. The birthmark on his chin moved as he spoke. He studied him for a long while.
“I’ve done what you asked,” he said.
“Oh believe me, I know.”
“So why tonight?”
“Top soil’s shifting.” Jacob leant forward, sour breath misting the murky glass, “Don’t you feel it?”
Howard took a long swig. “Not at all.”
“Huh,” he said. “That’s funny.”
“I wasn’t as close to it as you.”
“But you stayed.”
“So did you.”
His smile was wan. “The difference was, you had a choice. I never did.”
An exhale left him then.
“It was risky going after Carty.” Jacob said after a while. “He’s important enough that people talk.”
“No-one’s going to look for him. Or shed any tears, for that matter.”
He chuckled, “True.”
Howard let him finish. A foggy silence drifted over the table. As the last of the drink disappeared down his gullet, the tension eased from his old friend’s posture. A happy stupor glazed those eyes, hair flopping over in dishevelled strands to hide the sharp angles of his face. It was a strange sight – staring at a young man’s face in an old body, boyish features marred by age.
Jacob reached out and touched him.
From the hand laid over his, Howard felt ridges and damp sweat, the moving clots of black blood beneath thin skin. The scars glistened in the light. Damp earth tickled the back of his throat. He swallowed it down with a mouthful of beer, but the fermentation was too strong now. It cloyed his senses. He coughed once, twice. “Is it enough?”
“Of course.” Jacob smiled.
He let go.
Howard walked the asphalt back to his car alone. A handful of minutes later, he was tuning the radio onto an old channel. The white frequency of static was a familiar balm. He drove, one hand on the wheel and the other strained across the seatbelt to rummage through his satchel. Finally finding what he was looking for, he veered off the main road and parked near a hidden ditch. He ducked, narrowly avoiding a low hanging branch, and put on the black gloves.
He opened the trunk.
The mound of soil spilled out.
He took the shovel from the top. His gaze roved around the darkness, brows furrowed. Then at last he saw it – the soft red light of the ground beckoning from beneath. The sea of pink-splattered pileus rustled and moaned faintly as he began to dig with a renewed strength. Three feet down, he saw the shrivelled flesh of the fungi’s fingers breach the carcass of the earth. It spasmed, leaking motes of spores that floated like ash in the warm stilted air.
He knew it was time.
He pulled the rest of Simon Carty out of the trunk. The stubs of the man’s legs and arms were healing along nicely, fruiting slender brown and red stalks. Howard bent over to touch his neck and listened to a steady pulse. With Carty cradled inside the shallow grave, he filled in the soil until only the pale wrist of a right arm protruded. It held in the air. He injected the syringe of sugar water into blue veins next. When it was done, he stood up and dusted his shirt.
He scratched the back of his neck.
And went home.
16 Years Ago
Jacob Padilla fell off his bicycle and onto soft wood.
The jeering laughter of the older boys chased him as he picked himself up and ran. The worn soles of his shoes thumped against the pavement. He only had one advantage: he was small and fast. He ducked around the magnolia tree at the end of the street and hopped Mr Bobby’s fence. Face ruddy red and sweat pouring down his neck, he crawled beneath the tarp at the back. Rusty paint cans and turpentine tins towered over him. It smelled really bad, like the mold rotting in the attic of his mama’s house.
Jimmy Deller was a dog, he thought furiously.
Like one of those rabid, snarling things he saw on the news once. Jimmy even drooled like one, with spit stuck at the corner of his mouth when he laughed through his teeth. It wasn’t Jacob’s fault that his grades were so much better than the rest of the idiots in his class. He was smart, yeah, but at least he earned it. He studied. He memorized.
He vowed that one day, he’d make Jimmy stop laughing.
Once he was certain that the coast was clear, he snuck back to the school yard. He took the back entrance, moving sneakily past the rows of potted yellow begonias and lemongrass. He inhaled deeply and peered around the corner. The first thing he saw was the back of Jimmy’s ugly bowl-cut head. His heart jumped. Quickly, he tried to flatten himself. His back hit the brick wall – too hard. He coughed, his throat tickled by the red dust raining down on him.
One…
Two…
A shrill blackbird whistle cut through the air.
Instinct seized him. He stuck his fingers in his mouth and blew.
Grinning, he sprinted across the courtyard for his fallen bicycle atop the lumber stacks. He slid the last stretch, narrowly avoiding large meaty hands as he hurled himself back on two wheels. His two best friends in the world were covering for him, circling the bullies like a pack of piranhas – Jimmy howled when Abel ran over his foot. Jacob whooped so loud that his stomach hurt.
That was when the substitute, Mrs Green, came out.
“Shit, let’s go! Come on!” Howie gasped.
“Right behind you!”
Tires burning, they skidded out of there and down the road.
“Perfect timing!” Jacob crowed, his legs pumping hard against the pedals.
“Hey, you doubtin’ me?” Abel glared.
“He had second thoughts,” Howie said.
“I did not!”
“Did too!”
“Didn’t!”
“You’re both losers,” Jacob said.
“I take it back,” Abel decided. “Jimmy can have you. I think he wants to chomp you up like lunch.”
“I’ve got twiggy bones. Not very easy to crunch.”
“Eurgh.” Howie scowled. “Both of you are gross.”
“Ah, but never mind that,” Jacob laughed. “Howie! Did you get it? Please tell me you have it?”
He patted his backpack. “Three torches, batteries, and a slingshot. Just in case.”
Not willing to be outdone, Abel piped up, “I got the snacks. And I packed extra.”
“Great!” Jacob said, satisfied. He flashed a wide smile and stuck two thumbs-up in the air as he pedalled a few metres off the road without bars. “We’re set. Tonight’s going to be awesome.”
The hilly swell brought them closer to the gold and brown skies. The forest grew thicker, fatter with shadows and adventure, the further they ventured on. It was only when Abel’s front tire screeched over a needle rock, flinging him comically into a bushy thicket, that they collapsed laughing to a stop. Jacob barely glanced around before immediately declaring, “Here. This is it. This is the perfect spot.”
“It’s all trees.” Abel frowned.
“Yeah, but really tall ones,” he said. “Giants.”
Howie was pleased with something else. “It’s a clearing,” he said. “Perfect for a secret hideout.”
They fell quiet for a moment. The distant whistle of the wind ruffled the curtain of solid green all around. Little shadows darted in and out of the cracks of the rustling canopy, the goldfinches fluttering from one branch to another. A cricket chirped. A branch cracked. Something scraped – slow, clicky, and far too loud to be a squirrel. It was only when that last one stopped suddenly that Jacob broke the ice. He said as loudly as he dared, “Spooky.”
That brief snatch of fear passed.
Abel shoved a bony elbow into him. “Stop it.”
“We need a fire,” Howie murmured.
“And that’s your cue, Abe,” Jacob said. “Go, Boy Scout, go.”
It was late evening by the time the pile of dry wood and scarlet leaves started to smoke. The fire caught on slowly, small sparks jumping before billowing into a steady blaze. The skies had settled into dusk – a pinkish-yolk ripple of grey clouds. They sat around it. No one laughed now. There was a weight to the air, like something momentous was occurring. The ashy haze clung low to the ground, the hypnotic dance of the flames painted red in their eyes. It felt real now.
Jacob felt very old all of a sudden. Grown-up.
Abel poked at the fire with a stick. When he spoke, his voice was hushed. “Have either of you heard of the Carrows before?”
“The scouts story?”
“The very same.” The brown-haired boy didn’t wait for an answer. He leant forward, knees crooked, scooching closer on the small log they had lugged in front of the tinder, and began, “It’s who the town is named after: Rutherford Carrows. He was a cattle rancher, but rich enough to own several acres of land – including the one we stand on at this very moment. And like any other man, he had a weakness. His vice was gambling.”
Jacob leaned over and whispered in Howie’s ear, “Like my dad. He plays a mean game of poker.”
“He needed to see whether there was more beyond the boundaries of his woods. So one day,” Abel continued, “he went further than he had ever gone before. It was dark. It was wet. But that was strange because it hadn’t rained for weeks. His boots squelched in the deep mud and trickling streams of water that had leaked from the very ground itself. He was looking for someone. But instead he found,” he stuck the flashlight under his chin, face aglow, “something.”
He trailed off, letting his words sink in.
Despite hearing the story before, Jacob shivered.
“Later, when they found him, it was the only thing he was still coherent about – that mud rising around his ankles as it suckled to bone. It was in his eyes. It was in his nails. It was in his teeth. The ground became alive beneath his feet. The ashy soil was breathing, hungry roots crawling and reaching for whatever it could find and eat. It was hungry. So very hungry. And so it tried to take him.”
“And did it?” Howie asked.
“No,” he shook his head. “Carrows was too fast. But…”
“What?”
“It never forgot him either,” he said quietly. “Years later, it took his cattle. His family. Then finally, it came for him. But the soil was rich that spring.”
The fire crackled in the silence that ensued. The trees slowly swallowed the final light of day.
“It’s getting dark,” Howie said at last. He brushed off ash, and stood.
“But we brought flashlights,” Jacob protested.
“With no camps! Because I thought we’d find, I dunno, a small cave or something to sleep in for the night. It’s too late to go looking now.”
Abel said, “The bikes.”
“We can’t sleep on the bikes. That’s stupid.”
“No,” he said, then pointed past. “The bikes. I thought we put them over there.”
Jacob whirled around.
He was right. The bicycles were gone.
The fire dimmed into a soft red.
“This isn’t funny.” He turned, feeling the earth shift beneath him. He reached to grab Howie’s shoulder, only for his fingers to brush empty air. He stared uncomprehendingly. That was when the terror hit, bile and salt welling up in his throat.
There was no-one else in the clearing.
He was alone.
“Howie!” Jacob shrieked. “Abel! Stop it, I’m scared! I’m really, really-”
A gasp cut him off then as his knees gave way and he stumbled backwards. He hit a tree, back scraping against rough bark, as he sank into a cot of protruding roots. He realized that he was sitting funny. His legs were at strange angles! He squinted through the haze of his vision, black spots dancing around as he tried to calm his chest. There was a war drum inside of him, echoed by the heartbeat of the soil.
The sight of the fire seared into his eyes – the sickly smoke dissipating, the embers dying.
That was the last thing he remembered.
Next thing he knew, he was coughing awake in pitch blackness. He gagged against the grit. He pitched over and, on his elbows, threw up a mouthful of wet earth. Jacob tried to pull himself up. His hand didn’t land against coarse wood. Instead, his fingers sank inches into a porous velvet-soft growth against the tree. Something slimy and rust-colored dripped down the length of his arm. The scream choked itself in his throat.
The sky was red. Like the fire.
The ground was red too.
Soft light pulsed beneath him. He stumbled at first, then began to run as he darted through the cracks of the black woods. Tears poured down his face. Sniffling, he swiped it away. The air smelled like rain on grass, nascent and sweet. It wasn’t long before he saw it – a dark and spongy field, fruiting frilled and misshapen patches of mushrooms of every size and shape. A decayed wooden fence stood glistening, the white mold beaded red like cherries.
It was impossibly alive.
The tendrils brushed against him, reaching up from the earth. It stroked the tears from his eyes and sank into his mind. It spoke so gently, that he could have mistaken it for his mother’s voice.
Hello.
“I want to go home,” he sobbed.
You are.
“I want my friends.”
It took his neck and twisted it towards the side. Forced to look, he could see them now – pale flashes of arms and legs among the spores and slabs of fungus. He made a sound more animal than human.
They are here. You will keep them forever.
“I don’t want to be here!” he screamed.
You have always been, from the moment you were born.
“But it wasn’t like this!”
No. You just see us now.
“Please, I’ll do anything. Anything,” he hiccuped. “Just let us g-go home.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he’d made a mistake. Awful heat spread across his hands. He wailed as the stalks dug into his bloody palms, the roots sinking in to curl around his veins. A flash of sensations and images crashed over him then. It murmured, tender-child-promise and feed-stay-hunger and you-us-here-here-here. It felt like the blink of an eye. It felt like an eternity. He wasn’t conscious of anything else.
It was only when the strength drained from his body and he dropped to his knees that he became aware of the crush of arms around him. Bodies, living and warm and real, clutched onto him tightly. He lost himself to the scent of hair and clothes, until the terror ebbed and buried itself beneath flesh and memory. For just a moment, it drowned out the whisper of the spores and the earthy tang of the nest.
Howie. Abel.
He was no longer alone.
9 months later
Abel Whitley was in the middle of writing a correspondence to a county officer when the pen broke. Dark ink smeared across the paper. He barely avoided getting stained. He crumpled the document and discarded it in the metal wastepaper basket beneath the desk. The lamp was kept unplugged now, because he saw no need to carry out the pretense. The fluorescence hurt his eyes. He much preferred the pitch black of night – it was conducive to his work.
He reached for another sheet.
It too was soiled by his fingernails.
The door to his mayoral office creaked open, allowing a sliver of light through. The man that came in stood hunched and pale. Coolly, Abel took in the sight of his clerk – Simon Carty was back on two legs and was evidently no longer a cause for trouble. He wore long dark clothes and a coat, but it was rather a moot point with the morels and ink caps grown on the side of his head. “Simon,” he greeted.
His eyes were vacant. “Sir.”
“Are they outside?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. That will be all then.”
He got up. He had a set of beautiful casement windows and a balcony that gave him an unimpeded view of the town square. It was something he appreciated more than ever, as he stepped outside and breathed in the warm night air. The crowd that gathered below was silent. He recognized nearly all of the faces – perks of watching neighbours and friends alike ripen and age. Joe Rickard. Eric Walton. The Sanders woman. He revelled in the collective heartbeat of hundred- no, a thousand more.
He caught Jacob’s eye below.
That was nearly everybody.
It had to be enough.
For now.
Illustrations by Adriel Ashvin
Written by: Trishta
Edited by: Amberlyn
