Dark Season: The Complete Box Set (20 page)

Sophie

Morning comes. I slept badly last night; I always do when it's not raining. And now it's time. I shut the bathroom door and slide the lock across. Staring at my hands, I take a deep breath. Can I really do this?

I walk over to the bathtub. There's no need to fill it. I set the two knives on the side, and then I go to the cabinet and take out a couple of razor blades. They're not the sharpest, but they'll do. I go and set them next to the knives, before walking over to the window and pulling the curtains shut. I've already made sure my mother and brother are out, and Adam and Shelley are both off doing their own things; I just have to make sure Patrick doesn't suddenly appear from out of nowhere, but that shouldn't be too difficult. I haven't seen him for weeks.

I pull my shirt off over my head, and then I remove my bra, take off the rest of my clothes and climb into the dry bathtub. God, I really don't know if this is the best place to be doing this, but my bedroom would be so messy, and there's really nowhere else that's private. It has to be somewhere I know well. Somewhere I'm in control. Somewhere I can clean up properly after I'm done.

I feel the lower side of my left breast and quickly find what I'm looking for. The lump. It's about the size of a large pea, and I can't believe I only noticed it yesterday. Was it growing there unnoticed for weeks, months even? Or did it just appear recently? If I could afford to go to a doctor, maybe I'd be able to find out. As it is, I have to deal with this myself as best I can, and then hope the rest of the problem just goes away.

I take one of the knives and touch the end with a finger. It's the sharpest knife I've ever felt. In any other situation, I'd be nervous of it. As things stand, though, I'm glad I've got it. A sharper knife should, in theory, make a cleaner cut, with less scarring, and should hurt less. I grab a bottle of vodka from next to the bath, and I pour a little over the blade to sterilize the metal. I pause for a moment, wondering whether it'd help to be drunk for this, but I figure I need to be in total control.

I stare at the knife. I'm delaying things. Time to get started. I've already drawn a little black circle around the lump using a black marker. I put the tip of the knife against the circle, take a deep breath, prepare for the pain, and then I push it in and slice. Except, the skin doesn't break. Fuck. This isn't going to be easy, is it? I put the tip back at the start, and then I tilt it slightly and push until it bursts through the skin. There's not much pain, and just a single bead of blood which runs down the side of the breast and down the side of my belly onto the top of my jeans.

I slice slowly along the line, and this time the skin seems to tear easily as the knife passes. I complete the circle and realize with a little satisfaction that I've completed stage one. But it's stage two that's going to be the hardest, because I have no idea how deep this thing is or what's going to happen when I try to cut it out.

Figuring that I might as well keep going and get this over with fast, I slip the tip of the knife into the cut and push it against the lump, and then I slice straight through. The pain is definitely there, but I've told myself to experience the pain as a positive thing, as something that shows I'm doing the job properly, so I keep going. I try to lift the limp out, but it's still firmly part of me. I slice around the other side, then under, and I try to lift it again. It's still stuck. I pull the blade out and slide it in the other side, then I cut some more and try to pull. It still won't come. I turn the blade ninety degrees and make some more cuts, and then I pull yet again. Still nothing, so I pull it as far as I can and then I run the blade under it. There's blood swamping out the top of the wound and running down my side. It tickles. I slice again, but still the lump won't come out, so I slice again. And again. And again, and finally it comes loose and I pull it from my body and throw it down to the other end of the bath.

There's more blood than I expected, but still not enough to make me worry too much. I grab a load of toilet roll and start holding it against the hole to soak up as much blood as possible. I've already read about clotting online, and I reckon within a few minutes the flow should slow down. I just sit there and wait, keeping my eyes fixed on the bloody little lump that's next to the plughole by my feet. After a few minutes I pull the tissue away and although there's a little more blood, it definitely seems to be slowing. So far, everything's going according to plan.

I lean forward and pick up the lump, taking a look at it, rolling it between my thumb and forefinger. It just seems like a hard little lump, almost as if it's made of stone, and it's colored bright red by the blood. Feeling a little morbid, I reach over and drop the lump into the toilet, pulling the handle to flush it away. Then, deciding I need to clean up as fast as possible, I get to my feet and start thinking about how best to cover up all the traces of what I've done before I can go through to my room and take a nap. A nap sounds good right now, and it's starting to rain outside. Why am I so tired all the time?

Patrick

The rain is so intense, I can barely breathe.

It's past midnight, and Sophie is fast asleep. Her face is calm and peaceful, as if she's not dreaming at all, just resting. I've never seen anyone look so beautiful, and I want more than anything to slide her window open and go to her bed. I can't do that, though. Not yet, anyway. Not until we reach the right place.

Anyway, I'm not here to watch Sophie. I'm here to keep an eye on the horrific, hideous, hungry and dangerous red creature that sits carefully perched on top of her body while she sleeps. Its back is hunched over as it perches delicately in the darkness, two dark red stab wounds for eyes, staring down at her face. She has no idea it's there yet, but she'll learn soon enough, if I don't find a way to stop it from slowly killing her night after night.

As I watch, the creature opens its mouth, reaches in with a stringy red hand and pulls out a spit-covered black pebble that drips with slime. The creature then reaches down to Sophie's bare shoulder and with a razor-sharp fingertip, it makes a small incision. Finally it slips the black pebble through the cut and under the skin, after which the cut quickly heals.

Finally, the creature extends a long, thin, red straw from its face down to Sophie's body, and it slowly pushes the sharp tip of the straw into her flesh. It starts to drink.

Sophie has no idea that this creature exists. It comes to her every night and does the same thing, but she sleeps through the whole experience. She must be tired in the mornings, though, and she must be starting to feel ill. The creature is a Tenderling, and although its nightly visits aren't immediately fatal, over time it will use up her body until there's nothing left of her. I have to stop it, but I'm not sure how. If I simply rip it away, it'll kill Sophie instantly.

As I watch, the Tenderling slowly turns its head and looks at me. It should not be able to see me. It should not even know that I exist. But it does. And it looks at me with total confidence, because it knows that I am powerless to stop it. It has claimed Sophie, and once a Tenderling has claimed a victim, there is nothing that can be done.

Sophie

I take the phone into my room. Until I have the money to buy a cell phone, this is how I have to do things. Sitting on the bed, I check my watch. It's 8pm, so my dad should be calling at any moment. He's usually pretty late, and there's a chance he'll just forget, but I figure I should make an effort. I understand that he's busy, and I just want to hear his voice and see if it's still okay for me to go out and visit him some time soon.

While I'm waiting, I open my laptop. Shelley's online, and a message soon pops up:

> Changed your mind about Friday night?

I type back:

> No chance. Have fun sucking Rob's cock all night.

After a moment:

> Will do.

I've got a vague idea that I should look up some kind of free clinic, and see if I can get someone to look at the wound on my breast and maybe tell me how stupid I've been. For one thing, it could be infected; for another, I have no way of knowing whether the lump might have been cancerous, in which case there's a danger it might already be too late to stop it spreading. It'd probably be a good idea to get a professional opinion, but money's tight. It'd pretty much have to be free.

The phone rings. I grab it and answer.

"Hi," I say enthusiastically, shocked at the thought that my father might actually be on time for once.

There's nothing on the other end, except for a regular clicking sound.

"Dad?" I ask.

There's still nothing but the clicking, and an occasional buzz. It's a kind of static I don't think I've ever heard before.

"Dad, I don't know if you're there," I say, "but I can't hear anything so I'm going to hang up, okay? Try calling again." I disconnect. After a couple of seconds it rings again and I answer. "Dad?"

More of the same noise.

"I'm really sorry, I can't hear anything," I say. "Email me or something, okay?"

I disconnect. I can't deny I'm pretty disappointed. I was hoping to arrange a trip out to Los Angeles to see him, and I was kind of hoping to hint at the possibility of needing a mobile phone. I get up from the bed and go over to the mirror, where I lift up my shirt to look at the wound on the side of my breast. It doesn't look nearly as bad as I'd expected, although I'll still have to keep myself covered up around Adam for a couple of days.

Over on the bed, the phone rings again. Sighing, I grab it and answer, but there's still nothing on the other end. Just that clicking sound.

"I can't hear you!" I say, raising my voice a little, before cutting the call off. I'm tired. Again! Time for another early night. Hopefully this time -

I feel a hand touch my shoulder. Well, there goes any hope of keeping this from Patrick. I turn, but there's no sign of him. Stepping across the room, I take a look out the window. It's not like Patrick to play hide and seek, but as I peer out into the darkness, I feel another tap on my shoulder, and I turn to once again find that there's no-one behind me.

"Cut it out!" I say, annoyed at his stupidity. It's been a while since I last saw Patrick, and we didn't exactly leave things on good terms.

Figuring I don't have the energy to play some stupid game, I go over to the door. All I want to do is have a shower and get into bed, but as I'm about to head out into the corridor, I hear a noise nearby. Turning, I finally see a figure standing over by the window, but it's not Patrick.

It's my father, staring back at me with dull, blank eyes.

Patrick

The ghosts are out again tonight, lining all the roads, watching me as I walk past. I'm glad I can't see their faces, because I know exactly who they are and what they want. At least they don't follow me. Instead, they wait where they know I'll be. They're waiting for the inevitable. They know, and I know, that it's coming.

In fact, it's coming faster than I anticipated.

When I reach the place by the lake, the place that even my father knows nothing about, I stop for a moment. The ghosts are all around me, but they won't - or perhaps can't - follow me down the stone steps into the darkness. It feels good to be able to confound them like this. They know nothing of what is down there. Some things, some people, have to be hidden deep.

I walk down the stone steps, heading deep into the ground. Eventually, maybe two hundred feet or more beneath the surface, I come to the door, which I pull open. It's a huge door, made of oak, and it takes all my strength. That's the point, though: it's not supposed to be easy to get in or out of this place. After all, it was originally built by the lords of Gothos as a place to keep their most dangerous enemies.

I walk along the dark stone corridor. For a human, it would be impossible to see a thing in the gloom, but I can make out the rats scurrying past me. They hate it when I come, because their little underground world gets disturbed and they have to flee for their lives. It's a good thing for them that I come down here so rarely.

Finally, I reach the chamber. It has been decades since I was last down here, but he has not moved. Shackled to the wall, hanging naked by his wrists, he's completely still. At first, he doesn't hear me, and I wonder if perhaps he has died somehow. Eventually, however, he raises his head slowly, and his blank white eyes stare straight at me. For a few minutes, he keeps this gaze fixed on me and then, finally, a smile cracks across his lips.

His mind reaches out to me and asks how the war is going. I tell him that the war ended long ago. He should know this. I told him all about it the last time I was down here, but it seems he's unable to accept the truth and is living instead in a fantasy world where the war still rages and could still be won. Try as I might, I can't make him understand that Gothos has long since fallen. He seems perpetually stuck in that moment of defiance when he still believed that the armies of Gothos would triumph. I envy his faith, but it is misplaced. Everything after the fall of Gothos - the death of the nightmare hive; the siege of the castle of eyes; the retreat of the Sentinels at the lighthouse, and the final battle in the catacombs of New York when we showed Cassandra's heart to the dying children... all of this seems to be blocked from his mind. This is the full extent of his madness.

I don't blame him. If I could forget everything and follow him into insanity, I would gladly go. Also, he has done done something that no-one else has ever done; he has walked through the dead zone that spreads far from Gothos, so he has seen everything that is to come, things that even I don't know. When he returned, he claimed he encounter snow in the void, although few believed him. Perhaps one day I shall join him down here, mad and trapped and unwilling to face the truth. There are worse ways to spend eternity.

No wonder the ghosts do not come down here.

I listen to his ravings for a while, but eventually I tell him that I need his help. He laughs at this, but he seems willing to listen, so I tell him about the Tenderling, about how it sits night after night on Sophie's back, drawing strength from her pain, and about how it spends its days arranging more agony for her, taking forms both desperate and cruel. I tell him that I fear Sophie will die if she is not saved from this creature, and I tell him that Sophie is indeed the girl from the prophecy.

He listens attentively, and when I have finished describing this Tenderling, he asks what I think he can do to help. Tenderlings, he says, take what they want and leave. They cannot be defeated. As he speaks, I realize that the curtains of his madness have parted a little, and his old intelligence is smiling through the gap.

I tell him that although I know he's right, I need to know how to stop this Tenderling without it killing Sophie when it slips away from her body. I tell him that his bargaining position is limited, that I will not release him from this place, that I will not unchain him, and that I will not end his pain. There is absolutely no chance that he can use this opportunity as a chance to escape. But I tell him that if there is anything else I can do for him, anything that will persuade him to help me, I will do it.

He stares at me. It is clear that he has never expected this moment. He has been down here for centuries, mostly alone, and he had obviously given up expecting to ever see another creature. But now that I am down here, his mind is churning with possibilities. It's clear that he's going to try to trick me, or to ask for something that will cause me great pain. I can handle pain, though. I am ready for whatever he demands. In fact, I already know what he wants, and I'm willing to give it to him. I'm willing to trade one life for another.

Finally, he tells me that he can help, but that in return I must bring someone to see him. Then, he says, he will tell me everything. I agree, and he tells me I must come closer so he can deliver the message for me to pass on. Against my better judgment, I step closer and lean in so that he can tell me. I keep just far enough back to be able to move out of the way if he tries anything.

He says something, but I can't make it out.

I ask him to say it again.

He leans in closer.

In a quiet voice, barely able to hide his anger and pain, he whispers a name.

"Vincent."