Drippy Heart
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The rain was like a song that came on endlessly, drumming the roof and walls of her cottage, pattering down upon leaves, splashing in the ditch. And it kept coming from somewhere far off in the hills, she knew.
She felt so sorry for those poor people out there having to cope with such weather; they should have gone south before summer ended. But it didn’t seem as though anyone could go anywhere now, not without wading through all the floods and mud or being washed away in landslides.
“And if they did?” she asked herself. “If they tried, would I help them? Or turn a blind eye again because I was afraid someone might notice me helping? And if I couldn’t do that—what then?”
It seemed to her, as she lay curled up on the floor of her tiny room at the back of the house, staring into the rain-washed darkness, that this had happened before. But when? What was this place, really?
She remembered something about a river… The River Moyle! No wonder the rains were coming straight down from the highlands and the sea.
She wondered if perhaps the people of the town had made peace with their ghosts by now; maybe one day, if she was lucky, they would come to visit her in her little hovel. She’d like to see that.
But they hadn’t yet.
“Maybe I just need more time,” she told herself aloud. “Perhaps when my daughter is older. When we can make the crossing safely.”
That’s what she always said when she thought the ghosts wouldn’t hurt her anymore. That, and promises she was no longer sure she meant.
She heard a knock. Her visitor was very old and she didn’t even know his name. They were old friends now, after so long; he brought her a few pieces of fish each week. Not much, but enough. He always looked so worried about her, with his head bowed in apology for the meager fare she received. But she never scolded him, not anymore.
“It’s all right, friend,” she said gently, sitting up. “You mustn’t worry.”
The old man came forward warily, holding out a hand as though it belonged to a stranger. But then he saw who it was and smiled, taking her hand and pressing it against his own face, making a great show of kissing her knuckles.
“My lady,” he said reverently, looking into her eyes. “Thank you for my food.”
She laughed kindly at this, and he beamed, patting his bulging pocket before turning to go. Then she heard his footsteps fade down the rickety staircase and he was gone.
She sat back on her heels, smiling as she watched the rain.
When she went downstairs to get the kettle on the fire, she found her daughter playing outside. The girl was so full of life, it was almost as if she could hear the music from the sea, even through the storm. And yet, at times, she looked so sad… She was such a bright, clever girl, and yet she was also so lonely.
“I will send you there one day,” she promised softly as she lifted her baby sister and placed her in the playpen, next to where the other children played. “You’ll see that the others are happy. You will be happy.”
And then she turned to the kitchen, to find their visitor had returned, with a large basket.
“Thank you,” she said warmly. “Is that everything?”
He nodded, and she smiled at him again, taking the basket gratefully and bringing it upstairs to their small room, setting it down on a little table near the door. There were fresh blankets in there—he never used them anymore; they seemed to make him nervous. She had no idea why.
When she reached back inside for a knife and a plateful of meat, something made her pause. She stood still for a moment, listening to the patter of the rain on the roof, looking up. But the stairs led nowhere, and there was nothing but more rooms downstairs. It wasn’t a place anyone would be able to sneak up on her.
So what was it? What was she missing?
It took only a heartbeat before she knew, though. Someone was watching her!
She ran out into the hall and looked around. The doorways to every room were dark, but the hall itself glowed a gentle blue. There! She’d seen that strange light, a little while ago. That was why she hadn’t been able to hear footsteps in the house—her ears were picking up only the sound of the storm, as usual.
She had just assumed that this must be some new trick of the old man’s. She had never known anyone with eyes in his ears before.
The hallway lit up even brighter now, bathing her in soft white light. And in front of her, not five steps from her doorway was someone wearing a cloak, a hood pulled low over their head. She blinked rapidly, staring at them, wondering if this was real or another trick of the rain.
As quickly as it came upon her, the vision disappeared. But her heart still beat so hard against her chest it hurt. What had she seen, and who was he?
She stared down at the basket he’d brought, feeling suddenly very hungry, her stomach clenching. “Is this all?” she asked, reaching into the basket. A handful of small fish lay there, still flopping in their wrappings, a bit of cheese and bread beneath them.
“Yes,” he said, sounding surprised by her question. “I have enough for both of us.” He hesitated, glancing around uncertainly. Then he looked at her as though he’d never seen her before. “It is you, isn’t it? You are the lady I see every day at the beach.”
“How do you know my name?” she whispered, staring at him. His face was blurred somehow; his features weren’t quite clear. She didn’t dare touch the light to it, but she saw that his hands were shaking.
He swallowed heavily, looking more and more nervous with each passing moment. Finally, he looked away, nodding. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice barely audible. “You… You’ve been kind to me. I thought…”
Something tugged at her, something inside her, urging her to go down to the beach. To see what was out there. Something made her take a step forward, then another. Her hand reached up instinctively—she didn’t want to let it go, even for a moment!
The air was cold as ice. She gasped when it touched her fingers, then looked back at the old man. He smiled faintly, but she noticed that his eyes were now a strange color. Red, as dark as blood, burning as red as fire.
And as she turned back to look out at the sea, her heart gave a great thump, then seemed to give way altogether. There was nothing there—not in the air or on the ground—nothing save a vast darkness all around her. No moon shone in the sky.
She took one step after another, walking deeper into this dark place, feeling it close in around her. The cold grew so intense it seemed to seep into her very bones. She couldn’t feel the wind anymore, not at all, just an eerie stillness that pressed against her like some great weight.
The man had gone. Where he’d been, she saw only the darkness. As if there hadn’t even been anything there at all.
“You have come too far,” she heard a voice say suddenly.
She turned back toward the direction of the house, but it wasn’t there, either. Nothing was. Just a cold empty darkness everywhere. And she realized she couldn’t hear the rain anymore. Not even a single drop fell from above.
“It’s your father’s world, my lady,” the voice whispered. “This is only a little taste of what lies beyond it.”
“My lady?” she asked quietly, turning back. A tall figure stood there, dressed entirely in black and staring at her with eyes like molten rock. But she felt no fear; rather, she thought it strangely beautiful. And yet…
She swallowed hard. “Who are you?” she breathed, looking back at the tall dark figure, then around again. The dark figure looked down at her as though noticing her for the first time. He raised his head. “What is your name?”
She stared at him for a long moment. Something inside her felt drawn to this mysterious figure. It seemed as though a piece of her wanted nothing more than to go closer.
“I’m Lark,” she whispered finally. Then she stepped forward, reaching up to touch his cheek. He closed his eyes, but he didn’t pull away when she ran her fingers down his jawline. His skin was warm, like silk.
She smiled at him for a long moment, wondering why the dark figure didn’t turn away. “You’ve been kind,” she said softly, still looking into his eyes. “More than you know. I don’t want you to leave me.” She glanced around again. There was nothing there but emptiness. No one, no house, not even a single tree. Only the same dark void that swallowed all else.
“You can stay with me forever if you wish,” she told him softly. Then she reached out, touching the side of his face once more.
“It would be my pleasure.”
***
They had been in the world for a week when things began to change. One night after Lark finished reading a story she’d been enjoying—a fairy tale about an old king who was given a magic mirror that granted wishes—she awoke suddenly in the middle of the night and saw a man standing over her bed.
She sat up straight with a start, looking around for her mother, but the woman was sound asleep on the other side of the room. The man smiled at her; he was dressed all in black. She frowned. She recognized him somehow, from someplace. But where?
“You have wished upon your mirror,” he said. “What is it you seek?”
She swallowed hard, then shook her head. “I… I don’t know. I… It’s something that’s gone wrong. Something bad.”
The man stared at her in silence for a long moment, a strange smile curving his lips. He touched the side of his face, smiling faintly as though he knew what she spoke of.
Then he leaned in close and whispered in her ear, “Come to me tomorrow morning. I’ll take you to see it.”
And he disappeared like smoke before her eyes.
She lay back down in bed, shaking slightly. Then she looked up and realized her window was open. She ran across the room, pulling the window shut, then went to check the others in the room, wondering if they’d been left open as well, but they were closed.
She sighed, glancing at her mother for reassurance, but the woman was already fast asleep once more, breathing steadily.
She stared at the window until her eyes grew heavy and she fell into a fitful sleep of her own.
She was awakened by her father in the morning.
“Your mother and I are leaving for a week,” he said calmly. His expression had remained the same.
Lark sat up quickly in bed, looking around the room for a sign of the dark man—but he wasn’t there. She shook her head. She didn’t want them to leave, especially not now. And besides, why would he have come so soon? Had he really meant it when he had said he’d show her the place she wished for?
“We shall be back next Sunday,” he told her. He was carrying her coat, which he tossed down on her bed before sitting down on the edge of it. His face had changed; it was harder now. As though he no longer trusted her. “You must be very good while we’re gone.”
And with that, he stood and left the room. Lark heard him downstairs; she could hear his voice as he spoke to the housekeeper for a moment. She lay back down in bed for a minute, wondering if she’d imagined the whole thing, and finally climbed out of bed, going over to the coat her father had dropped on her bed.
It felt strange, warm against her hand; it smelled faintly of perfume, but also something else… like a strange smell she couldn’t quite place. But as she took the coat, the scent suddenly struck her, and she froze in her tracks. The faintest hint of blood.
The coat had a knife-scarlet stain seeping through the fabric, running along one side of the back.
It must have happened weeks ago, or perhaps months, or maybe even years.
A chill crept up her spine, and she clutched at the coat, pulling it close around herself. Her father had never spoken to her about knives. He was always so calm and kind. He loved her mother dearly, and Lark loved them both so much, and it hadn’t seemed to matter how angry they might become or how hurtful their words. But now… he had killed someone?
She ran out into the hall, searching frantically until she found her mother, who sat reading her morning paper. The woman glanced up at Lark when she heard her daughter’s frantic whisper. “What is it?”
Lark threw herself down onto the nearest couch, holding the coat close to her chest and hugging it tightly. “He—he came this morning! My father!”
“Your father? When did he leave?”
“This morning,” Lark answered shakily. Her mother frowned.
“You mean you haven’t seen him yet?”
Lark nodded, unable to speak. And with that, her mother was already getting up from the couch.
“We’ll look for him first thing,” the older woman promised. She put her arm around Lark, but she shook it off, looking down at her coat instead. “You’re sure it has a mark like that on it?” she asked anxiously. “Did he cut himself while dressing or something?”
But Lark said nothing, staring at the scarlet stain, all the same, wishing it would fade away before her eyes, and that they would find her father wherever he might be hiding out and that he could tell her what had happened to him and why, and most of all, why she couldn’t seem to see him.
The End