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Dougal pulls the strange object—long, pale, and gnarled, like a twisted twig—from the keyhole. Rachel is reminded of the ghost boy who’s said to walk these halls, leaving destruction in his wake, playing tricks on anyone who dares to enter the old school building. After all, if Fae are real, why can’t ghosts be?
“It’s a key,” Dougal says, frowning. “A key made from bone by the look of it.”
Her nose pulls up in disgust. “This is a bad idea.”
Dougal reaches to the doorknob, twists it and pushes the door open. The hinges don’t squeak or creak or whine, as if they’ve recently been oiled. It’s almost creepier this way. Almost. A gush of warm air hits them head-on, along with a cloying smell that churns her stomach.
He pulls his shirt over his mouth and nose. “It smells pure rancid down there.”
Rachel uses her sweater’s collar to clamp over her own mouth and nose, unable to respond lest she vomits up the nothingness in her stomach.
Dougal reaches inside the dark interior and pulls down on a rope. A lightbulb flickers on, swinging to and fro from the ceiling. Shadows elongate in the yellow light, dance in staccato against the boxy walls. A small landing with a staircase, leading down into the depths of the school, appears ominous in the half-light.
Rachel wants to beg Dougal not to let her go into the bowels of the school, but her pride keeps her silent.
“I bet ye there’s nothin’ to be scared of at the bottom of this staircase.” His words are muffled behind his shirt, but the unconvinced tone is clear.
Ignoring his fake bravado, afraid she’ll sound snide if she addresses it, she simply says, “Let’s just get this over with.”
Dougal carefully descends, the darkness swallowing him whole. She follows, although her footing is uncertain on the narrow concrete steps while her eyes adjust to the lighting. With her free hand, she searches for a bannister to keep herself steady. She finds the cool, thick metal railing, which feels awkward beneath her hand. It’s like no care was taken when the bannister was painted. Her breathing sounds loud in her own ears, panicked, but it’s the best she can do considering the smell.
This is the epitome of stupidity.
Dougal stops at the bottom of the stairs, his hand moving across the wall, as if he’s blindly searching for a light switch.
“I doubt there are any other—” Before Rachel can say more, phosphorus lights flicker on, a mechanical buzz resonating from the long, white bulbs lining the ceiling. She groans from the sudden brightness and blinks to clear her sight. “I stand corrected.”
She dares to take the sweater away from her mouth and nose, only to be assaulted by the smell of rot. Rachel gags. The disgusting odor coats her tongue, esophagus, and stomach lining. She rushes to the corner of the basement area and heaves, spilling mostly digestive juices onto the concrete floor. The undeniable stench of decay is everywhere, clinging to every part of the basement, to her clothes and hair. She retches again.
“All right?” Dougal asks, rubbing one palm across her back while he tries to keep her hair out of her face.
“No. This is the second time I’m throwing up in as many days.”
“Are ye up th’ duff?”
“Huh?”
“Are ye pregnant then?” he says without humor.
“No. For heaven’s sake, Dougal, what do you take me for?”
He shrugs. “Jist wonderin’.”
“Well, stop wondering about stupid things and start thinking about why it smells like something’s died down here,” Rachel says.
“Aye.”
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and slowly straightens to look around the basement area. Colorful pipes run the length of the space, ending now and then in large metallic containers. Dust and grit layers the floor, seemingly undisturbed for months—maybe years—until now. When her gaze falls on Dougal, he no longer wears the mask of annoyance. There’s concern in his expression, and an obvious hint of fear glimmering in his eyes.
“Are ye ready tae continue?” he asks.
Something crunches nearby, like a foot accidentally sliding across the filthy floor. They both look in the direction of the sound, searching for a nonexistent lurker. Ice runs through Rachel’s veins. She grabs Dougal’s arm and stares at the unidentifiable heap lying near the bottom of a metallic container.
“What?” he hisses.
Rachel points to the crumpled heap—Please let it be fabric.
Dougal’s gaze drifts over to the area. His frown becomes more pronounced as he places a hand on her shoulder. She can’t figure out if the gesture is to hold her back or if he wants to use her as a shield. At this point, anything’s possible. She drops her hand to her side and they slowly move together toward the metallic container, hesitant to find out what exactly they’re dealing with.
The closer they dare to move, the more intense the repugnant smell grows. A persistent buzzing becomes louder. Rachel swats a fat fly away from her face. The heap stirs slightly, making a sickly, squelching sound, disturbing the swarm of insects ever so slightly.
She and Dougal halt and wait for any other sudden movements. When nothing else occurs in the brief reprieve, they take another step closer.
Eyes stare up at Rachel from a flat, unrecognizable face that’s haphazardly folded into a neck and torso. Boneless limbs lie every which way, stretched out beyond recognition. A swollen tongue hangs from the mouth, lips pulled into an awkward, ugly gape. It looks like a film prop or a twisted Halloween decoration that’d been left out in the sun. The heap twitches again and a bulge appears in the neck. A thick, serpentine thing slips out of the mouth, protruding from between the lips, slinks across the flattened nose, and whips the chubby cheek. It quickly disappears before a bloody snout becomes visible. Whiskers move and beady eyes stare out from the jawless face, cradled between broken teeth.
Rachel steps back and suppresses a scream, which comes out as a squeak. She stares in abject horror at the scene. Her stomach flips in revulsion. The damage is done, though. The image will forever haunt her nightmares.
“In the name of the Wee Man,” Dougal whispers, aghast.
“I told you,” she says. Anger takes over as she opens her eyes again. She averts her gaze to look directly at Dougal, his face now the shade of ash. “I freaking told you we shouldn’t come down here, didn’t I?”
His eyes fix on the boneless body, his jaw works as if he’s speaking under his breath, but he can’t find his voice.
“Dougal, c’mon.” She nudges his shoulder, pushing his immense form backward so he can snap out of his stupor.
“He’s boneless. Utterly boneless,” he finally utters, unable to pry his gaze away from the heap of human remains. Dougal raises his hand, wipes his palm over his forehead and eyes, and shakes his head. “How’s it even possible?”
“If we stick around here for much longer, I’m pretty sure we’ll find out. Let’s go.” Rachel tugs at his sleeve, but he doesn’t budge. “We need to report it.”
“Aye,” he concedes.
“We need to report this now.”
He nods, but doesn’t move his feet. The shock seems to have gotten the best of him. It’s understandable, but considering the killer could still be lurking somewhere nearby, watching them, waiting to strike—
Rachel tries again. Unable to keep the quiver from her voice, she hisses, “Dougal, damn it.”
“I heard ye the first time,” he barks, snapping away his gaze from the wretched soul. “Unlike ye, I have to process my emotions when I come across murdered folks. Not everyone can go on unaltered like a bloody robot.”
Surprised by his outburst, she says in a low, threatening tone, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Dougal breathes loudly through his nose, and marches past her. “Ye know full well what I mean.”
“I actually don’t.” She balls her hands into fists, exasperation and confusion stiffening her muscles. “No, what are you going on about?”
“Och, please,” Dougal mutters. He spins around to face her, cutting off access to the exit. His face is still red, but his ice blue eyes have grown even colder. “Ye’re so calm, ye barely blinked right now.” He gestures in the general direction of the corpse. “Normal people don’t react like that. And don’t even get me started on yer pompousness.”
“Now I’m pompous?” Rachel tries making sense of the warped puzzle pieces in her mind. “Sorry, but I’m struggling to understand how I got to be the bad guy here. It’s not like I killed the guy.”
“The way ye talk. It’s like ye’re always talkin’ down to me, to Nan, to everyone,” he interrupts her. “Ye never show who ye are underneath the fakeness, and Lord help me, ye always know what’s best. Even when ye don’t know anythin’, ye’re somehow always right. It’s annoyin’ to say the least. No wonder ye don’t have any friends.”
In her peripheral, she notices something lingering nearby. Rachel turns away from Dougal, searching for the lurker. There’s nothing there, though—it’s probably just her mind playing tricks on her as it processes that traumatizing image.
Ready to stand up for herself, she turns to Dougal, when suddenly she notices it again. The hair on the back of her neck stands on end. Her heart picks up speed as she tries discerning the ghostlike figure from the corner of her eye.
“We need to go,” she says.
“I don’t know who ye are, Rachel. It’s like ye have no depth as a person.” When she doesn’t respond, he says, “Freak out, for God’s sake!”
The figure takes a clipped step toward them, limbs bending unnaturally. It makes a staccato movement with its shoulders, before taking another step forward. The creature’s head jerks to the side, fingers twitch revealing talon-like nails. The rest of the strange creature’s body is obscured as it flickers in and out of existence, as if it’s stuck between two worlds.
Rachel’s heart pounds harder with her growing anxiety. She’s about to make a run for it when Dougal presses his balled hand against his head. His fingers move into his hair, violently tugging clumps from his scalp. A deafening roar rips from his throat. The sound rebounds.
“What’s happenin’ to me?” He goes down onto one knee.
“Fae influence, I suspect.” Rachel grabs hold of him by snaking her arm around his waist, and helps him get back to his feet.
Dougal drapes an arm across her shoulders for support, leaning on her with much of his immense weight. He drags his feet as she half-carries him the way they’d come. He’s not the easiest person to maneuver, but she manages to get him up the stairs regardless of the approaching flickering creature. Rachel kicks the door shut behind them and hears the lock click into place. Whether the barrier would provide a modicum of protection, however, is debatable.
“It feels like there’s a swarm of bees buzzin’ round in my head,” he explains through labored breaths.
“Hold on,” Rachel says. She comes to a stop halfway up the hallway, leans Dougal against the wall and makes sure he’s steady before reaching to the back of her neck. With deft hands, Rachel unclips the umbrella necklace, and, holding one side of the pendant with her index finger and thumb, presses part of the smooth stone against his hand.
Dougal blinks rapidly, the redness of his skin fading away in an instant.
“Better?” she asks.
“Aye,” he says, sounding relieved.
“Good.”
They remain quiet for a moment, frozen in the main, deserted hallway of the old schoolhouse before Dougal says, “We can’t report this.”
Rachel’s eyes widen. “Our fingerprints and shoeprints and possibly some of my DNA are down there. We need to report it, unless you want us to become murder suspects when the body starts to stink up the whole school.”
“There’s a real mean Fae down there, too.”
“Yeah.” Rachel sighs. “So, what do we do?”
“I don’t know how to put a proper outfit together half the time and now ye want me to come up with a plan to deal with this?”
“Contrary to popular belief, I don’t have all the answers.” She fixes her free hand on her hip and taps her foot, waiting for him to continue his earlier tirade. Fae influence or not, the insults he’d thrown at her had still burrowed into her mind. He’d hurt her, more than she would ever admit out loud, because he isn’t wrong.
Dougal pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek as he ponders their next move. With a hefty sigh, he says, “Seems like yer gonna ‘ave to go find Orion.”
