I woke in confusion, frozen by instinct and anxiety at the figure before me. It took several seconds for my mind to appreciate that the shape huddled in the corner of the room, sullen, dirty, and silent, was a small girl, perhaps ten years of age, not dissimilar to Louise. She had taken my oil lamp whilst I slept, refueled it, and set it beside her, farther from the window, presumably to ensure nothing outside was aware of our presence. She seemed a sensible girl with her wits still intact, but with her hands clutched tightly about her legs, and her bloodshot eyes peeping at me over the top of her knees, I could see she was frightened. Her unbrushed, mousey hair lay languid about her shoulders and the olive dress she wore was torn and bloody around the knees, black scum smeared along its length; she had obviously been crawling through unspeakable places to escape detection.
“Hello,” I said.
Aside from a slight twitch at my greeting, she did not move. I watched her for a moment more, then opened my arms to her with a gentle smile. Her reaction was instant. Bottom lip pressing hard against her teeth in a display of either relief or mental agony, she rose immediately and came to me, receiving my hug with a strength that could come only from terror and grief. I felt the angst of separation from my own daughters and held her firm to my chest, one hand stroking her hair. It was a precious moment of silent rapport, a knowledge that—even in this darkness—there was hope in the company of another.
“How long were you sitting there?” I asked her.
She pulled away and looked up at me. “I don’t know. It was a long time. I heard you come in.”
“You did? Why didn’t you say something?”
“I was afraid. I was hiding in the cupboard and heard the door open. Then I tried to stay as quiet as I could. I thought you were—”
Her eyes flickered with the remembrance of horrors no child should witness. I could not imagine the sickening distress she must have felt, thinking that I was one of those godless creatures lurking in wait for so many hours.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Had I known you were here, I . . . Where are your parents? Are they still in the house, too? Hiding?”
“No. This isn’t my house.”
“Why aren’t you at home? Are your parents . . . ?” I instantly regretted the open-ended question.
“They left. They went to the church. With the others. I think everyone was going there.”
“They left you behind?” I said softly.
Her mouth trembled, and her explanation of events tumbled from her so quickly that she did not even pause for breath. It was as if the need to unburden herself had become too much, and I became the recipient of her troubled account.
She told me that when the earthquake came, her parents had seemed concerned, but at the fog’s arrival, her mother became extremely anxious, almost to the point of panic. There was a heated disagreement between her parents about what should be done, but eventually her mother insisted that she would go to the church with the girl’s father to take up arms. The girl was to remain in the house and hide until their return. She had not mentioned having yet seen the creatures, and I gleaned from this that the girl’s mother seemed somehow to know what was ready to emerge from the fog. Assuming her account was accurate and concealed nothing important, this intrigued me, but I did not dwell upon it, because the story of this poor girl’s ordeal and the many hours of hiding that followed were heart-wrenching. She eventually made for the church only to turn back when she heard the sound of many people screaming. She was too frightened to approach, and ran back home only to find one of the creatures skulking in the garden. Her own home unsafe, she sought out the only other place that offered protection: the police station. But finding the same suggestion of carnage as I, and having the same idea to observe the station unseen, she found refuge in the house opposite.
Out of everything she told me, it was the thought of the church under siege that dominated my thoughts. St. James’s Church was the beating heart of the community. I wondered why they chose to make a united stand against the enemy at the church over the police station, which would have been a more fortified location, and better armed. Perhaps it had been attacked first and the church was the next best defense.
I felt the girl clasp my sleeve. “What’s your name, sir?”
“Oh, my dear! How terrible of me not to introduce myself. My name is Alexander Drenn. I used to teach at the school. And may I know your name?”
“Lucy.”
“Lucy. Well, Lucy, perhaps we should try to find your parents. What do you think?”
“Do we have to go outside?”
Obviously this would be a necessity, but the very idea of venturing out into the open turned my stomach. Cautiously, I went to the window and nudged the drapes. The scene had not changed. There were no officers near the station; there was no activity at all. A thick, consuming darkness and the diseased fog it hosted still smothered the streets. I checked my pocket watch. It was a quarter to ten. I considered the time as I stared through the glass and up into the sky. Daylight should have been pouring into the room. Even on the gloomiest of mornings the light should have been obvious. Perhaps it was near ten at night and I had slept for much longer than I thought. Surely not. That would mean this girl had been sitting there for more than twelve hours.
Lucy was studying my perplexed expression with alarm. “What’s wrong? Can you see them? Are they coming?”
“No, Lucy, we’re safe for the moment.”
“Then what is it?”
“I’m not sure. Do you happen to know the time?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think it’s noon yet. I’ve not heard the clock chime.”
“Noon?” I checked my watch again.
“Yes. Is your pocket watch wrong?”
“No . . . but it’s night outside. It can’t be noon.”
She stared back, searching my eyes. “The sun went away. Don’t you remember?”
“Went away? But . . .”
“It happened two days ago, when the ground shook. You must have seen it.”
“No, I . . . I remember the earthquake, but I received a blow to the head and fell unconscious. It seems I was asleep for much longer than I thought.”
That made clear the reason for my extreme thirst and hunger and the lack of people in the village. However, the mystery of the missing sun was not so easily explained, nor the presence of the invaders.
“Lucy, the creatures in the fog. Do you know where they came from?”
She looked down as I spoke of them, blinking hard as she balled her fists, and at once I regretted mentioning them.
“I’m sorry. We should try to find your parents.”
“No!” She clutched at me. “Please stay with me. Please!”
I held her close, keeping my voice as soft and as comforting as I could. “We cannot stay here. I know you are frightened of leaving the house, but—”
“No!”
There was no chance of moving her yet. And how could I leave her? It was impossible. This defenseless child had endured hours of isolation. She was lonely and afraid, and I was all she had. So I stayed and held her until her grip slackened and her breathing calmed. For all I knew she was right to stay. Perhaps there would be rescue any time now. Perhaps this nightmare would be over soon and the sun would rise once more, banishing these monstrous intruders from our village. But my heart did not believe these things. The darkness outside was more than just an absence of light, and it held more than murderous beasts and rank mist. It held a malignance: a spirit of suffering and despair promising something terrible, like the last words of dread on the lips of a hanged man as his eyes saw their first visions of Sheol. The truth was, I too did not want to step outside.
Gently, I lifted Lucy and laid her upon the bed, pulling a blanket over her in much the same way as I had for my own daughters on countless occasions. I watched her chest rise and fall, listened to the murmur of her breath, suddenly very aware of the silence around me, like a cloak. There was no evidence of distress as she slumbered, which somehow calmed me too, and it was enough to ease the pain in my head and to help me gather my thoughts properly for the first time since I left my home. But my meditations did nothing to encourage any hope. It was fruitless to dwell upon the possible causes of this attack, and without knowledge of cause, it would be equally futile to attempt a strategy of defense. The silent street outside was evidence enough that nobody else—including the police—had successfully challenged the invasion, and the fact that no one had come to claim Lucy left me suspicious that the stand at the church had rendered the townsfolk trapped, or worse. My intervention would be impotent, and with the police station deserted, I saw only one sensible course of action: I had to escape Dennington Cross entirely and get help from outside.