Bright Lights & Glass Houses

The rustling of the bible set Charlotte's teeth on edge. Father Nash had such a way of reading the good book that every turn of the page sounded like a tearing, throaty condemnation. He'd run his finger along the bottom of a leaf, the callous on his finger drawing out an elongated 'shhhhh' noise. Then, with a deft flick of the wrist, he'd cast the paper to the left, ringing out in the silent room like a gunshot. Or at least that's how it seemed to Charlotte, anyway. It was just a book, of course. It couldn't hold that kind of power.

  Father Nash knew the Bible by heart. Of course he did. He was a priest, after all. Bible reading time, Charlotte often thought, was more of a pointedly enforced silence. The Father treated that hour each day as if it were the Sabbath itself. Charlotte's chores had to be finished by four PM without question, and then the Father expected her to sit there, watching, contemplating the words he was reading. Charlotte would have welcomed a Bible of her own. Even staring at the words, unable to read them, would've been enough.

  Once, she'd asked Father Nash to read it to her. "That's what church is for, girl," he'd snapped, and nothing had changed.

  Charlotte sat, watching the liver spots stretch and bob on Father Nash's skin as he manipulated the bible. She was cold. Autumn was leaving and Winter was setting in, so the Father had called for her to light a fire. It crackled in the hearth, but Charlotte's chair was positioned on the outskirts of the room, just that bit too far away to feel the heat. She shifted uncomfortably. Her left arm felt numb. She held back a sneeze.

  The clock struck five. Father Nash slammed the bible shut, rifle-loud, which caused Charlotte to jump.

  "Don't think I didn't see you drifting off, girl," the Father scolded.

  Charlotte frowned. She wasn't aware that she had. "Sorry, Father," she murmured.

  "Anyway," he said, clapping his gnarled hands together. "There's perfectly good stew just waiting to be cooked."

  "Yes, Father," Charlotte said. She stood up. Her right thigh hurt. A wave of nausea passed over her. She swayed slightly.

  "Pull yourself together, child," Father Nash snapped. "And hurry up with that stew. I have to go into the village this eve."

  This was unusual. Father Nash rarely left the house of a weekday evening.

  "Everything okay, Father?" Charlotte asked, then immediately wished she hadn't. The priest regarded her with a dark look. Then his face softened slightly.

  "Yes, yes, fine," he said. "It's Mrs. Grenwald. She's not at all well."

  "Oh, that's terrible," Charlotte said. "Please pass on my regards."

  Father Nash tutted, and said no more on the subject. Charlotte realized she was dismissed, and headed into the freezing kitchen.

  Rabbit, leek, carrots, potatoes, chop chop chop. The smell of the meat made Charlotte feel even more sick. The catch was fresh, bloody, and recently skinned. She held it up to the window, unsure why, picking at stringy bits of fat with the knife. The stew pot was bubbling away and she tossed chunk after chunk into the broth. She could hear Father Nash stomping around upstairs, and began to sway on her feet. She wasn't feeling right, not at all.

  Outside the window, she could see the village. The lights of the village, more accurately. Gas lamps burning in distant windows, down in the valley below. Sometimes, Charlotte dreamed of cities. Sometimes she dreamed of the war. She was far too young to have been born then, of course, but Father Nash was not. He spoke of it, sometimes, and when he did Charlotte found it hard to believe those times were only a few decades behind them.

  Others in the village remembered the war too. The distance from Five Forks was negligible, and some of the villagers had even been present, so Father Nash said. Whenever Charlotte dreamed of the war, the world was a sea of flame.

  Flames burned on the stove. The stew boiled. Charlotte dreamed. She cooked. She

  scares me. I don't like it."

  "Is it the religious theme, do you think? I can understand why that might make you uncomfortable.

  Anna shook her head. "I don't think so. I haven't thought about God in a long time. Not in that way, anyway."

  "Your extended family were very religious, weren't they?"

  "I'm not sure I'd say very. No more than most Bible Belt Americans.

  The doctor interlaced his fingers. "I see. So what do you think it is, then?"

  "I don't know. I can't say too much about the movie, obviously. It's hard."

  "I've read the book," the doctor told her, smiling.

  "It's... it's different. It's not Chet's story any more. Maybe that's it. Do you think that could be it?"

  "It's possible," the doctor told her. "Have you ever felt like this on set before?"

  "Never," Anna replied.

  "I mean you've done some... done some pretty dark movies. What was it, The War Drum?"

  "Did you see it?"

  "You asked me not to."

  "Oh yeah. Well it wasn't as bad as they said. I was fine with that. This isn't even, it's not even violent. Not really, anyway. Not my bits."

  Anna awoke with a start. Some Republican candidate message was playing on the TV. The picture was grainy, uneven. She frowned. The phone was ringing. Anna checked the clock. One AM. Chet, must be.

  "Hey babe."

  Chet's familiar voice. He sounded distant, like he was too far away from his cell.

  "Hey honey. How're you? How's Japan?"

  "All good, all good. Tours. Hectic. You know how it is."

  Anna did know. She listened as Chet went on to explain anyway.

  "How's filming? Still can't believe how they butchered my baby." He laughed. "Aw, I don't mean it. Eli's script is awesome as balls."

  Anna scratched her hip. She knew Chet didn't like it, not really. He'd pushed for her to be on the project though.

  "How's Brendan?"

  "Honestly? He's fucking terrifying."

  Anna heard Chet snort laughter on the other end of the phone. "Kidding, yeah. Same old Brendan I bet. Don't see him as Nash at all, really."

  Anna started to disagree, but knew Chet wasn't listening. She could hear voices in the background.

  "Callie says hey," Chet said.

  "Oh, hey Callie," Anna called, unsure if the other woman could even hear her. Callie was an old girlfriend of Anna's, and Chet's current publicist. It had been Anna who'd pointed Chet in her direction, in fact. Nothing weird there, even if Chet did insist on making the odd innuendo in front of them both.

  She could hear Callie saying something to a third party.

  "I am dying to get home," Chet told her. Anna smiled. "Really goddamn horny. Gonna fuck you so hard when I'm back."

  Anna heard Callie coughing in the background.

  "What're you wearing?" Chet asked.

  "Can you take it off speaker at least?" Anna asked.

  "Oh, sure, sure," Chet said. "There you go."

  Anna looked down at her ragged dressing gown and comfort pajamas. She only wore them when Chet was away.

  "The black slip you got me before you went off," Anna said, putting on a voice. "Y'know, the one where you can see my ass."

  "Niiiiiice," Chet replied. "You missing me babe?"

  "Yeah. Want you home," Anna said. She noticed she'd been absentmindedly doodling a pair of eyes on the pad. She tore the paper off and threw it in the trash.

  "Not long now," Chet said. "Hope you're ready!"

  When Chet had eventually been called away, Anna slung the phone onto its charger and headed into the living room. There was a movie playing on TV now. She collapsed onto the couch and watched. Was it one of hers? No. Something older. Argento? No? Maybe. She brought up the TV menu. Right first time. She'd seen this one before, as a kid. Had it inspired her? Possibly. She settled in and began to watch

  Father Nash eating his stew. Stringy, pink hunks of meat swam about the spoon as the old man greedily sucked them in. Charlotte closed her eyes.

  "Eat up, girl," Father Nash snapped. "Don't waste perfectly adequate stew."

  Charlotte looked at him. "I think I'm coming down wit
h a sickness," she said. "I hope it's not whatever Mrs. Grenwald has."

  The priest slurped his broth. "Don't be foolish, child," he said. "Do not speak of things you don't understand. It's a head cold, no doubt."

  "Perhaps," Charlotte said. "Say, maybe I should accompany you to the village. The night air might do me some good."

  As predicted, Father Nash was having none of it. "Absolutely not," he said. "It's not a place for girls like you, not at night."

  There had been a time when Charlotte would have relished an evening alone. When she would have put a candle in her window and then awaited him. But no longer. He did not come by any more.

  "Has Robert returned yet?" Charlotte asked, feeling bold.

  Nash dropped his spoon into the stew with a splash. "No. And I don't see why it's any concern of yours. Boys like Robert Mullican are no good for girls like you."

  Charlotte knew what he meant by that, and she also knew he was wrong. Robert, like all the other young men in the village, was a sinner in Father Nash's eyes. He saw no good in the youths. They were all miscreants, or rapists, or harlots.

  Robert was different, and Charlotte knew that if only he'd return, he could eventually convince Father Nash of that. That they could have a future together. That he could win Nash over. The clandestine trysts were not enough. They both wanted more. But now, for almost five months, Robert had been gone. Headed to the city, Father Nash had said. Had she not also heard it from Robert's mother... no, it didn't bear thinking about. Robert was coming back. He had to be.

  Father Nash busied himself at the door, making a fuss as usual. He struggled with his coat, tutting and clucking when Charlotte wasn't there quite quickly enough to help him.

  "You really are lazy, child," he snapped, as she fastened up his buttons. Carefully she removed his scarf from the hook and wrapped it around his neck, her fingers brushing against his dog collar, then the rough, wrinkled skin of his jaw. Father Nash flinched.

  "Your hands are freezing."

  "Sorry Father," Charlotte said quietly. He pushed her away.

  "Stay in the house while I'm gone. There have been a few wild dog sightings, you know. Keep the doors locked."

  "I will," she said.

  Father Nash looked at her, as if waiting for her to say more. To wish him well, perhaps, or bid him to be careful. She thought about saying nothing.

  "Take care out there, Father," she said.

  "Yes, yes. Goodbye."

  The priest hurled the door open and disappeared in a blast of cold air.

  Shivering, Charlotte finished up sweeping the kitchen then retired to her room. She longed for a hot bath, to sink below the water and dream, but boiling the pot seemed like so much hassle. Besides, Father Nash didn't like her bathing when he wasn't present in the house. He often recounted the tale of poor Madeleine Wyatt, who'd fallen asleep and drowned.

  Instead, fully clothed, Charlotte climbed into her bed and wrapped the meager sheets around her. Far too early to sleep yet, but what else was there to do? Charlotte began picking at a thread on the sheet. There was a hole there, a small tear. She'd have to fix that up before the Father noticed.

  Outside, an animal howled, a lonely and pitiful cry. Almost instantly a chill crept into the room. Charlotte's teeth began to chatter. Perhaps a window was open somewhere. She clambered out of bed and hastened around the house, checking all the windows and locks. Secure. Bored, she checked again to be sure.

  Charlotte found herself in the living room again. Father Nash's bible sat in its usual spot, resting on the table by his chair. Charlotte was tempted to flick through it, to try and decipher the words she'd heard many times but could not read herself. He'd know if she did, though. He always knew, somehow

  the drone on set was getting to Anna. Normally she found it comforting. Today, though, the scurrying assistants, the shouts from the crew, the call of the director, it was making her head pound. Everyone seemed to be milling around aimlessly.

  Brendan strolled in from off-set, still in his priest garb. He was perspiring under the studio light.

  "Tiresome, isn't it?" he said. Anna looked. He was gesturing around him.

  "Sometimes," she admitted.

  The director was screaming at a poor girl who looked terrified. Brendan's eyes followed the sound. "Oh, to be working with Coppola again," he said. "Hell, I'd even take Anderson over this dickhead."

  Anna laughed. "Who's the woman?" she asked. Her outfit was itching around the neckline. She scratched, her nails clogging up with makeup.

  "Just some kid with a dream. Hollywood, eh?" Brendan said. "Look at her, poor thing."

  "No, I don't mean Sally," Anna told him. "I mean that woman who's always on set."

  "Hmm?"

  "Young, thin, pale woman. Looks like a movie star."

  "You've just described half the industry, dear," Brendan chuckled. "Let's go grab a coffee."

  "Are you enjoying it any better?"

  "No, not really."

  "Why did you take the job? Because of Chet?"

  "Because it's work. And because of Chet, yeah."

  "I don't imagine you're short of work, though. Bigger budgets, bigger names than this."

  "Brendan's a big name."

  "Ah yes. Brendan Denton. You told Chet he was terrifying?"

  "I did," Anna said. "I don't know why. He's an old friend."

  "We're all old friends here," the doctor said. "This is Hollywood."

  "Doesn't mean anything really, does it?"

  "No, not really," the doctor admitted. "But it's good to be amongst friends, isn't it?"

  "Is it?"

  "I think so. Anna, you know you can call me day or night, yes?"

  Anna dabbed her forehead with the sheets. It felt like the middle of a heatwave. The building manager had already checked the thermostat three times on Anna's behest.

  "You look sick, miss," she'd told Anna. Anna had smiled and said she was fine.

  No phone call from Chet that night. He'd warned her in advance, at least. That hadn't stopped Anna staying up watching TV just in case he'd called. It was still on, in fact. She could hear it in the other room. Didn't remember leaving it on, though. Nuisance.

  She got out of bed and padded across to the door. The heat had caused her to strip off, and times like these she was glad to live on the eighth floor.

  The open plan living room was bathed in a pale white glow. The TV was playing nothing but static. Unusual, Anna thought. She leaned down and shut the set off. The room fell dark, but not before she'd caught a glimpse of something, behind her in the room.

  Anna whirled around, peering into the darkness, her eyes adjusting. Carefully, silently, she took a step back.

  In the chair by the window, there sat a figure. Unmoving, silent, staring at her. She could make out no features, just a shadowy form.

  Get to the phone, she thought.

  "Hello?" she called out, quietly, instead. Stupid.

  The figure didn't move.

  "Please. Who are you?"

  Anna listened for the sound of breathing, of movement. Nothing. The figure sat there, still as stone. Anna took a step forward, suddenly aware of her nakedness. If she could just grab the phone, a knife, her coat...

  Oh God. Her coat. Anna let out a sharp exhale, then a shrill, alien laugh. She coughed, embarrassed, but unsure as to why.

  "Fuck you," she said to the coat, stepping forward.

  "Fuck you too," the coat said back, rising up from the chair, taking the form of a figure once more.

  Anna let out a yelp, stumbled backwards, caught her leg on the coffee table. She fell towards the sofa, desperately trying to keep one eye on the figure. Still she could make out no details. It loomed above her now.

  "Fuck you too," it said again. Its voice was raspy, scratchy, but childlike. It giggled.

  Anna screamed and the figure joined her, a mocking, painful shriek. It toppled forwards, nothing but an inky smear in the darkness, and Anna closed her eyes, bit down on
her lip and raised her

  to be a proper lady. That's what Father Nash always said. That he'd tried to raise her right, but he'd failed. He knew he'd failed. Charlotte had the devil in her, he said. If it wasn't for him, she'd be on her back in some whorehouse, begging for more, he said.

  Charlotte knew this wasn't true. Every time the priest said such things, every time he called her a harlot, a whore, she winced as if slapped. Until Robert, Charlotte had remained happily chaste. She enjoyed chatting to the village boys on the rare occasion she got to, but surely that was only natural? Having the frigid, dusty old priest for company was enough to make anyone crave human warmth and interaction.

  Of course, she said none of this to Father Nash. She simply nodded in agreement, thanked him for his patience, and burned deep inside at her own self-betrayal.

  Father Nash could be a crude, spiteful man when the mood took him. Those closest to him would say he portrayed a very different character in the pulpit than he did in his personal life. Charlotte thought differently. Up there, preaching hellfire and brimstone, he was no different. The words were different, the method of delivery, but Charlotte found it just as judgmental, just as condemning. Much of it seemed aimed at her, she thought. The Father would unleash a barrage of doctrine then look pointedly at her. It never used to make her feel guilty. Not before Robert, anyway.

  Charlotte fished the stubby candle out from under her bed. She carried it to the lamp in the hallway, lit it, then carefully returned and placed it on the windowsill. On nights like these, it served two purposes. Father Nash liked seeing the light when he went out, to guide him back to the small house on the hill. And Robert knew it meant the priest was away. Each night Father Nash left, Charlotte lit the candle in the hopes that Robert might have returned, that he'd see the light and come to her.

  There was much to talk about.

  Charlotte lay on the bed, still dressed, warmer now and on top of the covers. Her hands gently rested on her belly, above her womb.

  She couldn't feel him, not yet. But he was there. She'd disguised it well enough, hiding the sickness with general illness, and her bump wasn't showing yet. But within her, Robert's child grew, and she knew he'd be a strong and healthy boy.

  Charlotte often thought about what would happen when she started to show. Robert had to come back. He had to. He could take her away from this. If he asked Father Nash for Charlotte's hand in marriage, if he promised to take her away in time, unpleasantries could be avoided. She hoped.

  The priest would not take the news well. Charlotte knew this. Yet she felt no fear for her child. For herself, definitely, but...

  A noise came from the roof. A scratching, clattering sound. Charlotte frowned. Had she fallen asleep? It was far too early, wasn't it?

  The noise grew in volume, and Charlotte sat up. It had moved now, or maybe it had never been above her. It was the door. Something was scratching at the door. She closed her eyes, tight, the darkness comforting her.

  The scratching became more frantic. Then, a loud banging sound followed by a voice.

  "Girl! Get here now!"

  Father Nash.

  "What was the problem, Father?" Charlotte asked the priest as she removed his coat. Father Nash simply tutted and ignored her. She looked down at his hands. They were shaking. Cold? There was a blackness in the priest's eyes. She took the iron key from him and hung it on the hook.

  'How is Mrs. Grenwald?" she asked.

  "What? Oh, fine. She is well," Father Nash snapped.

  "Recovered, then?"

  The Father seemed flustered. "Yes, it appears so. I shall take the rest of my stew in the study."

  Charlotte's heart sank. She'd forgotten to keep it on the boil.

  "There is no more stew left, Father. I'll boil up something quickly."

  Father Nash's face darkened. "Yes there is."

  "There isn't, I'm sorry."

  The priest pushed past Charlotte, knocking her shoulder painfully against the wall. He strode into the kitchen, and Charlotte followed closely behind.

  "What's this then?" he said, pointing to the half-full pot.

  Charlotte looked down at her feet. "I'm sorry. I forgot..."

  The priest stared at her, unmoving, silent. She knew what was coming. Slowly, Father Nash moved his hands down to his belt, and with gnarled, shaking hands began to unbuckle

  her seat belt, but her hands were shaking.

  "You really do seem sick," Jesse said, reaching over and helping her with the belt.

  "I'm fine. Bad dreams. Didn't sleep much," Anna said.

  Jesse put the back of her hand against Anna's forehead. "You've got a fever. Come on, let's get in."

  The interior of Jesse's apartment was a far cry from Anna's luxurious penthouse. Clothes, takeout boxes and instruments strewn everywhere. It was a wonder Jesse ever got anything done, Anna thought.

  Jesse seemed unapologetic about the mess. "Have a seat," she said, beaming. "I'll get you some water."

  The women sat together on the couch. Jesse talked about her album. She seemed excited. Anna felt guilty. Her mind kept straying off topic, thinking about nothing in particular.

  "So, hey, wanna see the cover art?" Jesse asked. Anna nodded. From somewhere, Jesse produced a tablet and fired up the screen. "Check it."

  The art depicted a doorway leading into a pitch-black room. Pure white light spilled in from an unseen exterior. Framed in the white light was a figure, female, long dark hair flowing down her back. Anna could barely make out her features. She tried to discern whether the woman was stepping into the room, or out of it. She looked at Jessie, at her spiky, blonde punk do. Wasn't her, anyway.

  "Who's the model?" Anna asked. Something about the woman seemed familiar.

  Jesse laughed. "Only the most beautiful woman in Hollywood."

  She offered no more, and Anna decided not to pursue it.

  "When's it out?"

  "Internet release is next week. Physical... I ain't sure. Maybe never. Might do limited edition. Not sure."

  "You not working with that one producer any more?"

  "Phil? No. God no. You serious? You didn't hear?"

  Anna listened as Jesse shared the latest gossip. Her industry, while similar to Anna's in so many ways, seemed incredibly far removed from the life Anna was used to.

  She was still on edge from the night before, too. Still jumping at shadows. She'd awoken on the couch, the TV still on, her coat neatly hung up. Fully dressed.

  Anna was sick of the heavy, doomed feeling she had all the time lately. It was this movie, this fucking thing of Chet's. The expectation, maybe, to be the woman he'd created. A desire to live up to his image. It was hard, more trying than any other project, she was pretty sure.

  "I finished Chet's new book last night."

  "Oh, did you? Jesse just got done reading it too."

  "Oh yeah, she mentioned," the doctor said.

  "What did you think of it?" Anna asked. "Jesse didn't like it."

  "Did you like it?"

  "Honestly? No, not really. He's already sold the movie rights. I don't think it'll work as a movie."

  "No. It'll certainly need toning down, anyway."

  "It scares me, sometimes. The book itself, I mean. Just seeing it, sitting there. They're not his ideas, they must come from somewhere. It's brutal, isn't it? Dark, violent, gratuitous. More than usual."

  "It's certainly surprising," the doctor said. "The imagination can run wild, I suppose."

  "You're avoiding my question, anyway," Anna said, smiling. "You disliked it too, didn't you?"

  The doctor laughed. "Sorry. I'm not used to being the one having to answer."

  "So, what did you think?"

  "I thought it was the next Great American Novel," the doctor said. Anna could see he was lying.

  "You're awful."

  They both smiled.

  "Jesse played me her album," the doctor said. "Have you heard it?"

  "Yeah, I heard it earlier," Anna said. "That'
s good, isn't it?"

  "She's very talented, is Jesse," agreed the doctor.

  "Do you remember Mae Grenwald, from when we were kids?"

  "I do, of course. What made you think of her now?"

  "Oh, just something from the movie," Anna said. She looked around uncomfortably. It was dark out now, and she wondered what Chet was up to. She checked her cell phone display. No missed calls.

  "Do you think about her a lot?"

  "I haven't thought about her much in years. When I do think about her though, I don't even recall her face any more. I just remember that tricycle. Remember that? The silly red thing."

  The doctor smiled. "Yeah, I remember."

  "After they found her body, and I'm talking, like, nearly a year after they found her, I remember walking past her house. And I thought 'hey, I wonder if Mae is coming out to play'. Then I looked in her garden, in her front garden, and there was that tree, yeah?"

  "Yeah, that's right. She had a swing on it."

  "Right there by the tree was her tricycle. And it was rusted, totally rusted up. The silly ribbons she'd tied to the handlebar had rotted away. And it was like, how could her parents just leave it there to rust? I didn't understand it then, at all. I kept going back to her house after that, just looking at it. Just wondering why they didn't come out and fix it up, or at least hide it away. I understand now though, I think. Made more and more sense as I got older."

  The doctor cracked his neck. "It's hard to fully comprehend death as a child."

  "It's still there," Anna said. "The trike's still there. I went past the house the other day. Mae's father lives there alone now. He's gotta be in his eighties. And the trike's still there."

  Everything seemed to be dictated by the same formula. Timing, editing, cut and shoot. Anna poured herself a bath, got in, got out, dried, ate, called Chet, no answer. All her apartment lights stayed on all of the time, now. Bulbs like eyes in every window. Filming resumed tomorrow. Chet had been gone a long time, she thought. The studio had been leaving messages.

  On the television, the news sang a symphony of destruction, a bullet that could shoot down God. Flick over. A cowboy film. Was that Brendan, there in the background? Flick over. An advert, and a familiar woman staring back at her. She'd seen her around, on the set. She'd asked Brendan about her. And wasn't she the cover model for Jesse's album? She was advertising a sanitary towel. Or was it a car? Or a fast food restaurant. She took center stage in everything she touched. Ghostly, translucent, floating in and out of the transmission. Anna smiled at her, and extolling the virtues of life insurance, the woman smiled back

  was sore and bleeding. Charlotte gingerly dabbed at the welts on her flesh with a wet cotton cloth. She'd endured worse beatings. After a couple of strikes, Father Nash had been taken with a sudden coughing fit, and became too concerned about himself to bother with Charlotte any more. Hatred towards the bitter old man boiled up inside her. She needed Robert.

  Robert's not coming back.

  It was the first time she'd admitted it to herself, but as soon as she did she knew it was true. He'd left, and would never know about the child growing inside of her.

  A calmness settled upon her, and suddenly Charlotte transcended worry, fear, pain. She could hear a gentle, pulsing noise resonating throughout the house, that familiar, rhythmic thump that accompanied them. It was time.

  In her bedroom, Charlotte pulled back the curtains and immediately stepped away from the window. She stared out into the darkness, her face blank, her mind clear. Slowly, hesitantly, like a shy and nervous little boy, the darkness stared back.

  The first pair of eyes was the smallest. The one Charlotte had begun to regard as a child. He was always first. His bald, rounded head appeared at the window, tiny pointed ears twitching. Huge yellow eyes peered out of albino skin. Charlotte smiled at him, and the creature smiled back, baring his sharp little teeth.

  Within seconds, the other four had appeared. They crowded at the window, all eyes and pale skin, staring in at her. Clawed fingers tapped silently at the glass, although which hand belonged to which creature Charlotte wasn't sure. They were a mess of writhing limbs and smiling mouths, their giant lamp-like eyes the centerpieces.

  The Peepers, she called them.

  When they'd first appeared, that first night, before Charlotte knew of her own condition, she'd been afraid at first. But only for moments. Whenever the Peepers were around, she felt safe. The immediate shock had given way to tranquility, and even when they'd begun to chatter and rap on the glass, she only feared that Father Nash would awaken and discover them, perhaps cause them harm.

  The creatures stared at her belly, as they always had done. Because of them, she'd learned of her pregnancy. They were not looking at her but into her, inside her, at her child. She knew this as sure as she knew her own name, although the reasons for it eluded her. They began to chatter.

  Charlotte slid off her nightgown, exposing her nakedness to the creatures. They fell silent, and regarded her form with a revered awe. Charlotte's hands slid over her bare flesh, to her belly, and she caressed her unborn child. Outside, the creatures sighed, their eyes half-closing in blissful awe.

  This ritual had gone on every night for the last two months. Charlotte hadn't grown tired of it, and seemingly neither had the Peepers. There was a protectiveness in their gaze, a warmth that she didn't feel from anyone else, even Robert.

  Charlotte closed her eyes, stood there, let them look. She rubbed her belly and imagined she could feel her son's heartbeat, could hear him breathing.

  Click.

  Eyes flying open, Charlotte spun around. Father Nash? No. Just the house, groaning in the cold. Then, behind her, a chattering sound. The Peepers. They sounded distraught. She turned, smiled at them. Continued to rub her belly. No, it did not placate them. They were distressed. Something had upset them. They were shaking their heads, dancing on the spot, banging on the glass. Charlotte winced. They were making such a racket that surely Father Nash would hear them and wake up. What had troubled them so?

  Her back. The welts. She remembered. It must be the first time they'd seen her injuries. She turned around again, so the creatures could get a better look. They began to howl, in unison, their voices merging to form one long, pitiful cry.

  Tears began to fall from Charlotte's eyes. Hot, burning sadness, and shame. She turned to face the Peepers. It was raining now, softly, and the water ran rivulets down the glass, streaking their yellow irises. They fell silent and looked at her, not at her belly but her face now.

  Slowly, Charlotte approached the window and raised one hand to the glass. She'd never done this before, had no idea what to expect.

  The Peepers scattered instantly, disappearing off into the night. A cold, icy terror crept over Charlotte, as it did every night when they left. Never before had the left like this, though. Paranoid thoughts ran through her mind. Then, as soon as they'd appeared, they began to fade.

  One of them had returned. Just one. The littlest one, the child. In the darkness, Charlotte saw his pale, naked form creeping up to the window. Humanoid, but scrabbling about on all fours, distended arms dragging him forward, crablike and scuttling. His face appeared, inches from the glass. One smooth, clawed finger reached out and tapped the glass, then the little Peeper let out a shrill giggle, bared its teeth, and vanished once more. Charlotte braced herself, and the shivering

  more than she should be. The set was warm, but Anna was painfully aware of all the eyes on her, taking in her naked form. Someone rushed in and draped a dressing gown over her. She pulled it tight, covering herself. She'd opted against having a body double. It wasn't the first time she'd bared all on-screen, anyway. But never for such extended periods of time, never quite so uncomfortably.

  The director approached her. Anna could barely even remember his name these days.

  "That was phenomenal," he said. "Utterly fucking marvelous."

  He was Australian, she thought. Or British, maybe. Anna thanked him, b
ut she was looking around for Brendan. Of course, he wasn't in was he?

  Instead, she saw the woman again. She stood at the back of the set, alone, staring at Anna. Her hair was tied back, and she wore a tight polo neck sweater. Anna started to raise her hand, to wave to her, and the woman shook her head; a slow, precise 'no'.

  "Who's that?" she asked the director, interrupting him mid-gush.

  The director turned, stared in the direction Anna was pointing. He turned back to Anna.

  "Oh, never mind about her," he said cryptically. "Don't worry yourself about it."

  Anna frowned. Over the director's shoulder, the woman was smiling, revealing perfectly straight white teeth.

  "I have no idea who she is," Anna confided. Jesse took a drag on her cigarette and stubbed it out. The bustling coffee shop was beginning to make Anna feel almost normal again. She hoped nobody would recognize her there. Currently, she'd been lucky.

  "I don't really know who you're talking about either, An," Jesse said.

  Anna sighed. "Yeah, you do. Uh, she's on your album cover."

  "What?" Jesse said. "That's you, Anna. That's what I got you to do that shoot for. I thought you were joking when you asked who it was. I know it's all silhouetted and shit, but c'mon."

  Anna felt a tightness in her chest. "Right, okay. So she looks like me, yeah I can see that. Why are you looking at me like that?"

  "You feeling okay?" Jesse asked. "Just that you've been ill lately, and Dom said..."

  "Dom said what?"

  The two women looked up. Dom had approached their table, coffees in hand.

  "Well look what the doctor's brought," Jesse said as he sat down. "I was just telling Anna you'd said she'd been feeling odd lately."

  "Yeah, I have," Anna said. "Been laying it all on you, haven't I Dom? Sure you get enough of that from your actual patients."

  "Nonsense," Dom replied. "Always got time for my favorite actress."

  "What about your favorite singer?" Jesse asked, pouting.

  "Well, sure, always got time for Bowie too."

  Jesse flicked a sugar cube at him. Dom caught it and dropped it into his coffee.

  "That's been on the floor," Jesse told him.

  Anna watched the pair with a detached amusement. "Listen, anyway," she said. "This isn't some haunted by myself bullshit. I'm afraid my life isn't as clichéd as one of Chet's novels."

  Dom and Jesse laughed, perhaps a little nervously. "No, sorry, I'm sure it's not," Jesse said.

  "Other people have seen her, interacted with her. It's just, it's odd. She's always there, every time I'm filming. She's obviously an actress, she studies me all the time. She just doesn't do anything on the movie."

  "Weird," Dom said. "I wouldn't worry about it too much though. Maybe she's writing your unofficial biography."

  "Oh yeah, great," Anna said.

  "You heard from Chet already?" Jesse asked.

  "No," Anna said. "Still nothing. And you know what? This happens every time. At the end of every trip, he takes a few days away to 'find himself'. And yes, that means to fuck some groupie."

  "And you are still with him because..." Jessie trailed off.

  Anna thought about this. Because she loved him? She didn't love him. Because it was easier? It wasn't easier. Because she was afraid of him? She wasn't afraid of him.

  "Because I'm carrying his child," she said suddenly. Then stuttered. "Uh, what?"

  "Yeah, what?" Jesse demanded. "You are?"

  Dom just looked at her and said nothing.

  "Oh God," Anna said. "I dunno. Am I? I think, yeah, I think I'm pregnant. Oh God."

  "Have you done a test?"

  "No, I... I just realized, like, now. Uh..."

  Anna felt a wave of dizziness come over her. It was true, wasn't it?

  Anna sat curled up on the sofa, the test clutched firmly in her hands. She'd tried to call Chet, tried over and over. Dom and Jesse were asleep in the other room. They'd both stayed with her. They were worried about her, Anna could tell.

  All the apartment lights were off. With her friends in the apartment, Anna no longer worried about midnight figures.

  Enough was enough. She picked up her cell and called Callie.

  "Callie," she said as soon as her friend picked up. "Where's Chet? Don't gloss it over, Cal. Just tell me. I know what he fucking gets up to. Just tell me, please. I need to get hold of him."

  "Anna, calm down," Callie said. "Chet's not with you?"

  "No. Don't be an ass. He's still in Japan."

  "He isn't, Anna," Callie said. "We got a flight back days ago."

  "When did you last speak to him, then?"

  "When we left the airport. He got a cab. He said he'd be out of action for a few days. Made some crude reference to penetrating you till you couldn't walk straight. Left."

  The way Callie said this seemed tinged with bitterness, designed to hurt. Right then, Anna didn't care.

  "He never came home, Cal," she said. Even for Chet, this was unusual. He only fucked other people when Anna wasn't around. Couldn't keep it in his pants, but he didn't usually go chasing other girls when Anna was available.

  "I've called him once, his phone just went to voice mail," Callie said.

  "Same every time I call," Anna told her. "Listen, sorry. And thanks. I'm sure he'll turn up. Let me know if you hear anything, won't you?"

  Callie promised she would. Anna shut the phone off then woozily stood up

  first thing in the morning to vomit before Father Nash was awake. He didn't ever seem to notice. But as the days passed, then weeks, Charlotte became painfully aware of the bump that was beginning to show. Soon, even her clothes wouldn't hide it. She worried every time she took a bath that Father Nash would enter, as he'd been occasionally wont to do, and see her guilty secret in all its glory.

  Each night the Peepers came, though, and she felt at ease. Charlotte had long since given up hope of Robert returning. Father Nash, too, was absent more often than not these days. Almost every night he disappeared down the hill and into the village. He'd dropped the pretense of tending to the sick, and now simply did not tell Charlotte why he was going. She knew better than to push for answers, and in truth didn't much care. Having him out the way so much was a godsend.

  This night, he was gone as usual. The candle burned away in Charlotte's bedroom window, but she stood in the kitchen, looking out over the moors. There was a dog out there, and Charlotte's eyes followed it as it sniffed out some unknown quarry.

  The dog stopped, and began to scrabble at the ground. Charlotte stirred the broth and absentmindedly tasted it. Too salty, too bitter.

  Outside, the dog threw its head up and howled. From somewhere in the surrounding wasteland, a chorus of howls sounded back. Too high-pitched for dogs, too chattery. The Peepers. It was the first time Charlotte had heard them this early in the evening.

  A crescent moon shone down, illuminating the beast outside. Then, five darting shadows, circling the dog, nudging against it, brushing it with dark tendrils. Charlotte stared, and that familiar warmth came over her. It was them.

  The shadows stopped moving, and suddenly five pairs of yellow eyes appeared, perfectly synchronized, staring at her. The dog, too, stopped its scrabbling and turned to face her.

  The creatures were calling to her. She could feel them, feel a tug inside her belly. Calling to her, to her unborn son.

  By the time Charlotte had retrieved a lamp, pulled on an old overcoat and hastened out onto the moors, the creatures were gone. She'd expected no less. She found their digging spot easily enough though.

  The moonlight reflected on dark, tanned skin. Distended, bloated, but still decidedly human, the corpse moldered in the freshly-tilled earth, disturbed by the canine scrabblings. Charlotte knelt down, an overpowering smell of rotting flesh hitting her nostrils. In the distance, forked lightning pierced the sky, followed by a loud crack of thunder. Trembling, Charlotte held the lamp towards the corpse.

  Her former lover stared b
ack at her from sightless eyes. Worms writhed in one of the sockets. Even amongst the dirt and filth, Charlotte could see his throat had been slit.

  "Robert," she whispered. Dead, and so close to her own home. But...

  Another lightning strike. Behind her, close to the house. And in that split second, in that flash of light, she saw the shadow of a figure looming behind her.

  The lantern bounced from Charlotte's grasp and shattered, the remaining gas going up in a ball of flame. Hands closed over Charlotte's mouth and she felt a rough grip on her forearms, then something cracked against the back of her skull and the world turned black.

  Charlotte awoke and tried to move her limbs. She was sore and her head pounded. She could feel wetness between her legs and struggled to look down. From the awkward vantage point she was enabled, she could see pooling blood on her nightgown.

  My son...

  Her limbs were tied roughly to the bedposts. She was in Father Nash's room, she realized Near her head, a lamp flickered wickedly, dancing shadows across the walls.

  Charlotte looked up from the crimson stain, into the face of Father Nash. He was in full priest garb, his dog collar a bone-white slash at his throat. He was not alone. Another priest stood beside him, a younger man named Richard from the village who assisted with the church. Then, there was one of the woodcutter's sons, William.

  Charlotte screamed, and struggled against her bonds.

  "Do you know what they call you in the village?" Father Nash asked. He coughed, loudly, a pained look spreading across his face. "They call you a witch. They say you have the Devil in you, girl. That you used Robert's seed to grow your evil spawn."

  Charlotte screamed again, sobbing. Father Nash had a deranged, zealous look in his eyes. The others followed blindly, they always had. Everyone always had.

  "We shall strip the devil from you," the younger priest, Richard, said. "In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen."

  William said nothing. He merely gave Charlotte a lecherous smile.

  "Speak, child," Father Nash said. "Repent."

  Charlotte looked at him. Her crying ceased. A calm descended upon her.

  Within her stomach, for the first time ever, she felt her son kick.

  "Speak!" Nash screamed. "What say you, demon?"

  Behind Nash, the door was opening. Silently, gently. In the meager lamplight, five shadows snaked across the ceiling. They loomed large behind the three men. Charlotte thought she saw a flash of yellow.

  "Speak!" Nash cried. From by his side, Nash raised a wicked-looking instrument, a sharp, poker-like device. The iron rod shook as he gripped it tightly.

  Charlotte faced Nash defiantly. "And I looked, and behold a pale horse," she whispered. "And his name that sat on him was Death."

  The shadows moved closer. They were right behind Nash now. An abyss, ready to engulf the three men.

  "May God have mercy on your soul," Richard said.

  The lamp went out. Behind the men, five pairs of huge yellow eyes floated in the blackness.

  Charlotte closed hers tight.

  "And Hell followed with him."

  Callie called the next day. They'd found Chet, of course, and of course they'd called his assistant first, rather than his girlfriend. He was dead. Of course he was. Buried in a shallow grave just outside the city limits. At least, his body was. They'd found his head five miles south. Seemed a waste of time to Anna, burying him separately like that. There were a lot of questions, of course. Alibis, enemies, whathaveyou. Anna had spent so much time alone that it was a relief to discover she'd been with Jesse and Dom at the time of Chet's death.

  Did Chet have any enemies? He had plenty. Rival authors, musicians, special effects guys, spurned lovers, Al Qaeda, smallpox, third world debt. Anna was glad Callie had an alibi too. It would've made for tragic-romantic headlines; long-suffering assistant snaps and decapitates prize-winning author.

  Life moved on. They had the funeral, all TV cameras and sobbing. The press got wind that Anna was carrying Chet's child. That was a fun few days. She hid out at Dom's until they lost interest when a starlet got caught driving drunk again.

  Filming carried on, after a short recess. It's what Chet would've wanted, apparently. Anna knew otherwise. He never really cared about the movie, it wasn't his any more. All he did was fight against it, make things difficult. He'd have preferred it to halt. She said none of this though, and agreed when they, quite naturally, decided to dedicate the movie to its author.

  One day, Anna found herself alone in her trailer. The door opened silently, and the woman stepped in.

  She'd been there, always, at the funeral, during filming, in all the paparazzi shots. Anna was ready for her.

  "It was you, wasn't it?" she said. "You killed Chet."

  The woman laughed. "No, of course not," she said.

  "Oh," Anna replied.

  "You know who I am?" the woman asked.

  "No."

  "I'm the next big thing," she said. "The brightest new star."

  Anna looked down at the bulge in her belly, thought about the stretch marks forming on her skin, the milk filling her breasts. "Oh."

  "I'm you, before you were you," the woman went on. "I'm the way it works."

  "Oh," Anna said.

  The woman smiled. "Don't take it too hard. You did this to someone else. Don't you remember?"

  Anna thought back, back to her first starring role. To the other woman, forgotten these days. To the magazines she used to read, the glossies she used to pore over, the life she used to covet. Her life.

  "Don't you remember how this story goes?" the woman asked. "You're just the prologue. I'm the main event."

  Charlotte moaned. The pain in her abdomen was unbearable. The dank, stinking cave she'd called her home for the last few months felt claustrophobic and uncomfortable for the first time ever. Wetness had pooled around her legs. Her son was coming.

  "Push, Anna," Dom said. He held her hand. "Deep, gentle breaths."

  Anna gripped his fingers tightly. Jesse stood on the other side. The hospital staff, unimpressed with the uncharacteristic crowding of the maternity unit, knew better than to argue with celebrities over minor things like health and safety.

  One of the Peepers, the youngest one, crept up to Charlotte's side. Of all of them, he was the only one who was still a tiny bit hesitant of her. But now, finally, he seemed to accept her. He reached out and took her limp hand, running it across his face.

  The first time Charlotte had touched one of the Peepers, as they'd carried her away from Nash's hateful house, away from the slaughter, she'd been surprised at how smooth and warm they felt. These days, she loved it when they cuddled into her, slept against her. They smelled clean, fresh. They were hygienic. Nothing at all like their ghoulish appearance might have suggested.

  Her son was coming. She felt waves of pain, like nothing she'd ever experienced before.

  "Fuck!" Anna screamed. A midwife was between her legs and a doctor fed her oxygen. Dom and Jesse had been relegated to the corridor.

  "Oh, he's coming along now," the midwife said. "Just a few more pushes. Nice easy one this is."

  "Fucking easy fuck fuck," Anna hissed, every nerve ending burning like a solar flare. She felt like her hips were about to crack.

  Charlotte could feel her child trying to come into the world, trying to get free, but something was wrong. The Peepers crowded around her legs, chattering away to one another, tearing at her filthy clothes, pulling them off. She tried to push, tried to force her child out. She could feel the Peepers' claws on her thighs, deadly but gentle, trying to aid her.

  It was no good. Something was wrong. Charlotte screamed, gasping between sobs. The youngest Peeper held her hand up to his mouth and kissed it gently.

  At her feet, four pairs of yellow eyes looked at her. She looked back, tears streaming down her face. The Peepers howled, quietly, sadly.

  Charlotte nodded.

  Anna looked up, an intense wave of relief washing over her. Ever
y bit of her ached, every muscle felt like it had been wrung out. She heard a shrill, pitiful cry. Felt a warmth.

  "Congratulations, Ms. Grant," the doctor said. "You have a wonderful, healthy baby boy."

  Charlotte felt the claws slice into her abdomen, above her groin. Surprisingly, it barely hurt. There was nothing else the Peepers could do. Slowly, sadly, they cut away and for a while Charlotte passed out.

  She opened her eyes one last time. The five creatures stood together, chattering softly, then turned to look at her when they realized she was awake. In their hands they held Charlotte's baby. No, not hers any more. She gazed upon her child; not a son, but a daughter. A beautiful, healthy baby girl.

  For a split second, the girl's eyes flashed yellow. Charlotte smiled, tried to speak, then slipped away into blackness.

  Text appears on the screen. Title. Opening credits. Anna watches for her own name. There's Brendan. Then her. Sixth billing. Fuck. She stands up, excuses herself. A couple theatergoers grumble at her. She squeezes past legs. Nobody recognizes her. Of course not. Why would they?

  On-screen, animated sequences play out. Anna turns her back to them and walks to the exit. She turns, just as the movie proper starts. Twenty five years later. The familiar woman looks back at her, smiles, waves. Anna nods and leaves the theater. Jesse's looking after Garcia, and Anna promised she wouldn't be long. She has responsibilities now. She's happy to take a step back.

  As Anna strolls through the park, then along the bustling street, she seems them. The Peepers, with their hungry yellow eyes, watching her, waiting, taking it all in, loving her, letting her go, moving on.

  XIX - A Bitter End