Chapter Text
July 10th, 1982
Summer evenings in Edensfield were balmy, pleasant things, where time seemed to pause if just for a while. At least, that’s how it felt out on the northwest edges of town, where you could climb over the stile at the far end of the field and step into the woodland that framed the border. There was only the stillness of the air, still tinged warm by the sun that day, the chirp of crickets and the trills of a few cicadas. Distantly, foxes screamed and an owl called out in the hopes of gaining a reply. Night time noises, comforting in their familiarity.
Cian Daniels had lived out here a good portion of his life - six years out of eighteen, ever since his mom died. He remembered all too well how he’d hated it to begin with. The stretches of farmland were too large and empty to feel safe, and strange animals with their humanoid shrieks had him spending many sleepless nights sat up in bed with the lamp left on. Distrustful eyes staring at every shadow that stretched for too long, catching on each imagined movement in the corner of his vision. Assessing, tense, and completely unable to fall asleep until the days of fatigue caught up and he could fight it no longer.
He’d been afraid of so many things back then. Afraid and angry. So very angry.
Shaped by the words and actions of a father who was too drunk most days to even remember he had a son. And on the days he had… it had been cruel words and loud sounds, bruises on his skin. Cian had grown up bitter and fiercely independent - self-assured in things he knew little about and throwing himself at them with fists and teeth and a sharp tongue to try and brute force his way through every interaction he ever had.
But that was behind him now. Addressed by his Pa and a weekly appointment at a hospital, where he would tip out the disorganised trunk of painful memories and separate them into sections. Labelling each one, breaking them up, spilling tears and hurt that only made it feel worse, until he could step back and see the constant that connected them all. Even those where his own actions were partly to blame.
His father’s handprints lay all over them, dark and ugly. Bruises like the ones Cian would hide under shirts and oversized sweaters.
His father had damaged so much more than his body.
Cian had only been so angry, so filled with rage, because it was the one thing he could control - the only thing that had ever truly been his. Hurting other kids in his class because he couldn’t get back at the person who had hurt him first, over and over: unable to get revenge, completely and utterly powerless, and he’d wanted others to feel that way, too. If he was suffering, then it wasn’t fair that the other children he knew had easy smiles, bright eyes and kind words. He couldn’t have that, so he would ruin it for others - he would make them see that it wasn’t fair.
But that was wrong of him - he knew that now.
He had control over his life, had picked up each part and placed them back inside the trunk. The scars, both physical and mental, were still there, but they had faded, paled over time; over the years that his Pa had taken him in and cared for him. Cian Daniels knew love, how it felt to be loved for the first time since his mom died and his dad turned to the bottle. And, piece by piece, that love had soothed the aches, tended the wounds left behind - given them a chance to heal.
His life had structure living on the farm, and the responsibilities had done him good. He was still that fiercely independent boy at heart, quick-mouthed and sharp-tongued as ever, but he wasn’t cruel - no longer had that bitterness his dad had infected him with. He’d found the heart of its root and ripped it out and hadn’t looked back since.
The trunk had been closed for well over a year now - the latches locked tight, and pushed into the recesses of his mind where he didn’t have to look at it anymore. It had all been assessed, addressed, and now it was over.
He was eighteen, a new man. One with a future ahead of him, away from the farm, helping others. He started his formal training at the Police Academy in a few months and then he could go, move, to another city or state and start over. He could leave it behind - Edensfield and all the pain it had caused him. The shadow of his past would no longer hang over him like a black cloud.
There would be no more agonisingly familiar buildings or parks, where his father’s ghost still haunted, trailing blackened hand prints. No more faces of the teachers - the adults - who had failed him for so long. And though it certainly hurt to be going, to be leaving his Pa behind, there was liberation in the severing.
For the first time in his life, he would truly be free.
Cian hung up the tack on the wall of the stable, hauling up the weight of a bridle and saddle that had been cleaned and wiped down with patient, steady hands - hands that knew the steps from years of practice. The air smelled of hay dust and horse hair, thick enough to make a person cough, but not him, he was used to it. Loved it, even. It was familiar, comforting.
From her closed stall, Clara whickered softly, hooves scuffing dully against the covered stone floor. Cian rechecked the catch on the door before reaching up to rub down her long face. The chestnut bay leaned into his touch, deep brown eyes staring at him quietly, ears flicking every so often, listening as he murmured words of praise.
They’d bonded tightly over the years: originally a means to teach him the importance of caring for others, but now a dear companion and friend. It was going to be hard to let her go, too, when the time came. But he would be leaving her in his Pa’s more than capable hands. And he could always visit when he had the time. He just couldn’t stay here any longer. He’d never belonged in Edensfield and he’d never wanted to.
“Goodnight, girl,” He said, smiling as the mare pushed her large head against his chest in a familiar nuzzle, her mouth working at the collar of his jacket affectionately. He let himself lean into it for a moment, feeling her soothing warmth and the way her coat tickled against his palms, how her black mane fell against his eyes, before pushing away and leaving her to settle for the night.
Kicking off his boots and stepping into his sneakers, bracing himself against the wall for balance, a sound caught his attention. Above, fixed into the beams of the stable roof, the light bulbs hummed loudly beneath their protective acrylic casings. Filaments flickering, they sputtered and buzzed, the noise distorted and strange to his ears.
Cian sighed, making a note to tell his Pa when he got back inside. For now, at least, it wasn’t a problem and he hit the switch on his way out of the door, head already feeling clearer in the silence that followed.
Sitting out on the porch, Cian struck a match and curled his hand about the flame as he brought it to the cigarette between his lips. The first hit of nicotine after hours of work was a relief unlike anything else - he could feel the aches of the day leaving his muscles, expelled out on a lungful of smoke. He’d cut down a lot over the past year - he’d had to, otherwise he never would have passed his medical - but his Pa was under the impression he’d quit entirely.
Cian wasn’t ashamed of it exactly, but he didn’t want to have the confrontation his months of lying would no doubt bring. So, smoking out on the porch had become a loophole - a safe haven where he could be left in peace without worrying his Pa would check up on him.
And he was far enough away from the sitting room window that the smoke wouldn’t give him away.
Against his thigh, Erin whined, stretching out her front legs and thumping her tail against the wooden boards he was sitting on. It wasn’t often that the old wolfhound bothered to come outside so late, but Cian was enjoying her company nonetheless. She rested her head against his leg, lulled back to sleep with a contented huff as his fingers found that spot just behind her ear.
He could hear the radio playing in the kitchen, an open window allowing the music to escape out into the night, grainy guitar and vocals warbling. Creedence Clearwater. The slight blur of static lent the song a warm quality, soothing, comforting - a pocket where it seemed like no time passed at all. That strange twilight that encased Edensfield all year round was only amplified in the Summer months. Perhaps it was because the days were longer - or being an adult no meant he was more innately aware of the hours, just how many really were in a day.
And yet, deep down, he felt it was something more.
Something that kept him up some nights, listening to the groans and creaks of the old farmhouse settling. Feeling, in those moments, like he was a child once more - vulnerable, alone, making himself as small and quiet as possible in the hopes that his dad would forget he existed as he stumbled back drunk to his room. The long stretches of time felt familiar, but not like running into an old friend was, or finding something you’d forgotten about long ago.
It was a familiarity that made one uneasy, that sank in deep and caused the hairs on his arms to stand on end despite the lack of chill in the air. It was the worry of forgetting something important - the fear whilst holding your breath under the duvet as a shadow passed beneath the door. It was an unwelcome guest at the dinner table, where everyone was too polite to say anything.
It was fingers pressed so hard into skin that they left prints of purple and red. It was knowing something was coming and still being powerless to stop it.
Summer evenings in Edensfield were balmy, pleasant things.
And Cian Daniels hated them.
He breathed out another puff of smoke, watching the tendrils rise up and disperse slowly, scattering out into the night. The porch light glowed a dull yellow-orange, attracting insects that slammed themselves into the bulb only to fall dead to the boards immediately after, burned. And yet more continued to flock to it, uncaring of the certain death that awaited them. One after another, single-mindedly throwing themselves at the light and dying, killing themselves for nothing at all.
Cian swatted away a moth that strayed too close to the end of his cigarette, drawn in by the slowly burning paper, ushering it away before it too died pointlessly. Another one tried to swoop in afterwards and he sighed, taking the stick from his mouth and slamming it against the wood, twisting harshly to snuff it.
He hated insects, too. Horrible things with too many legs, eyes, and wings that buzzed in a way that made him physically recoil, skin itching, crawling with a thousand bugs that he knew weren’t really there but felt anyway.
He shuddered and flicked the stub of his smoke into the plant pot where all the rest were and leaned forward to cover it up with dirt as best he could. Erin grumbled at being moved, clearly disgruntled, and Cian apologised with a quick rub from her head down to her back. She settled against him with a yawn and he leaned back as well, shoulders resting against the slatted wall of the house, the edges pressing against his spine.
The insects continued to dive, hitting the boards with soft thuds that had him flinching, minute spasms that made his fingers pause in Erin’s fur each time he heard it. Sucking in a deep breath, he filled his lungs with clean air and let it out slowly, steadily - in through his nose and out through his mouth.
Across the darkened fields where the light couldn’t reach, there were small flickers of yellow - the fireflies finding their way out of the long grasses and corn. Like all Summer evenings, the sun had been slow to set but the darkness crept on fast - always faster than he ever recalled it setting the year before. And though he hated insects, he could admit that there was a beauty to fireflies - at least, from a distance.
The way they weaved slowly, floating up before sinking down and then back up once more was hypnotic, relaxing, even. Steady in their pacing, nowhere near as erratic as the other flies were. It was almost enough to put him at ease. He didn’t mind them the further away they were, any closer then- then his skin would begin to itch.
He ignored the sound of another tiny body falling down.
There was just him, the fireflies, and the steady thump of Erin’s heart against the palm of his hand, pressed down flat against her ribs. He focused on that.
There was no eerie stillness, no hours that stretched on endlessly, impossibly. Time was still moving, he knew that, could feel it, with each pulse of a heartbeat under his hand, each breath he drew in. One after the other, going ever forward, just like the seconds, minutes - however long it had been since he’d first sat down.
The song on the radio had changed at some point, he didn’t recall when - hadn’t been paying attention. The glowing specks and warmth of the dog lying next to him had drawn him in, taken all of his focus, lulled by the quiet. Now, though, there was a hissing spark of feedback as the signal dipped in and out. Perhaps the antenna had been knocked by his-
Cian checked his watch, the face gleaming under the porch light. It was late. Much later than he’d thought it was - when did that happen? His Pa wouldn’t be awake now, not this late, but maybe he’d just left the radio on, forgotten about it before heading to bed. It wouldn’t be the first time, nor would it be the last, he was sure.
And yet…
He shook his head, rubbed at his eyes and sat forward, pushing away from the wall and once again causing Erin to whine in displeasure. This time though, he ignored her protests and got to his feet, clicking his tongue for her to do the same. She did as instructed, though he saw the look in her eyes, knew it well enough to know she was sulking over it.
He pet her briefly on the head and started to make for the back door. His Pa would’ve already locked the front up tight. Erin followed dutifully at his side, claws scuffing on the wood, the only sound besides his heavy footsteps. As they reached the screen door, he stopped.
His hand was on the handle, he’d unclasped the catch. He’d heard the rattle of it as it fell back against the frame. The hinges had creaked, the one step his foot rested on groaned under his weight, and Erin had sighed quietly.
Something was wrong.
All those sounds were loud, normal, standard. It wasn’t those that gave him pause.
It was the silence that followed after.
Usually, his rattling would spook something - anything. A possum lurking under the house, a mouse or rat, sent scurrying away in the wake of his footfalls or the abrupt sound of the door opening. But this time, for the first time in years, there was nothing. Not a single critter.
Nothing.
And once he’d noticed, he couldn’t undo it.
It was glaringly obvious. The radio was no longer playing, not even the white noise that followed a drop in stations. But even more stark than that was the lack of those nightly sounds. No more foxes crying out, no more owls. Not even a whisper of grass or rustle of leaves.
There was nothing.
Dead silence. So loud it was all he could hear - so loud it was deafening. He felt the hairs on his arms stand on end, running up to the nape of his neck. Like being doused in cold water, the shock of the realisation was sudden - once it had clicked in his head, it had already sunk its claws in him and wouldn’t let go.
It was a primal feeling - like how a prey animal knows it’s being watched but can’t tell from which direction the attack will come. Fight or flight vied to be the one to kick in first, leaving him frozen, stuck perfectly in place in the desperate hope that whatever it was, whatever this was would pass him over, lose interest. He could feel his pulse racing, could hear it in his head, rushing past his eardrums, heavy in his mouth.
His lungs were burning. He hadn’t breathed, had instead been holding it in until his chest was sore and his diaphragm ached, needles pricking between his ribs. Sharp and stinging. Trying to make as little sound as possible in case whatever it was that was watching him, hidden in shadows and long thick grass, gave itself away or lost interest.
Palms cool, slick with sweat. He looked down at his hand, caught the tremor as it clung onto the handle, fingers dithering. He couldn’t stop - couldn’t bring himself to pull down, to swing the door back open and escape inside the house where it was safe. Stood stock still, knees locked, shoulders so tense it was a wonder he hadn’t pulled a muscle.
He was scared.
Scared.
Just like he had been when he was a boy, hiding from his father - holding breath and position and praying to anyone that would listen that he would be spared, just this once. Please, just this once. The tremor became a shake. He needed to breathe. He needed air. But if he did, his dad would- it would-
There would be pain and shouting, and it would hurt, hurt so badly that-
The gasp came unbidden. Sudden. Against his will.
Instinctive, the action of a body desperate to stay conscious rather than small. The air hit his lungs and everything moved all at once - triggering a rush of noise that snowballed out of control and away from him. The rustling of something shifting in the cornfield, stems and leaves slapping against each other, bending and swinging back against quick movement.
Erin barked, a deep booming with a snarl of teeth, before she bolted too, giving chase just like she’d been trained. Everything, the sheer wall of it, hit Cian hard, like a slap to the face, snapping him back in the moment.
All the flight had left him, finally unpinned from beneath the eyes he couldn’t see but was held prisoner by all the same. Running on adrenaline, heart in his throat, he frantically threw the back door open and stumbled inside to safety, sanctuary- his dad- no, it couldn’t get him now. Panting, he looked back over his shoulder, only to be hit with dread anew as he caught the tail end of Erin as she bolted through the gap in the wire fence, barrelling into the field, barking the whole way as she vanished into the night.
“Erin-,” He tried to call, but his voice was strained, breathing too ragged, the name coming out reedy and small. Too choked up on the fear that jolted through his veins, made his muscles spasm and his hands shake. He wanted to hide.
For the first time in two years, he wanted nothing more than to run to his room, to barricade the door and drown himself in the covers of his bed, face in the pillow, smothering the sobs that threatened to claw their way out of his throat. He needed it.
Whatever the hell it was lurking out there in the grass, it was dangerous. It was hungry. It was staring eyes and dark shadows and bruises on his skin.
He was scared.
God help him, he was terrified.
But he couldn’t leave Erin out there.
Before he could think it through clearly - wasting time he surely didn’t have - there was metal and varnished wood in his hands.
The shotgun his Pa kept, leaning up against the wall and raised edge of the door frame. The weight was familiar, the same old pump action he’d learned to shoot empty cans out back with. It wasn’t loaded, but he knew where the rounds were kept, fumbling at the cupboard and then the box.
The first shell initially missed the chamber before slotting in, the second going easier though his fingers still trembled. Locked, safety on, grabbing a handful of spare bullets and shoving them in his pocket. Just in case.
In case of what though, he didn’t want to think about.
But just in case.
He felt something sinking in the pit of his stomach as he stepped back out onto the porch only to be met with silence. No more barking, no shift of corn. Just cold, loud, quiet broken only by his own uneven breathing and footsteps as he followed after her.
Pulse still in his throat, an acidic burning in the back of his mouth that made it painful to swallow. All the while his mind screamed at him to turn back, to get in the house and lock the windows and doors, dog be damned. But that was just the fear talking, he knew.
Cian had spent his whole life listening to it.
And it had been easy to, when it was just him. But Erin was his Pa’s dog and his responsibility. And, even more than that, he loved that dog, too. She’d seen more of his tears that he’d ever admit and listened to the terrible thoughts he couldn’t tell anyone else, face buried against her neck and fingers knotted in her long wiry fur. It was his responsibility to protect her, and he’d do just that.
“Erin!” He shouted, ignoring the way his voice caught and broke sharply. Simply coughing and pushed through it as he approached the fence she’d slipped through.
Her name rang out across the field.
No response.
The gun felt heavier than it had a few minutes ago. Cold steel, dense wood. The rattle of bullets in his pocket.
“Erin! Come here, girl!”
The gaps between the bands of wire that made up the fence, strands pulled taut around the poles, was enough for him to fit through if he bent down enough. He just had to be careful not to get snagged on any of the razor barbs - he’d already got a nasty scar from them last Spring, chasing a coyote off from the coops.
Though it was night, the clear sky and full moon was enough to see by; each wickedly sharp tangle he needed to avoid. He gripped one of the lines and swallowed, pulling, widening the gap to slip through. As he stood up and stared into the field, the tall stalks of corn looming over him, he sucked in another juddering breath.
It was fear. It was just fear.
He had overcome it before. He could do it again. For Erin.
He wasn’t that frightened boy hiding beneath the covers anymore.
“Erin? Erin!” He called.
No response.
He adjusted his grip on the shotgun and stepped into the field proper, boots and barrel nudging aside stems and leaves. Shoving them out of the way to push through.
This is insane. This is fucking insane, he thought. He shouldn’t be doing this. He should’ve just locked the doors and windows and woken his Pa up. He should’ve called the police. Anything but this. Anything but this. He shouldn’t be doing this.
And yet he was.
Cursing as a leaf slapped against his face, mind screaming at him to just stop and think for one second, he kept pressing on. Kept moving forward. It didn’t matter that he was scared, that his palms and the backs of his knees were damp with sweat, or that he felt like he was about to vomit; because Erin was somewhere out there and he couldn’t just abandon her.
He couldn’t.
Surrounded on all sides by crops that towered a good foot over his head, spaces between them cramped and dense, the moonlight smothered and he could barely see more than a few steps ahead of him. The soil beneath his feet was uneven and loose, shifting and causing him to stumble, staggering upright and breathless as he continued to call her name to no avail.
The fireflies were gone, the crickets were still, there wasn’t even a moth to flinch away from. Cian hated insects, but in that moment he missed them. Because insects in a cornfield were normal. But now there was just nothing. Not a single one. Just the rattle of stiff stalks and his own heavy breathing between each cry, and his skin began to crawl for an entirely different reason.
“Come on, Erin. Please,” He muttered, slipping again as he caught a stone under his foot, nearly twisting his ankle sharply, “For fuck’s sake-!”
He fell.
Hitting the ground hard against his hip with a flare of pain, and the gun fell from his grasp to land somewhere next to him. Hissing, he pushed himself up with a hand, palm scuffed and likely bleeding, but in the low light he couldn’t tell for sure. His foot had snagged something before he tripped, something fairly large and heavy.
As he picked the gun up again, he looked over his shoulder, squinting to see what it was exactly. He could make out the vague shape - almost like a mound of earth. But it had been too solid for that; tilled soil didn’t hold such a dense form. Fumbling, he brought his knees up under him and reached out - perhaps it was a bag or something left behind by the unseen trespasser as they’d booked it through the field.
His hand met a soft wetness that barely felt warm anymore. Cool and sticky, it clung to his skin and he almost snatched it away when his fingers caught on something all too familiar.
Long wiry fur.
Oh, God.
He was going to throw up. Could feel the sudden churn in his stomach and the bile rising in his throat as he frantically scrambled to his feet, horrified and yet unable to tear his eyes away from Erin’s body lying motionless. Stumbling backwards, the blood on his hand an iron weight, a burdening brand. Cold and congealed and tacked with dirt and torn fur.
Oh, God. Oh, fuck. Oh, fucking hell-
He staggered out into a clearing, close to the fence that backed onto the woods at the end of the field. He barely stopped before he could fall into the irrigation ditch that hugged the wooden fence, finally turning away only so he could lean over and vomit onto his own shoes. Each painful heave tore at his ribs, straining muscles so badly it hurt to breathe. His throat burned, eyes watering, hands shaking but refusing to let go of the gun, pulling it close against his hunched chest. Choking, spitting, sobbing. Guilt biting into his gut so hard he gagged again.
In the moonlight once more, everything was washed a sickly grey, monochrome shapes that no longer made sense to his panicked mind, spinning, blurred by sheer terror. His bloodstained palm looked black. Frantically, he wiped it against his leg, smearing it into his jeans so deep it would likely never come out.
Erin was dead. His dog was dead.
He barely recognised the sound that ripped itself out of him. An anguished wail, from deep within his chest, raw and sharp with grief, with guilt that if he’d just gone after her sooner- if he hadn’t frozen, hadn’t been scared-
If he hadn’t been such a coward then he could have saved her.
But it was too late. She was dead. And it was all his fault.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so, so, sorry.”
The words came out in a rush between sniffles and coughs, though who he was apologising to, he didn’t know. It wasn’t like Erin could hear him. Not anymore.
His stomach tilted again, his head felt too light, dizzying, uneven. The hair on his arms stood on end, skin riddled with goosebumps despite the mild temperature. He smelled of vomit, could still taste it in his mouth, against each tooth and on his tongue - he could see through watery eyes that it was all over his shoes. But he didn’t move - just stood there in the puddle, staring, clinging to the shotgun like a lifeline as he tried to understand what he’d just seen. Rambling out apologies no one could hear - that no one could forgive him for.
“Oh, fuck.”
His head ached, temples pounding, a tension across the back of his eyes and the bridge of his nose. There was a hissing in his ears, like rushing water, babbling and loud, drowning out every thought that tried to surface. A flood in his brain, one built of grief and self-blame.
He’d killed Erin. He’d just as well killed her himself. He’d abandoned her, let her go ahead, didn’t stop her-
/ You killed her, Cian Daniels. /
/ What a shame. /
He didn’t think that.
Those thoughts were not his own.
A rustle behind him, the sound of branches being pushed aside, leaves and undergrowth crushed underfoot. Cian spun around, gun immediately raised, jittering finger on the trigger, hammer pulled back, safety off. The ground wobbled beneath him though he knew it was perfectly still. His head was throbbing, skull tight. He dragged in a desperate breath, blinked hard, waited for the world to right itself as he squinted into the woods beyond the ditch and fence.
“Who’s there?!” His voice trembled, caught, pitched up at the end and broke off. It would have been embarrassing, if he wasn’t half out of his mind with fear.
Staring, he couldn’t make out anything between the trees, but the footsteps were still approaching, getting closer. Closer. Closer.
His finger gripped a little harder around the trigger, knuckle turning white. But he didn’t shoot, couldn’t shoot - not yet, not without a clear target. The shadows were growing longer, reaching, grasping, eyes he couldn’t see peering out, boring into him from the darkness. And for the first time in years, Cian Daniels felt small.
Tiny. An ant in a world too large for him, danger at every turn. There was a buzzing in his ears, vibrating in the night air, frantic and getting louder with every passing second - just like the footsteps, getting closer.
Inescapable despite the field that now lay spread out behind him. The field where Erin’s body lay. Unmoving. Bloody. Cold.
Dead.
“Who’s there?!” He screamed, echoing out into that unforgiving darkness where the shadows coalesced and started to writhe, taking on new form.
A shambling mound, a tangled mess of protrusions, piled up on top of one another. Two large eyes that felt like a thousand, reflecting moonlight back so that they appeared like silver discs, wide and cold. His heart was working overtime, faster than he’d ever felt it, pulse frenetic in his neck, hard enough he could feel it in his wrists too, racketing against his ribs so intensely they could give way. Finger on the trigger, ready to press down, to fire, to protect himself if- the buzzing getting louder- he was gasping for air, face wet- oh, God, he was crying- crying- and-
It was a deer.
Its head breached the treeline first, large and docile. Round, big eyes staring dully ahead, right at him. Taking him in, assessing, appraising. A deer.
It was just a deer.
Relief. So powerful it almost sent him keeling over, knees buckling, legs shaking - a flush of cold coursing through his veins. Finger slipping from the trigger, finally relaxing until-
Until it stepped from out of the woods and into the light.
Loose flesh wobbled on its stilt-like legs, joints distorted and bulbous, folding backwards with each stumbling, precarious step. Hooves were bent inwards, as though walking on its knuckles, and its antlers…
Twisting hands made of sinew and flesh and barbs of bone - each tine a writhing, flexing cluster of broken fingers, feeling at the air with jerky movements. Flesh and fur sloughed in some places, was pulled too tight over others, fit uncomfortably snug against bony protrusions, dangerously close to splitting wide open at any given second. It dragged itself towards the fence, a half-formed mass of viscera hanging where its abdomen should have kept the organs inside, sliding wet and loose against the ground, snagging branches and foliage and stones.
Cian had heard stories of deer attacked by coyotes or wolves, practically torn to shreds but somehow still clinging on - like they didn’t know they were supposed to be dead. Pitiful, dreadful things, baying and bleeding and limping until someone took it upon themselves to put the poor creature out of its misery.
But this deer wasn’t crying out in pain. Its organs hung out of a cavity hollowed from its body, but it wasn’t bleeding. As it stared at him from across the fence, antlers writhing, breaths heaving, pale grey tongue lolling out of its mouth, he came to a horrible realisation - one that couldn’t be possible, but still sunk in the pit of his stomach with a finality to it that he didn’t like.
It wasn’t a deer.
His finger once again grasped at the trigger, a sound halfway between a gag and a scream spilling from his mouth. Oh, God. Oh, God…
He wanted to vomit again, stomach pitching violently. Static screeching in his ears as the deer- it, whatever it was, opened its slack mouth. Rapid cuts of sound, like twisting a tuning dial on the radio, flickering between stations - sparking white noise, clips of voices and scraps of music; notes and words careening like disembodied wails. And finally, stood there with its mouth agape, it began to speak - words shaped without a tongue or teeth moving to do so-
“You weren’t supposed to see.”
“What?”
If he thought he was terrified before, then there was no word for this feeling - bone deep fear that threatened to swallow him whole. Whatever this thing was before him, with its baleful eyes and haunting voice… it wasn’t natural, it wasn’t right - it wasn’t supposed to be here. It shouldn’t exist.
His hands were shaking. Shaking so badly.
/ Don’t you recognise me? /
There was a crack, deep and painful, followed by a wet slide of flesh. The deer’s face folded in on itself, snout crumpling up and caving in. A twisting, writhing, nonsensical mass that shuffled and distorted with a sound not unlike pulling one’s foot out of moist, sucking mud. Eyes twisting to face forward, grey-green irises and red hair.
Fur falling inwards and disappearing in favour of smooth, pale, freckled skin. A deer’s body but a humanoid face. Profane and vile and enough to make Cian want to turn away. But he couldn’t - couldn’t look away as a mouth, drawn up painfully at the corners, suddenly smiled at him; filled with far too many teeth and red, bloodied gums. But there was no mirth in it, just teeth, bared and threatening. A perverse mockery of the original.
It was wearing his face.
“You weren’t supposed to see,” It said, and its voice was agony and despair, and painful, ugly truth.
He was staring at something so incomprehensible, so earth-shatteringly other in the face and he was petrified. Mind unable to make sense of it, unravelling, desperately trying to clutch at straws in the hope he could keep his head above the water.
/ Afraid of your own face, Cian? /
“What- what are you?” The gun was heavy, his arms felt weak. The words he spoke were small, frail things.
Another pop of bone, an upheaval of too-malleable skin - fixing together all the parts of an entirely new face. One Cian had never wanted to see again in his life.
A face associated with blackened hand prints and bruises that ran deeper than just flesh. He could smell the stench of cheap scotch and cigarettes - of a heavy cologne with too much spice that made him retch.
A smell that had once clung to every surface of his childhood home, like it could mask the stink of booze and make pretend that the household was a happy one - that it wasn’t the one place in the world Cian was terrified of going back to every day after school; that he didn’t spend as much time in his room as possible trying to avoid what he knew was inevitable. For just as much as his father’s cologne was soaked into the foundations, so was his anger and bitterness - his resentment that his wife had died and not his useless son.
Useless, cowardly son.
/ I know what you fear. /
Still as useless and pathetic as he had been back then.
The gun was no longer a comfort. Instead it had become another thing for Cian to hide behind, like his bedroom door when he’d managed to get there in time to barricade it, cowering in the gap between his bed and drawers until his father’s rage had cooled to a simmer and the footsteps had long since disappeared down the hall.
He wasn’t brave - he never had been brave, not once in his life. He wasn’t the hero here, he wasn’t strong enough to overcome this - whatever this was. Because now it looked like- like-
It was wearing his father’s face.
And it didn’t matter that he was eighteen. It didn’t matter that he was holding a loaded shotgun in his hands, one trigger finger’s pull away from firing it. No amount of weaponry or years of experience could help him now. Because Cian was ten years old again.
/ I know who you fear becoming. /
The thing wearing his father’s face grinned and Cian hated that he could see his own smile in it too - the same upwards curve, the dimple in his right cheek. He’d already lost so much to that man; he didn’t want to lose that too. He couldn’t lose that- he- he couldn’t-
“Y-you’re not him-”
“I know what you are,” It interrupted and, damned as he was, Cian fully flinched.
Where its voice was agony and despair before, it was now terror and hopelessness. It was rage and fists, scotch and blood beneath the skin. It was his father’s voice, slurred and drunken and full of spite and contempt. He couldn’t breathe, was shrinking back, shying away - instinctive, ingrained by years of living in fear, of treading on eggshells in the hopes the bottle was loud enough to keep him hidden. It never was. It never was. His legs felt heavy, weighed down to the ground like he was rooted into the vomit-stained soil. When he managed to take a step back, it was tentative, no more than a shuffle - minute and feeble.
“You’ve always been the same, Cian Daniels. You will always be the same,” It droned, facial features shifting slightly, like islands slowly drifting apart in a sea of elasticated skin.
Teeth loose and rotating, one eye blinking at a time, pupils dilating and drawing back into slivers unevenly. Still his father and yet inexplicably more horrifying - uncanny, unnatural. With his real dad, Cian knew exactly what to anticipate, but this- this thing was entirely wrong, unpredictable. He gripped the shotgun tighter, raised it as level as he could, trying to ignore how it wobbled in his uncertain hands.
“A scared little boy,” It sneered, “And you’ll never amount to anything more.”
‘You’ll never amount to anything. You’re nothing. You’re useless.’
Memories of running away, words that cut deep, had carved themselves into his very bones. He tried to tamp them down, to keep on aiming the gun, to take another step back. This was just a nightmare. Just some horrible, awful nightmare and he would wake up soon - any minute now - and would be in his own bed with Erin lying at his feet and he would cry and laugh and then forget all about it come evening with a bottle of vodka and a pack of smokes.
It was just a dream. Just a dream. It had to be. Because if it wasn’t…
It didn’t bear thinking about.
/ Let me spare you the misery of what you really are. /
Half deer, half man, it stumbled forward, loping with an uneven gait towards the fence - the only barrier between it and him. Cian once again backed up, dragging heavy, awkward, terror-leaden feet to do so. It shrieked and bellowed in static and patch-worked sentences of old curses his father had spat at him; its antlers reached out and groped blindly, like stiff, mechanical antennae - and yet each curved and beckoning finger, each crease of overstuffed flesh as they moved and twisted, some growing into hands and others receding to mere stumps, was all too organic.
“Get the fuck back!” He was desperate - to fire the gun, to get out of there, to live.
And yet he couldn’t.
He hesitated. Because, when it came down to it, he still couldn’t bring himself to stand up to his father - to fight back; even against something that was but a cruel mockery of the man that had made his life a living hell.
And it knew that.
It knew that
/ You won’t do it. I know you won’t. /
It laughed like it had a chorus of the damned within it, layered over each other in discordant harmonies and blasphemous melodies. It laughed and it was as though the whole world joined in with it - mocking a child that couldn’t fight back.
“He knew it too - your father,” It said, “He knew what you were and I do, too.”
It started to haul itself over the slats, the posts groaning under the weight as it pawed and dragged its backward limbs and gutted body forward, uncaring of how it could barely do so, trailing and snagging its hanging organs. Pinching them between a heavy chest and old, weathered wooden boards. Cian’s breathing was rapid, hands gripping the shotgun so tightly that his fingers ached, bones protesting sharply, curve of the trigger biting into one finger. He couldn’t pull it. He couldn’t-
“You’re just a scared little boy, Cian Daniels.”
The gun fired with a thunderous crack, the recoil jerking through his arms, igniting pins and needles in his palms. Standing there in shock, the acrid smell of gunpowder heady and bright, burning in his nose.
He hadn’t meant to- didn’t- when had he-?
It had been instinctive, to fire the weapon, to send the buckshot flying out and driving into the monster’s body, tearing through rumpled skin and muscle, spraying up into the mangled approximation of his father’s face. Without thinking, his hand reached for his pocket where he’d stuffed the spare shells only to feel flat emptiness. His racing heart sank, stomach knotting at the realisation that they must’ve fallen out during his fall and were now scattered in the darkness of the cornfield.
He couldn’t reload.
Unable to pry his eyes away from the creature still flailing against the fence, now beginning to reach the irrigation ditch, he began to sob. The pellets had punctured, but it seemed unfazed, only black tears of endless darkness to mark their passing through.
He couldn’t hurt it. He couldn’t kill it. He was going to die.
He was going to die.
“Oh, fuck,” He gasped, dropping the useless weapon at his feet as an overwhelming feeling of terrible resignation washed over him, “Oh, Christ.”
/ Oh, he is not there, Cian. /
/ You are alone. /
/ So very alone. /
/ You always have been. /
/ And now you’ll die alone, too. /
/ How fitting. /
He had to run. He had to get away.
Now.
Adrenaline spiked in his veins, squeezed at his heart so tight it would burst, submitting to the pressure, to the restricted expanding of his air-starved lungs.
/ Don’t risk it. Accept it. /
But it was worth the risk.
He bolted before he could think any further - could ensnare himself deeper in a paralysing spiral of ‘I’m going to die. I’m going to die,’ and commit one last ironic act of self-fulfilling prophecy.
Turning on his heel, turning his back on the burgeoning beast that had finally pawed its way over to the other side, he fled the way he had come, back through the cornfield. Immediately shrouded in darkness, barely able to see more than a foot ahead of him as he was entirely ensconced by thick leaves and brittle stalks he all but punched out of the way. He couldn’t afford to think, only to run, to run and hope and pray that he wasn’t about to die like Erin, alone in the dark until his Pa came looking for him and quite literally stumbled across his body, too.
He couldn’t hear anything but the pounding of his pulse and the slap and cracks of crops as he violently tore his way through. His chest burned, something scalding and tart stung the back of his throat. His hands still ached dully from the kickback of the gun - too panicked when he’d fired it to hold it properly; the pain now infesting his wrists and elbows, gnawing at his biceps. Whatever the hell it was he’d just seen was no longer making any sounds - no voices, no insidious words seeping into his mind, mingling with his own thoughts; not even the telltale noise of it in pursuit.
And that was worse than anything else.
Because it was still out there. Somewhere. Silent. Waiting.
Eyes burning, blurred with tears, but he couldn’t stop. He could feel the nausea rising up from his gut to his mouth. But he couldn’t stop. If he did- even hesitated, just for a second- he was dead. He would die.
He didn’t want to die.
“Please, please, please, please,” A mantra of barely formed words, raspy and breathless, choked up by tears and vomit he couldn’t yield to. Not yet. There was only him, endless corn, a godless mantra, and a monster he couldn’t see, “Please, please, please-”
He was drowning - in leaves, in tears, in despair . He needed air, needed to surface and soon, because if he didn’t- if he didn’t he was going to- to-
Surface. He broke through and into freedom with a last crashing wave of corn and narrowly avoided razor wire. Out from darkness and into blessed moonlight. Still dull, but enough to see by - enough to make out the buildings, to draw his eyes to the beacon that was the rear porch light on the house, glowing bright yellow where he’d left it on.
Salvation. Promised land. He was almost there. Almost.
And he didn’t stop, refused to. Sprinting with darkness snapping at his heels, trying to outpace the slow but steady static beginning to seep back into his head. Something wet and hot slipped from his nose, the tang of hot copper and iron cut into his tongue, clogging his senses. Shoulder ramming into the back door - a crack of old wood, a stabbing pain that jarred his bones.
Slamming it shut behind him, back pressed up tight against it. Sweaty hands clawing to twist the lock, drive the deadbolt home, hook the catch. Desperate, pathetic sounds escaping him as he panted, fighting for breath that barely came.
Black spots blooming across his vision, ears ringing, static subsiding but still whispering, niggling at the very back of his skull, by the base of his spine. There was blood in his mouth, leaking from his nose - sour, vile, coating his tongue, staining his teeth.
Across from him, the kitchen door opened, the light flicked on.
Without thinking, he flattened himself further against the now-locked door, sliding to the ground, cold tiles biting at his skin and through his jeans. All-consuming dread grappled him and he froze entirely, staring up with wide, watery eyes as his Pa, in his pyjamas and confused, now looked down at him. His expression was one of confusion but clear concern, raising both hands like he was placating a cornered, feral animal.
“Cian?” Pa asked, voice too loud despite the soft lilt of his accent, cutting through the buzzing static and the rush of blood pumping in his ears as he hyperventilated, stock-still against the hard lines of wood at his back, “What-? I heard shouting. Are- You’re bleeding- What on God’s green earth happened?”
And maybe it was that which finally undid him - his Pa asking in that kind, gentle voice filled only with concern for his grandson. Sweet words after those burdening, harrowing truths.
You’re a scared little boy.
Cian buried his head in his hands and screamed.
A scared little boy.