Chapter 6 - Running, Theories and Laughter

Bentley’s eyes are scanning each door in the street, alley ways, anything they could hide in. Panic setting in, he grabs Irene’s arm and pulls her toward the open door that she had emerged out of earlier this evening, only for her to pull against him, causing the two of them to skid to a halt.

“There is another one.” Irene is gasping, lifting her arm to point at the open doorway they were just moving toward.

The shadowed entrance is just barely hiding the silhouette of a rake thin person, long scraggly hair facing away from them in the hallway.

“What…is…happening?” Andrew heaves out, his words catching in his throat from the exertion of the run.

“It doesn’t bloody well matter! Just keep running!”

They take off again, and moments later the only sign they were there at all is the green woollen scarf left, getting damp on the cobbles.

By the time they start to be able to see the end of the street, the shouts of a cordon officer are echoing out, and for a moment relief starts to grip them as the figure of authority seems closer, except that changes in an instant as the shouts change to a strangled, desperate gurgle. Their run slows to a jog, to a slow walk. The officer’s silhouette is leaning over, highlighted by his lantern he has to have dropped. He is seemingly just staring at the floor and unmoving, before the gurgles quiet to silence. 

The tapping begins again, a more rapid series of impacts resounding from the glass in Irene’s bag. Another series of taps begin to echo from the window of the closest building, and then the house opposite. Pretty soon the sound is echoing everywhere around them. 

“Run. RUN!” Irene shouts at Bentley as she begins to take off to the far side of the cordon, aiming for a gap away from the officer whilst he isn’t moving. Bentley’s legs almost fail him as he starts to stumble toward her again, before finding his stride, the tapping mirroring the impact of their hurried footfalls on the cobbles. The two of them vault haphazardly over the low barrier, and Bentley risks a quick glance behind them.

Dozens of them. Figures of all shapes and sizes stumbling backward unnaturally through the doorways of the “abandoned” homes. 

He doesn’t take a second glance for the rest of their run.

-

“Are you done?” Irene coughs out toward a hunched Dr. Bentley, who is wiping his mouth clean with a small handkerchief.

“I think so.” 

“Brilliant. I think we’re going to need something to eat and to drink as soon as possible. Further than that, we need to write down everything we just saw, and heard.”

“But where do we go?” Bentley slumps down against the wall, a small distance away from where he was just vomiting. “My office is unsafe and the bookstore might be too.”

“Talk me through what happened at the store again, the door was open?”

“That’s right, I was reading through my notes and realised the connection, got up to leave and found the door unlocked and slightly ajar.”

“But nothing else?”

“I was very startled by it, I thought that would be enough.” Mild irritation courses across Bentley’s brow.

“I’ve never had a place that I’ve marked as William suggested be compromised, so I am starting to wonder if I just forgot to lock the door like I thought I had.” Having caught her breath, she pulls out her now empty cigarette case, double checking with a harsh hiss through her teeth. “I don’t have any other ideas except the Estate, and they would not approve of our expedition tonight.”

“In all honesty, I would take anything at this point. I just need to get off my feet and sleep. Although I’m not sure how well I’ll be sleeping any more.” Bentley climbs back to his feet, going to wrap his scarf back around his neck before grasping at empty air.

“Ah.” His face failing to hide the disappointment. Conflicted feelings seem to reflect in his eyes for a moment before he drops his hands and lets out a deep sigh. “That was William’s.”

“I’m sorry, Doctor, if at all possible we will get it back.”

The two of them start a much slower walk back to the bookstore.

-

The store looks untouched from outside, the scratched note left as it was and the door still locked. The keys rattle for a moment before the door swings inward. Bentley and Irene are standing a short distance back, simply watching, waiting for something to happen. 

Silence. A few moments of tense nothingness pass before Irene steps forward, her expression suggesting she is too exhausted to care at this point. She passes the threshold, pulling out a box of matches and lights the lantern by the door. Bentley hangs back for a moment, his fingers absently caressing the gem in his pocket.

The interior seems untouched, except for a small trail of mess from where Bentley had jumped up from the desk. He steps in, setting his jacket down over the back of a chair slowly, carefully looking around as Irene finishes checking the back of the store. 

“Well it seems clear, no sign of anyone having been in here. Let's take a moment and I’ll get some weak coffee for you so we can take some notes before we rest for the night.”  She pulls out a small stove and a kettle out from under the reception counter, lighting it and setting some water to boil.

“Irene, what was wrong with those people back there? They were all so thin, and all of them were walking backward, I could hear their joints creaking.” His voice cracking slightly as he must be remembering the images of what just transpired. 

“Before that, what is it you saw in the basement, the broken glass on the floor was covered in blood as if someone had walked on it.”

“They were there.” Bentley rubs his face with his hands, as if trying to scrub the memories out. “I can remember Charles’ description of his parents vividly, and I’m certain it was them, despite how thin they looked. Stood on the broken glass and staring at a wide mirror that was resting against the wall, ignorant of the blood streaming from their bare feet. I couldn’t make out their faces or even see what it was that they were staring at because the mirror was at an angle from me.”

“What else, Doctor?”

“Please Irene, just call me Andrew, I’d say we’ve been through enough for that.” Andrew sets his elbows down on the table and pinches his nose. “It seemed to be everything missing from the home, vanity mirrors, drinking receptacles, family photos and anything else with glass on it. Shattered on the floor like it was discarded for some reason.”

Irene sets down a cup of steaming coffee in front of Andrew and takes a seat opposite him, sipping from her own.

“Just glass? It doesn’t make any sense. Did they lock themselves down there?” She mutters to herself. “Doc- Andrew. Were there any signs or symbols on the walls, like the one from your office?”

“No. The walls were bare, but there did seem to be a light coming from the deepest part of the room, behind the mirror I think.”

“Alright.”

“So? What was wrong with those people? That did not seem like any disease or infection I have ever heard of.”

“Nor any I have heard of either. Truth is, I don’t think even William has seen the situation get this bad, and that was not the epicentre of the outbreak, merely a nearby street.” A beat of silence broken by the sipping of coffee. “My theory is that they are not diseased. Not infected by some malicious fungus as originally thought. They are acting like people possessed. I’ve heard of somewhat similar occurrences in old research I’ve handled at the estate, but nothing so visceral, and almost always are suspect accounts at best.”

“But what about the eyes then? Or the sickly frailty of them? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Their eyes!” Irene sits up with a start, pulling one of the notebooks toward herself and marking a point with her finger. “Let’s assume for a moment that there is no infection that consumes the eyes of its victims, why would the eyes on the corpses found previously be missing?”

“I’m too tired for this Irene, what is it you’ve figured out?”

“Well we didn’t see the faces of any of the people tonight, so we don’t know if they had eyes or not, but what we do know is that there is always a consistent theme to the Burning Shards and everything we experienced tonight.” She takes what seems to be an excited sip of coffee before continuing. “They are always looking at something. In a mirror, away from us, even in the symbol the figures are all staring at a point of “light”.”

Andrew lets out a slight gasp, realisation dawning on him. “In the basement, they were staring at some kind of light down there.”

“So it is based on something you can see.”
“So it is something you can see.”

They speak in unison.

“But what? Do you think it could be some kind of hypnotism?” Irene lowers herself back into her chair.

“I’ve seen my fair share of psychological states, better or worse, and I have never seen something that could force someone to move the way they moved.”

The two of them take a moment to think about it, Andrew pinching the bridge of his nose again and rubbing his eyes.

“Alright. Well I think that is quite enough, I’m going to commit some of our thoughts to paper here, if you would like to get some sleep there is a foldaway cot just behind reception, or a spare bed upstairs.”

“Much appreciated Irene.”

-

A cart rattles down the street, the sound of hooves striking the cobbles echoing out in the morning air. The early mist hanging, obfuscating the details of the buildings, blues and greys of the morning light just starting to peek over the rooftops.

“Morning, Andrew.” Irene chimes from the other end of the store, her husky voice surprisingly cheerful for so early in the morning.

“Absolutely not.” Andrew’s less cheerful voice rumbles out from the cot by reception. “Coffee first.”

A few minutes later, coffee having been brewed, the two of them dress in a change of clean clothes. Andrew is wearing a pair of black slacks, a burnished orange turtleneck jumper and his hair curly and wild from sleep, his face buried in the mug of fresh coffee. 

Irene has tidied herself up from her haggard dress the night before and has opted for a more sensible light grey pantsuit with a black shirt underneath, her hair up in a tight bun.

“I don’t mean to pry, but do you think we could talk about how you and William know each other?” Irene broaches the topic carefully. “Good friends?”

“We ar- were? In love. We have been since we met.” Andrew speaks brusquely before taking a long deliberate sip of coffee, eyeing Irene’s indecipherable expression carefully. “He and I had been living together for nearly seven years under the guise of roommates, or best friends. Although I would still describe him as my best friend too. He has always looked out for me, and I did the same for him where I could. Sadly, I had to sell our apartment about six months ago.”

Soft, stifled laughter interrupts Andrew’s explanation, as Irene is covering her mouth and giggling.

“Are you alright Irene?” Andrew looks almost offended. “I hope you don’t think I’m joking.”

“No no, Andrew, I don’t think that at all. It just makes so much sense now. I always wondered why William kept blowing off all the receptionists at the Estate that vyed for his attention. He had a lovely partner all to himself already.” She ends with a somewhat bittersweet smile. “Before you ask, no I don’t care, and if anything it is all the more reason that I must help you find him, because Lord knows if William found out I let you of all people suffer loneliness he’d kick my ass up and down the street.”

It was Andrew’s turn to laugh this time, a hearty and natural laughter that feels out of place in the dingy surroundings. 

“I suspect the three of us would make excellent drinking buddies after we’ve put all this behind us.”

“That we would.” She finishes the dregs of her coffee, setting it to the side. “And Andrew? It's ‘Are’, not ‘Were’.”