Weirdbook Annual: Zombies!

THE MEDDLER, by Matthew John-2

Shel slipped back to her parents’ room and applied the strange blue chalk as the stranger instructed. On the bed she saw one of her mother’s scarves. They were the most expensive items she’d owned. Every year, when the trader from Pathra visited town, Father would buy her a new one with what little extra money the harvest afforded him. Shel picked it up, admired the rich green, the shining gold trim, and pressed it to her face. Tears tugged at her lids as she breathed her mother’s scent, but she wouldn’t allow them to fall. Instead, she exhaled a heavy breath, wrapped the scarf around her neck and thought of her brother. He was all she had left.

She strode back to the main room and embraced Cam, who sat listening to the stranger’s story about yellow fairies. As she tousled her brother’s hair one last time, the old man cleared his throat suggestively. When she looked at him, he nodded his head toward the woodcutter’s axe Cam had left on the floor. She whispered a goodbye in Cam’s ear, retrieved the axe, and strode toward the door.

* * * *

In the howling wind, the forest seemed alive. Branches swayed and creaked and rogue gusts snapped her garments like a sail. She stopped often, scouring the shadows for movement against the wind. As the trail ended, the trees cleared and she saw the grey of the coming morning staining the black of night. Ahead of her, the tower stretched above the remnants of an old fence. Like a black sword, it seemed to threaten the very sky. For a moment she lingered before the broken, moss-covered tiles of the courtyard, recalling the adventures she’d had with Cam. The statues guarding the tower, once so familiar, now seemed menacing in the pre-dawn gloom. She counted five of them, but it looked as though a sixth had collapsed.

Had there always been six?

She could not trust her ears but was fairly sure of her eyes, so she proceeded to the tower door. But as she drew within twenty paces of the crumpled statue, she knew they’d failed her. The dark lump was not the remains of a broken sculpture, but a human figure kneeling and curled up in agony. She bristled and froze, straining her eyes, attempting to make out the details. She couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman; all she could see was the hair on its head, the slope of the back, and sides of its arms. Shel stepped to the right, planning to walk a wide circle around the figure. But then it moved. At first it seemed to vibrate and then began shaking like a dog fresh from the pond. Instinct took over and she fled to the entrance. Arriving at the steps, she reached for the silver key, but then noticed the door was already ajar.

Glancing back, she saw the figure had risen and turned away from her, head whipping from side to side as if trying to shake something from its face. Her nails dug into the wooden haft of the axe. The fear of what she saw conquered the fear of what she didn’t, and she pushed past the door and peeked inside.

Darkness greeted her. The only light came from the open doorway in which she stood. Seeing no other choice, she pressed against the heavy wood until the door touched the interior wall. Another look back and she saw the figure had returned to its hunched position, still as a statue once more. She waited a moment for her eyes to adjust and entered the tower.

Only the most basic composition of the room was visible as most of the details were lost in the murk. Her feet met stone tiles, but the wind whistled through the doorway, muting her steps. A mixture of pungent smells rode the air—ginger, sulfur, mint, mold. The curious shadows of furniture, trinkets and various tricks of the light kept her on edge as she followed the wall to the first of two doors. It was splintered at the bottom and didn’t seem to have a lock. As she passed it by, seeking the door that led to the stranger’s study, a loud rasp sounded from the main entrance. The heavy door groaned on iron hinges and as it increased in pitch, the light began to fade. Darkness spread, metal clicked…

And the room went black.

In the talons of panic, her body seemed to melt away. She became a weightless, thundering heartbeat. Breaths escaped in rapid succession, as if she’d fallen into a winter lake. She gripped the axe in sweaty, shaking fists. Though the light was gone, so too was the wind, and a pregnant silence settled over the darkness.

A few more measured breaths and she regained control of her limbs. Once her eyes adjusted, she noticed a subtle glow pulsing through the cracks of the splintered door—the door she was certain led to the basement. The very door the stranger had warned her about.

She weighed the implications. Perhaps a torch burned just beyond the ragged wood; she could snatch it and be out before any harm could befall her. But as she considered her options, a faint humming came from somewhere in the vast chamber. She froze. After a still, breathless moment, it grew louder. And then—

Footsteps.

Something approached.

Without thinking, she backed away and brushed against the basement door. The footsteps drew closer and the vibrating hum became a chorus of a thousand haunted voices, buzzing… like wasps.

One of them must have found her.

In the faint, hellish glow she could see a moving figure. With it, the cacophony seemed to amplify—seemed to accost her—as if she was a thief discovered in the marketplace. Reaching back she pushed against the old wood. The door creaked and warm light poured into the chamber, revealing the horrifying details of what advanced from the darkness. In a flash she saw a man’s frame, pallid flesh, legs moving in stiff, erratic jerks like a marionette dancing on invisible strings. But worse than its surreal movements was a face resembling a rotten pumpkin, hollowed and carved for harvest celebration, eyes and mouth scooped out, sockets widened—all human features replaced by clusters of swarming insects.

Shel stifled a scream as its mouth split open and scores of winged shadows poured out. She slammed against the door and it gave way. Stepping through, she flung it shut and threw her weight against it, bracing her feet on the stone tiles of the new passageway. Not ten paces away a torch burned in a sconce at the end of the narrow hall. Beside it another door barred her escape, this one composed of iron and bearing a lock. The thin wood at her back rattled as the horror scraped against it from the other side. The air around her began to hum, and tiny shadows danced in the ambient light. A few of the creatures had entered through the cracks and she could see now they looked more like winged spiders than bees—bodies of deep purple with black wings and limbs. Terrified to move, she could only watch and endure the awful buzzing, the brush of tiny wings against her cheeks. Tears streamed down her face, salting her lips as she prayed for the gods to intervene. And miraculously, seconds later, the swarm disappeared.

The stranger’s chalk! It must have worked. The buzzing persisted behind the wood. She could still feel the scraping on the other side, but the door remained closed.

Her shattered nerves took over. She secured the axe in her belt, ran toward the light, and snatched the torch from the wall. Drawing the key from her pocket, she peered at the iron lock. As she fingered the cool metal and recalled the stranger’s warning, the wooden door protecting her from the thing on the other side exploded from its hinges, slamming into the hallway in a cloud of dust and debris. At the other end the creature stood like some contorted, grotesque scarecrow, its infested mouth splitting into an awful, mirthless grin. Again, instinct propelled her and she jammed the key into the lock. A flick to the right and she felt the bolt turn over. After retrieving the key, she pulled the brass handle and the door swung open. She didn’t spare a look back, but the shadows told her the horror hadn’t been far from the door when she stepped through and slammed it behind her.

Shel found herself in a small circular room, lined by shelves carved into the brickwork. In the center was a pedestal of stone, topped by a massive slab of wood, stained like a butcher’s block. Bolted to the sides were manacles for hands and feet, and a series of leather straps and brass buckles. The air reeked of old death. Sinister shadows seemed to retreat up the grimy walls. Such was Shel’s fear of the thing from the hallway that she hadn’t considered what the stranger might have warned her about. Was the place trapped? Was it guarded? She stood in place, scanning the room, reluctant to take another step.

The room was a chaotic spread of bowls, cages, strange instruments, broken jewelry, scraps of metal, parchment, and chain. One of the stone shelves was heaped with potions, cups, and containers filled with unknown specimens, dead and preserved. To her immediate right were piles of clothing—boots, dresses, belts and…

A scarf.

Shel felt her stomach sink as the suspicion entered her mind. She reached to her neck and tugged free her mother’s scarf for a closer look. But it was a needless inspection. The one she wore was green with gold trim; the one not five paces away was crimson, lined with silver. She’d seen it before. It was the last one that Father had given her mother.

But she had to be sure. Ignoring any potential dangers, she strode over to the shelf and drew the scarf from the heap. She brought it to her face, paused, and inhaled.

Her mother’s scent.

Never trust a meddler.

She looked once more to the grim slab of wood, the manacles, the straps. She considered the deep grooves, the red and brown stains marring the surface. Tears crawled down her cheeks as she imagined the suffering her parents endured. Why had they given themselves to him? Why had they abandoned her and her br—

Cam! She’d left him alone with the fiend!

In an instant her body galvanized. A protective instinct crushed her fear and for the first time in her life, truly violent thoughts entered her mind. The meddler had taken her parents, made them suffer, but he wasn’t getting her baby brother.

Not if she could stop him.

She stuffed the second scarf beneath her tunic and strode toward the heavy iron door. She moved in haste, worried her brazen resolve might fade. The shambling thing beyond now seemed a small matter. Before retrieving the axe from her belt, she placed the torch in an empty sconce beside the door. But then something caught her eye.

Adjacent to the nearest shelf was a cabinet. Though subtle, something glowed within. She approached, and seeing it had no handles, but a keyhole, she retrieved the silver key from within her pocket. Carefully she ran her hands along the surface of the cool black metal, feeling underneath for any switches. Finding none, she placed the key into the hole. It fit. She turned it to the right and the door clicked open far enough to pull it wide. Her breath caught in her throat as she beheld the contents. She never imagined a tool for killing could look so beautiful. A dagger composed of some bluish silver metal shone like it caught the summer sun. In this grim and dreary chamber, it seemed a divine gift—an outstretched hand, offering to pull her from these hellish depths. The blade bore etchings of a kind she’d never seen, but something about them—the precise yet elegant curl of the characters, too perfect and beautiful to be the work of human hands—made her think of the Ancients. The Shapers. All the tales that religion tried to silence. All the stories of wonder that informed the childhood games she’d played with Cam.