Anathemas, page 13
There were no street signs to indicate when she crossed over into the Black Lane, no clear line of demarcation to say she had left behind the normal reality of Lowtown and entered the Darkness. The first hints she had reached her destination were subtle. The air felt flat and dead, and when she breathed it in, it felt empty. When she breathed it out, it felt as if it left a residue behind, a thin layer of filth that coated her lungs and throat. The plascrete pavement beneath her feet felt less than firm. It gave beneath her weight a bit, and sometimes it seemed to ripple, as if instead of a street, she was walking on the back of some gigantic creature that lay slumbering, partially buried, which might wake at any moment and rise from the ground with a deafening roar of hunger and fury.
The buildings looked no different from those in the rest of Lowtown, at least in terms of basic design. But their lines and angles seemed to curve and meet in odd ways that her vision couldn’t quite comprehend. Out of the corners of her eyes, their surfaces seemed to swell and contract rhythmically, as if the structures were breathing. There were also what looked like open, suppurating sores, as if the buildings were made of flesh instead of plascrete. But every time she looked at the buildings directly, they seemed normal enough. She had the sense that she was being watched, by dozens of unseen eyes, yes, but also by the Black Lane itself, as if the Darkness that suffused the streets and buildings here had its own awareness, its own mind, and was observing her with mounting interest.
She made sure not to walk too close to buildings and alley entrances. There was no way to tell who – or what – might be hiding there, ever ready to lunge forth, grab hold of an unwary victim, and pull them into the shadows. Marceline kept her gaze fixed firmly on what lay ahead of her. Sometimes she caught a flash of movement in her peripheral vision, and she was tempted to look, to see what it was, to gauge whether it was a threat or not. But she never did.
As she continued walking, she heard a soft scuffling sound behind her. In response, she drew her crude blade from her pocket, and spun around, prepared to defend herself–
–only to find the street empty.
She knew better than to believe this meant she was safe, though. She kept her weapon in hand and remained alert as she turned back the way she’d been heading and continued. As she passed an alley, she heard a scraping sound from within, as if something sharp was being dragged across stone. This was followed by a high-pitched giggle that issued from an alley on the other side of the street. She was being hunted, but by what, she couldn’t say.
She picked up her pace until she was almost running. A moment later, she heard the sound of numerous bare feet slapping on the pavement behind her, and she knew the hunters were making their move. She sprinted then, passing more alleys as she fled, dark shapes darting out to join the pursuit. She glanced back over her shoulder as she ran, trying to get a good look at the things coming after her. There were maybe a dozen of them, clad in filthy rags, things that might once have been human children but which were now hideously distorted. Large black eyes. Hairless grey skin. Sharp teeth that clacked in excitement as they closed the distance, thick drool running from their lipless mouths. They were hungry – and they’d just found food. Fresh food.
She heard excited breathing as the child-things drew closer, and she pictured clawed hands stretching towards her, reaching, reaching…
She rounded a corner, eyes darting back and forth desperately. There was no way she could outrun the child-things, so her only hope for survival lay in finding a place to hide. She half-ran, half-stumbled to her left, heading towards a building on that side of the street. This one was as dilapidated as the others here, perhaps more so, and its windows and doorway were filled with shadows deeper than any she had seen before. Something inside her warned her not to go this way, but her conscious mind refused to listen. It was concerned only with survival, and the building looked like her best chance to obtain it.
As she ran, she took a quick glance backwards and saw the child-things come around the corner. She was still several metres from the building, and she knew they could see where she was headed. She was committed to this course of action now, though, and she ran on, knowing they would follow her inside the building, where they would bring her down and feast on her body. She hoped they’d kill her first. As starved as the creatures looked, they might well begin eating her alive.
She stumbled through the doorway – there was no sign of the door itself; it must’ve been removed long ago – and into the shadows within the building. It felt cold and damp, almost as if she’d plunged into cool, brackish water, but she ignored the sensation. She moved through the darkness to the closest window. Only a few segments of broken glass remained, coated with the grime of age, but she was able to see through the open areas well enough.
The child-things ran towards the building, moving with inhuman speed, but when they’d closed to within a few yards of it, they suddenly stopped. They crouched in defensive postures, obsidian eyes narrowed, nostrils flared wide as they scented the air.
What was happening?
The child-things looked at one another, and though they made no sound, Marceline had the sense that they were communicating. And then, as if by unspoken agreement, they whirled around and fled the way they’d come. Within seconds, they had disappeared around the corner, and moments after that, the sound of their footfalls diminished and died away to nothing.
Why had they turned tail? She was hardly a threatening presence, and the only weapon she had was her sharpened shard of metal. Even if she’d managed to wound some of them, they would have brought her down in the end.
Light only penetrated so far into the building, but it was enough for Marceline to make out a row of beds, their mattresses rotted and mould-covered. An assortment of metal implements, also rusted, sat atop wheeled carts scattered around the room. Marceline had never seen objects like these: tools that seemed to be designed for cutting, scraping, clamping, probing…
The plasteel floor around the tables was covered with dark stains which she thought might be old blood, and a great deal of it, that had soaked into the floor over the course of many years.
Now that the immediate threat was over, she felt the after-effects of adrenaline – rapid heartbeat, nausea, headache, weariness. She wanted nothing more than to sit down and rest for a bit, wait for her body to calm itself before moving on. But she wasn’t sure she could afford to do so. The longer she remained in the Black Lane, the less daylight remained. And if she was still here when night fell… No, she had to keep going.
She returned her makeshift blade to her pocket and began making her way to the door, but before she could reach it, a voice came to her from the darkness deeper within the building.
‘Good work. If those creatures had caught you, you’d be filling their bellies by now.’
At first, she was startled and almost made a dash for the door, but then she realised she recognised the voice, and held her ground. Her nausea and headache were forgotten as she felt a surge of hope.
‘Cole? Is that you?’
No response came. But a moment later she heard someone walking towards her. The footsteps were uneven, and it sounded as if one of the feet was being dragged across the floor. Had Cole been injured? That would explain why he hadn’t returned home. He’d been too hurt to make the journey. But she was here now, and she could help him. Together they could…
Not much light filtered through the open doorway and broken windows, but it was enough to allow Marceline to see the figure coming towards her. At first it was a silhouette, a shadow among shadows, but as it drew closer, she was increasingly able to make out more detail. The figure was tall, but lopsided – the right shoulder raised much higher than the left. One arm was thicker and longer than another, and its legs were similarly mismatched, which accounted for its strained, shuffling gait. The figure was garbed in a tattered, black, hooded cloak, making it seem as if it was garbed in shadow. The hood concealed the figure’s face, but its hands were uncovered, and when it came close enough, she could see that one hand possessed long, spidery fingers, while the other had short, stubby ones. The skin on that hand was mottled, dry, and cracked, and bones were visible in several places. The smell hit her then, a solid wall of stink that seemed to strike with almost physical force. It was the smell of rot and corruption, decay and disease, and if she’d eaten anything recently, she would’ve vomited it all out. As it was, her gorge rose, and she felt the burn of stomach acid at the back of her throat.
Whatever this thing was, it wasn’t Cole. It couldn’t be! Unless… unless something had happened to him in the Black Lane, something that had changed him into such a loathsome thing that he’d stayed hidden here rather than return to his wife and children. She didn’t care how he looked, though. She loved him for who he was inside, not for his physical appearance. Whatever had happened to him, they would try to find a way to fix it, and if that wasn’t possible, they would find a way to live with it.
She took a step towards the being that she thought was her husband, but the creature reached up with its long-fingered hand and drew back the cloak’s hood. The face that was revealed was so monstrous that Marceline froze in place and stared at its horrible features in disbelief. The face was an amalgamation of different parts, put together like some sort of grotesque puzzle. The eyes were different colours, and the nose had a line running down the middle, as if it had been made from sealing two separate halves together. The lips didn’t match; the lower was feminine, thicker and redder than the upper, which was a thin, masculine line. The mouth was open – the jaw set at an odd angle – and she could see the teeth were as mismatched as the rest of the thing’s face. There were molars at the front, canines at the back, their random placement making the mouth look like it belonged to some sort of monstrous beast rather than anything remotely human. The creature was bald, and as with the nose, there were lines – no, seams, she thought – all over the top of the head, the face and the neck. The skin ranged from light to dark, making the head resemble a quilt stitched together from human flesh. The ears were the least matched of all. One was tiny and pink-skinned, an infant’s ear, while the other was large, wrinkled and liver-spotted.
The creature was touched by rot and decay all over, flesh greyish-green in places, patches of skin in the process of sloughing off. The rot was worst on its stubby-fingered hand. Barely any flesh remained, leaving it mostly bone.
The figure stopped and regarded Marceline with its mismatched eyes, and now that she was over the initial shock of the thing’s appearance, she realised that pieces of it resembled her husband. The right eye was blue, like Cole’s, and the left half of the nose resembled his, too. The upper lip and perhaps the left cheekbone, too? Yes, she thought so. She looked into that blue eye, and she thought she could see her husband in there, trapped and screaming for release.
‘Do you know who I am, child?’
Cole’s voice again, but the cadence of the words wasn’t his, and there was none of her husband’s cheerful warmth in its tone. She had no idea who or what this thing in front of her could be, and when several moments passed without her answering the patchwork creature’s question, it spoke once more in that voice which was both so like and so unlike Cole’s.
‘Has it been so long that no one remembers the stories about me? Have Those Who Remain forgotten the great service I did for this world?’
Marceline knew then. ‘You’re the Skin Man.’
The creature’s lopsided smile was horrible to behold.
‘So I am remembered. This pleases me.’
The Skin Man took a single shuffle-step towards her.
Every fibre of Marceline’s being screamed for her to turn and flee this distorted apparition, but she stood her ground. Parts of him resembled Cole, and she needed to know why.
‘Why have you come to the Black Lane, child?’ the Skin Man asked. ‘Are you so weary of life that you seek an end to it? Do you think so little of your soul that you’re willing to risk it so carelessly?’
Marceline forced herself to meet the Skin Man’s gaze as she answered.
‘My husband is a scavenger. He came here six days ago in search of rare items he might sell. He did not return, and so I came looking for him.’
The Skin Man regarded her for a long moment, as if weighing her words.
‘You are either very brave or very foolish.’ The creature’s mismatched lips stretched into a twisted smile. ‘Perhaps both. You must love your husband deeply to put yourself in so much danger to find him.’
She focused on the parts of the Skin Man that resembled Cole.
‘I do.’
‘And what would you give to have him returned to you?’ The Skin Man’s tone became sly. ‘What would you sacrifice?’
She didn’t hesitate.
‘Anything.’
The Skin Man drew in a sharp breath and then released it slowly.
‘As you see, I have encountered your husband. He is now part of me. Or perhaps I should say parts of me. But I may be able to arrange his return to you. Would this be something you desire?’
‘Yes! Very much so!’
The Skin Man nodded, the vertebrae in his neck making loud cracking sounds, as if his head wasn’t firmly attached. For a moment, she feared the head might fall off and land on the floor at her feet, but it remained in place.
‘Then give me your left hand.’
Despite her declaration that she would do anything to have Cole back, she hesitated. But then she did as the Skin Man commanded. Her hand trembled, but she did not withdraw it.
The Skin Man moved far more swiftly than she thought him capable of. He wrapped the skeletal fingers of his own left hand around her wrist, clamped his right hand onto the back of hers, and then pulled.
The pain was beyond anything Marceline had ever experienced, including the pain of childbirth. She heard a high-pitched scream of agony, so loud and shrill it seemed to slice the air like the sharpest of knives. It took her a couple of seconds to realise the scream was hers.
Blood gushed from the ragged stump where her hand had been attached to her body, splattering onto the floor like thick red rain. As she watched, the Skin Man’s left hand – the one with the stubby fingers – crumbled away to dust, and he placed her hand near the dry stump of his arm. Fleshy tendrils extruded from the stump, wrapped around the hand, and pulled it tight against the Skin Man’s arm. Once the two ends were pressed together, the tendrils wrapped around the wrist and merged with the skin, fusing the part together, leaving behind only a bloodless line of scar tissue. It was like watching a wound heal at an impossibly accelerated rate. The Skin Man lifted his new hand in front of his face and admired it, flexing the fingers, turning it back and forth, getting the feel of it.
‘I think it suits me, don’t you?’
Marceline pressed her stump against her body in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding. She felt woozy, light-headed from shock and blood loss.
‘You’ll need to cauterise that.’ The Skin Man gestured with his new hand, and several yards away yellow-orange flames burst into life. A metal barrel she hadn’t seen before – the kind that once had been used to store and transport chemicals – held a blazing fire. The residents of Lowtown often used such barrels to warm themselves. This fire burned brighter and hotter than any she’d ever seen, though. She gazed upon the flames, but she made no move towards them.
‘If you do not tend to your injury quickly, you will bleed to death.’ The Skin Man gave her another of his hideous smiles. ‘But if that happens, fear not. I’ll make good use of your remains.’
The thought of the creature picking at her corpse like some sort of carrion eater was enough to spur her to motion. She stepped towards the fire, left arm held out before her, blood still spilling onto the floor. The Skin Man’s earlier words returned to her then.
And what would you give to have him returned to you? What would you sacrifice?
Tears began to slide down her cheeks as she drew near the fire. Its heat was so intense she could feel the pinpricks of hot pain dancing on the skin of her face. When she reached the fire, she gritted her teeth, closed her eyes, and plunged her bleeding stump into the flames. The scream that ripped free from her felt as if it tore her throat to shreds.
Then, mercifully, she lost consciousness.
She opened her eyes.
At first, she didn’t remember anything, including who she was. She was lying on a hard surface – a street, she thought – her back against a flat surface. A gutter. She’d been hot before, so very hot, and the coolness of the plascrete was a welcome sensation. She next become aware of a distant throbbing pain. She wasn’t certain what it was or where it came from, but it was most unpleasant and she didn’t like it at all.
She attempted to rise, but when she put her hands on the ground to push herself up, agony exploded in her left hand, so intense that for an instant a flash of white light obscured her vision. The pain cleared her mind and restored her memory. She was Marceline, and she’d gone to the Black Lane in search of her husband. Instead, she had found the Skin Man, and he…
Using only her right hand, she pushed herself into a sitting position. She then looked at her left hand – or rather the charred nub of flesh where her hand had once been. If it hadn’t been for the pain of her cauterised wound, she might’ve thought her encounter with the Skin Man had been a dream.
She didn’t know how long she’d been unconscious or how she’d got out here on the street, but she jumped to her feet in sudden alarm. The light was dim. It was dusk, and that meant the darkest things that inhabited the Black Lane would soon emerge from their daytime lairs to fill the streets in search of prey. It was too late for her to get away, she would have to–
