By Sandra J. Bouman
An angel sat atop a wall of stone, with deep set eyes of soulless black. Crumbling, cracking, crying tears of rust. Warning, waiting, watching in the dark.
The graveyard was quiet, save for the wind that rippled through the dry, overgrown grass and the branches of a dying willow that scraped against the weathered mausoleum. A thick fresco of slate-colored clouds blotted out the moon and stars in an ink-dark sky. The only light came from a flickering candle that threatened to go out with every tentative step.
She didn’t see me as she passed, looking back over her shoulder as she disappeared into the open tomb. With the small stub of a candle, she lit two sconces that hung on either side of the entrance to the stone enclosure. Something held me back from crossing the threshold, a strange sensation willing me not to ingress. I stepped back and studied the outside of the monument instead as the woman tarried inside. Cold, moss-covered walls, blackened at the edges revealed the mausoleum’s great age. Letters adorned the marble above the doorway, but they were too worn to make out. A single rose was carved in great detail above the words. It was almost beautiful, in a tragic sort of way.
What the woman wanted inside remained a mystery to me, even as she rushed out moments later with a bundle wrapped in burlap tucked under one arm. She wore the hood of her dark cloak down low over her eyes and an air of desperation hung around her like an aura. Clearly, she did not want to be followed, but sticking tight to the shadows, I did.
A narrow, winding trail led her through the dark, familiar to her feet. Rows of gnarling, grasping trees loomed on either side of the path, casting shadows that writhed like tortured souls in the dim candle light. Only the white tips of her trembling fingers were visible, and I followed them like a beacon guiding a ship along the jagged shore. Her ragged breath and pounding heartbeat punctuated the short walk, the rhythm interrupted only once by the haunting howl of a hound in the distance.
Soon, the silhouette of a cottage rose up over the horizon in a break in the trees. Dark smoke curled up out of the chimney and orange light trickled out of the window. Someone was already inside. The woman reached the doorstep just as the candle burnt out. Thin tendrils of smoke caressed her fingertips as she reached for the handle. The door creaked open and closed behind her as she slipped inside, her cloak whipping around her ankles. I slunk around to the back of the house, still unseen, and peered into an open window.
An angel sat atop a mantel of brick, reflecting fire and brimstone in eyes of brass. Staring, smirking, sneering, secrets held inside. Jarring, jeering, judging all below.
Once inside, the woman removed her hood, revealing a waterfall of raven tresses, with twigs and leaves ensnared in the curls. Her dark eyes darted around the room, wide and wild. Once, I feared she spotted me, but her eyes moved right past the window where I stood. Her heart did not slow once inside the cottage. If anything, it quickened, anxiety emanating from her every pore. She remained on edge. Her journey did not end here.
“You are late,” growled a voice from the corner of the one-room shack. Despite the roaring fire, the dark haired woman shivered. She lowered her eyes and clutched the burlap parcel to her chest. She seemed younger in the light, possibly not yet twenty. Her voice trembled slightly.
“M-most humble apologies, m—”
“No time for excuses, midnight is nigh,” the owner of the gravelly voiced interrupted her, stepping into the light to reveal the thin, albeit imposing, figure of an ancient woman wrapped in another dark cloak. The lines on her stern face ran deep. Her ghostly white hair was pulled back in a severe bun, stretching the skin across her sharp bones. The fire danced in her small, black eyes. There was something crow-like in her countenance, contrasting the rasping wolfishness of her voice. There was something familiar about her, as well, but I could not place it. I know I had not been here before.
“Bring me the book,” the old woman said, beckoning to a third woman, who stood, also cloaked, by a rickety wooden table near the wall. This woman was small and round, not quite as old as the other, with steely gray hair and sad, hooded eyes. She opened the large tome she had been holding and placed the book in the old woman’s outstretched talons. The page had been marked with a long, black ribbon, which the old woman tucked gingerly into the back of the book. She closed her eyes, inhaling the aroma of the book, which appeared even older than she. She peeled a flattened, preserved flower from the page. It was a rose. This dried rose she crushed into a fine powder and tossed into the fire.
From my vantage point outside, I could not read what was written in the book in blood red ink. There were strange markings in the margins and crude illustrations of what looked like leaves or flames curling around the letters. I had never seen anything quite like it.
“Now!” screeched the old woman. The door burst open, and two more cloaked figures appeared, out of breath and carrying something heavy between them. The others cleared the way for them, as they brought their burden to the center of the room and lowered it as carefully as they could to the scrubbed wooden floor.
All eyes then turned to a sixth woman, who I had not noticed. She sat in a wooden chair on the other side of the fire. I could only see the back of her as she hunched over her sewing. What unusual fabric she held. It looked thicker than leather and the needle with which she worked was as big around as a child’s finger and twice as long. Scrape and pull. Scrape and pull. She stitched along the edge of the odd material. Tugging the black thread tight, she tied a knot and severed the string with her teeth. She tucked the needle into her silver hair and the spool of thread into her pocket.
“Is it ready?” the old woman asked, clutching the book to her breast.
“Aye,” the woman in the chair replied, holding aloft her handiwork. The firelight glowed red through the strange patchwork. I almost gave myself away as I gasped aloud when I realized what it was—a face. A real, human face stitched together out of what only could have been real, human skin. What kind of grotesque mask had she made? And, what was its nefarious purpose? I found myself rooted to the spot, unable to look away.
“Beautiful,” the old woman sighed, forgetting for a moment she was supposed to be intimidating. Her eyes twinkled in the firelight and a wistful grin crossed her lips.
“Three minutes to midnight, ma’am,” the small woman said, checking a tarnished silver watch.
“Positions, ladies,” the old woman said, the familiar ferocity returning to her eyes.
The two women still kneeling on the floor unwrapped their charge and tumbled it free of the blankets in which they had carried it into the cottage. The other women winced, and I almost fell backwards into the bushes.
It was a body. But, not just any body. Like the horrible patchwork face, this was a horrible patchwork person. Naked, in all his undead glory, this poor quilt of a man lay spread eagle in the middle of the floor. Every inch of him was pieced together and sewn up like a rag doll. Except for his head. There was a gaping hole where the face should be. There was no skull inside, nor any bones that I could see. The poor creature seemed to be stuffed with herbs, straw, and other natural stuffing. For some semblance of modesty, the two women covered the man with the blanket from the shoulders down, leaving the head and unmistakable lack of a face out in the open for all to see.
Trying not to look too closely at the body, the small woman tucked her watch in her pocket and pulled out a small crock of what appeared to be salt. Slowly, she walked around the body, leaving a thin line of salt as she went until it formed a complete and perfect circle. Each woman then pulled a candle from her pocket, and they placed them in equal distances around the circle. Each candle was a different color: red, violet, white, yellow, and green. The old woman placed the largest candle at the top of the circle closest to the dead fellow’s head. It was black.
The old woman nodded at the young woman, who still held the bundle she had taken from the tomb under her arm. She unwrapped the package. It was nothing more than a handful of small pebbles and dirt. The way she clutched it, one would think it was gold.
“Bones from the grave, ma’am,” the young woman said, her words catching in her throat. “There was naught but dust inside the tomb.” Of the six in attendance, she appeared the least comfortable with what was transpiring in the cottage. I could not blame her. A wretched acidity climbed up my throat as I continued to watch and wait.
“Excellent,” the old woman said, staring at the pieces of bone with a hint of longing. “Please proceed.”
The young woman swallowed hard, and on shaking knees, stepped over the circle of salt and knelt next to the body. Trembling, she poured the bone fragments into the gaping, faceless hole.
“Ninety seconds, ma’am,” the small woman announced, holding tight to her pocket watch.
“Now,” the old woman said, pointing to the seamstress, who limped over to take the young woman’s place in the circle. She positioned the gruesome, patchwork face over the hole. She unsheathed her enormous needle and proceeded to sew the face to the body with the steady hand of a practiced surgeon. Clearly, she had done this before. I shuddered at the thought.
“Ten seconds,” the timekeeper said.
“Step out of the circle,” the old woman commanded, just as the seamstress completed her grisly task. She complied, leaving only the body inside the circle.
Chimes rang out from a nearby church, announcing that midnight had arrived. On the stroke of twelve, the old woman began to read from her book, chanting words in a language I did not know. One by one, the other women joined in, lighting their colored candles and clasping hands around the circle. Still chanting, the old woman placed the book on the table and plucked a single rose from a vase on the windowsill. I ducked down. If she saw me, she did not let on.
What she did next, I did not see, as I waited a moment before daring to look back in. In that moment, however, the weather began to turn. The clouds swirled as the wind picked up to near cyclone speeds. Trees groaned and branches cracked. A spectacular flash of lightning lit up the sky, almost immediately followed by a deafening boom of thunder. The ground trembled. Lightning struck a second time, shooting a burst of white light straight down the chimney into the cottage.
A blood curdling scream ripped through the air. I forced myself to turn around, but the window was gone. Everything outside was gone.
How I got there, I did not know, but somehow, I found myself inside the cottage, in the center of the circle, floating several inches above the floor. Yet, still, they did not see me.
The women continued chanting, sweat trickling down their faces, illuminated in odd ways by the dwindling fire in the corner and the dancing candles in front of them. Their hands held fast together, despite the forceful, swirling wind that emanated from the circle of salt. The wind inside was almost equal to that outside in strength and intensity. Terrified and amazed, I opened my mouth to shout, but no noise came out. Instead, the wind rushed in, filling me to the point of bursting as I rose up toward the ceiling. My eyes and nose stung with smoke and each of my nerves burned as if the lightning that struck the house coursed through my veins. Soon, I could stand it no longer.
The chanting climbed to a crescendo before stopping abruptly, and the old woman shouted, “Now!”
The woman dropped their hands and bent forward to blow out their candles. As the last light went out, I felt myself deflate, as if all the force was pulled out of me all at once from whence it came. I fell, hard and fast, but I did not feel the impact. I plunged into darkness—into nothingness. No light. No sound. Nothing.
How much time passed, I did not know. It could have been moments, or it could have been years. A faint sound filled my head. There was no mistaking the sweet song of my beloved. A faint aroma filled my lungs. There was no mistaking the sweet scent of roses. A warmth passed over me, filling me with peace.
An angel hung round her slender neck, twinkling sapphire eyes on a chain of gold. Glistening, gleaming, guiding loved ones home. Dangling, dazzling, daring to believe.
I opened my eyes with a great, guttural gasp. The air was thick and hot, but I shivered. My muscles protested as I tried to move them, first reaching up with my fingers to touch the side of my face. Stitches. I brought my hands in front of my face. Stitches. These were not my hands.
I tried to speak, to cry out, but only a low growl escaped my lips. No, not my lips. Everything felt foreign and wrong. I blinked heavy eyelids and strained to sit up. Six sets of eyes watched my every move, five looking scared, all color gone, as if they had seen a ghost. The sixth set sparkled. Was that love in the reflection, or something else entirely? A glint of gold around the shriveled neck caught my eye and I turned toward it. The angel. My angel.
“Yes, my darling,” the old woman said, “It is me, your one and only.”
“Wh-wh—” I started to speak, struggling to control what wasn’t mine.
“What is it, my love?” the woman asked, reaching out a hand to cup the chin of her creation.
“What have you done?” I croaked. My legs twitched as I struggled to regain control.
“I brought you back, beloved,” she replied, her face falling. I pushed away her hand. I pushed everything away as I forced myself to my feet. To a stranger’s feet. Whose feet they had actually been, I did not know.
“We can finally be together again, my heart,” she said, desperation in her voice. “For years, I have tried and failed. Finally, I have found a way.” This was not the voice of my angel. This was the devil at work.
“What have you done?” I shrieked. The other women cowered, clutching one another in the far corners of the cottage. I frightened them. I frightened myself. The old woman remained on her knees, her face blanched as white as her hair. Her twisted claws reached toward me. I took a step back, and then another. Finding my footing, I turned and ran toward the door. I slammed into an invisible shield in the air. The circle of salt was keeping me in. Rage filled the body which was not mine, and a strength I did not know I ever possessed fueled the anger. I picked up the frail old woman. This was not my angel. This was not my rose. Using her body as a battering ram, I burst through the protective circle and tossed her aside as soon as I was on the other side. I reached down and ripped the angel from around her neck. My angel. I gripped it tight in the stranger’s hands.
“What have you done?” I shouted again in the voice that was not mine. This world was not mine. I looked at the golden angel. It was mine, the only thing that was.
I threw open the door. The wind still raged outside. Thunder crashed all around us.
“My love?” the old woman whispered, her voice weak and strangled. “Where are you going?”
I could not, no, would not respond. There was no love here. Not from her. Not in me.
“No!” she cried as I stepped out into the night. “Don’t leave me.”
Then, I ran on strange, naked feet out into the storm, never to return again.