It wasn’t easy. In fact, it was the hardest thing I’ve done in my entire life. The burgeoning horror of my actions was second only to the moment years ago when I knew my son was lost. The boy struggled against me, squirmed and cried. I felt sorry for him, but then all I could think of was Jacob’s horror at being taken that day, of Jacob’s cold terror, trapped in the eternal darkness, a plaything for this demon-god that now awaited my offering.
Do you see?
Yes, I saw. I saw what needed to be done. There was little that could possibly make my life worse but maybe one thing that could make Jacob’s better – even if it meant damning myself forever.
It was dark when I reached the clearing with my offering in tow, but the white stones I dug from the surrounding hills glowed in their occult pattern. At the edge of their soft light, I could see Conner, Michael and Gene and make out the strange symbols they had carved into the trees. They stood in a perfect triangular formation at the outer ring, their ghoulish countenances looking on. They seemed completely devoid of life, but there was some kind of eagerness emanating from their broken forms.
The child struggled and screamed. I clamped my dirty hand over his mouth. I stepped across the threshold of the circle and brought the poor, trembling boy to the center. Conner, Michael and Gene, my oldest friends, began to give up some awful chant; their mouths did not move, but the sound came – a summoning in half-formed words that I did not understand.
The rocks, the trees, the stars and the earth seemed to swirl around us in that moment. The glow of the stones grew more intense. The disembodied chants grew louder till they filled the air with their vibrations.
I put the boy on his feet in front of me and stood over him, holding him in place with my hands on his shoulders.
And I, in turn, could suddenly feel something standing over me, something familiar breathing down my neck with a sickening chuff.
The boy cried, but I held him there, waiting to see Jacob, waiting for him to suddenly appear and come back to me, and for this poor child to be relegated to that cold, dark place. It was an even trade. Sometimes we have to do awful things. I knew in my mind this was wrong, perhaps the most wrong thing I’d ever done. But there was Jacob. There was my boy trapped in that world, tortured and alone. I made my choice long ago when we buried Thomas Terrywile in Coombs’ Gulch and kept it secret to save my own skin.
A heavy, clawed hand clasped my shoulder. A shiver of knives traced down my spine. That terrified little boy looked up at me. His wide eyes glowed in the moonlight.
I am not a good man.
Acknowledgments
I would first like to thank Don D’Auria and the whole team at Flame Tree Press for seeing the potential in this novel and for all their hard work, making it the best it could be. It was an honor to be able to work with them and I’m grateful for the opportunity.
I wrote this novel during a very difficult time of my life and I’d like to thank the people who helped see me through those very tough times, starting with my parents, who have always supported me even if they wished I wrote in a different genre. Thank you to Laura for giving me a place to live and being a great friend; thank you to Stephen, who helped keep me on the right path; thank you to Carla and Kim for your friendship and support; to J.B. and Stephanie for helping me during some low times; to all my work colleagues who kept pushing me (and paying me, thank God) and to S.H. for helping me believe in myself again.
Lastly, I want to thank my four beautiful children without whom I would surely be lost.
About this book
This is a FLAME TREE PRESS BOOK
Text copyright © 2020 Marc E. Fitch
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
FLAME TREE PRESS, 6 Melbray Mews, London, SW6 3NS, UK, flametreepress.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Thanks to the Flame Tree Press team, including: Taylor Bentley, Frances Bodiam, Federica Ciaravella, Don D’Auria, Chris Herbert, Josie Karani, Molly Rosevear, Mike Spender, Cat Taylor, Maria Tissot, Nick Wells, Gillian Whitaker. The cover is created by Flame Tree Studio with thanks to Nik Keevil and Shutterstock.com.
FLAME TREE PRESS is an imprint of Flame Tree Publishing Ltd. flametreepublishing.com. A copy of the CIP data for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
HB 978-1-78758-384-9 | PB ISBN: 978-1-78758-382-5
UK-PB ISBN: 978-1-78758-383-2 | ebook ISBN: 978-1-78758-385-6
Created in London and New York
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