The Edge of the World

Chapter Fourteen

He jerked awake in his bed, the late afternoon gloom, casting everything in pale shades of gray. Through dry eyes, he looked around, confusion weighing heavily on him. Hadn't he left the cabin just moments ago, seeking escape from his deceitful lust? The honking of a vehicle from a dazed recollection he couldn't grasp had sent him into nothingness for a time, leaving him conflicted and back where he started.

How long had he been asleep? Had it all been a dream?

The sound of Tatum's hard, erratic breathing stole his focus, and he slipped from the bed, rushing to her side, worry building so strong in his chest he wondered if he might burst from it. She was worse now than before, her lips a chalky white, her eyes appeared sunken in, and ashen flesh stretched ghoulishly over soft cheekbones.

Tears pricked his eyes, and he pressed his lips tight against the emotions threatening to overwhelm him, while searching his mind for a rational explanation of why she was like that. What the hell was happening to her?

He reached down and lifted her limp, cold hand, pressing it between his warmer palms.

"Jesus, Tatum. Why won't you wake up? God, I wish I knew how to help you!"

As those words erupted on the wings of a sob, his knees immediately buckled and he dropped to the hard floor, her hand escaping from his grasp.

Pictures flooded his mind, burning hot, making him cry out in pain from the sheer force of the intrusive and alien thoughts.

Follow the path, an eerie, gravelly voice wheezed, even as he saw himself already walking through the line of trees, moving faster than humanly possible, scenery blurring about him as if he were racing in a car. The tone, sexless and disembodied, spoke once more, its pitch resembling razor blades grazing Ian's brain, sending electric-like currents throughout the entirety of his head.

Dig deep beneath the charred tree, and find the curse. Burn it! Then have her drink the healing waters. Hurry! She is dying, boy, and the witch is waiting to inhale this woman's final breath.

Ian wanted to delay moving, as to decipher what he just experienced and contemplate the dark voice still reverberating in his brain. However, as he crawled from the floor, using her cot to pull his weak form to his knees, he took in her fading features, and despite deeming this entire scenario mad, he found a new sense of urgency. Ian raced from the cabin, knowing his way as if he'd been there a thousand times before.
He located the tree in a matter of minutes, and uncaring about the flesh on his hands, he began digging through the hard earth and snow, searching around the base of the charred tree, uncertain what he was seeking, but believing it was there.

The snow carried streaks of red, his fingertips ripped open from the icy soil, but he didn't stop. Desperation drove him, and he needed this to work. She had to stay with him!

"Come on," he said. Heart in his throat, he dug faster until he eventually felt his fingertips graze over something hard and smooth. With his teeth clenched in determination, he ripped it from the ground and gave a silent snarl as he gazed into the featureless face of the wax poppet. It boasted long dark hair glued to its head, and carvings resembling Tatum's tattoos lined its body. It was apparent who this poppet was created to hurt.

Who was doing this? This island showed no signs of life, yet life was obviously here, watching them.

Cursing them.

Gripping the thing with an angry hand, he strode back to the courtyard and dropped it beside the fire pit. Anger guided his every movement, and he started a fire in record time. And once the flames flickered brightly, he lifted the murky gray poppet, held it into the air and shouted into the fog.