The Edge of the World

Chapter Twenty

Not long after falling into the quicksand, there were many times, Tatum was certain she heard planes flying overhead. She'd burst from the cabin, resembling a mad woman, searching through the murky clouds for any sign of them, and there would be nothing to explain away the sounds. Often times Ian accompanied her, staring at her as if she'd lost her mind, while explaining in his soft 'shrink voice 'there was nothing there.

But she knew better.

She figured it out, after hours of brooding as she lay awake at night, staring at the shadows moving ominously across the walls. It was the woman trying to lure her beyond the strange, protective magic, walling the small property around the cabin. The witch only had the power to harm her beyond the boundaries of the property.

Although she had brought her to the threshold of certain death with the wax doll and Tatum questioned why she hadn't attempted it again. Had the witch simply given up or had something stopped her from continuing her assault from a long distance?

Sometimes she wondered if their isolation was driving her batshit, and other times, she believed the island was alive. A living, breathing, pulsating land with a soul and dark consciousness. Tatum wasn't certain if it wanted to harm her... or help her.

Life before finding herself there seemed so far away now, as if it had all been a dream, or a nightmare, depending on how she considered it. Conventional wisdom told her it was because of the months they'd been there, suspended in constant dreary winter, merely messing with her way of thinking. But there was a small part of her that whispered in her ear that there was more to it than that. Time was chipping away, like ice under the stress of a plunging ice pick, and she would soon fall into a place within her mind that nobody could save her from.

The whispers warned her of this.

Those omnipresent aspects of her she fought to ignore so desperately were screaming at her, and she asked herself if ignoring them was wise at this point?

She didn't know. She didn't know what she should do! Succumb to the madness of reincarnation, fallen angels, ancient tongues, and esoteric wisdom? She'd lived a hard, cold, dubious existence and to fall under the thumb of mysticism and dark fairytales tasted bitter on her tongue. But the witch, the creature, voices, dreams, and puzzling climate made disbelief feel foolish at this point. Tatum was losing herself to willful ignorance, which never led to anything good. She would have to allow the women to speak, and she dreaded it, for she already had her suspicions. The journals she found the first day of staying in the cabin already explained so much.

Tatum glanced at the sleeping Ian and released a puff of pent-up breath. She would have to show him. She couldn't keep protecting him, for he'd already proven his strength. Still, once Ian read the words penned in those old books, it would take more than tongue-twisters to get him through the anxiety.

The thoughts were stifling and the cold air congealed, stifling her sleeping. Groaning, she pushed the blanket from her body and succumbed to the wakefulness, which refused to release her. After stoking the fire, she moved to the bathroom, deciding a shower was what she needed.

Then, a soft perfumed breath blew across her cheek and a woman whispered in the language long forgotten. Tatum stilled violently, as if walking into a brick wall, and all color began to fade.

"Sleep, girl. I have much to say."

The voice was too persuasive to battle, and Tatum's mind automatically surrendered to the darkness as her muscles went limp.

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Ian heard his name push through the fog of sleep, drawing him from the dark and into vigilance. He bolted upright, disorientated, scanning through the ever-present night for the source of the familiar raspy voice. The cold seeped in from the open door, the wintery night filling the entire cabin with sleet, snow, and mystery.