Chills & Thrills Anthology

The Verdant Case | The Telltale Sign

The Telltale Sign by mserrur

"I'm afraid it's already begun," Francis said to his wife. They'd been discussing the matter all night. Neither had slept a wink.

"Are you sure?" she asked desperately.

"It's all there, Abigail: the dilation of the pupils, the fingernails, the hair loss..."

"—But what about the skin?" she interrupted. "The Seeker said that's the telltale sign! Don't you remember?"

He looked at his wife. Her eyes sat sunken and dark, and her hair fell messily across her face, a few wet strands matted to her forehead. Such a difference from only a month ago. Today, in the hazy light of the coming dawn, she stood in front of him, feeble, cold, and wrested of hope. He pitied her. Edward was her only son, and Francis could recall in lurid detail how hard she labored to bring him into this world. For a full day she screamed in agony. The midwife told him after it was all over that she had never witnessed such a difficult birth.

"I remember what the Seeker told us," he said quietly.

"So you think there's still a chance?" She spoke frantically now.

"Yes, there's still a chance."

Abigail stepped closer to him. "You know I'd do anything for Edward," she whispered.

He nodded consolingly. He so badly wished to tell her the truth, so they could suffer and grieve together, but he simply couldn't find the courage. The last time he went to check in on the boy he noticed something—an almost-imperceivable dot of green. The telltale sign.

He gently touched his wife's shoulder. "You should try to get a few minutes of sleep. The Seeker will be here soon."

She swatted his hand away. "I'm not tired," she said woefully. "And how am I supposed to sleep? My boy is locked away alone in a ramshackle hut without even his mother to be by his side." She let out a sob. "I just want to tell him everything is going to be okay—that his mother would never let anything happen to him as long as she has breath in her body."

"I'm sure he knows," her husband said as delicately as he could. "But it's out of our hands."

Abigail continued to stifle her tears.

"We should put the kettle on the stove," Francis said. "The Seeker always appreciates a cup of birch-root tea. And I wouldn't mind a cup myself."

But she didn't acknowledge him.

"Abigail?" he asked again.

"Yes?"

"The kettle...the Seeker should be on his way."

"Oh, yes. The kettle." She drifted languidly to the corner of the cottage where all of the pots and pans were kept. Francis watched her for a moment before turning his attention to the fire. He noticed it getting low. He grabbed his big woolen coat and shrugged it over his broad shoulders as he stepped outside into the frigid winter sunshine. The swirling wind stung his cracked lips and he tasted a dribble of blood on his tongue.

Francis surveyed the woods around his property, hoping not to see any of the neighbors. It was common knowledge that where the Seeker traveled, unfortunate events followed. And this poor village, this community located a three-days carriage ride from civilization, was no stranger to tragedy. It was founded on it.

Francis picked up the heavy woven tote bag and walked toward the wood pile. He grabbed log after log, stacking them horizontally in the carrier. One slipped from his hands and landed awkwardly across the top of his foot. He let out an involuntary howl, causing the birds to scatter from their roosts in the nearby branches. Gritting his teeth, he finished stacking the wood and limped back inside.