Echo of Moths

six | malefic

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six
malefic | harm or destruction by supernatural means 
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HOW ANYONE IS EXPECTED to write a statement on events they can't recall is beyond me. Thick vines ensnare the buried trauma, thorns bleeding me dry at any attempt to break through.

Start with something easy, Eileen prodded this afternoon, when she found me on the sofa with tears snaking my cheeks. Who is your family? Where are you from?

I've lived in Wailerun for what I assume has been my entire life. There is nothing before it, and nothing after. Only the sprawling landscape of gnarled trees and whispering fear that once kept me locked inside from dusk until dawn. The rest hides beyond a withering veil. I do not recall what part of the woods I came from, only brief glimpses of wooden walls or a fireplace to tell me I had shelter at all.

Family. The word does not ring home. Only one person grazes the barriers of my mind: the blurred figure who tried to seal me away forever.

If I had anyone, hopefully their minds are together. Perhaps they're out there, somewhere, still looking for me. Or perhaps their memories are so twisted that they don't know they have anyone to miss.

Hours pass before I toss my blank journal onto the star-patterned quilt.

Maybe stretching my legs will do some good. Whether or not they aid my written statement, I don't care. I just need to move. Get out of my room and away from the same four walls I've stared at the entire evening.

Night blankets the house, and when I open the bedroom door, shadows bathe the upstairs hall. Eileen led her husband to bed a half hour ago, seeming to drag him against his will as he bellowed nonsense about demons in the stream. The last I heard was her assuring him that they wouldn't possess the fish.

I swing the door shut behind me. Darkness submerges me in rapids that others would drown in, yet I float through it as if I've spent my life beneath its waves.

But those under the surface know what lurks in the depths. We are only better practiced in surviving.

When footsteps meet me at the stairs, I expect Locke to be at my side. He's likely returning his empty wineglass to the kitchen, the one he waved at me from the crack in my door before disappearing to his own room. Our sleepless night prior caught up with him, even more so after settling Teagan in bed.

No one is beside me.

I jump harder than I would have if someone grabbed me from the shadows. Pressing my back to the banister, my eyes dart across the hallway's abyss. The only sign of life are the trickles of warm light beneath my door and Locke's. Both remain closed.

A creak whispers from the end of the hall. I don't remain there to see what caused it.

The stairs are no match as I take them two at a time, slippers gripping the wooden floor to keep me upright. Relief floods my senses at the soft blue night light beside the kitchen door, and again when I notice the same glow across the cut-out counter. It isn't the best for navigating an unfamiliar home, but I feel less defenseless against the looming dark.

The cupboard beside the sink squeals as I pull it open. Flinching, I retrieve a small, plastic cup and take my time shutting the door. While the Bauers are kind, Eileen has hovered most of the day until I finally left for the solace of my room. I need solitude that I won't have if I wake her.

I fill my cup with lukewarm water and lean into the sink.

Moonlight struggles to breach the blinds' thin slits, turned outward so that beams cannot slip inside. Eileen was adamant that they remain shut over every window before the sun dipped beneath the trees. Though, judging by Locke's quiet sigh as she reminded him which way to properly turn them, he found the rule as foolish as I do.

My fingers wrap the dangling cord, and the blinds lift with a hushed rustle. I twist it around a hook on the window frame as pale light washes over the kitchen.

"Caila?"

I repress my disappointment at the quiet voice. The solitude was too good to be true. It doesn't sound like Eileen, nor Locke, and certainly not Sylas. In fact, I can't place its tone at all.

When I turn, I am again met with nothing.

Ice crystalizes my spine. For a moment, I forget how to breathe as I peer over the counter. The living room is deathly still. Its void stares back, all consuming, save for a strip of moonlight that seeps from the front door. Light wind pushes it open wider without a sound.

My ears ring with a song of bad decisions, but I ignore its plea. I approach the front door with tentative steps. The force that ensnares my voice tightens while I long to call out for whomever may be outside. Did Locke get tired of his room and step out for fresh air? Or has Sylas escaped from Eileen in her sleep?

Hoping it isn't the latter option, I step around the heavy door to peer out the screen. The moment I rest my hand against the mesh, its frame moves. It isn't even latched shut.

No one is on the porch. The only sign of life is a four-legged silhouette standing in the center of the yard—one that hopped into bed with Teagan a while ago.

How did Hawthorn get out?

The dog's high-pitched whine is enough to make me step out on the porch. For as humid as the day was, midnight is its opposite. I pull the long sweater sleeves down over my hands and fold my arms against the nippy breeze.

Hawthorn stares into the brush at the clearing's edge. With ears folded back and tail between his legs, his front paws move in place as if he's unsure whether to proceed or retreat.

I don't have a leash, nor can I call for him. Instead, I clap my hands together sharply. The sound echoes in the silent night, but he doesn't move. I only manage to attract a small, black moth that flits up close to my eyes until I swat it away. Still, it hangs close, charcoal wings dancing near my shoulder.

Movement snares my attention.

Quick and soundless, a shadow darts along the brush, disappearing as quickly as my eyes landed on it. The prickled leaves of a waist-high shrub flinch at its approach.

Hawthorn's muscles tighten. Whatever we saw has broken his trance, and he stalks toward the brush. A low growl ripples from his bared teeth.

When something wild and inhuman snarls back, I lurch down the porch steps.

It's too late. My feet tumble over themselves in my descent, and by the time I've righted myself, all I see is Hawthorn's limp body being dragged into the woods. A wave of shadow pulls him away faster than a gunshot. He doesn't whimper or yelp—and when the last I see are lifeless eyes and a crooked neck before he disappears into the bushes, I know why.

I try to scream. The blades rip at my vocal cords, but I don't stop trying. Over and over, my throat constricts in a soundless cry for Hawthorn—for anyone.

Air refuses to enter my lungs. My windpipe closes tighter, and something sharp pierces my neck. It isn't the pain that grips my throat, the unseen force that leashes my freedom.

I reach for my neck, but I'm not fast enough. The same piercing restraints wrap my wrists in agony. This time, the silent scream is a reflex I can't fight. My vision blurs into shades of gray. Unable to move my neck, I struggle to peer from the corners of my eyes and see what has not only come for Hawthorn, but also for me.

A rough force pulls me to the ground. My skull collides with the bottom porch step, sending an explosion of sparks across my sight.

And the last thing I see before the world goes black is the crescent moon's wink.