Puddlebrain

Chapter Twenty Seven

Little Whimsy echoed.

The wind whipped along the streets with a brisk energy as if the absence of any residents was the chance for it to party like children left to their own devices while their parents were away. It lashed at bushes and grass, flaying along with the mood of teenagers bored with school holidays, finding distraction in making noise.

It echoed.

Along avenues where the wind hadn't yet reached with its festivities, no-one walked. No cats slept, no dogs watered hedgerows, and no women gossiped. Mrs. Mead's ovens were empty, and the air smelled of lavender from the bush outside her kitchen window. Mrs. Mead's own little pocket of air never usually smelled of anything but pie. With no people to soak up the silence with their bustle, Little Whimsy seemed to resonate like the inside of Lem Artthorpe's head, empty of everything except a few stale old memories and a dusty lump that might once have been a kind contemplation.

The school building was akin to a baby's rattle without the rattle bit that rattled around inside. It was silent of the shouts and the laughter and the thrum of thought. It didn't whisper of pencil on paper or scratch of chalk on board. Young Prefect Waddle hadn't donged the school bell that morning in Mr. Bopsidy's absence due to the fact that young Prefect Waddle was absent himself. This would have been surprising in itself if it wasn't neatly tied up with the fact that everyone else was absent as well.

And not just at the school. Every one of Little Whimsy's inhabitants would have been given a red mark for attendance, or lack of, if anyone had happened to be around to mark a register.

Ghost towns.

Part myth, part fact, the two having danced together for so long it was impossible to see which was real and what was fable. Upper Falstead was a ghost town. No one in Little Whimsy knew where either Upper or Lower, or Middle for that matter, Falstead was. They didn't care to visit so it didn't really matter, but they knew the stories right enough. Tales of headless men who walked the streets at night. Dogs with red eyes and dripping teeth. Women, dressed in grand gowns of years gone by, but each with their... Well, they were not tales to tell their children at night, or to tell each other by day.

One man had caused this. One man, devoid of reasoning and care, had reduced a thriving community to a horrific legend that made even grown men shudder if they so much as heard the name. That man, Edward Hulme, was long dust in the ground, but his name lived on, a dry taste in the throat. And the town of Upper Falstead lived on, after a fashion, in his wake. Whether the stories of the dead walking and devil-eyed dogs were true or not wasn't an issue. The town of Upper Falstead, just north of Lower and a little east and up-a-bit from Middle, was what they called in the trade (whichever trade dealt with such things), a ghost town. Nobody living ambled along its avenues.

Possibly, the dead did though...

The same feeling of unspoken menace and keep-looking-over-your-shoulder-dread slithered along the streets of Little Whimsy. It was an invisible snake, coiling and uncoiling, forked tongue flicking like a dagger in the eye, ready to snap at any who might be foolish enough to pass by. Of course that wasn't going to happen. There was no one around, foolish or otherwise. Little Whimsy might not have the terrible celebrity of Upper Falstead, but it felt as if it should have. There might not be rabid dogs, hungry for a bite of leg or a mouthful of arm, hiding around every corner, but there could have been. There was an unnatural chill in the air, one that wasn't in keeping with the clear sky and bright sun that had been the norm the past few days.

Through the night, a shadow moved. It was a ripple of darkness and it was searching. Casting about, seemingly in all directions at once, it didn't hide or sneak. It was confident and proud and it knew it was alone. It knew it wouldn't be challenged – not that any such confrontation would do any good. How could you fight something that wasn't really there? How could a battle be won against a creature as insubstantial as the darkness it emulated?

It was a thief. It had stolen the inhabitants of Little Whimsy. It had taken the life out of the town coldly and simply. There was no feeling, no empathy, no sense of anything but a dark purpose.

But the shadow knew it was alone, and it was troubled. Its indecision played across its surface like the wind across a lake – whips and snatches of darkness sweeping across the otherwise featureless black. There should have been more – two more. Once wasn't, it was merely the last of the villagers, the finale to a glorious day. The other, though, was different. It had to find that one. It must! That one was different. That one was important. That one was the key.

The echoes of Little Whimsy avoided the shadow. They knew that to touch it was to be as dead as the village. They ricocheted about the streets almost desperate to create some noise in the barren town. The shadow would steal that, too, if it could.

The gate at the back to the witches' house shook in tight vibrations that it struggled to keep under control. It was trying, so hard, to stay closed. The thing that stood near shouldn't be allowed entry, the gate knew. The witches' had entrusted it with security and it knew its duty. But the gate was merely wood held together by a few screws. It could do its best, but it wasn't sure that would be enough. It was afraid.

The shadow hovered for a few moments, searching. It had no senses of taste or touch, but it could still feel, after a fashion. It knew the one it sought had been here. The sensation was strong. In its own way, the shadow could smell her, could taste her energy. It knew this was the one, having taken two like her already. But this one! This one indeed. The prize. The key!

It had already ventured into this building without issue when it had taken the other two so the gates feeble attempts were almost laughable. But the trail led off away from the house. Towards the field. Towards the dark trees? Towards the Entrance perhaps?

The shadow, all black ripples and liquid night, started off, following a path that only it could see. It travelled slowly, deliberately. It could have simply appeared at the other end of this trail and be on its prey before they knew it, but it wanted to savour the chase. It couldn't lose them – her - now. There was no rush. The sun wouldn't rise for hours yet, then Halloween would reign. Not costumey, trick-or-treaty, kiddified Halloween, but HALLOWEEN!

A faint cackle drifted from the shadow, which waspicked up by the breeze, and dropped as quickly. Even the wind wanted nothing to do with it.