The Peregrines

Chapter 36

{ Edited - 27th April, 2024 }

Emma dipped the torch into a pail filled with ice, causing the flame to sizzle and vanish. Suddenly, our attention shifted as we noticed a man standing in the doorway, gripping a flashlight in one hand and a pistol in the other.

Enoch pulled his arm out of the ice as Emma, Bronwyn, and I formed a protective circle around the trough to shield Martin from sight. "We didn't mean to break in," Bronwyn said. "We was just leaving, honest!"

"Stay where you are!" the man shouted. His voice lacked any inflection, devoid of any accent. The beam of light made it impossible for me to catch a glimpse of his face.

"Mister, we ain't had nothing to eat all day," Enoch whined, for once sounding like a twelve-year-old. "All we come for was a fish or two, swear!"

"Is that so?" said the man. "Looks like you've picked one out. Let's see what kind." He moved his flashlight from side to side, almost like he was trying to separate us with the light. "Step aside!"

He did so, and the light glided across Martin's body, revealing a scene of vivid destruction. "Goodness, that's an odd-looking fish, isn't it?" he said, entirely unfazed. "Must be a fresh one. He's still moving!" Martin's face was illuminated by the beam, causing his eyes to roll back and his lips to move silently. It was a reflex, a mere response to the fading life that Enoch had bestowed upon him.

"Who are you?" Bronwyn demanded.

"That depends on whom you ask," the man replied, "And it isn't nearly as important as the fact that I know who you are." He directed the flashlight towards all of us and talked as if reciting from a confidential file. "Emma Bloom, the girl who could levitate, was abandoned at a circus when her parents couldn't sell her to one. Bronwyn Bruntley, berserker, a taster of blood, didn't know her own strength until the night she snapped her rotten stepfather's neck. Enoch O'Connor, dead-riser, born to a family of undertakers who couldn't understand why their clients kept walking away." I witnessed all of them back away from him. Next, he directed the light towards Jake. "Jake. Such a peculiar company you're keeping these days."

"How do you know my name?"

He coughed lightly before speaking, and his voice sounded completely different when he continued. "Did you forget me so quick?" he said in a New England accent. "But then I'm just a poor old bus driver, I guess you wouldn't remember."

Bus driver? Impossible, this man before us sounds like Mr Barron, back in Germany. "Mr Barron?" Jake and I exchanged doubtful glances simultaneously, shooting each other suspicious looks. We were both surprised that we knew this man's name.

The man burst into laughter and then cleared his throat, causing his accent to change once more. "Either him or the yard man," he said in a deep Florida drawl. "Yon trees need a haircut. Give yah good price!"

"How are you doing that?" Jake said. "How do you know those people?"

"Because I am those people," he said, his accent became flat once more. He chuckled, enjoying the bewildered horror on everyone's faces.

"What's happening?" Emma said. "Who is this man?"

"Shut up!" he snapped. "You'll get your turn."

"You've been watching me," Jake said. "You killed those sheep. You killed Martin."

"Who, me?" he said innocently. "I didn't kill anyone."

"But you're a wight, aren't you?"

"That's their word," he said.

"How'd you know where to find me?" Jake asked.

"Why, Jake," he said, his voice changing yet again, "You told me yourself. In confidence, of course." He now spoke with a middle-American accent, gentle and refined. Lifting the flashlight, he directed its light to illuminate his face.