Wickerman Cove

Part 43: Pitching Your Heart

Moving from world to world wasn't as easy when she was conscious and trying to make sure she came out in a particular place. There was a halfway point where Steph's body remembered that the inhuman city was underwater, and her lungs went into spasm, her throat locking up tight. For a second she struggled, then it was all real enough that she was breathing air again, her windpipe still burning from the ghost of drowning.

Moving between layers of reality didn't really give her much to look at. Maybe Penny would have seen something, but all she could see was that particular sort of darkness that had nothing to do with a lack of light. Weird granules of colour rippled and shifted as she stared, like a blue screen of death for her eyes.

The first thing she felt from the factory was a heavy sense of danger. The feeling of the Hobbits hiding behind a log as the Nazgul looked for them, bugs boiling out of rotten wood and then dying. The next thing was the heartbeat of the Envious, a distorted, thundering sound, faster than a hummingbird on espresso. She could hear other noises, out here in the Wyrd: a nightmare of synthesised monsters and dying farm animals.

There were other worlds, too – spheres of life and existence in the dark. Shapes moved in and out of their light – alien bodies, mostly unconcerned at the tiny, hairy thing propelling itself through their home.

A lurch brought her out of her thoughts – she'd almost drifted into the dark, towards a pulsating knot of gargantuan, silent creatures.

Christ. Mind on the job, Stephanie.

It was more difficult this time. It wasn't that the factory felt further away, per se, it just felt less immediate. Steph forced herself to focus on the sound of the Envious, and the overpowering brine scent of the Singer. The chill wind wrapped around her, bringing it all in.

The next level of gross was that she emerged from the Singer's body. A part of her had hoped she'd be able to gracefully step out of the shadows and appear up on the catwalk, but that wasn't going to happen. The stuff contracted around her, propelling her forward until it could deposit her at the edge of the ritual circle.

She touched down onto solid ground feeling like an extra-gross version of Carrie. Black slime plastered everything – her hair, her clothes.

On the other hand, she didn't have it as bad as the ritual kids. Whatever force the Guide had used to keep the circle clear hadn't extended to protecting them. Of the group, five were dead, held upright by the semi-liquid tendrils that snaked under their white robes, staining the cloth. They held their heads at uncomfortable angles, the fluid of the Singer's body seeping out of their eyes and ears.

The others were alive, God help them.

On the opposite side of the circle, the Guide's stolen bodies stood either side of its real one. At the centre of the mass, an aperture had opened, an impossibly wide tunnel of flesh. Her stomach lurched at the sight of what was on the other side. If the Singer hadn't shown her already, she would have freaked out – eyes, mouths and limbs. A quivering porcine arm – as wide as a tree trunk and covered in fish scales – had already pushed through, shedding a second skin of translucent, compound-eyed worms.

The cultists stared. She could see under their hoods from this angle – the expressions of horror, and the thousand yard stare of someone who might never quite connect with our reality again. Steph couldn't help feeling a little sorry for them: it had to be rough, buying into the idea that you were here to bring heaven on Earth, only to find out you were really just facilitating Lovecraftian zoo animal Jenga.

The singing made the bolts vibrate in the rusting canning machines, but there wasn't any force behind it in the Wyrd. The Guide's portal opened another inch, reminding her uncomfortably of a movie she'd accidentally watched on German Pay-Per-View.