toward the back of the cottage.
The whispering grew louder, the
brujo
voices rasping like wind through trees. They flew into the bedroom, slammed the door, tore sheets and quilts off the bed. But the fog had found these windows already, wisps slithering through crevices, into the room.
“The bathroom, Slim. Fast. No windows in there.”
“Tape, we need electrical tape. Or duct tape.” She jerked open a nightstand drawer. “I saw a roll of something in here.”
Ian ran into the bathroom, hit the wall switch, dropped the quilts and sheets on the floor. As he snapped towels off the rack, Tess barreled in, waving a roll of tape and a pair of scissors. She dropped her linens, kicked the door shut, and they stuffed a sheet into the crack, sealed it with strips of tape, then pressed towels and quilts over the sheet, and scooted back, eyeing the door.
Stupid, totally stupid, he thought, that towels and quilts and tape could keep sentient fog from reaching them. But it was equally insane to think the fog was sentient. Yet, he knew it was.
The keening grew louder, abrasive, almost unbearable. He clenched his teeth, slapped his hands over his ears. In moments, wisps of fog slipped through the vertical crack just above and below the hinges and along the top edge of the door. Ian shot to his feet, Tess struggled to cut long strips of tape from the roll, and he pressed them into place, sealing the door completely. The keening escalated until it felt as if long, hot needles were being thrust through his ears, tearing away cartilage, tissue, penetrating bone. It drove him, wailing, to his knees. Even with his hands squeezed over his ears, he could hear it, feel it in his teeth, and knew he was minutes from passing out.
Suddenly, Tess started shrieking, a sound so primal and savage that it hardly sounded human. She kept it up, her shrieks battering against the keening, driving it back, and lurched to the towel rack. She grabbed several, tossed one to Ian, and he wrapped it around his head, turban style, so that it covered his ears. It helped to muffle the intensity of the noise so that he didn’t think he would pass out now.
While Tess wrapped a towel around her own head and kept on shrieking, Ian flipped over the metal clothes hamper and beat his fists against it, playing it like a drum. She kept shrieking and turned the shower on full blast, adding the pounding of water to the cacophony. He didn’t know how long it went on, but when the keening abruptly ceased, the silence felt tight, eerie. She turned off the shower, whispered, “Is it over?”
“Maybe it’s a trick,” he whispered back.
A great clanking and clattering erupted in the bedroom and spread quickly to the rest of the cottage, echoing, vibrating against the walls. Then this, too, stopped, and a silence so profound and strange gripped the building that he and Tess strained to hear anything at all.
They finally tore away the tape, Ian picked up the poker, opened the door slightly. He didn’t hear or sense anything and opened the door all the way. As he and Tess stepped into the bedroom, she flicked the wall switch to her left, turning on a floor lamp.
The room was empty, but something now covered the window—and it wasn’t fog. It seemed to be some kind of metal shutter. “It’s like an aluminum hurricane shutter,” Tess said, coming up behind him. “Electrically controlled. And since it probably didn’t shut on its own, it must be
remotely
controlled.”
“So Granger or someone else knew the cottage was under attack.”
“It looks that way. This is what they do in prisons. At night. Or when someone has escaped. Lockdown. Fuck this. They can’t lock us in here.”
She made a beeline for the bedroom door. Ian turned the lock, raised the window, ran his hand along the bottom edge. Airtight. No sign of fog. He couldn’t even feel the chill of the night air. Impressive. And undoubtedly expensive. Was every building on the grounds equipped with
The whispering grew louder, the
brujo
voices rasping like wind through trees. They flew into the bedroom, slammed the door, tore sheets and quilts off the bed. But the fog had found these windows already, wisps slithering through crevices, into the room.
“The bathroom, Slim. Fast. No windows in there.”
“Tape, we need electrical tape. Or duct tape.” She jerked open a nightstand drawer. “I saw a roll of something in here.”
Ian ran into the bathroom, hit the wall switch, dropped the quilts and sheets on the floor. As he snapped towels off the rack, Tess barreled in, waving a roll of tape and a pair of scissors. She dropped her linens, kicked the door shut, and they stuffed a sheet into the crack, sealed it with strips of tape, then pressed towels and quilts over the sheet, and scooted back, eyeing the door.
Stupid, totally stupid, he thought, that towels and quilts and tape could keep sentient fog from reaching them. But it was equally insane to think the fog was sentient. Yet, he knew it was.
The keening grew louder, abrasive, almost unbearable. He clenched his teeth, slapped his hands over his ears. In moments, wisps of fog slipped through the vertical crack just above and below the hinges and along the top edge of the door. Ian shot to his feet, Tess struggled to cut long strips of tape from the roll, and he pressed them into place, sealing the door completely. The keening escalated until it felt as if long, hot needles were being thrust through his ears, tearing away cartilage, tissue, penetrating bone. It drove him, wailing, to his knees. Even with his hands squeezed over his ears, he could hear it, feel it in his teeth, and knew he was minutes from passing out.
Suddenly, Tess started shrieking, a sound so primal and savage that it hardly sounded human. She kept it up, her shrieks battering against the keening, driving it back, and lurched to the towel rack. She grabbed several, tossed one to Ian, and he wrapped it around his head, turban style, so that it covered his ears. It helped to muffle the intensity of the noise so that he didn’t think he would pass out now.
While Tess wrapped a towel around her own head and kept on shrieking, Ian flipped over the metal clothes hamper and beat his fists against it, playing it like a drum. She kept shrieking and turned the shower on full blast, adding the pounding of water to the cacophony. He didn’t know how long it went on, but when the keening abruptly ceased, the silence felt tight, eerie. She turned off the shower, whispered, “Is it over?”
“Maybe it’s a trick,” he whispered back.
A great clanking and clattering erupted in the bedroom and spread quickly to the rest of the cottage, echoing, vibrating against the walls. Then this, too, stopped, and a silence so profound and strange gripped the building that he and Tess strained to hear anything at all.
They finally tore away the tape, Ian picked up the poker, opened the door slightly. He didn’t hear or sense anything and opened the door all the way. As he and Tess stepped into the bedroom, she flicked the wall switch to her left, turning on a floor lamp.
The room was empty, but something now covered the window—and it wasn’t fog. It seemed to be some kind of metal shutter. “It’s like an aluminum hurricane shutter,” Tess said, coming up behind him. “Electrically controlled. And since it probably didn’t shut on its own, it must be
remotely
controlled.”
“So Granger or someone else knew the cottage was under attack.”
“It looks that way. This is what they do in prisons. At night. Or when someone has escaped. Lockdown. Fuck this. They can’t lock us in here.”
She made a beeline for the bedroom door. Ian turned the lock, raised the window, ran his hand along the bottom edge. Airtight. No sign of fog. He couldn’t even feel the chill of the night air. Impressive. And undoubtedly expensive. Was every building on the grounds equipped with
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