Kelly Creagh - Nevermore

And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death.

He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.

Hold up. Wait—what? That was it?

Isobel traced over the last sentence again, even though she knew she hadn’t missed anything. Or maybe she had? She swallowed hard against the lump that had formed thick at the back of her throat.

“Okay.” She slammed the book shut, causing the table to rattle, which must have caused Varen’s writing to skip because he looked up, eyebrows raised. “So can we talk about how I just read this Masque with a q thing and how at the end the bad guy totally wins?”

He drew his pen away from the page and sank back into his chair, regarding her with something like amusement. “I assume that when you say ‘bad guy’ you’re referring to the Red Death, implying that Prospero is the good guy?”

Her jaw jutted to one side as she took this into consideration. She saw his point and, eyes rolling upward, lashes fluttering, she sighed. “So, whatever, he locked out all the sick people and threw a big party for his rich buddies. Not cool, I get it. But that aside, why would Poe write a story about some lavish palace and take so much time talking about all these different-colored rooms and build up all of this stuff about this chiming clock and some sagacious prince and his drinking pals if he’s just going to kill everybody at the end?”

“Because,” Varen said, “in the end, Death always wins.”

At these words, Isobel recoiled. She took her hands from the table and put them into her lap, shoulders hunching. “You know,” she said, “no offense, but it’s when you say stuff like that that people start to worry about you.”

His expression fell.

She cringed on the inside, admitting to herself that she hadn’t meant to sound so blunt. He stared at her, but she couldn’t meet that kohl-etched gaze, half-hidden behind his hair yet still able to pierce her straight through.

“I mean . . . ,” she began, gesturing with her hands, as though they could help with the damage control.

“So,” he said, “are you worried about me?”

Her eyes lifted. He watched her steadily, all too serious and, again, she found herself floundering in that penetrating stare.

Was he being for real? Or was he just mocking her again?

He blinked once, clearly waiting for an answer.

“Um . . .”

She was saved by the sound of a low creak. His focus broke away. She followed his gaze, realizing that it must have been the downstairs door reopening.

“Is somebody coming?” she asked.

“Just Bess,” he murmured. “What time is it?”

Isobel felt that prickling sensation on the back of her neck again, only this time it wasn’t so easy to shake off. The spider legs came back, trickling electric cold right down her spine. She reached for her backpack, still flustered, her fingers fumbling for the heart-shaped silver key-chain watch.

“Oh, no.” She felt her gut plummet. “I’ve got to go,” she said, her chair scraping loudly against the floorboards as she stood. She pulled on her backpack and made her way to the stairs.

“Wait,” he called. She heard his pen smack the table.

“Can’t,” she said. “Sorry.” She knew he was irritated with her again but decided she couldn’t help that. He could just add this to his (no doubt full) list of things to brood about.

She hustled down the stairs, through the back room, and onto the main floor, past Bruce, who sat slumped in his chair, his glass eye wide open, seeming to follow her as she went. Isobel pushed out the front door, the bells clanking hard as she let it bang shut behind her. Outside, the temperature had dropped, and the air had turned crisper, so much that Isobel could see her breath. Next to her, a streetlamp snapped on.

That was when she realized she’d left the Poe book upstairs.

With a growl, she swiveled, marched back into the shop, and hurried past a snoring Bruce to the back of the store. She started when she found the “Beware of Bess” door closed. Again.

She reached for the knob but paused when she heard voices—one deep and low, another soft and mellow. Who was he talking to? Had someone been hiding up there while they’d been working?

She thought of Lacy and immediately opened the door and climbed up, calling, “I forgot—” She stopped when she reached the top landing. He was gone. His black book was gone too, but his notepad lay on the table, next to his Discman and the Poe book. Isobel turned in a quick circle, but there was no sign of him or anyone else. But how could that be? How could he have left so quickly?

She surveyed the room again to confirm that there were no other doors, no closets to hide in.

Then whose voices had she heard?

With a frigid spike of unease, she realized she was up there alone. With a ghost.

She shot forward, grabbed the Poe book, and scuttled down the stairs, grateful when the door did not slam shut on her this time.

Shoving the Poe book into her bag, she scurried to the front and outside again, the weirdness vibe clinging to her until a brisk breeze whisked past her and blew it away.

Outside, the horizon between buildings blushed a deep peach, while the glow of the streetlamps and storefront windows seemed to brighten by the second. She started in the direction of her house but began to realize, as dusk continued to make its gradual descent, that a fast walk wasn’t going to cut it.

Isobel started to run.

The sidewalk raced by beneath her pounding feet, the chilled autumn air stinging her lungs. As she ran, Isobel felt her body enter that uncomfortable place of being warm on the inside but cold with sweat on the outside. She knew she’d pay later for not having warmed up or anything before launching straight into a full-out run.

She tried to picture Danny still holding down the fort, doing whatever he could to direct attention away from her unusually quiet room, which her parents, by now, would have started to wonder about. And if they hadn’t, well, they would when they sat down to dinner and she wasn’t there.

She swung around a crosswalk pole, stopping to tap the silver button. The light changed, and with only a moment’s hesitation to check for traffic, she jogged across the street to Willow Avenue. She slowed, however, as a new thought entered her mind. She stopped and stared down the road where, just ahead, she could see one of the side entrances to the park.

She hesitated, taking a moment to breathe, to debate. She pulled the straps of her backpack forward, bringing the bag flush with her back, and she felt the weight of the Poe book as it pressed into her spine.

Even though the park was huge, with forest patches split by lots of twisty, turny roads and steep rolling hills, it would be a lot faster to cut through. And getting past the closed-off entrance and into her subdivision would be as simple as climbing over a low wooden gate. Growing up, she and Danny must have done it every weekend in the summer.

She glanced skyward. Through the smattering of clouds, three early night stars shone in the deepening blue, but it wasn’t completely dark yet. If she went through the park, if she ran the whole way and managed not to get lost, she’d make it in time for sure. She knew it.

Her mind made up, she darted for the park entrance.

On either side of the street loomed tall and haughty window-faced Victorian homes. They seemed to watch her as she veered past, taking the one-way blacktop road that curved upward into the park.