Каарон Уоррен - The Best Horror of the Year Volume Ten

“Well, the bones show significant funerary preparations. They’re laid out, and the stone jars are inserted into the mouths. The jars contain bone marrow, which I suspect came from the arms and legs, which have all been broken—”

“How do you know that?” Dr. Knochdieb and Henri both turned to her at that, their faces masked with twin looks of alarm.

Ashley felt the cold water creeping back up her throat. “I examined the specimen last night. I wanted to provide a full rep—”

“You tampered with it?”

Here was the tirade she’d been expecting. His eyes roved over her in a way that made her feel inside-out. As though she was raw to his judgment.

“I felt it was my responsibility to report my findings in full. To provide enough information to justify a continued excavation and protection of the site.” Her jaw stiffened as she spoke, so that her last words hissed past her teeth, sounding more impertinent than she meant them.

“Of course it will be excavated. And protected. But it’s not your job to tell us that.” Dr. Knochdieb’s hands shook with indignation. The color of his face rose to match his tie.

“I meant to justify my continued excavation. Just… please. Please, let me work on this with you.” This wasn’t her script—she hadn’t intended to beg. But her head was spinning. She couldn’t remember what she was supposed to say—her jaw felt sealed against her words. Something about her past experience under her mentor in Peru. Something about global cooperation. She could only think of the bones—of getting back to them. Remind them why you’re here—why they said yes .

The black spots were returning to her vision. She held herself firm in her seat, upright, eyes closed.

She caught the word “dismissed,” then stumbled out of her chair, sending it rolling into the board, knocking sketches into the air. She ran from the room as Dr. Knochdieb scolded her rude departure.

Her legs buckled awkwardly as she raced down the hall to her office. She slammed the door shut behind her and sank to the cold floorboards.

Her fingers ached as though they’d been jammed. It reminded her of her adolescent growing pains—of soaking, curled, in hot baths and the aftertaste of Advil bitter on her tongue, her mother’s long fingers pulling through her wet, curly hair, reassuring her that the boys would catch up to her height, that she wasn’t a “freak.” She felt the familiar itch of the stretch marks that lashed across her back and around her thighs—a crossed dark lattice. She remembered the eyes on her, everywhere she went—the staring, their gazes tickling up her neck. She remembered waking at slumber parties to find games of tic-tac-toe played in the crosshatch of her scars. Every dry itch of that pull of skin brought fresh humiliation. And now she felt it on her hands, her face, and neck. It felt as though her flesh was a shrinking glove, curling her fingers to her palms and holding them there.

Panting, she held her hands up to the light. Her knuckles twisted as the skin pulled tighter. The grooves of her knuckles split, the fissures like small gaping mouths from which erupted bone upon bone. She shrieked at the sting of it and tried to close the split flesh by straightening her fingers, felt the pressure grow, pulsing under her nails—saw the white of bone pale like blisters at the tips of her fingers. She stretched her fingers further and the skin burst, springing back along the protruding shafts of bone, curling back like a blooming flower. Her fingernails scattered around her. Each breath, deep and ragged, felt as though it contained less air than the one before.

There’s something in those jars. Something wrong . She remembered the prick of the bone spurs, the blood in her gloves. Careless .

She struggled, shaking, to her feet. Blood dripped from her twisting fingers to the dingy floor. She reached long, tender, bone-tipped fingers into her pocket, moaning as the rough fabric scraped against the exposed nerves, and pulled her lab keycard out. This hurts, hurts, this hurts… but not as much as it should . Half her brain was a hum of panic, while half observed, fighting the adrenaline for scraps of logic.

The hallway was empty. It was still early—no one was in their offices yet. She limped around the door and down the hall, catching herself against the wall as she stumbled, crying out when her bones clacked against the plaster. What is happening to me? The metatarsals of her feet strained against the leather of her shoes.

She fumbled with the keycard at the lab door, dropping it, scraping it from the tiles with her bone-tips. The bones; I need the bones; I need the marrow . She brought the card to her mouth and used her lips to hold it to the sensor. The light flashed red. The door handle stuck, unmoving.

They’ve changed the locks . Dread washed over her, almost enough to erase the pain in her hands, her face, her feet and knees. There was only one other place she could study the jars. Only one place that might have an answer about what was happening to her.

The thought of the cave was like an endorphin balm. She needed the cave.

Her knees left damp patches of blood along the trail behind her. She held her lantern clenched in her teeth. Her long fingers slid through spaces between the rocks, gripping them, hauling herself more easily than she had the day before—all her weight pivoting on the levers of her long bones. The pull of the cave was so strong it felt as though it lifted her up the mountain. When she reached the top of the rise where the cave gaped open, her bones had grown so tall that she had to fold herself unnaturally to enter. She rolled inside and lay on the floor, shaking violently, shrieking as more bones popped out of her jaw and hips, spraying blood across the ancient amber bones and ochre drawings. I’m contaminating the samples . She nearly laughed at her impulse to preserve the cave art. Die somewhere else. You’re making a mess .

Her hands, feet, face continued to erupt—her legs and arms extending until they were difficult to place. She tried to stand and fell over her own long legs, as she had when she was fifteen, trying to dance.

She felt eyes on her, then—angry and hungry—and turned toward the cave entrance, expecting to see Henri, maybe even Dr. Knochdieb. The opening was hidden in shadow, as if night had fallen as she lay on the floor. Shingles of bone growing from her face obstructed her view. But still she felt watched. Then the darkness moved toward her. She scrambled back, long limbs flailing against the rock and pushing her farther away from her lantern. As she squirmed toward the back of the cave, the neon white light disappeared, as if draped in cloth.

She skittered deeper into the cave, tapping with her long bones to find her way. She passed an alcove, and remembered the painted figures marching on the monster. She grabbed for the bones on the shelf and hurled them into the shadow. The pressure abated—drawing back, a flinch—a blink. The pile dwindled till she came to the skull, and remembered the jar. The sacred marrow. She reached into its mouth, to the intact orb of stone, and slipped it free—clutched it to her chest as she threw the skull, the final bone, into the shadow. It fell back, just enough to free the glow of her lantern. She crawled toward the openings at the back of the cave. She remembered the chamber maps, vaguely—what Henri had let her see of them. One chamber led to the bear cave and exited onto the southern slope above town. The other led to a chasm. She couldn’t remember which was which. I can’t think; why can’t I think anymore . It was as if the bones pulled the thoughts from her head.