Page 41 of Fragile Wicked Things

Twenty

Buried under my Christian name, Edward Lawrence Dylan, on the farm where I lived with my wife, Meghan, and daughter, Lucy, I remained undisturbed for a short time.

Locked in a wooden coffin submerged in the earth, I was reborn from death and had awoken to a newfound sense of power, destruction and, above all, hunger. The man I once was no longer breathed.

When I was alive, I was a good man, father, husband, a strong farmer who worked tirelessly to provide for my family, in particular, during the cold and dreary winters.

Our daughter Lucy was only six years of age, the sole blessing given to my wife and me as she could never bear more children.

Each Sunday, we attended St. Sebastian's Parish Church in the village where we prayed and thanked God for our blessings.

And each Sunday, when we returned to our farm at midday, we ate whatever we could cobble together, a few scraps of dried, tough meat boiled in a watery stew.

My best was never enough. I toiled the earth during the warm months, and when winters brought further hardship, I cared for the few farm animals that helped us survive.

Still, nourishment was hard to procure and the milk from one cow was scant.

Many nights we went to bed with hunger in our bellies, cold in our bones and in the mornings when we awoke no different, I was struck by the dark circles around my wife's sunken eyes, the sallow complexion of my young child.

In the evenings, we sat by the fire, my wife immersed in her mending, my daughter on my lap, her head resting on my chest, listening while I read the Bible.

Then, I was not well-read or well-versed, and time has almost made me forget, but I had the very nature, the dialect of the farming community that surrounded me: poor, uneducated, and simple in how we lived.

Lucy was always near me. Sometimes she'd play Catch-Penny with a halfpenny in her hand, but she was never able to bring her hand beneath her elbow with the quickness necessary to catch it. Still, she determined that she would succeed in the game I had taught her.

One winter night brought a terrible squall; the wind howled, a harsh cold swept in through the cracks around the windows and so shook the glass in its pane that I worried it would break.

"Get away from the window, Lucy," I said.

"Come by the fire." She remained at the window, bare toes tipped up, a sliver of light from the moon cascading on her blond locks. "What has got you so mesmerized?"

"Piggie got out," said Lucy.

"Edward," my wife said with a start.

"The animals are locked up. I accounted for them all earlier. Lucy, you must be mistaken." She shifted her attention to me, sunk lower so her feet were flat and shook her head.

"Daddy, there's a man with Piggie."

Startled, I rushed to the window, pushing Lucy aside When I looked out, I saw our pig near a tree, and I understood how Lucy could have mistaken the tree, barren of leaves, branches arched out like arms, for a man.

The pig was to be brought to market the following spring, so I threw on my warmest coat, left the house, and pulled the door closed tight with Meghan pushing on the other side.

At times, the pure force of the wind held me back, yet I trudged forward, head down, the wind biting at my ears.

The animal squealed and grunted, reared itself against the tree moving farther away from me and shook its head in agitation.

I grabbed at the makeshift rope tied around his neck, ran my hand along the braid to the end that had been torn to shreds and led the pig back to the shed.

The latch of the forged iron hardware was secure.

Somehow, I must have forgotten the pig outside.

Inside, there was the agitated movement of the animals—the young goat bucked, the two hens flew inside their wired cage, the cow tramped and still the pig squealed, running in circles.

We have had rough weather in the past, and they never behaved as strangely as they did on that particular night.

After sliding the latch across, I yanked at the lock to ensure it would hold.

A horrific growl carried on the wind, startling me and with quick steps, I ventured around the shed towards my home looking over my shoulder.

Again, the wind blew, and the putrid smell of death infiltrated my nostrils, and I came to a sudden stop.

Across the field, some ways not too far ahead, I saw the figure of a man.

He swayed side to side as he walked in circles and from the illumination of the moon, I could see he had a cloak wrapped around himself.

He appeared to be hurt, hunched over and favoring his left side.

I called out to him although I suspected he could not hear me above the whistling wind and stepped closer until I stood but a mere few feet away.

The man then collapsed, tugging at the frayed cloak over his peculiar form to safeguard himself against the cold.

"Is it help that you require?" I asked. His back to me, his head shot up, cocked to one side.

"Good sir," he said, "I've fallen ill."

"Come inside and I can provide shelter from the storm. I have a fire."

"It is not warmth nor shelter that I seek, good sir, but I require sustenance, having become lost in these fields with little around."

I thought only of the dry bits of bread we had left that would be dipped in milk and eaten the following morning. It was not enough for the three of us, much less a fourth.

"Come closer and help me,” he said.

As I approached, a gust of wind swept around us, howling with ferocity, and then blew at my face, robbing me of breath.

I fell to my knees near the man and as I reached out for his arm, caught a glimpse of his face.

From what I could see, he was not much older than me.

When I attempted to pull him up with me, he did not move, and for such a weak man, I felt powerless to lift him.

Suddenly, he grabbed me around my shoulders, bringing me down to meet him.

The blanket fell away, and in the moonlight, I could see the entirety of his face—his skin was pale, his hair was raven, there was a scar across his right cheek, and a darkness in his eyes.

The soulless eyes stared at me, his mouth enlarged, and jagged, sharp teeth sank into my neck, the pain unbearable.

I had visions of my life until then, the first time I met Meghan when she was a shop-girl at a dry goods store and I purchased items I had no use for; the first time I heard Lucy cry when she entered the world; my first successful harvest that put a feast on the table.

The creature tore at my flesh, sucked my blood, and drew out my life's energy.

Soon, he would kill me, but with his hands wrapped around me with such strength, I was rendered powerless.

My visions were gone, replaced by streams of blood, streaking downwards, obscuring my happy images.

Then I felt unimaginable pleasure and let out a moan, let my arms fall limp to the ground, and gave myself to the creature. And then, nothing.

Darkness. Coldness. Although I could sense it around me, I didn't feel cold.

I awoke in a wooden coffin, buried not too deep in the ground by gravediggers who had no doubt become tired from the ordeal of digging in the cold.

Although there was no light, everything was visible, every nail hammered in, every knot of the wood, every discolored patch.

I brought my hands up before me—the once hard, callused farmer's hands were now delicate like an aristocrat's, in place of my heart, there was silence.

A great power lay within. I was reborn but did not comprehend the enormity of the monster I had become.

I clawed my way out from that death, broke apart the wood, scraped at the ground, climbing upwards until my hands broke through and the wind tickled my flesh.

Finally, I was free and, when I looked back at the gaping hole I had dug myself out from, I was blinded by the wooden cross over my grave.

My arm flew up to cover my eyes, my body turned away from a God who was no longer mine, and when I lowered my hands from my face, I stood facing a home that had once been mine.

Through the window appeared the flicker of a firelight; smoke emanated from the chimney top. My wife and child were in there, warm but grieving, fed but empty. Who would teach my daughter how to catch a halfpenny now?

Deep inside me, there was a longing, nothing I had felt before but many times since.

When the longing became unbearable, I had no choice but to feed the desire.

A small part of me remained shrouded in this darkness, controlled by the beast, and I knew as I stood looking at my wife and child through the window that I was no longer Edward Lawrence Dylan.

* * *

My feet pounded the ground of the forest, twigs snapped underfoot, branches whacked at my face, cut through my skin and left streaks of blood.

I traveled far from the farm where I had lived, passed many villages—Darlington, Morpeth, Alnwick—and followed the sound of the locomotives on the new railways before heading farther east. Still, I knew by the barking of the dogs that they were close behind.

Desperate for escape, I ran through rivers to mask my scent, failing at each attempt as I could not dispose of the dogs or the monster who followed, who demanded to be satisfied, to be my conqueror.

Each time I fed and killed, his strength grew, the blood and power securing his position over me.

The beast within me roused whole villages, and townspeople would attack, grievously bruising me with stones until I took refuge in the woodlands.