Wearily, she made her way along the dark high street, a plan slowly taking shape in her mind. The charnel house was a large four-bedroom executive property. Its new occupants were laid out with respect in the lounge, old bed-sheets thrown over them, the hint of body shapes in the fold-shadows somehow worse than if what was covered had been laid bare.
But it didn't scare her — death never had, and that was one of the things that had convinced her to accept the Craft, where the dead are as much a part of Existence as the living. Old friends, fondly remembered family; sometimes, a little more worryingly, old enemies.
Mary remembered the first time she had seen a dead body. It was in the clinical care wing of the hospital where she had just started her career as a psychiatric nurse. Some poor girl, arms like bones, disproportionately large head giving her the distended doll-form of the bulimic, had gone missing. They found her in the grounds, on a hard winter's night, frozen like a fallen bird amongst the chiaroscuro trees. Her eyes were wide, staring at the spray of stars visible through the branches, her expression oddly optimistic. Mary found it sad, but not scary. Worse things were out there, and she'd come across a few of them in her life.
She made her way up the stairs and chose one of the smaller bedrooms; bare boards, Winnie the Pooh wallpaper, the smell of abandonment, not yet tainted by the corruption rising from the lounge. Moonshadows fell across the floor; the house was silent. In her pack, Arthur Lee lay still, remarkably calm.
After half an hour, she wondered if her pursuer would come, but then she heard the click of the front door opening with secretive care and she knew her instincts had been correct.
With the wind rustling around the outside of the house, she closed her eyes and instantly slipped into her practised trance state. The sigil she required formed against the velvet of her imagination; the words came to her lips without any conscious thought. When she stood up, she knew she was a ghost, no longer visible to any prying eyes. Whoever was there would hear the whisper of her breath, feel a breeze at her passing, but that was all.
She had left the bedroom door ajar so she could slip out easily. If she had timed it right, her pursuer would still be exploring the lower level. She moved to the top of the stairs and waited. No sound came from below. He was good, she thought; a ghost, like her.
Arthur Lee's warning hiss came just as movement flickered at the corner of her eye. It came straight out of the master bedroom, moving faster than she had ever anticipated. A blur of speed, then a few seconds of eerie, awkward slow motion, then another burst of movement.
It had the shape of a man, but it looked as if it had been built from discarded pieces randomly stitched together. The pelvis was twisted so one side pointed forward, while the legs were almost in one line, one in front of the other, mystifying her further at its incredible speed. The arms appeared deformed because the joints had been attached irregularly. It was naked, its distended penis permanently erect. Yet the most disturbing thing was the head, which was on backwards. There was something in that image — human yet not human, living but should-be-dead — that horrified her much more than if it had been alien in appearance. A Jigsaw Man.
Mary was rooted in shock for just a second too long. Even though its eyes faced away, it knew exactly where she was and within an instant was upon her. Her misdirection spell worked just well enough to prevent it from killing her outright. Hands that appeared weak and flailing gripped with preternatural strength, broken, dirty nails puncturing her flesh easily.
Mary yelled in fear, lashing out with the knife she had been carrying for defence, but the thing's powerful hold prevented her from striking home. 'Get off me, you ugly bastard!' She brought up her knee towards its groin, forgetting its deformed shape. Her knee crashed against the twisted pelvis and made her yelp in pain.
The Jigsaw Man forced her down with increasing pressure until she felt sure her bones would break. She was too weak, too scared. Rough hands worked their way inexorably up her arms towards her throat.
Finally she collapsed to the floor at the top of the steps, the full weight of the creature crushing against her chest. She felt the erect penis dig into her leg and somehow that gave her the impetus to move when she saw her opening.
As the Jigsaw Man shifted its balance, Mary brought her knee up into a position of leverage. The creature teetered. With one jerk that brought stabbing pains up from the small of her back, she launched it towards her head. The action was enough to break its grip and send it over, though it tore flesh from her arms in passing. With its limbs flapping awkwardly, it crashed down the stairs, hitting the bottom with a sound like dry wood snapping.
With tears in her eyes, Mary hauled herself upright using the banister. Her back was in agony, and the pain from her muscles and ligaments, aged and never used to such a degree, made her feel sick.
'You bastard!' she said with a stifled sob that contained all her anger and fear.
It was still writhing at the foot of the stairs, and as it forced itself up on its twisted arms, Mary could see that its neck was broken. The lolling head scared her even more, and for the first time she wondered if it was even possible to kill it.
She hobbled down the stairs as quickly as her back would allow, and just as the Jigsaw Man was pulling itself up from its knees she kicked out sharply at the base of the skull. The bone shattered under the force.
Mary scrambled by it and out of the front door. She was already muttering under her breath and painting the sigils in the air with her hands as it hauled itself up and launched itself at her. The barrier came up just in time. The Jigsaw Man bounced back impotently, still lurching, still grasping.
Mary allowed herself a moment's satisfaction. She'd done better than she had anticipated; perhaps she wasn't as weak and ineffective as she had thought. 'You see, you bastard, you can't get me. That should hold you there for…' Her mood deflated a little. '… five minutes.' It wasn't long; but that wasn't the end of her plan. She stepped back, closed her eyes; more mutterings, more sigils. When she looked again, she had a sudden spurt of fear that it wasn't going to work. Finally the flames flickered across the floor of the hall, just a glow of light at first, but within seconds an inferno raged within. There was a noise like metal being twisted and broken, and Mary realised queasily that it was the Jigsaw Man's cries; of pain, fear or anger, she didn't know. Though the conflagration engulfed it, the thing still tried to get through the door, still fought wildly, wouldn't lie down and die as she'd hoped. With a sinking feeling, Mary realised she couldn't wait any longer. She turned and hurried back along the main street, glancing behind only once with a quiet, desperate hope that she had done enough.
Chapter Eight
'Why was I always suffering, always browbeaten, always accused, forever condemned?'
The dark wood loomed before them, vast and low, breathing the slow, measured breath of the predatory animal. Beneath the thick canopy, only shadows lay; sometimes they moved of their own accord. Nettles, brambles and emerald ferns clustered around the forest's edge, the only easy access along the thin path that wound into the heart of it.
Midges danced in the uncomfortably hot morning sun while birds fluttered here and there, but never appeared to enter the trees.
Caitlin wiped a thin slick of sweat from her forehead and thought of the book she had been reading to Liam. The echoes still reverberated through her mind and she mulled over Crowther's suggestion that the impression of this world was created by the people who viewed it. Was she plucking this wood from her memory? Was she remaking the entire place as fractured and desperate as her own deep subconscious? If that was the case, what chance did they have? 'This place has haunted us since we crawled out of caves.' Crowther was at her side, drawn and weary, but at least he was finally talking to her again. Unsettlingly, he appeared to be reading her mind, or perhaps the troubled expression she wore whenever she glanced at the deep dark forest. 'It's the Wildwood,' he continued, 'the primeval forest of our deepest, darkest memory, where all the real terrors lay. This Otherworld is a land of archetypes, and the wood is one of the most affecting. Do you feel it?'