The Magic Cottage

BREAK IN

WE LAID HIM on the kitchen table, Midge weeping openly, me choking back tears. I hadn't realized till then how fond of Rumbo I'd become.

The marks on his back were vicious; deep, bloodied grooves running the length of his back where the bats— more than one had done this to him—had raked him. The wounds around his throat were even deeper, but I wondered if fear alone hadn't been the ultimate assassin. He was bald of fur in parts and one tufty ear had been completely shredded; I think he'd put up one hell of a fight.

Without hope I checked for the slightest beat of a heart, and there was none. His body had not yet turned cold and I stroked him, talking softly all the time, as if encouraging his animal spirit to get back inside and loosen up those congealing arteries again.

Rumbo was gone, though, and surprisingly (or maybe not—when it really comes down to it, women are always ! more realistic than men) it was Midge who first accepted the fact. She took my hands in hers.

"Poor little chump," I said, unable to shift my gaze from the still bundle.

"What are those creatures outside, Mike? They can't be the same bats that were in the loft. Their size . . . Why did they attack the animals?"

I shrugged, maybe the only answer to insanity. My eyes had blurred over and I didn't want to speak right away in case my voice broke up. So instead I looked around the kitchen, turning my head away from Midge before blinking. It wasn't grief that I was hiding from her—we'd shared enough of that in our time together and tears had never been an embarrassment: what I didn't want her to see was my fear.

Gramarye's personality had altered. The disease that had been gnawing at its innards since Flora's death had been halted by our arrival, like a cancer checked by a new drug. Decay had stopped, regeneration had begun. Its magic had been renewed.

I was aware of that now, even though a side of me said, Listen, you're crazy, you're talking about stone and timber, not a living person, not even a mindless organism. An inanimate, insensible pile of bricks, for Chrissake! But I knew different. Something on the sidelines of all this had my ear, was whispering to me like it had before, instilling the notions, maybe chuckling while it did so. Or maybe this something was in dead earnest, afraid I wouldn't hear. Or understand.

And in truth, the thoughts were so insubstantial, so tenuous, I didn't know myself whether I heard or I imagined. Who was I to judge my own state of mind?

But the idea persisted. It wasn't the structure of Gramarye that was alive, but the anima of those who had existed within its fold, absorbed by walls, ceilings, floors, locked in like energy into a battery, so that with time the building took on the semblance of a living thing. Until that life had been corrupted, had been cancered, by other less pure influences. I believed that the degeneration had begun when the Synergists had first visited the cottage.

With Flora's death, so had the power inside Gramarye withered, started to rot. Only our—or, more accurately, Midge's—presence had held the rot, even initiated a rejuvenation. That's what the silent voice told me, that's what I believed. And in part, I was right.

I cleared my throat, then said in a rush: "Where the hell did I leave the keys?"

"Keys" came out somewhat strangulated and Midge clasped my hands more tightly.

"Perhaps upstairs. God, it's so cold in here."

As if for effect, she gave a small shiver. Yet I was clammy hot. The thought occurred that we were experiencing Gramarye's fever.

A rending crash from next door brought Midge into my arms and I barely heard her cry above the follow-up tumble of masonry. A dust cloud drifted through into our part of the kitchen. We guessed what had happened but, in the way you sniff milk you know has gone off, we edged toward the opening to see for ourselves. We loitered in the doorway, swiping away unsettled dust before us.

The lintel had finally thrown in its hand and crashed down onto the range, a serious section of brickwork falling after the halved stone. The reverberations hung in the air with the powdery dirt, and the sooty wound in the chimney breast, gaping and jagged, gave a glimpse of Gramarye's dark core, a rent in stone flesh that revealed its black inner substance.

"No, it isn't true, it isn't like that!" wailed Midge, and I understood the image had been the same for her. The misery and rejection on her face was the same as if she'd discovered her favorite uncle was a child molester.

I pulled her away, anxious to be out of there, as far away from the cottage as possible and in the fastest time. We'd fled the Synergist Temple only to find there was no refuge for us here; the cottage had become allied to the gray house, a collaborator in whatever ill cause was possessing that maleficent place. Confused or crazed, I didn't know which I was at that point; all I was sure of was that it was the open road for me.

We could hear the boards creaking beneath the carpet as we hurried upstairs, one cracking clear and loud so that I thought my foot would sink right through; the carpet itself prevented that and we kept going, with Midge careful to avoid the particular step. I flicked on switches as we went and the lights seemed to stutter before gaining their full glow. Into the round room, where the malodor was almost gangrenous and the walls were dribbling wet. I didn't even bother to stop and think about it.

The car keys were lying on the coffee table and I made a grab for them. "Get anything you need from the bedroom, Midge, and be quick about it. I don't want to stay a minute longer than necessary."

She didn't reply, just took to her heels and disappeared into the bedroom, leaving me a moment to look around. I wasn't too happy about the black mold that had formed between the top of the walls and the ceiling, the fungus spreading downward in thick spotty patches as if Midge had splattered the walls with her thickest paint brush. Even more peculiar was the bumpiness of the carpet: the floorboards underneath had warped, the ends risen in places, giving the effect of moles trying to break through but thwarted by the thick surface layer.

"Mike!'

It took me no time at all to reach the bedroom.

"Oh no—"

Where there had once been a hairline split in the wall, there was now a one-inch furrow running from floor to ceiling. I imagined I could see the night peering through from the other side.

"Forget about packing," I told Midge. "We're getting out right now before this place falls apart."

She was hesitant. There was a turmoil going on inside her that was almost visible. I could appreciate her dismay, her bewilderment; my only wonder was that she wasn't totally traumatized. Midge's dream had become a nightmare, everything that had happened here illogical and disconcerting (to say the least). An idyll had been corrupted by forces that neither of us understood—and frankly, as far as I was concerned, didn't want to understand. It was worse for her, because she was aware that she had a role in this disorder of things, but she had no idea what that role was. I'd had a glimmer, and I'd tried to convey that to her, but when it came down to it, what did I know about anything? The only thing that was obvious was that Gramarye was no longer a safe place to hang around in.

I was about to go to Midge and drag her out of the bedroom—drag her from her own introspection—when her eyes widened and she pointed toward the window.

Headlight beams were gliding to a stop on the other side of the garden fence. More headlights from behind lit up the yellow Citroen.

"Bastards," I muttered.

Grabbing Midge by the wrist, I stomped out into the hallway.

"What are you going to do?" She clung to me as I snatched up the telephone receiver, and her trembling ran through me as though I were touching a tuning fork.

"It's about time the police got involved in all this. I don't know what the fuck I'm gonna tell 'em, but I'll think of something. Holding you against your will might do for a starter."

"But that's not true."

"So I'll lie a little. We just need the police here."

Static leapt out of the earpiece like a gremlin up to mischief.

I cursed and held the receiver away as I dialed. More terrible static, and then a whining screech, the kind of sound we might all hear one day when the Bomb has dropped and line meltdown has started as we ring to check on loved ones.

"Shit!" I said again (times of pressure, my language gets pretty poor). I jiggled the cradle contacts until the less strident interference returned, then redialed. Same sound, ear-piercing sharp.

We both winced and I slammed down the receiver. "Out through this way," I shouted, already reaching for the door. "We'll hide in the forest—they'll never find us there."

"No, Mike. We're safer inside Gramarye."

I stared at her incredulously. "Are you kidding? Can't you see what's happening to this place? This is condemned property we're standing in."

"I don't think we'll be harmed here."

"Flora Chaldean probably felt the same. Look, I don't know what Mycroft and his loonies have in mind, but I think club membership is now out as far as we're concerned. And Mycroft let us come here because that's where he wants us. God knows why, but I'm sure he's got his reasons. So let's get, come on!"

I opened the door, and dislodged bats beat against my head and raised arms before skittering off into the gloom. In the chill of the moment I'd forgotten about them. I waited for a mass launch. None came, but my relief was only momentary.

Lights were emerging from the woods.

I was back inside and locking the door in a flash. "They followed us through the forest too."

Midge was wearing a stupefied expression.

"He split his forces, sent some by road, the others through the forest after us. Seems I was right—he wants us trapped inside the cottage."

Understanding appeared to sink in slowly; then she nodded her head and was suddenly very calm, no longer trembling.

"Christ, the front door! We didn't lock it!" I lost my footing at the bend of the stairs in my haste to get down to the kitchen and only managed to control my tumble by sticking my flattened hands against either wall. I slid some of the way, but was up and running by the time I reached the bottom. I shot both door bolts, top and bottom, and rested my forehead against the wood, catching my breath.

It was several moments before I plucked up the nerve to peek out of the window. The car lights had been doused and I could just make out moonlight bouncing off the metal tops beyond the fence. No people out there, no Synergists. As far as I could tell.

"Midge!" I called back up the stairs. "Find Sixsmythe's number and call him—we might get lucky this time."

I drew the kitchen curtains, not wanting them to see in if they were out there. As I passed the table on my way to the stairs, I couldn't help touching the furry heap lying there. It wasn't a conscious gesture, and certainly not dwelt upon; a passing contact, no more than that. Could be it was a token of affection, a regret that Rumbo was gone. Maybe a private "so long, buddy."

Then I was pounding stairs, expecting to find Midge dialing or at least leafing through the local directory. The hallway was empty.

She was in the round room, silhouetted by the half-moon brightness, and she was watching the gathering outside.

"Midge, why didn't you call—"

"He can't help us, Mike."

"Sixsmythe? He's the only contact we've got around here."

"He wouldn't know how to help. It's too late anyway."

I followed her gaze and didn't like what I saw. No, I didn't like it at all.

Mycroft and his motley mob were in the open, their shapes distinct and black against the moon-drenched grass. They stood apart, separate entities, spread like stone menhirs and just as still. Those who had arrived from the forest had switched off their flashlights and although each was isolated, occupying his or her own space, they were a pack, united with their Synergist leader in some mysterious cause that terrified me.

They watched the cottage as we watched them.

I stood closer to Midge and she said quietly, "They want us to die."

That's how she put it. Not "They want to kill us," but "They want us to die," as if they'd have no part in the act, they wouldn't bloody their own hands.

"That's a bit drastic." If my scorn was reassuring to her it didn't ease my own concern. "They can't go around murdering people just because they like the look of a house. There's laws against that kind of gazumping."

"They wanted Flora to die and she did."

So much for humor.

"She had a heart attack, Okay, so maybe they frightened her enough to cause it, but she was an old lady; how they gonna scare us that much?"

"Weren't you frightened inside their Temple, inside that terrible room? Weren't you scared in the forest?"

"Sure. But we're on home base now—let's see what Mycroft can do here."

You know, sometimes bravado is the worst thing for tempting fate. What could he do? Plenty, and we were about to find out.

It didn't happen immediately. Seconds ticked by and nobody and nothing seemed to be moving—there wasn't even a drifting cloud in the sky. And it was quiet, so graveyard quiet. Even the floorboards had stopped groaning. The loudest thing was the stench in the air.

I wanted to step away from the window—we weren't too close, not near enough for the Synergists to see us—but somehow I was rooted to the spot. Fascinated, you see, morbidly curious as to what (or was not) going on outside. Even breathing was a bit of a chore, my skin feeling too tightly wrapped around my chest. We stared out and they stared in.

Then the nearest figure raised an arm, in his hand a long cane.

That's when hell let loose.

The first sound was a muffled roar like an underwater explosion, a sort of deep whoosh which disintegrated into an agitated irregular drumming. For a moment the moon was lost and I assumed a cloud had passed over; but light patterns returned quickly when the blackness above broke up.

The bats had risen as a whole and were swarming over the cottage, a mass of dark, erratic motion.

They flew higher, over the moon, as if heading for the stars, the frantic beat of their wings growing distant. We moved closer to the windows, craning our heads upward, because the spectacle was incredible, subjugating even dread.

We lost sight of them. We lost sound of them. But for no more than a few seconds.

The drumming returned, a devil's tattoo, increasing in volume, becoming so loud that the building seemed to judder with its approach. We turned from the windows and looked toward the ceiling, neither of us breathing, neither of us capable of speaking.

The rushing noise centralized, descended to a low rumbling, and our gaze shifted across the room toward the chimney breast.

They swooped out of the fireplace like Hitchcock's birds, storming into the room, filling the air with their screeches and terrible fluttering wings. Midge's scream (God knows, it could have been mine) was cut short as glass exploded inward from behind.

We went down in sheer reaction, and it was just as well: bats erupted through with the glass, bursting in to join the others cycloning around the curved walls.

I felt something land on my back, tiny claws digging in for purchase. As I reached to dislodge the bat, another settled against my neck and stung me with its teeth.

I rolled, grabbing the one at my neck and squashing the other. The feel of small bones crunching beneath me was repugnant, but holding on to the wriggling thing that was opening an account at the blood bank of my throat was even worse. Above me was a turmoil of flapping wings, its draft ruffling my hair; movement in the darkened room was so fast that everything had become a crazy blur. Through it all I could hear Midge screaming.

Two more bats landed on my chest and I beat at them furiously with one hand while the other clenched to crush the bat still nibbling at my neck. Because it was close to my ears I heard the squeals as my grip tightened. I tore the bloodsucker away without experiencing any pain as my own flesh broke, then tossed the feebly struggling body into the mass of others. With both hands I wrenched off the two bats at my chest, their claws and teeth making a mess of my shirt. Even as I threw these into the air, still more landed on my arms and legs.

In the glow from the hallway I caught sight of Midge's writhing body, although so covered in the creatures was she that she resembled a multiwinged horror rising like some hideous beast from the pages of one of those splatter comicbooks. She was shrieking and beating at herself in terror, and I crawled toward her, ignoring the bats clinging to my own body.

She fell to her knees again and I beat at those hugging monsters in blind fury, snapping wings and breaking bones with a wildness even these tenacious bastards couldn't withstand.

They fell away. I ripped out two that had become entangled in her hair. I beat them from her shoulders, pulled them from her back. We had to get away from there, but to where? All the rooms had windows. And all the while I struggled, more bats were settling on me, while others were returning to her. I swiped them from the air, but for every one stunned, three more took its space. My own frustrated exertions were wearying me, and the bats' combined weight, insubstantial though it may have been, was gradually bringing me down. Midge and I sank together, bodies enveloped by the black-winged vermin.

We lay close on the floor and the pain wasn't that bad— nips and scratches were all we felt. It was sheer terror that kept us there.

I slumped over Midge in an effort to shield her, although knowing it was no use, the fuckers were going to get us. Just like they got the rabbits. Just like they got Rumbo.

I closed my eyes and waited.

Until the bats were suddenly gone.