Midnight. The shadows of streetlamps stretch skyward, leaking into the cover of night. I hear the shuffle of the harbingers creeping from their temporary sanctuaries and urge them forward. Those who once haunted my nightmares now witness my reign of terror with bemused delight, reveling in the demise of my victims.
How fitting that my final task takes place where it all began. Crumpled candy wrappers and discarded popcorn bags litter the cold concrete of the rotunda. The horse silhouettes flicker in the mirrored carousel panels, eyes wide, nostrils flared, tails tossing in the imaginary wind.
She’s late. I hover by the railing, my cape swirling from my shoulders.
At last, footsteps sound from around the corner to herald her appearance, her spindled form draped in a woolen cloak, mothballed and worm eaten. With one hand, she pulls her collar close, breath escaping parted lips in thin wisps. Slowing as she nears me, Faithe reaches her other hand toward mine, resting on the railing. Her countenance is smooth and cool like alabaster, dark eyes calculated and cunning.
“Finlay,” she murmurs, white teeth flashing. “Our last night together, where we first met. How touching.”
“Tempo Padre insisted, it was not my doing,” I rasp, unable to meet her gaze.
It was not always like this. We used to be traveling companions, roaming in tandem, searching for souls to steal. After that first night of my tenure, when the rollercoaster left the tracks, I felt invincible. I don’t even remember when the shift began, perhaps once the thrill of the kill rusted through and I came to learn that I am simply a means to an end.
Tempo Padre has little patience and even less desire to consider second thoughts. When I agreed to this arrangement in order to free my little sister, Justine, my newfound lust for power blinded me to Faithe’s hidden agenda. When she refused my request to visit Justine, I knew I had made a mistake. Tempo Padre made it clear that my contract was non-negotiable and that my term would be fully served before I could bring Justine home. Now, after tonight, I will finally be reunited with her.
Faithe scans the horizon, question marks curling at the corners of her mouth. “And what have you in store for us this evening?”
I shudder at her mirth, knowing what comes next.
Our target is closer than I realize. I hear their laughter before I see their shapes. I melt into the darkness and grip my scythe with both hands. Faithe holds her ground, hooded eyes glinting in the moonlight. She keeps the harbingers at bay while the couple walks past her, unseeing. I step forward, arms raised, wielding my weapon without mercy.
The wife barely has time to scream before her husband’s blood spatters her skin. The heavy scent of iron fills the air, and the man’s wide frame lands with a thud at my feet. Faithe circles like a cyclone, and the woman’s eyes widen without blinking, her voice held hostage as she stares at something white unfurling from Faithe’s clutches. Tiny balloons decorate the edge of a baby’s blanket, and it takes another moment for me to recognize it as their newborn’s swaddling clothes I’d used to strangle the sitter earlier in the evening. The blood stains have turned pink since being tossed into the crib. Faithe casts it aside, the mother’s haunted eyes following it to the ground.
Faithe wrenches the hollowed heart from the woman’s chest. She loves to squeeze it to bursting. I turn away, unable to bear the throb. The harbingers’ thirst coats my throat and the metallic taste of blood bathes my tongue. They don’t wait for Faithe’s permission, hurling themselves at the woman in a feeding frenzy. Her husband’s blood still drips from my metal blade. The blanket is torn to shreds.
Faithe turns from the slaughter and motions for me to follow. I do so blindly, lovesick and wasted. We make our way to the other side of the carousel. Tempo Padre waits for no one, but makes an exception for me, this last night of our agreement. I am startled to see Justine standing next to him, her wrists bound and her mouth gagged. I move to free her, but Faithe stops me short.
“She’s not real,” she hisses, taking the scythe from my grasp, claiming it as her own. “Don’t let him fool you.”
“Finlay,” Tempo Padre speaks slowly and deliberately, “I release you. Take Justine and be gone.”
I disentangle myself from my robes and rush toward my sister, but I should have listened to Faithe. Justine turns to dust, and her ashes scatter to the wind. I miss the departure of my keeper and my idol as I scramble with fumbling fingers. I am left with nothing but soot on my hands and an ache where my heart used to beat.
Erika MacNeil is a dancer by training, teacher by trade, writer on a whim. Community leader, ally of the marginalized, advocate for the underdog. Look for her work with Rice Paper, Neon and Smoke, and Archived Press. Her writing strives to make something out of nothing, stemming from the person she used to be, then curated by the person she wants to become. Find her on IG @hintsofgrey.
Featured image by Neven Krcmarek on Unsplash.
