Chapter 17: Through the Muck and Mire

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When I was a kid, I had a recurring dream.

You would think it might involve something cute, like puppies or cotton candy clouds. And by all rights, it should have: my early childhood was pretty idyllic. My dad didn’t leave until I was five. I don’t remember much about that time, but I do recall how much he seemed to love my mother. I remember that, as far as I could tell, he also loved me.

Not that much, evidently. But that’s not the point I’m getting at here.

If I’m honest, it wasn’t a dream. More of a nightmare. The kind of nightmare that would make therapists give you a concerned look. Start asking questions. Is everything okay at home? Are mommy and daddy fighting?

But they weren’t fighting. Not that I could tell. Without a shred of inspiration, it seemed, my mind conjured horrors out of nothing.

I would be wandering through these endless tunnels. The walls changed and shifted, as if intentionally diverting my path. I knew, every time, that I was lost. I was hopelessly lost. There were doors to either side of me, countless doors that led to different places. I would go as long as I possibly could without opening those doors. I avoided them, avoided looking at them, because any time I did, I would get a sense of something awful lurking on the other side. Something terrible. I wandered and wandered, deeper into that maze, until I just couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t take the aimlessness. I couldn’t take knowing that I was going to be stuck there forever, walking until I wore through the soles on my feet.

So I’d cave, and open one of the doors.

I died every time. I can’t say what killed me exactly - only that I got a feeling right before it did. A dreadful feeling as though it was waiting for me all this time. A foreboding welcome. A dread that flung itself from an impenetrable darkness and consumed me. And though it never spoke, I knew what it was saying: At last. At last.

I would wake up screaming. My mother would soothe me. My father would stare at me from the doorway of my bedroom, his expression pinched, the worry forming lines around his mouth.

I haven’t had one of those dreams since I was six. I grew out of them, I think. Or maybe it was just that there were real horrors to face, and my head didn’t have room anymore. It was too busy with my father leaving. My mother spiraling into unhealthy relationships and alcoholism. I didn’t have time for childish nightmares anymore, and so I forgot about how terrifying they were. How real.

I remember now. I remember because I’m back in the tunnels again.

There was no sign that I’d passed out. I was there, sitting next to Sam, feeling her hand on my forehead. And then I was here, standing in this place. The walls around me are so very familiar. Compact dirt, roots dangling overhead. I’m somewhere underground. I can see slime gleaming here and there, as if giant worms just came slithering through. When I exhale, I can see my breath, and at first I think it’s because the air is cold.

But no. It isn’t the air that’s cold, I realize. It’s me.

I look down at my hands. They glow faintly, a light within illuminating the veins beneath my skin. The capillaries. The bones. The flesh is blue, the fingertips colored black with frostbite. I follow the path of the strange glow to my chest. Peering down, I can see a flicker of warmth there. A tiny spark of orange, sputtering and struggling not to be snuffed out.

So far, it looks like it’s losing the battle.

I lift my head. I see the first door off to my left. It is a haggard looking door, old and weather-worn, even though there can’t be any wind or rain down here. As I step towards it, instinct makes me give it a wide berth. The slime and the dirt seem far easier to contend with than that door, so I press my shoulder against the far wall, ignoring the way the sludge sticks to my shirt.

When I begin to creep past it, I hear a faint skittering sound on the other side. Claws scratching at the wood, desperate to get out.

I hurry forward, feeling a tingling on the back of my neck as I leave the door behind.

When I round a corner, I see more doors on either side. Two to the left, one to the right. Those on the left are moss-riddled and made of stone. The one on the right looks new and neatly polished, like carved mahogany. My heart hammers for a moment as I consider. On the one hand, the stone looks far sturdier. If there’s something in there eager to get out, I doubt it could bludgeon through solid rock. To boot, the wooden door doesn’t sit right with me. Just looking at it makes me uncomfortable - sets my gut roiling.

So I skirt slightly to the left, uncertain. My legs feel leaden. The light in my chest continues to flicker, as though it’s following the erratic pulse of my own heart.

A beat. Two. Three. I’m counting my steps, creeping along like a kid avoiding cracks in the sidewalk. Don’t break momma’s back.

Just as I’m about to step beyond it, the wooden door swings violently open, and darkness pours forth from within.

I went on a tour of a cave once. Down, deep down, a hundred and fifty feet below the earth. The guide led us through these narrow, winding passages, little lanterns held in our hands to ward off the black. But in the middle of that tour, she had us turn those lamps off. To immerse ourselves in the nothing. We sat there, silent, listening to one another’s breathing. Every trickle of water was a downpour. Every skitter was something looming in the dark, invisible in my blindness. Edging closer. Closer…

That’s what this is. Complete oblivion, nothing for my eyes to adjust to. Except there aren’t any other tourists in the room with me. No awkward, nervous laughter. No kid telling his mother he has to pee. It’s just me, alone. Stranded. The light in my chest flickers, sputters, then diminishes to a pale sliver. A candle flame. Then an ember.

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There’s a breath against my ear. Hot. Wet. I suddenly can’t breathe. I can’t think. My mind goes blank with the sort of raw terror that children have of monsters under the bed. A whimper chokes out of my throat.

I know what it’s going to say before it speaks.

“Ah.” The voice is low and filled with pleasure. “At last.”

I run.

I run like I never have before. I was afraid of the amalgam. I was afraid of the eldritch horror. But this is something deeper. This is primal. This is something that belongs to me. It’s my nightmare come to life. Not some circumstance I was dragged into, not some misfortune of wrong place, wrong time. This thing wants me. It wants Lydia Adelaide Grace.

And it’s been waiting for so very, very long.

It doesn’t chase me. It doesn’t have to. By now it’s flooded the corridor. I cup my hands instinctively against the little ember of light over my heart. There are tears streaming down my cheeks, and I’m talking to myself, whispering no, no, no under my breath unbidden.

“All will be well,” it tells me. The words are languid, easy. The darkness continues to follow me, smothering me, trying to blot out my spark. “This was meant for you. This was always where your path would lead.”

It becomes harder to pick my feet up. I’m being sucked down into the mud - first to my ankles, then to my knees. Each step is a struggle. I have to pull myself out again and again, panting, grasping at handfuls of muck and slime. With each effort, I can feel my energy waning further.

“Hush now,” the voice says. I cannot say if it is man or woman, young or old. There’s something indescribably inhuman about it. The way it speaks to me, I feel like a bug on a slab of Styrofoam, about to be pinned down. It isn’t even malicious, not really. It’s not relishing in my fear - because it doesn’t even understand what fear is.

I stagger. My limbs are so very heavy. My head is pounding. I want nothing more than to sink to my knees. I want to rest. I’m just so tired, and now every time I drag myself up it feels like my legs are being pulled at. Tugged. I swear I can feel fingers down there, groping for me, grasping at me.

“I’ve made a place for you,” it murmurs. I can feel the breath on my ear again. Hot. So stiflingly hot. “You’ve wandered far enough, little one. It’s time now. It is time.”

I sink down to my waist this time. My arms burn with the effort as I attempt to haul myself out. The ember flickers. The smallest wind could blow it out. It would only take whisper. A sigh.

“You’ve always been mine,” it assures me. “Always.”

My palms slap desperately at the mud, trying to find purchase. They find none, and I slip deeper. To my stomach. My chest. My neck. The words pound into me. Mine. Mine. Mine. They suffuse me, flowing through my blood like poison, coasting through every vessel and vein.

It wants the light, I realize. It wants the spark.

Mine.

I slip down further, and my face is swallowed by the mud.

I curl in on myself as I sink. The cold wetness seeps into my mouth, my throat. It clogs my ears so I cannot hear. It enters my nose, overwhelming me with the scent of decay and mold. I can’t breathe. I think, it’s okay. It’s a nightmare. I’ll wake up, I’ll wake up. But somehow I know that isn’t true. That I won’t wake up from this. If I stay down here, if I drown down here, smothered to death, I’m never going to open my eyes again.

Mine.

My hands flail in the mud. I can’t figure out which way is up, which way is down.

Mine.

I know there’s something in here with me now. Trapped down here with me. My fingers scrape along harsh edges. I feel hints of something sharp. Then something round and smooth, my fingers skittering over hollow eye sockets -

The remnants of a skull.

Mine.

‘Help me!’ I scream. I shout it over the bond between William and I, but I can barely sense him. It’s as if he’s a million miles away. Out of reach. ‘God, somebody help me!’

Mine.

SHUT UP!

A sense of rage bubbles up within me. Stretching my hands outwards, I choose a direction and I start clawing, pumping my limbs, thrusting my exhausted legs. Mine! I begin shouting, if only in my mind. I feel heat begin to flare in my chest, warm and vibrant. There’s the distinct impression of fingers now, the thing trapped in here with me trying to pull me back. To hold me down.

But I don’t go down. I continue to rise.

Mine! I scream the words in my head, unable to use my voice. Mine, you motherfucker! I’m mine, all mine! Nobody else’s!

The voice doesn’t answer. I almost get the impression it’s startled into silence.

I feel my hand burst through the surface, meet cool air. There’s a thrill of elation, and then my second follows, plunging out of the muck and mire. I grope about, and feel something hard, something rough against my fingertips. I grab hold, clutching like a climber finding handholds. And once I have a grip, I pull.

Lydia, the voice says, and when it uses my name I fight the urge to vomit. Lydia, wait…

The top of my head breaches the surface. I feel trails of liquid drip down my brow. My nose follows, then my mouth. I strain further, and the moment my chin emerges, I begin vomiting violently. I cannot see what’s coming up out of my stomach, but I can feel something slithering amidst the muck and the burning bile. I vomit harder, emptying myself entirely, then grit my teeth and continue to pull.

When my chest emerges, light erupts into the darkness, dazzling my eyes. Bright, blazing, painful light illuminates the tunnel. My pupils constrict, and I let out a hiss. When they’ve adjusted, I can see that the overwhelming blackness has skittered away from me, hovering at the edges of my fragile corona of brilliant white. They writhe and wriggle, but I can no longer hear the voice in my head. I can no longer sense it at the edges of my mind, and I can’t feel the poison slithering through my veins.

I continue to pull. With the light, I can see that I’ve found one of the stone doors, and that the cracks between those stones are what I’m clinging to. Inch by agonizing inch, I free myself from the mud. I don’t have a plan - I don’t know what I’ll do after, but I don’t care. Every moment of freedom is a victory. With the taste of decay still on my tongue and my nails breaking on the rocks, I find my voice again and scream:

“MINE!”

Another inch. The light gets brighter. The darkness recedes another step.

“FUCKING MINE!” I slam a fist against the stone door. “DO YOU HEAR ME?! MINE!” I slam it again, uncaring that it stings my skin, rattles the bones in my hand. “I am getting so FUCKING sick,” I pant, turning my head and spitting out the last of the mud, “Of things CHASING me. HUNTING me.”

My thighs slip free. My calves. With a reluctant squelching sound, the mud gives up my feet. I’ve lost both of my shoes, but the knowledge only makes me laugh. It doesn’t matter. I’ll run barefoot over broken glass. I’ll do whatever it takes. Because I am goddamn Lydia Grace, and it’ll be a cold day in hell that I die in some underground tunnel, killed by my own nightmares.

Come on. How lame a death would that be?

“Leave me alone!” I shout. I’m yelling at the wall, but who cares? I beat my fist again, and the pain of it only spurs me on. “Leave me alone. Leave. Me. ALONE!”

With every strike, the light gets brighter. I can see that it’s chased the cold out of my fingers, started turning their blackened tips to a more wind-bitten red. The darkness begins drifting further away from me, forcibly thrust back by my own power.

Or what I assume is my own power. I don’t know, frankly. Dream logic doesn’t have to make sense, right?

“Leave. Me-”

The door I’m clinging to suddenly springs open. I find myself catapulting forward gracelessly, head over heels, my world turning. I land on hard, compact ground, the wind knocked clean out of me, wheezing for breath.

And then the stone door slams shut again, cutting the darkness out.

New light dazzles my vision, and this time the light isn’t coming from me. It’s all around me. I hear birds twittering, feel warmth and a gentle breeze.

“Oh,” says a voice, sounding startled. “Well then. What do we have here?”