Chapter 21: Echoes of Your Past

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I can now say that I’ve punched a god in the face.

I’m not saying this was the wisest thing to do. In fact, I’m pretty sure it was the dumbest. The smart thing definitely would have been subterfuge. Buying time. William’s got to be coming for me, somehow - I can feel him on the edges of my senses. He’s getting closer.

But damn, I couldn’t help myself. What an asshole.

The goat-man let out a bleat of shock when my fist connected with his face. He toppled off of the rock. Not because I hit him that hard, I don’t think. He was just so surprised that he lost his balance. He landed on the ground with a hard thud, his mouth open, a trickle of golden blood flowing from one nostril. I stared at him. He stared at me.

“What,” he said. “What.”

“Dick,” I snapped at him. Then I scooped up the pan flute he’d been playing and ran for it.

Stupid move number two, that. Why the hell did I have to take the flute? I mean, he was probably just messing with me. I’m sure it’s not really some long-lost woman, right? That would be crazy. That’s the sort of story someone comes up with when they’re on shrooms.

Shit, maybe I’m on shrooms. I just punched Mr. Tumnus.

Unfortunately for me, it doesn’t take long for goat-man to recover, and I didn’t really hurt him. I just momentarily shook his notions of godhood. I get about ten paces past the tree line before he snaps out of it, and I can hear his bellow following behind me, full of rage.

I’m gonna take a guess that said rage is far from impotent.

“You witch!” He bleats. “You disrespectful little whore! How dare you?!”

Can I address the hilarious irony of calling women who reject you whores? I’m just throwing it out there. Just think about it for a second.

It’s weird, right?

Exactly. Thank you.

Point is, now I’m running wildly through the woods, with no idea where I’m going. I have no plan, and I’m holding a reed pan-flute to my chest like it’s a baby, because what if it really is a woman? I wouldn’t want to be jostled around. Especially not after spending an eternity on some smelly faun’s hip.

I would really love to not be running for my life for two seconds. Have a quiet afternoon. Read a book. Something really slow and vaguely pretentious, like Wuthering Heights, so I can fall asleep on the couch. That sounds absolutely fantastic right about now.

I start seeing glimpses of movement through the trees as I run. I ignore it at first - probably just animals. Bambi wondering what the hell the crazy lady is running from. But now and then I get a better look, and I can tell the shapes are bipedal. Certainly not on all fours, and certainly nothing furry-looking.

People. They’re people. They’re all wearing clothing similar to what the pretty woman was dressed in, though most of their attire isn’t quite as rich or fancy. Men and women both. They watch me fly past, staying to my peripherals, not bothering to approach me. So I just keep running. I came through a door to get here, right? So who’s to say there’s not another door somewhere? Sure, professor horny claimed everywhere else was just a slew of terror, but he doesn’t strike me as the honest sort.

To boot, I’d definitely classify him as a terror anyway.

I hear the faun’s bellow again as I move deeper into the trees. His rage makes the air itself feel hotter, more dense and cloying. “What are you waiting for?!” He snarls. “Get her, you useless imbeciles! Bring her to me!”

My immobile spectators shuffle to life. They raise their heads, blinking, and then as one, I see a dozen faces on either side of me zero in on my position.

Hooboy. That image alone is going to run me at least a grand in therapy.

They start to converge on me. I’m surrounded by the sounds of twigs snapping, of dry leaves being crushed underfoot. One of them takes a swipe at me, trying to grab for my throat. I duck and weave, keeping the flute tucked in tight against my chest, swearing as I roll and pop back to my feet. Another one - a woman with a vacant, distant look on her face - snags me by the hair. I shriek and lash out at her, hitting her in the stomach. She lets go, though she doesn’t react to the pain. She just staggers back, frowns, and then continues following after me, drifting in my wake.

Why is everyone here so fucking creepy?

The ground to my left starts to slope downwards, and soon there’s a ledge on that side, growing into a cliff. At least that means I can keep my focus to the right - assuming these folks can’t just walk through walls. Which, I mean, maybe they can. They’re looking a bit on the ghostly side to me. They probably are ghosts. What I wouldn’t do for some sage or holy water right about now.

“Fuck me,” I mutter under my breath, struggling to keep my balance as the incline gets steeper.

‘Me. Me. Me.’

I stop. My head swivels, and I try to locate the sound of the voice.

“…Hello? Is anyone there?”

‘…There. There. There,’ comes the reply.

It sounds like my voice - for the most part. But there’s something strange about it that gives me pause. Last time I checked, echoes only happen with the proper acoustics. Open air doesn’t fit with that category.

“…Can I help you?” I ask, uncertain.

‘Help you. Help you. Help you.’

There’s rustling in some vines that have grown over the side of the cliff. I peer at them, and I realize there’s a darkness back there that indicates a hollow of some sort. A cave.

I weigh my options. Death by goat-rapist, or death by ghost bear?

I choose ghost bear. I bet it’ll kill me faster.

I part the vines and step inside. I don’t go deeper at first - I wait a while, listening, trying to figure out if anyone saw me come in. I hear some of my followers slipping and skidding down that hill, but they don’t seem like they’re terribly quick on the uptake. They all looked pretty drained to me - tired. Mindless. I wait, holding my breath, until I don’t hear them rustling around anymore.

Then I turn to get a better idea of what I’m dealing with.

It’s definitely a cave. It goes a lot deeper than I would have guessed, too - the back of it is entirely black, unpenetrated by what light is leaking through the vines. Sadly, I don’t seem to be glowing anymore - probably has something to do with the fact that I’m not acting very bright at the moment (harhar) - so I don’t have anything to see by.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

I linger there for a moment, crouched, considering my options.

“…Hello?” I ask, quietly.

My voice comes back to me, amplified enough that I immediately worry someone outside will hear it.

‘Hello. Hello. Hello.’

I almost drop the flute. Frozen for a few precious seconds, I continue trying to see into the darkness, my eyes widening and narrowing like I think I’m operating with a night vision camera. When that doesn’t work - because of course it doesn’t - I start creeping closer.

“So, uh. You gotta help me out here,” I say, still whispering. “And if you could keep it down, that would be great.”

There’s a pause. When the voice speaks again, it’s softer.

‘Down. Down. Down.’

Yeah. Right. Echoes absolutely do not work that way. Definitely got something weird going on here.

‘Down. Down. Down.’

I frown. Lowering myself, I start crawling further into the cave, holding the flute in one hand while I feel around with the other. The dirt is dry beneath my fingertips, strangely enough. I would have expected it to be damp. I’ve always thought of caves as wet, condensation dripping off of stalactites and whatnot.

I continue scooting forward, and as I do, my fingers brush against something hard. I feel around the edges, blind in the dark, groping and trying to figure out what the hell it is I’ve stumbled upon.

Managing to get my nails under it, I pry it up and squint, bringing it closer to my face.

There’s a flash of white. It takes me a moment to recognize what I’m holding, but when I do, I gasp and toss it down again, reeling back.

It’s a hand. A skeletal hand. The fingers are still curled into claws, in spite of the fact that there’s no muscle. No tendons.

The longer I look at it, the more certain I become that I can see it twitching.

The voice speaks again, whispering from all around me. I hear eagerness in it, get a sense of someone hovering nearby, waiting for something.

‘Help you. Help you. Help you.’

“You want to help me?” I ask. I feel sweat trickle down the back of my neck. “How?”

‘Help you. Help you. Help you.’

“Yes, your enthusiasm is appreciated.” My voice trembles as I speak. I’m really getting tired of dealing with this kind of shit. “Maybe you could be more specific, though?”

‘Help you. Help you. Help-”

I sigh. Why can’t something just be simple for once? I don’t do well with metaphors. I’m a cut and dry kind of person. It’s why I was majoring in the sciences. I like it when everything has a clear answer, one that you can arrive at with some determination and empirical evidence. I prefer to let more qualified folks do all the imaginative stuff.

‘Help-’

“HOW?!” I shout. I grimace, realizing what I’ve just done, and cast a look behind me, towards the opening. Lowering myself to the ground further, I whisper: “How can you help me? Tell me how.”

‘How. How. How.’

I feel a cold touch against my hand. I flinch away, hissing through my teeth. Then there’s another touch, a soft tapping along my knuckles with the tips of those skeletal fingers.

Uncertain, I slowly turn my hand over and try to grasp the brittle bones.

I’m flooded with images, and for a moment I’m overwhelmed by them. I see faces leering at me, people tugging at my clothing. My hair. Then my skin. I’m being torn apart, piece by piece, muscle by muscle and bone by bone. The pain is unbearable, and my screams reverberate around me, torn out of a raw and bleeding throat.

Through it all, the faun watches, smiling. I don’t know how I know, but he’s the one responsible for it all. He’s forcing them to do this to me. He’s using these people to kill me.

When I come to, the first thing I notice is the glow. My hand is gleaming with brilliant light, so bright I’m worried that it’ll be visible outside of the cave. I hear footsteps out there again, someone crunching through the underbrush, and I’m certain they’ll find me at any moment. They’re going to come barging in here, find me curled up like a dog braced for kicking.

The second thing I notice is the flesh on the skeletal hand.

The light is suffusing the digits, flowing through the phalanges and down to what’s left of the wrist. I lift my head, and I can see other spots of light here and there in the cave. The remnants of a leg. An arm. A ribcage. As I watch, the ribcage begins to flesh itself out. I see sinew form, then viscera, then a red, beating heart. Logically, I know this thing is draining me. It’s feeding on me somehow, using my energy to remake itself. I should pull away, but those memories are still dancing in my head. More than that, I know full well what this dead woman wants.

She wants to wreck that faun’s shit.

The different parts of her abruptly come together, and there’s a gut-churning crunch, followed by a squelch I know will haunt my nightmares for years. I drag myself backwards, panting, feeling as though I just ran a marathon full-tilt on nothing but a Redbull and willpower.

The light fades from me, but it lingers in her. She’s radiant. When it dims enough, I can make out her features: they’re sharp. Cut-a-diamond sharp. Her hair is long and luxurious, and when she looks at me, I feel a shiver run through me. There are cracks all over her skin, a series of jagged scars that show precisely where it was torn. The light shines through them, gleaming mementos of violence.

“Finally.” The voice is gruff, and it comes from the entrance of the cave. I turn to look, and I see the outline of the faun passing through, see the way he rips the vines aside to give himself room. “They’re becoming quite useless, you know. It’s because it’s been so long since they fed. The pickings are slim here, and I…”

He trails off. I watch as he takes in the sharp-faced woman. She’s standing over me now, tall, her shoulders squared. The color drains out of his face completely, and his fuzzy ears press flat against his skull.

“Echo?” He breathes. “Is that…”

The woman’s jaw unhinges, and she lets out a deafening scream.

There must be something physical about it, because the faun goes flying. I see people outside of the cave scramble backwards, their figures retreating like frightened ants before a hose. As their glorious, cloven-hoofed leader hits the deck, the woman is upon him. As if he weighs nothing, she grabs him by the ankles, hefts him up, and launches him further back into the cave. He slams into a wall near me, and I swear I hear bones crack.

He turns his gaze to meet mine, eyes wide with fear. “What.” He demands. “What have you done?!”

If I were being honest, I’d say I have no idea. But instead I bare my teeth at him and reply: “Get what you deserve, asshole.”

I dive out of the way just as the woman falls upon him again. She’s absolutely relentless - she grabs him by the hooves and wrenches him towards her, and the faun lets out a bleat of pain and fear.

‘Paaaaaaaan,’ she says, the word low and menacing. She communicates so much hatred with nothing but a name. ‘PAAAAAAAN!’

“Echo,” he screams. “Echo, wait!”

She hurls him again. This time, when he hits the wall, I’m absolutely sure I hear a crunch. He lets out a long, low moan, cradling an arm that’s been bent the wrong way. Frantic, he looks towards me, eyes falling on the flute.

“Give.” He chokes. “Give that to me!”

Echo launches herself at him again. This time, when she grabs him, she takes him by the horns. The bleating intensifies, and the faun begins blubbering pathetically. “No! Give it to me! Give me the flute! Give-”

She wrenches his head violently to the side. As I watch, the crazy woman that I just Frankenstein’d back to life breaks the faun’s neck.

His feet twitch erratically, hooves clicking together. Echo just keeps twisting. I see lines of golden blood begin flowing down his neck, cascading over his collarbones and chest. With a sharp pop, she gives a final yank - and pulls his head clean off his shoulders.

“…Oh,” I gasp. “Oh god.”

Unceremoniously, she spins on her heel and hurls the head through the opening of the cave. I watch it bounce and roll, coming to a stop at the feet of the people who’d chased me through the woods.

They look at it silently for a moment. Then, in unison, they look up towards the gleaming woman named Echo. One by one, they begin drifting away, disappearing back into the trees.

I don’t say anything. It occurs to me that I only have the foggiest idea of what’s going on, and while given what I saw I can’t blame Echo for beheading that guy, I also have no certainty that she won’t turn around and do the same to me. I mean, sure, she did claim she wanted to help me - kind of - but I’m getting the feeling I was more of a convenience than anything. I came along just at the right time, and she thought, oh hell yes, bitch, revenge incoming.

She gradually turns to study me. I audibly gulp.

‘Help you,’ she says.

“Uh. Yeah, yeah, you did. Good, uh. Good job.”

Her head gives a slight tilt, and I think I see amusement on her face. ‘Good job,’ she repeats.

Evidently she wasted all her original lines on screaming the faun’s name. Which, I mean, I can’t blame her for. I’d probably have done the same thing.

‘Good job.’ She turns away from me, letting out the kind of sigh that’s both relieved and wistful. With that, she begins stepping forward, towards the mouth of the tunnel. When she gets to the shaft of light that’s pouring in from outside, I watch as she begins to fall apart. Her hands hit the ground. Her hair falls out. Piece by piece, she disintegrates until there’s nothing left of her but a pile of her bones.

‘Good job.’ Her voice is still there, curled up in the nooks of the cave, but it sounds contented now. Satisfied.

I should be more scared than I am. But honestly, this was one of the more normal things that’s happened to me in the past few days. Helping some vengeful spirit off her murderer is about as feel-good as things are going to get for me. So I sit there, the pan flute still in my lap, staring at that shaft of sunlight until it dims as night moves in.

“…Lydia?”

I’m not sure how many hours have passed, but when I look up, there’s a stranger peering in at me. Green eyes. Red hair. Tall, a bit on the lanky side. He’s wearing the kind of clothing I’d expect to see on the set of a period piece: pants that look more like ‘breeches,’ and a plain tunic that looks a bit tight around the shoulders. I stare at him, confused. Then, slowly, realization dawns.

“…William?”