It continued to pour for the next two days.

Giant puddles formed on the ground, transforming the melting snow into thick gray slush. Water dripped from the twisted icicles that hung from the tree branches, weighed down by the heavy gusts of wind that threatened to sweep Herskes off its feet. All night long, these branches banged against windows, leaving sharp rattling sounds.

Travelers and townsfolk alike hurried by as fast as they could to escape the rain, clutching their shawls and coats and hats as tightly as they could against their flesh. The constable’s shoes were soaking wet, women’s hats missing, men’s stockings ripped, smiles on children’s faces as they proceeded to jump into the puddles. Street paupers, gangs, and the homeless navigated their way around the increasingly growing piles of waste and sewage.

Wheel tracks left dozens of lines in the nearly-flooded streets, next to the stench of sewage, human waste and horse feces. The aroma of freshly baked bread, tobacco, and meat roasting over a spit filled the air. The shadows of dancing people spread across the walls at Thomas Alden’s tavern, where the sound of laughter and a fiddle playing echoed in the humid air and amidst the merrymaking.

Not too far, near the the edge of the small town, all of the chubby councilmen sat in the dining rooms of their lavish homes, sipping their tea and munching on freshly-baked biscuits, and laughing with their families and children in their warm living rooms. A few moments later, the rain began to beat down across the roofs, trapping Herskes in a gray mist.

* * * * * * * * *

Elijah Holloman was hardly anything.

He disappeared once, returned for two more years, and left for Belisaur. Then he arrived back again. He was a haze—a broken fragment of a memory that could never be pieced back together.

The only thing that Stacey could remember about the man was that he always reeked of alcohol when he got back home. He was morbidly obese, constantly complaining of a bad back and busted knees. Everyone in the household knew that he was to eat first, and once he finished, they were permitted to have his leftovers. Many days Stacey found himself unable to get a scrap due to his siblings viciously fighting like dogs at the table to snatch up what little remains were there. Biting and shoving each other over partially eaten chicken bones, minced pie, or bread crusts. His mother was forced to cook up a storm, and then sit there and watch her husband stuff himself.

Elijah’s speech was slurred, he’d wet his breeches, and he didn’t know what whether it was night or day. It didn’t matter anyway, because he was always asleep in the only bed in the house until the following evening. His snores would shake the place. Then he’d stumble outside to do it all over again. He was rarely, if ever, sober. And his mother hardly complained, due to her being with child almost all the time.

Being the oldest out of four sisters and seven brothers, Stacey already knew what to expect. There was twelve of them in total—they had to make do with what they had. Seemed that there was a new baby every year, and the house was a noisy one. He could hardly remember anyone’s names.

When Ma was home, he’d be more relaxed. She was a hard working woman, with white strands sticking out of her mob cap and her fingers knobby from scrubbing the floor of their tiny farmhouse raw. He’d help her out with the young’uns the best he could, trying to keep them out of her way. Made sure that supper was on the table, that the crops were harvested, horses tended to, all the babies were fed, bathed, and put to bed.

The moment Elijah Holloman stepped foot into that house the atmosphere shifted. Everyone was silent. He talked loudly, broke things. When Ma would protest, he’d hit her too. One evening, as Elijah raised his hand to strike her, Stacey delivered a heavy blow to his face. He might have been seventeen or eighteen—he could make out his eleven siblings huddled together in the other room like a pack of rats, where he told them to go.

The impact knocked Elijah sideways, sending him reeling against the table. Wooden bowls and cups fell to the ground. He grunted in pain. For the first time in his life, Stacey saw a startled look cross his father’s face. The room was completely still. Ma raised her hands up to her face, standing by the fire, where their supper was cooking. The orange light made the ends of her hair appear golden.

“Don’t touch her,” Stacey said.

Elijah blinked twice, before mumbling something. Blood trickled down his chin.

Stacey’s younger brothers weren’t as effective during the multiple times that they attempted to take him down, and he made sure of it. A black eye and a few missing teeth had taught them. Months upon months of hard labor in the fields had left Stacey with a muscular, towering frame, in addition to the growth spurt that had overtaken him that winter. His siblings were all bastards, trying to weasel their way out of their responsibilities.

Usually, they stole and broke what little belongings he had, so he’d had to get creative about where he hid them. If it was money, that was out of the question. His father had taken the few coins he had saved up from working odd jobs and used it for a pint of whiskey.

At night, Stacey slept on the floor, packed all tight with everyone. There wasn’t even a blanket to spare in the cold room, so he’d rely on nearby body heat to keep himself from shivering. When one of his baby sisters started howling due to her teething, he’d had to step over them all just to get to her in the dark. God forbid that his mother woke up to that.

It made no sense to Stacey. He hadn’t asked to be here. He hadn’t asked for any of this. Elijah Holloman was just like them. Hollering and yapping when things didn’t go their way.

“You touch her again,” he told his father, “I’ll kill you.”

Elijah slowly rubbed his bloodied mouth. “So yer a man now.”

Stacey glared at him, clenching his jaw.

“Let me show you how real men fight.”

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“You aren’t a man,” Stacey said through his teeth. “Yer a low-life, thieving scum.”

His father smirked, awkwardly got to his feet, and roughly dragged the boy out to the barn.

For weeks, Stacey remained on the floor, wrapped in a tattered blanket, unable to move. His mother fretted about getting a doctor, but Elijah said, no, he didn’t need a damn doctor, and that if the good Lord forgave him for disrespecting him he’d be healed.

Stacey’s face was puffy for months. It hurt to talk or swallow or move, and he could only get down soup that dribbled down his chin. He was stiff and sore once he started walking again, and his mother was beside herself. As he slowly recovered, he tried to convince her that he was going to take care of her, of everyone, that he was going to make her real proud. She smiled and told him she already was.

When his mother became ill, he began drinking some. It was only a little here and there, and he often stole his father’s spirits. Once they lowered her in the ground in a wooden box with nothing but the Good Book, Stacey was completely numb. Some of his brothers and sisters had already left home.

When his father went blind, he laughed.

* * * * * * * * *

The yellow glow of a candle illuminated Stacey’s pale face. Dark circles settled under his eyes as he studied the weak flame. He must’ve dozed off. Couldn’t remember much; he wasn’t sure if he wanted to.

He’d been out in the woods, looking for the child, four days in a row. But all he could see was the trees, the bushes, the mountains from afar. Each time he arrived home in the evenings, covered head to toe in snow, the sleepless nights continued. Once dawn arrived, he’d plan to set out again.

But he couldn’t bring himself to leave the shack since the day before yesterday, mostly for fear that he’d come across her frozen corpse, that he’d be responsible again for—

Stacey groggily picked up the lopsided stump of wax, placed it into a rusted metal holder that was partially covered in cobwebs. After setting it down on the table, his hand reached for the busted old axe he was sharpening. He hadn’t used it for ages and reckoned it could use some freshening up—a distraction from his failed searches.

When he slowly sat down on the stool in the middle of the cold and dirty room, it was the first time in two days that he had really left that spot. Couldn’t eat or sleep. Couldn’t even kiss Eliza or his girls good night. His stomach was a black hole. His head throbbed, like someone was smashing a mallet against his skull. The strange, aching had worsened, spread from his chest to his stomach. Made him slow and heavy.

He tried to not look out of the window, or his blasted porch. Or the doll, which sat on the pillow of his bed, leaning sideways against Eliza’s portrait. Her button eyes endlessly observed him. They had watched him get up, wander to the cracked window, saw him staring outside for several minutes. He’d lost track of how many times he had stood by the partially opened door, gazing upon the rain and the dark woods, mist settling in his black hair.

It was beyond freezing in his shack, even with a fire going, so he couldn’t imagine what it was like outside. Water leaked from his roof; splashing in the corner of the room and echoing against the floor.

I’ll drag you to the constable myself.

Stacey bit his lower lip, remembering the child’s fear-stricken face at the sound of his voice. Yanking roughly at his left ear, he shifted uncomfortably on his stool. He wasn’t sure why it bothered him so much when he realized he had yelled at her. He yelled at people all the time. But this seemed different, unnatural. He fidgeted with his hands.

It was driving him crazy. It was a complete waste of time. Why the hell was he staying here all day anyway? He despised lazy people. He needed to be looking for a job. The tax collector was coming soon, he was already behind on his payments—

God, he needed a drink to clear his head.

Stacey unlocked his door and placed all of the fresh wood he had chopped out on the porch, even the doll on one of the steps for the first day. He’d made sure to cut them up into smaller pieces in hopes that the child would appear and be able to carry some with her. He leaned his back against the doorframe, silently watching the rain come down for hours. When night arrived, he returned inside and sat at his stool until dawn arrived.

Despite him fighting to keep her out of his mind for past few days, he couldn’t. It was a little girl, he was quite sure, but he could only tell because of the ragged, filthy dress she wore. She didn’t look older than ten, and Stacey had seen broomsticks with more meat on them than her. Her bald head was covered in ringworm, and her eyes and ears were much too big, with clear snot coming out of her round, red nose. She was barefoot in the snow.

He weakly lowered the axe.

No shoes, no coat, —and it was pouring harder and harder every minute and the wind was about to blow his damn roof off—

Using his left hand, Stacey struck the axe blade as hard as he could against the stone, causing sparks to fly. She had likely come from the parish. Lots of runaways usually did, making the streets more crowded than ever. But he knew that Herskes didn’t have a workhouse or an orphanage, so she must’ve traveled afar. She’d return to wherever it was, take her punishment and not be out here for long as he had hoped. Anything to put a roof over her head, food in her stomach, and it would be a lesson well learned for her.

So why not just let that happen?

“What a foolish child,” he tried to say, but it came out in a deep, shaky whisper. “Damned foolish.”

He could almost hear Eliza’s voice nagging him. Shut yer mouth, ye blockhead, she scolded. What do ye know about wisdom?

Stacey’s gray eyes fell upon the doll.

It was not his responsibility, after all. But the child’s footsteps were still partially visible in the melted snow, and Stacey tried to fight the urge to go into the woods, just to see how she was holding out. Or that she was at least eating, though he strongly doubted that. He knew this piece of land better than any man, and all the nasty critters that came with it at night, and she was so very small and—

Ye blockhead.

Releasing a deep sigh, the young man rose to his feet and reached for his worn coat and hat. But before he could put his arms through the sleeves, he spied something slithering in the shadows. The noise resembled a hissing rattlesnake, but was jagged and crooked, popping away like gunfire. Then a deep, strained humming that filled his ears, rocked his insides.

Stacey picked up the axe and kept his gaze upon the door. His heart thudded in his chest, and his dirty fingers tightened around the wooden handle. His throat grew tight. Despite how cold the shack was, a deep warmth had spread across his sore back, causing sweat to drip down the side of his face. The air grew heavier, nearly choking him. He was struggling to breathe.

There was a soft thump on his porch, followed by the crashing sound of firewood that rolled down the steps. The rattling noise grew louder, and goosebumps formed on the back of the young man’s neck. Twisted snarling filled the air, and the footsteps suddenly increased as the front door swung open, extinguishing the fire and causing rain and sleet to enter in the shack, trapping everything in complete darkness.

Stacey Holloman remained frozen, clutching the axe. Maybe he should’ve locked the door.

In the pitch black, a crisp white smile formed—resembling a sideways crescent moon. The figure’s head suddenly jerked, almost as if its neck had been broken. The rattling sound appeared, and a faint green glow appeared from its flesh. Saliva dripped from its jaw.

It rushed forward on all fours.