When the screaming started, I began to wildly flail and kick for the surface.
I had been under so deep that the darkness surrounding me was almost impenetrable, enveloping me like the warmest of blankets, cushioning my bruised body, nurturing my tortured soul.
When I had settled down to sleep, my mind had been racing, with nothing but images of Josiah and Harper crowding my head and making it hard to breathe. Bunkering down next to Lucius on the cold unforgiving floor of the old Mills basement room, the boy had stirred in his slumber, his eyes crinkling as he let out a little grumble. Snuggling closer to my arm, his little gloved hand slipped into mine and immediately he was calm, tiny contented snores drifting up from his still body. Having him close seemed to calm me also and soon I found my eyelids drooping heavily, unable to fight the unrelenting exhaustion any longer.
Down, down, down I went, gladly, welcoming the darkness as it consumed me and content to leave the nightmares behind.
That was until the first scream pierced through the gloom, cutting through the black like a shard of glass, and then it was quickly followed by the others, the sound escalating from blissful nothingness to ear-shattering shrieks of agony that made my head feel like it might split into two.
Staggering to my feet, disorientated and dizzy, I stumbled over to the doorway, leaning against it as I tried to steady myself. Inside the lower basement room, all was as it had been before. Some slept, having relinquished themselves to slumber like I had and some just sat in the dark, keeping watch. None of them were screaming.
"Megan?" A soft, gruff voice called out to me and I turned to find Garrick, raised up on his elbow, staring at my half-bent form as I fought to stop myself from crumbling to my knees.
"I-I need some air, I'll be fine," I said, with a pained grimace that would have fooled no one and pitched myself into the large room, dragging my feet past those probing, suspicious eyes. I already knew that he was following, I'd heard the sound of his feet shuffling on the stone floor, I'd heard him hiss my name but I couldn't stop. I needed to get out of this room that smelt of decay and rot, I needed to flee from the ghosts that dwelt here, I needed to dash my head against a brick wall and deafen the cries.
Harper was where I had left him, ever the watchman, ever alert and he was already on his feet when I tumbled into the stairwell.
"What is it? What's wrong?"
The screaming was breaking me. The sound was tearing me apart as if ghostly hands had grabbed hold of my limbs and were threatening to rip me to pieces. Harper tried to reach out to steady me as I staggered past him, but I shook him off, clambering up the staircase to the ground level above. The sun had barely just set on the city horizon and the light was fading fast, tinges of dusky mauve seeping in through the shattered windows of the Mill. My feet crunched in the grit as I ran through the building, heading straight for the door and taking in great gulps of air as soon as I ran through it, throwing my back up against the wall and staring up into the evening sky.
The pain rocketed down the back of my neck, the muscles in my shoulders automatically tightening as if someone were squeezing them hard in clenched fists. I clutched my head but the noise only grew louder as the voices fought to be heard. I did crumble then, my legs unable to take the strain any longer and they buckled underneath, my back sliding down the wall as I hit the floor hard.
Firm hands grabbed me and pulled me into a sitting position, although my body tried to resist, curling up almost foetal in an effort to protect itself.
"Megan," a voice said close to my ear, but it was muted by the screams and seemed so far away. Everything seemed so far away.
"Megan, please," the voice said again. Harper's voice, an edge of uncharacteristic panic in his tone.
I screwed my eyes tight shut and whimpered.
"Open your eyes, Megan," another voice insisted. "Come back to us, don't give in." It was Garrick, directly in front of me, his hand gripping mine.
It was almost painful to open my eyes, as if someone had stitched the lids shut and I was fighting to pull the stitches apart. The dull light of the evening stabbed hard at my retinas.
"They're so loud," I gasped. "So much louder than before."
"Why? What's changed?" Garrick asked, frowning.
"If she knew that she'd be able to do something, wouldn't she?" Harper snapped, his face twisting into a deep scowl.
"Thank you, brother, as insightful as always." Garrick narrowed his eyes, his cold glare seeping out through the slits.
"Stop it," I begged, grabbing a fistful of Harper's shirt and pressing my forehead against his shoulder. "Please....I can't bear it."
"What can we do? There must be something?"
"Lucius....I need Lucius," I said, gritting my teeth and trying to concentrate on Harper's scent as I breathed in and out deeply, the fabric of his shirt felt good against my skin. I needed something tangible to focus upon, something that would pull me through the pain. "Josiah said that Lucius could help me, I need to speak to him."
I attempted to get up, but the world spun around me, as did the ghosts in my head, their screams and cries for help draining the energy from my body and I almost crumpled again, if it wasn't for both Garrick and Harper keeping me upright.
"Bring her back inside, Harper," Garrick said. "I'll go wake Lucius."
As it turned out, he didn't need to wake the boy.
Walking back into the Mills, with Harper's arm fixed firmly around my waist, supporting my every step, we found Garrick standing just inside the doorway, staring at Lucius who stood in the middle of the room, bathed in a beam of fractured evening light that shone rough the shattered windows. The boy looked at me, his pale face impassive and his arm outstretched, one of his tiny gloves discarded on the dirty floor by his feet.
Dropping to my knees in front of him, I marvelled at how he seemed to know just what I needed, despite all the times before when I had shrank from the idea of letting him put his hand on me, when I had feared him. Now, I didn't fear him, but I was still afraid of what he might show me. After all, no one walks into purgatory with a willing, calm heart.
"Megan, don't...." Harper warned as I lifted my hand to slip it into the boys waiting palm.
"It will be fine," I said, probably trying to convince myself more than I was trying to convince him. "It will be fine."
As soon as Lucius' fingers curled around mine, I felt myself thrown into the darkened seas of the underworld, those discombobulated voices suddenly given a source that I could look upon. Tortured eyes, gaping wide mouths, pained expressions. Men, women, children, all screamed in unison, but there was nothing harmonic about this chorus of unwanted and unworthy. This was pure undiluted suffering voiced by thousands of lost souls, all clambering over one another in an effort to be the loudest, to be the one that was heard.
I glanced around the melee, picking out ravaged faces in the crowd. A woman nursing a baby to her breast, the child's hair matted with blood, the woman's wrists scarred by deep cuts. A young boy, his throat bearing the angry red welt of a noose mark, his fingers constantly scratching at his throat as if he were trying to free himself from the rope. A man with a large ragged hole in his chest, his hands pressing down on the shotgun wound as if still trying to halt the blood flow that had ceased long before. On and on it went, face after face, ghoul after bloodied ghoul. And then there were the ones who seemed to bear no visible physical affliction at all but their faces wore the pain just as clearly. The message was just the same. They were all afflicted. They were all suffering. They were all afraid. And they all descended into panicked frenzy when they realised I was amongst them.
The desperation was palpable. The fear strong enough to taste. And upon seeing me, this only seemed to increase, their wails and howls of pain growing stronger still, their arms outstretched as they fought to reach me. My eyes widened as they surged forward and their pleas tumbled out in some long, jumbled-up chanting as if they were speaking in tongues or like a record being played backwards, the sound like some ancient forgotten language spoken only by demons. I clapped my hands over my ears, backing away from them. Undeterred, they continued, a mass of writhing, struggling bodies, their arms like the tentacles of some prehistoric sea creature, trying to reach out and grab hold of me.
Panicked by the strength of their resolve, I retreated further, kicking out when the first hand grabbed hold of my ankle. Another grabbed for my wrist and I prised it from me, only for it to be replaced by another. Fingers snatched at my hair, tugging on it hard and making my eyes water.
What had I been thinking? How could I have ever thought this might be the solution? There were just too many and I was alone, without the first idea of what I was meant to do to appease them and here I was, overwhelmed by them and doing nothing but increasing their suffering ten-fold.
Michael, Michael, Michael.
The whispers started, a monotonous vibration that that sounded as if they were humming along to a tune that only they could hear and soon it caught fire, growing louder as each one threw themselves headlong into the flames until the whole mass was ablaze with the same fever. Like an infected zombie hoard they shuffled towards me, surrounding me.
Michael. Michael. Michael.
No, I cried out. I am not him. I am not him.
I tried to push them away, swatting at them with useless, weak arms that did nothing to halt their advance. Hands scratched at my skin, pulling, gripping, squeezing. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't move, I couldn't escape. But still I rallied against them.
I cannot help you, I whimpered. I am not the one. I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
Panic and desperation quickly turned to anger. I could feel it surging through them, their faces twisting into scowls, dark shadows haunting their expressions.
Help us. Help us. Help us.
I couldn't help them. I didn't know how.
Somewhere far off, I could hear crying. A woman was sobbing plaintively and it made my chest hurt to hear it, it was a sound so sorrowful and so full of grief. It cut through the screaming and wailing of the dead, and pierced through my rib cage, wrapping tightly around my heart.
"Let her go, Lucius." Harper's voice bubbled into my ear, muffled as if I were under water, listening to him speak from the surface above me.
"Wait, Harper," Garrick cut in. "This could still work."
Harper expelled a stream of curses. "Look at her," he hissed. "It's too much; we can't make her endure this. She's been through enough."
It was then I realised that the crying woman was me. I was sobbing, the tears streaming thick and fast down my cheeks and somewhere far, far below, trapped in the tides of purgatory, I could hear my cries from above. Lucius' grip tightened, squeezing my fingers between his as if he knew I was close to letting go.
I didn't want to fail. I didn't want to let go. I didn't want to keep going through this again and again; I just didn't know how to fix it.
I'm sorry, I whispered. I want to help. Really I do.
A figure of a young girl appeared in front of me, somehow pushing through the frantic throng of souls. Her hair was tied into a loose side pony tail, tousled dark curls hanging over her shoulder and she was thin, a bony pale child with big eyes and long lashes. She wasn't angry like the others. She didn't reach for me with cruel hands. Instead, she just stood there, looking at me as the crowd brought me to my knees, the force of the masses just too powerful to fight. Face to face with the child, I just stared at her, engulfed in her wide-eyed gaze and immediately I felt the urge to reach out and touch her face. I was sure it would feel soft under my fingertips, that pale flawless skin and at the same time I was enraged by her presence.
You shouldn't be here, I said unable to resist any longer and I reached out with a trembling hand and touched it lightly to her cheek. Her skin was soft, but cold, very very cold and as I let it linger there, she smiled, closing her eyes for a second as if comforted by my touch.
I was so mesmerised by her, I didn't realise that the dead had hushed their woeful laments. I didn't realise they had stopped struggling and clawing at my body. I didn't realise that the crowd had become still until the girl opened her eyes again, and I was somehow snapped out of the hypnotic bind and I blinked, glancing warily around me. My fingertips tingled and as I reluctantly pulled them away, I noticed that a very soft warm glow emanated from my hands. I held them up in front of my face, wiggling my fingers and watching as the light crept down my wrists, following the path of my veins along my arms.
The woman with the baby stepped closer and as if on instinct, I smoothed my hand over the baby's head, ignoring the slight indentation on the side of its skull and then I let my fingers trace over the woman's knuckles as she held the baby tight to her chest. Again and again, my hands travelled over those closest to me, noting how they drew back afterwards, somehow satiated by my touch, only for others to take their place.
I was confused, not quite understanding why this seemed to calm them and keep them at bay. I wasn't saving them from purgatory, that much I could sense, but somehow it was working, somehow just a millisecond of brief contact was helping. And I felt calmer than I had in a very long time. As the light spread over my body, I could feel the pain dissipating and weakening, my muscles slowing releasing the tension that had cramped my body, the pounding in my temples easing. I laughed and I knew it was actually me that was laughing, not just the Megan who had been treading the cold waters of the underworld.
Harper and Garrick shot each other bemused looks, no doubt wondering how I could be sobbing one minute and giggling the next, but I couldn't help it. My mouth curled up into a grin and the sound peeled out around the Mill, reaching out into the darkest of corners. They laughed then too, nervously at first but soon louder and more heartily, infected by the warmth of my mirth until we were all giggling like naughty school kids.
But soon I realised that Lucius wasn't laughing.
Instead he was staring directly at me, in a way that told me that it wasn't really me that he was looking at. He was staring at something else entirely and his face was drenched in fear. It wasn't often I saw terror in the little boys expression. Despite everything his strange mind showed him, he had always bore it with such stoic nonchalance, and yet I knew the visions that he was witness to would break the most courageous of men. Watching his stricken face wiped the grin from mine.
"Lucius? What is it? What's wrong?"
The boy didn't answer; instead he began to shake his head from side to side, his lips forming soundless words. I could feel his fingernails digging into my palm and his chest heaved in and out as if he was struggling to breathe.
"Let go, Megan," said Garrick, alarmed.
"I'm trying." I grimaced as I prised Lucius' fingers open, his little hand locked into a claw. Grabbing him by the shoulders, I shook him, trying to break him from his terrifying reverie.
"Look at me," I demanded. "Look at me, Lucius." I shook him again, harder this time.
He blinked once, twice, then again, his eyes switching from glazed fear to blank stoicism once more.
I brushed the hair off his forehead, frowning when I saw how it stuck to the damp skin there. I had never seen him perspire before. Something had changed. I could feel it.
"Lucius," I probed gently. "What is it? What did you see?"
When he finally spoke, his voice was robotic, distant even, as if something had sucked all the life out of him.
"He is awake," he said and I felt the hair on my neck prickle with an awful expectation.
"Who? Who is awake?"
He looked at me then, really looked at me as if he were not just speaking to me, but that other me, the one who emanated light from her fingertips and touched the dead.
"The smiling man," he said simply. "The smiling man is awake."