 
My Shrieking Skin

Jon Jacks

Other New Adult and Children's books by Jon Jacks

The Caught – The Rules – Chapter One – The Changes – Sleeping Ugly

The Barking Detective Agency – The Healing – The Lost Fairy Tale

A Horse for a Kingdom – Charity – The Most Beautiful Things (Now includes The Last Train)

The Dream Swallowers – Nyx; Granddaughter of the Night – Jonah and the Alligator

Glastonbury Sirens – Dr Jekyll's Maid – The 500-Year Circus – The Desire: Class of 666

P – The Endless Game – DoriaN A – Wyrd Girl – The Wicker Slippers – Gorgesque

Heartache High (Vol I) – Heartache High: The Primer (Vol II) – Heartache High: The Wakening (Vol III)

Miss Terry Charm, Merry Kris Mouse & The Silver Egg – The Last Angel – Eve of the Serpent

Seecrets – The Cull – Dragonsapien – The Boy in White Linen – Porcelain Princess – Freaking Freak

Died Blondes – Queen of all the Knowing World – The Truth About Fairies – Lowlife

Elm of False Dreams – God of the 4th Sun – A Guide for Young Wytches – Lady of the Wasteland

The Wendygo House – Americarnie Trash – An Incomparable Pearl – We Three Queens – Cygnet Czarinas

Memesis – April Queen, May Fool – Sick Teen – Thrice Born – Self-Assembled Girl – Love Poison No. 13

Whatever happened to Cinderella's Slipper? – AmeriChristmas – The Vitch's Kat in Hollywoodland

Blood of Angels, Wings of Men – Patchwork Quest – The World Turns on A Card – Palace of Lace

The Wailing Ships – The Bad Samaritan – The 13th Month – The Silvered Mare – SpinDell

Swan Moon – Lesser Nefertiti – The Unicorndoll

Text copyright© 2019 Jon Jacks

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# Chapter 1

Have you ever felt that? – the way your skin sort of shrinks back a little, freezes even, as someone loathsome touches you?

And the older you get, girls, the more of these loathsome touches you've got to suffer.

Or is it just that we've always suffered them; we're just suddenly far more aware of them?

Yeah; I reckon that's it, don't you?

*

Up the hallway, for instance, apartment 10, there's 'dear old Mr Anguine', as Mom stupidly insists on calling him.

She sends me there, running 'errands' for him.

Sure, he's always finding things for me to do; excuses to call me over.

Is Mom blind?

If there aren't any errands, I've got to check that 'he's all right'.

Me being all right, well, that comes way down the list, obviously.

No, he's not 'all right', Mom!

He's all _wrong_.

In every way you can think of.

In every way you don't _want_ to think of.

I hate going in there, stepping into his dingy, rank-smelling apartment.

I hate being out in the corridor, if he's passing by.

Or even if he's just peering out of his slightly ajar door.

I hate _him_.

He's a snake.

A real live snake of a man.

*

# Chapter 3

Mr Anguine, he's not the only odd one, naturally.

Mr Rongeur, he's a rat. Mr Skilos a dog. Dr Lopez, an old, gnarled wolf. Mr Affe, he's probably the easiest to deal with; a mischievous monkey who giggles like a naughty boy when you slap his hand away – as opposed to threatening to tell Mom, the police, that you're guilty of assault.

There are others, too. Too numerous to mention, as they say.

You might have been unfortunate enough to have met them yourself, out on the streets; in the shops; on a bus.

If you haven't met them, you've met men like them, right?

And does your Mom believe you, when you tell her they're looking at you funny?

Bet she doesn't want to cause a fuss; tells you to ignore it, at best.

Or you've just got an overactive imagination; yeah, she'll tell you that if she's like my Mom.

'Oh, don't be so silly, Lorie!' she sighs, like I've placed her in the most exasperating positon it's possible to be in.

Like I'm imagining things.

Imagining the way these guys are imagining that I don't have any clothes on.

She tells me we have to be polite to our elders; that we have to show them respect at all times

It's rude to refuse their requests, to ignore them when they simply want someone to talk to. They're just lonely, after all.

They don't mean any harm; they're just trying to be friendly, in their own, special way.

Closest I get to her admitting I might be telling the truth is when she says she had to put up with it all when she was young; so why shouldn't I?

*

I take it you've heard that expression, 'she's just a ghost of her former self'?

In Mom's case, it's true.

If she was ever beautiful, well, that beauty's long gone.

So, where do I get my looks from?

Grandma; she's the one who's clung on to her looks. If they ever bothered going out, ever bothered getting together, then anyone seeing them would get their relationship totally the wrong way round.

But no one I know of has ever seen them together.

Maybe Mom avoids her because she knows it would be so humiliating for her.

I mean, it's not like either of them have far to travel.

Gran lives in the same apartment block.

Sure, it's on the bottom floor, way back in a corner; but Mom sees nothing wrong with sending me traipsing down there on a regular basis, making sure 'gran's all right', and 'running errands' for her.

Not that I mind all that much, of course.

I've got a strong sense of connection with Gran; far more than I have with Mom.

The connection between me and Mom, well, I've got to admit; it just doesn't exist anymore. If it ever did.

Mom, she seems kinda empty; know what I'm saying?

Like there's a part of her living in a different world – a better world, where everything's still going okay for her.

She prefers that world to this one, and who can blame her?

In this world, she just lets her empty shell sort of shuffle around, going through the motions of keeping alive. Just so she can keep that imaginary world going, of course, for once the shell does, so does the imaginary world.

Me, I can fend for myself now, she says.

Sorry, she also says.

She should be a better Mom.

She just _can't_ be anymore.

*

# Chapter 3

If I remember it all correctly, life was all so much better when I was younger,

Then again, _do_ I remember it all correctly?

I mean, whenever I try and think about it, try and cast my mind back to how it all used to be, I can't remember everything, can I?

And so maybe, just maybe, there's a part of my mind blocking out the stuff I'd prefer not to remember.

That's how memories work, unfortunately, right?

Or, maybe, the word I should be using is _fortunately_.

*

How can we possibly know what we've been made to forget?

There could be all sorts of events in our past that might as well have never happened as far as our brain's concerned; and yet they _did_ happen. And that's _precisely_ why our brain doesn't want to store them, thank you very much.

Don't get me wrong here.

I mean, I'm not saying anything truly sordid happened to me back then.

Far from it; as far as I'm aware, least ways.

Everything seemed so much nicer then.

I mean, isn't it supposed to be the other way round? Aren't you supposed to be frightened of the most ridiculous things when you're young?

Back then though, way I recall it, the apartment block was a really nice place to live; people in every apartment patting me on the head, giving me sweets, giving me a reassuring touch of the knee when I politely sat down at their table to enjoy a cake, or a cookie.

Mom was _a_ mom then too.

Dad was a dad, in the sense of dads who are never, ever around.

He left before I was born.

I suspect that's why, eventually, Mom 'left' me too.

She just couldn't cope, raising a kid on her own while also working to pay the bills.

She really cared for me back then, I'm sure of it.

Not that she doesn't care for me now, in the more limited meaning of the word; I mean, she loves me and all that, but physically the care just ain't there anymore.

Sometimes I look at her and I wonder; is this my future too?

It can be inherited, can't it? Depression, I mean.

Madness.

Gran assures me there's no need for me to worry.

Mom should've been okay; she just ended up with the wrong man.

End up with the wrong man, Gran says, and you soon end up getting worn down.

_Ground_ down.

Life was just way too hard for Mom to bear. It carved her out from the inside, leaving nothing much behind but a husk.

'She thinks herself ugly,' Gran says morosely, whenever she speaks of Mom.

Maybe I know what she really means by this.

I mean, there's a certain way of _carrying_ oneself that enhances beauty, isn't there?

And so, taking that as read, there's also a way of thinking so badly about yourself that you can't help but appear miserable and therefore quite, quite dreadful.

They worry over faults they see in themselves that no one else would ever notice; well, if it wasn't for the fact that they ironically bring attention to those things they'd prefer were ignored.

Okay, okay; so there are people who aren't _naturally_ blessed, as they say.

So me wittering on here about beauty could come across as a trifle naive, yeah?

But how many girls – and boys, for that matter of course – do you see who somehow manage to rise above all that 'unblessed' stuff and come across as wildly attractive?

See, because they just don't give a hoot what people think about them, before we know it, we're accepting the way they are too – thinking, hey, if they're so happy and vibrant, they've just gotta be wonderful people I wanna knock around with, right?

And _anyone_ can do that, can't they?

That is, if they just stop worrying over things nobody else ever notices.

Now, as you might have figured out by now, I'm not one who normally goes in for wishful thinking; but when it comes to this, I really _do_ believe it can work in far more cases than you'd believe possible.

This, I reckon, is why Gran tells me I'm different to Mom.

Gran says she figures I'm one of the lucky ones.

The way she has it, I have an invisible thread keeping me safe. Forever linking me with all that is wonderful in the world. Protecting me from the worst life can throw at me.

It's probably all nonsense, of course.

Gran's just into all that kinda new age stuff. Angels, goddesses and spiritual entities everywhere, guiding our way through life. Or getting in your way if you're too stupid to recognise they're there.

So, am I just being stupid when I say to myself it's gotta be all nothing but mumbo-jumbo?

You know, when I see and hear what goes on in these corridors, I'm sorely tempted to believe I really must be an idiot if I can't accept every one of these things really exists.

*

# Chapter 4

The sounds of scuttling on a night; that's the worst thing.

And no, I don't mean _scuffling_.

Scuffling could be people moving about. At worst, mice and rats, rushing about their labyrinthine world lying behind the walls and beneath the floors.

This is _scuttling_ in the sense that you can hear a _cockroach_ scuttle, right, if you listen closely enough?

All those little legs, moving swiftly, clicking one against the other; _that's_ scuttling.

Only these aren't little legs – not going by how loud this scuttling is.

It's gotta be huge; man size at least.

Honestly.

*

I'm not imagining it.

I'm not, you know, fearing it all so much that it's become way too intensified, sounding far louder to me than it actually is.

I can hear _normal_ insects. I _know_ the difference.

You can hear them all the time in here.

Scratching at the walls, _scurrying_ (not _scuttling_ ) here and there.

Then there's the bees and wasps, rhythmically humming away like machinery in the nests they've built in the recesses. And lots and lots of flies, with their irritating buzzing; especially when the rooms are permeated with that sickening yet somehow sweet stench of a dead and rotting bird or rodent – one that's got itself caught up somewhere too tight, or has succumbed to the poison or traps set out for them.

All these things you get used to; well, _sort_ of, least ways.

But this _giant_ insect, well – that's a _whole_ different matter.

*

# Chapter 5

Mom's got me on an errand.

She wants me to take Gran some loaves Mom baked earlier this morning.

This type of errand is the worst Mom can send me on.

How so?

The fragrance of freshly baked loaves, well, it gets everywhere, doesn't it?

Don't they say, if you wanna sell a house, make sure there's a smell of baking floating around?

Mom's even put it all in a cloth covered wicker basket, all Red Ridinghood like. Like she knows full well it's a forest of barely controlled animals out there.

Red cloak, too. Although that's my choice as – just in case Mom _hasn't_ noticed – I want her to _know_ it's dangerous out there in those corridors!

Like I'm saying, Hey, Mom; you're sending a poor little innocent out there, don't ya know?

The corridors are dim, full of shadows, the few spluttering, fizzing lightbulbs being cheap and naturally dim. Many have blown long ago, still awaiting replacement.

More light comes from the rooms whose doors have been left slightly ajar, the occupants lonely, bored, their ears pricked for anyone passing by they can call in to chat, to share a cup of rancid coffee. Coffee in filthy cups that I wouldn't use to serve a dog.

Other doors thankfully remain shut, but they're wafer thin, and snap open in a thrice, like carefully laid traps.

I try to tread as lightly, as quietly, as I can. And yet, of course, as _quickly_ as I can too.

But it's not easy.

The floorboards are uneven, partially rotted by damp and water leaks, or near to becoming in an instant the crumbling dust the woodworm didn't find to their taste. Naturally, the floors creak, but so do the walls, so flimsy they move with the boards.

I make sure the loaves are entirely covered, hoping the cloth seeps up the fragrances, hoping I'm not wafting the delicious scents farther afield by daring to touch their covering.

It's a mistake. I was hoping for all the wrong things,

I should have been hoping this whole damn apartment block just went up in smoke!

One of the slabs of darkness that constitutes a closed door around here creaks ominously, levering back a touch.

An eye appears in the gap; broken teeth in a partial grin below.

'Lorie!' the voice of the eye and teeth says excitedly. 'Is that _cake_ I smell?'

*

I've got to be polite.

That's what Mom always tells me.

You can't be rude. Why? Well, because it's rude, of course.

So when Mr Zhu opens the door wider, invites me in, I can't refuse.

No, not even to say I'm on an important errand.

'People around here are just lonely,' Mom says forlornly. 'You've got to understand that, Lorie.'

Mom _can_ understand, obviously.

A _shell_ of her former self; isn't that _another_ way people describe people like Mom?

Yeah, a lifeless shell; that's very apt.

Although, come to think of it, although they're supposed to describe the same condition – _Mom's_ condition – the two familiar phrases don't quite sit well together, do they?

A _shell_ of her former self.

A _ghost_ of her former self.

Surely a _shell_ is minus its _ghost_?

And a _ghost_ is minus its _shell_?

Actually, come to think of it, all that describes Mom all the more aptly.

Shell, ghost; there've very little of either left.

She's just a _nothing_ of her former self.

*

# Chapter 6

Mom had to be beautiful at one point, I reckon; otherwise, who do I get my looks off?

Course, Gran says it's her – it's all on her side of the family. Not Dad's. Whoever _he_ was.

And I can see that, I most surely can.

But surely, too, Mom didn't just miss out in the beauty stakes?

That isn't how it works out, is it? Life, I mean.

Okay, so I've heard how looks, intelligence, that kinda thing, can leapfrog some poor sap who gets the raw deal in life.

Yet have you ever looked at a school photograph or an assembly on a parent's evening and – no matter how young the kids are – found you can pair off each one with their parents?

The ears. The nose. The sunken or raised cheeks.

All giveaways, aren't they?

In that instant, you can more or less figure out how these poor kids are gonna look come a quarter of a century hence; just like their waster of a dad, or their life-weary Mom.

Why bother? you think – I mean, why bother living if this is how it's all gonna turn out for you?

Who needs to waste a life trying to forestall what's obviously ordained?

Welcome, kids, to your future self.

No matter how cute, how pretty, you are now, that's just the benefit of youth. Chances are, your mom, your dad, looked just as cute when they were your age.

And when they were teenagers, like you, they hoped this was just a transitional phase, that they'd come out the end of it somehow looking all right.

Yeah, keep hoping.

Like I was hoping no one would smell Mom's loaves.

Hope's _so_ disheartening, isn't it?

*

'Just a few minutes of your time, Lorie; that's not too much to ask of you, is it?'

That's another of Mom's well-worn phrases.

So yeah, okay, I'll give Mr Zhu a few minutes of my oh-so-unimportant time.

He's a pig; no, I mean, really, he _is_ a pig. Eats endlessly. If I don't get out of here sharpish, there'll be no loaves for Gran.

I'll count myself lucky if I get out without a bite taken out of my arm.

_Seriously_!

'Sorry,' I say straight out, 'these loaves are out of bounds; they're for Gran.'

Strangely, that word 'Gran' carries a lot of respect around here; like _no_ other word does.

Don't ask me why.

Maybe because she seems to have been around here since the year dot. Well, _my_ year dot, least ways.

Way I hear it, though, she's been here as long as the apartment block has. Like she was one of the first to move in here. Like no one's been here longer.

She's been here so long, in fact, people seem to regard her as being an essential part of the whole building. Like, maybe, the apartment block was actually built around her.

So once she dies, so does the apartment block.

See, the way these guys react when they hear the word 'Gran', well, I might as well be saying Godfather, in the Mafia sense.

Blood drains from their faces; even Mr Zhu's overly pink, overly fleshly face.

They tremble a bit too, though they try and hide it from me. Voices rise an octave. Their mouths seem a little dry, going by the way they lick their lips, breath in deeply.

Course, it can be a benefit to me. Like it's a calming word, an opiate to dull their slavering and their filthy looks and touches.

But only for a moment.

It only ever works for a moment.

They might say, 'Esdza? Surely she has no interest in me?'

Or maybe even, 'Miss Na'acdjei? I'm nothing to her, I'm sure.'

Then they forget I ever mentioned Gran. Or they assume that, like Mom, she won't take offence on my behalf.

At least Mr Zhu takes his eyes off the loaves.

He feasts them on me instead.

*

# Chapter 7

'I'm cooking lunch,' Mr Zhu says, like this should surprise me, like it's a pure coincidence he's preparing to eat just as I 'call' on him.

He's always cooking, is our Mr Zhu.

When he's not eating, anyway.

'Are you hungry?' he asks, presuming that, like him, people can't go a minute without wishing to fill their mouths, their stomachs, with something or other.

His apartment isn't filthy, like you'd expect, him being a pig and all. Apparently it's a myth that pigs like living in squalor; that's just the way they're raised on farms.

So how come Mr Zhu ain't on a farm?

How come any of the animals in this block aren't in a zoo, or a wood, or something more suitable?

Don't ask me.

I don't rent these rooms out.

And I suppose the landlord, like anybody else, has to eat.

*

'No, I'm not hungry,' I say in answer to Mr Zhu's question.

He looks at me in surprise, like I've gotta be lying to him.

His crushed snout of a nose twitches, like he's trying to sniff out the truth of the matter.

In a way, I reckon, he's glad.

He wouldn't want to have to share his food, would he now?

'Good, good,' he says, his eyes lingering on my legs, like he's after something else to eat. 'But you'll help me cook? Stay a while?' he adds hopefully.

Now, personally, I can't see why I shouldn't be able to dash in an instance any hope that I'm gonna stay around to help him cook his lunch.

Hope's just there to completely dishearten us, right?

But Mom, see, she's ingrained within me this nonsense of hers that all these people we share our world with are just as lost and worn down by life as she is.

She can't see what I see; that these 'people' are just animals of the worst kind.

If I refuse his 'kind offer', then Mom'll hear about it, and I'll suffer a few days of irately simmering silence for my impertinence.

Best, then, that I spend a few minutes helping Mr Zhu out with his cooking.

Even though there's another part of me shrieking at my stupidity, I find myself nodding in agreement to his request, like it's all just so automatic to me now I've got no real control over it.

There are goose bumps on my skin.

Like I'm the plucked goose Mr Zhu is ready to devour.

*

# Chapter 8

'Watch over the meat cooking in the pan. Are you thirsty?'

You can see his eyes devouring me.

I'm the dish he desires, even more than food. Every time I'm here, he feasts on what little flesh I bare.

'No thank you, Mr Zhu.'

'Never mind; there's a bottle of red wine there. Mix some of it in with the meat.'

Sizzling away like this, the red meat in the red wine, the meal smells delicious. I'm tempted, I really am, to take Mr Zhu up on his offer to stay a little longer to have something to eat.

My mouth, my stomach, say yes.

My skin says no.

It's recoiled before at the cold touch of Mr Zhu's overfamiliar trotters.

Screamed out, virtually, in its sense of complete revulsion.

If I stay, if I eat, Mr Zhu will insist that after his gift of something so precious to him, I remain forever beholden to him.

Still, as I push the meat around the pan, making sure it soaks up its own juices, the wine, the smallest of segments breaks free. Sizzling temptingly about its every edge.

It could be calling out to me.

Eat me.

Eat me.

What could be the harm in that?

With licked, nimble fingers, I gingerly reach for and pluck the small piece of meat from the snickering juices of the pan.

It's hot, too hot; yet incredibly delicious.

Such a waste, in fact, as far as Mr Zhu is concerned; he never tastes whatever he eats, for it never stays in his mouth long enough.

Why, it wouldn't surprise me if he swallowed all this meat whole in one swift gulp.

It's the glorious _look_ of the food itself that tempts him. He can never have enough, even when his gut is fit to burst and his face is red and swollen with the effort of cramming it all in.

A small bird has landed on the sill of the open window nearby. She cocks her head, looks at me worryingly.

'Would you eat the flesh of your grandmother?' she warbles.

'Throw something at that noisy bird!' Mr Zhu says; and so, instinctively, automatically, I throw a large onion peel at the poor, startled bird

Naturally, she flies away.

The meat happily chuckles as it simmers in its own juices.

In a while, I realise I'm still hungry.

Another sliver of meat has fallen free of the main joint. It cackles joyously as it falls into the bubblingly hot, roasting juices.

It _wants_ to be eaten.

It's crying out to me.

This time, as I carefully pull it from the pan, I use its natural curves to scoop up some of the wine.

It all makes it all the more succulent.

A mouse, down where the floor meets the wall, observes me.

'Would you drink the blood of your grandmother?' he asks fearfully.

'Throw something at that noisy mouse!' Mr Zhu orders.

Without even thinking about it, I toss a chunk of leftover pepper towards the poor, horrified mouse.

He scurries off, back into his hole.

Mr Zhu, he's all excited now. I can tell his little corkscrew tail is twitching in his pants, what with his grunts, his hungry snorts.

My flesh creeps at the thought.

Not again; I can't let him put me through all this again.

The arms pulled tight about the waist. The hot, heavy breath against my neck.

The uncontrollable slobbering of his tongue, hanging loose by my cheek, eager to taste but – thankfully as yet – still holding back, still restrained by some residue of decent behaviour still lingering within Mr Zhu.

'It's just friendliness,' Mom would say, avoiding my eyes.

Because, deep down within that empty shell, that ghostly apparition, she knows it isn't so.

She's just wilfully blind to it all, isn't she?

Did she go through all this herself?

Will admitting that I'm right also be a confession that she'd gone along with things she should have fought against long ago?

Is _that_ what she's frightened of?

Mr Zhu steps close, prepares to swing his arms around me, prepares the comforting words; 'It's _nice_ having you here with me, Lorie. It's _nice_ to be _friends_.'

I twist my head about, catch his eyes with mine.

'Don't...you... _dare_!'

That's what I'm _hoping_ they're saying.

His eyes sort of widen in shock. Maybe even in horror, wondering how it can be that the worm has turned.

They're quite bulbous, in fact.

'You...you're _eyes_!' he stammers, weirdly, ironically.

_Fearfully_.

*

# Chapter 9

I turn the gas off; leaving the meal cooking and unattended like this could burn the whole place down.

Yeah, I'm tempted, I've gotta admit...

But...there are some innocents living in here other than me, so I've gotta take their livelihood in to consideration, right?

So off goes the gas.

It's a shame to waste the meat. And the juices.

But suddenly, I'm not so hungry.

*

Back out in the corridor, it's darker than ever.

The lone, spluttering bulb has finally died.

All the doors along here are shut too, so I might as well be taking a midnight stroll on a moonless night for all I can see.

It's hard to believe it's daylight outside somewhere.

Once I've turned into the corridor, shutting Mr Zhu's door behind me, I know that all I have to do is keep walking straight ahead until I come to a stair landing. Hopefully, there'll be light on the next floor.

_Hopefully_.

I could use my hands, stretching out my arms either side to touch the walls; but the walls here, like most things in this block, are damp and clammy.

I'd wanna wash my hands soon as I could.

I'm particular in that way, see?

Not that I wanna go bumping into the walls, for exactly the same reason. The grime that collects on these walls, well; just where the heck does it all come from?

Where's the law when you need it, to stamp down on unscrupulous landlords?

But thankfully, even in this old rathole of labyrinthine corridors and manky rooms, the path I'm on is pretty much a perfectly straight one, as long as you're not taking into account the rolling floor and uneven walls put up by builders who didn't have a single right-angle, spirt-level, or plumb-line to share amongst themselves.

So, I just let my sense, that sort of sixth sense we all have, guide me.

It's all going remarkably well too until, suddenly, I slow a bit, then slow a touch more – until I'm not moving at all.

You know when you can sense there's something there, in the dark?

Something _alive_?

That's what I'm getting _now_.

I can't _see_ it, of course.

But it's _there_ , right enough.

What _is_ it?

What can it _be_?

I stop my breathing for a moment, trying to listen out more intently, to pick up any noise that can alert me to what's waiting for me there, just ahead of me.

_Nothing_.

I still can't hear anything.

Like whatever it is knows I can sense it; and so it's keeping perfectly still, perfectly quiet.

What I _can_ hear quite plainly of course, is the fast, heavy beating of my heart; the surging of blood all about my head.

'Who's there?'

_Dumbo_!

Yeah, like they're gonna answer me, right?

_Silence_.

Maybe I'm imagining it.

Maybe there's nothi–

It just _moved_!

I _heard_ it!

_Scuttling_.

I heard it _scuttling_!

*

# Chapter 10

Shit shit shit!

What the heck _is_ out there?

It _knows_ I've heard it! I'm sure!

Maybe _it's_ got a sixth sense too!

Maybe even a seventh, an _eighth_ sense?

Who knows – because I don't know what the _heck_ it is!

Maybe it just heard me _gasp_ with fear.

Maybe it can _smell_ fear, like they say a lot of animals can.

Maybe it can hear my heart, drumming so loudly now I'm in danger of letting _everyone_ in the block know I'm all alone, out in the corridors.

*

If I turn and run, could it hunt me down?

Run faster than I can?

It's _moving_ again!

Slowly _scuttling_ closer _._

Crap crap crap crap crap!

In the thick darkness lying directly head of me, I can now make out some movement, like it's the black air itself shifting; moves only apparent to me because there's a slight difference in certain blocks of that darkness.

It glitters, even in what little dim light exists in here.

Like it's a shiny, polished jet.

Or the shine of _hundreds_ of black beetles.

Or one _immense_ beetle.

*

Didn't I say, didn't I think, I could hear a huge insect _scuttling_ about every night?

And now here it is, I'm certain, right in front of me.

Hey, I like being proved _right_ , okay?

But not like _this_!

Not when I get the impression it might be the last thing I do; to say triumphantly, as I'm devoured whole by some massive cockroach, 'What _did_ I tell you?'

Suddenly, the scuttling intensifies, abruptly louder, rhythmically faster, the sounds of clicking legs like knitting needles in overdrive.

The giant insect is rushing towards me!

I freeze, like some dumbstruck, stupid rabbit!

Then there's a change in the tone of the rapid scuttling, a transformation in the scattered light of the glitter-speckled darkness ahead of me.

It's rushed towards a wall; it's now swiftly, effortlessly rising up it.

Just like insects can, right?

Then it's rushing directly above me, running across the ceiling as easily as if it were the floor and I was the one hanging bat-like from the rafters.

I duck, expecting it to leap down upon me.

I swing my head about as it whisks safely over me, trying to get a better view of it. But as it rapidly scurries – yes, it _scurries_ now, as its getting farther away, and therefore quieter and less unnerving – along the length of the ceiling, it vanishes completely into the darkness, into the silence of the corridor.

What _was_ that?

I uncontrollably shiver, deliberately give myself a shake, hoping to throw off the shock and horror of my encounter.

No wonder my flesh creeps.

*

# Chapter 11

Our flesh _defines_ us, right?

Come come, now – you _know_ this is true.

You just don't _want_ it to be true.

Because, well, if it is, that means _life_ isn't fair.

Well, we _all_ know that life _isn't_ fair.

Not by a long shot.

So why do we continue to pretend that we're _not_ defined by the way we look? By the way our skin shapes us?

You're still not convinced, are you?

What's all that nonsense you've been fed?

It's the _inner_ you that counts.

Sure, and every day, we see all those girls with such beautiful _interiors_ getting off with the good looking guys, yeah?

And, for that matter, why do we want the _good looking_ guys if looks don't count?

Why can't we accept that guy over there with the _inner_ beauty?

Because, of course, you hope the inner beauty comes as a package with outer good looks, naturally.

Now if Mom catches you admitting this, what's she gonna do?

Accuse you of being _shallow_ , that right?

So when she was at school, she spent all day moping over the guys who were into watching weepy movies?

We know _that_ ain't true.

And what's she spend most of her time doing these days?

Holding back the effects of time, yeah?

How's time affect _inner_ beauty?

Come to that, how many magazine do you see on the shelves with titles promising _inner_ beauty?

Okay, so I'm sure they're there; but hidden deep beneath hundreds telling you how to get your makeup right, give your hair more body, and the like.

Then there's all the beauty parlours, the gyms, the plastic surgeons.

A multi-billion dollar business – and that's rolling in each _week_.

See, this huge, vast enterprise exists because the people making their millions from it all recognise that your _flesh_ determines how your life's gonna pan put.

When you were tiny, when you're growing up as a girl, what sort of comments were you surrounded – well, just about _bombarded_ – with?

'Oh, what a _pretty_ ponytail you have!'

'That's such a _pretty_ dress!'

'You have such a _pretty_ smile!'

So what happened when you grew up and, guess what; you ain't _pretty_ after all?

Suddenly, Mom and Dad wonder why you look all so stressed out!

So _miserable_!

They act like it's a complete surprise that you ain't getting off with the hottest guy in class.

Well, he's _gotta_ be shallow, right?

If he can't see what a wonderful person you are, well, he doesn't _deserve_ you.

Beauty's only skin deep!

_Really_?

I mean, like just _when_ did this sudden change in everybody's attitude happen?

_I_ never noticed it, this great, amazing transformation in the way everybody _thinks_.

And that, of course, is because it never really happened, did it?

People think about these things more of less as they have for hundreds of years.

But it's not a nice way of thinking. So we don't want to admit that's the way most people think.

_That's_ the way! Keep on denying its true, and it's _sure_ to go away!

Weird thing is, beauty _does_ have its downsides.

If parents told kids this, maybe they'd be more open to accepting the way they look, the way they are.

Trouble is, parents don't wanna tell you the problems with being beautiful because, hey, waddya know; they don't want to _admit_ it's true.

Because it isn't _nice_.

It isn't _nice_ , see, to admit that all those _nice_ men you knew when you were 'pretty' aren't _nice_ men at all!

*

One thing _I'll_ admit; it's not _all_ men.

But, I'm afraid, it's an awful _lot_ of them.

In many cases too, men whom you'd thought were _nice_ ; people you could _trust_.

All those comments they used to make, all those 'She's so cute!', 'Aww, don't be so _mean_ to me!' Well, come a certain age, a certain transformation in the way you look, and all these comments _aren't_ so playful anymore.

There's an underlying message lying amongst them all; there are hidden meanings in what's being said: _and you know what they are, don't you, you naughty little girl?_

Yeah, sickening, ain't it?

And even now, even when you've finally begun to understand what life's all about, your Mom continues to deny that life really, really isn't _nice_.

'Why can't you accept it all as a _compliment_ , Lorie? Most girls would _love_ to be in your shoes!'

*

# Chapter 12

If any girl _were_ in my shoes, what she'd be doing right now is making sure she sneaks past Mr Nisse's room without making the slightest noise.

Not that it will do me much good.

Mr Nisse has the sort of capabilities a bloodhound would envy when it comes to detecting smells; and a guy with a serious cold could smell the aromas wafting up from Mom's choice selection of baking.

_He_ doesn't even have to even _touch_ me to give me the creeps.

Whenever he's close, he's taking me in not with his eyes, but his nose; enjoying every scent he can detect, smiling in delight as he sniffs the air.

'Oh, now you really _are_ just flattering yourself _too_ much, Lorie!' Mom declares in exasperation whenever I tell her this.

Trust me; you've gotta be there, you've gotta see this, to understand that what I'm saying is _true_!

What _sort_ of scents he's picking up, I don't know.

But I can _guess_!

Don't, you know, dogs use that ability to...come on! I'm not going to _wholly_ spell it out!

It's disgusting, isn't it?

Not even worth _thinking_ about!

And the weirdest thing is, Mr Nisse ain't an _animal_.

He's a _goblin_.

Yeah, I would have sworn such things couldn't exist as well, so I can understand your disbelief.

But here he is, living in our apartment block.

Maybe because he's far too large to live under a toadstool.

Or am I getting my goblins mixed up with my elves and dwarves?

(Which, by the way, I'm quite sure do _not_ exist! There's enough weird and not-so-wonderful creatures living in this block without including a tribe or two of them as well!)

He's even got the little red hat, like garden gnomes wear. Although the dye for his cap, he' told me one or twice before, with a mischievous, malevolent chuckle, comes from human blood.

And the material?

Well, it's the very, very _softest_ leather.

A nasty little lie, roguishly intended to scare a child?

Maybe.

Maybe if he didn't look like he was capable of using human blood as a dye, I'd tend to take it as a joke.

Maybe, too, if he wasn't just so damn ugly.

(Look, I've already _admitted_ I'm shallow regarding such matters, right?)

He's got a ridiculously large number of red hats, too. Each one in a slightly different tone to the rest.

And Mr Nisse, he can literally tell them all apart with his eyes closed.

The _smell_ , see?

Like a vampire, he can smell the difference in the 'dye'.

Now a vampire _goblin_ might not sound _too_ frightening. Sounds more like a bit of a joke, really, I suppose.

But I never said he _was_ a vampire, did I?

Far as I can see, all he does is make hats.

Lots and lots of them.

So, how would _you_ fancy ending up as a brightly coloured hat?

*

# Chapter 13

Mr Nisse's door opens.

'Why, Lorie,' he exclaims pleasantly enough, 'I _thought_ I detected something delicious wafting under my door!'

I feel my face reddening a little as I glance down at the covered loaves in my wicker basket.

'It's Mom's baking,' I say self-consciously, mortified that I've more or less invited him to start a discussion with me by walking past his door with such deliciously fragrant cooking. 'It's still hot.'

Mr Nisse looks in surprise at the basket, as if he's only just noticed it.

Obviously, it wasn't the loaves he'd smelled.

I dread to think – I don't even want to _begin_ thinking – what drew him out here.

*

'I can't stop,' I declare firmly to Mr Nisse, even though I do indeed stop, as Mom has deeply ingrained it within me that it would be impolite to rush past. 'I've got to take these loaves to Gran!'

'Oh of course, of course!' Mr Nisse replies with a surprising graciousness, letting me go far easier than I had any right to expect. 'I wouldn't want them to cool before you got them to your Gran!'

He smiles, like he's already done Gran a massive favour by admitting letting the loaves go cold would spoil them.

Then his smile vanishes, instantly replaced with a grim frown.

'But I wonder, Lorie, as you were passing this way; well, you must also have passed by Mr Zhu's apartment earlier?'

He pauses, obviously waiting for some kind of confirmation from me that this is true.

I nod.

'Why yes; I passed by, oh, perhaps half an hour ago?'

Was it really as long as half an hour ago?

Probably not.

But what's it matter?

It just seemed to me to be a convenient period of time to mention, rather than, say, a number of minutes ago, which is so ridiculously imprecise it's virtually useless, isn't it?

'Ah, I _thought_ so!' Mr Nisse says, like he's performed a triumph of deduction. 'Well then, Lorie, perhaps you can tell me if it's true or not; but I heard on the grapevine that poor old Mr Zhu was found _dead_ in his apartment!'

*

# Chapter 14

_'Dead_? Poor old Mr Zhu? That's _terrible_!'

Naturally, I'm completely shocked.

'But how could you have heard so quickly, Mr Nisse?' I ask curiously, remembering that I only left Mr Zhu just over an hour ago. 'I know rumour spreads quickly in this apartment; but to hear of a death _so_ quickly, well, it must be a peculiarly _sensitive_ grapevine you heard it upon, Mr Nisse!'

'Are you saying he was still alive when you passed his apartment, Lorie?'

'Why yes; alive and hearty, as always!' I answer as truthfully as I'm able.

'Ah, but _there_ you hit upon the nub of the problem as regards our Mr Zhu, I believe!' Mr Nisse says. 'I often said his heart was being eaten away from inside by that atrocious diet of his! The effects his excesses would have on his liver, his stomach walls – his blood.'

Mr Nisse shakes his head in dismay, like he fears imagining the damage inflicted by Mr Zhu's food on his poor, blighted body.

He appears especially dismayed as he refers to the ruin of Mr Zhu's blood, doubtlessly regretting the opportunity to create a brand new hat.

'That's the only way too, of course,' he adds sadly, 'to account for the way they found him.'

He says this in a way that implies there was indeed something odd about Mr Zhu's demise.

I frown in puzzlement rather than asking him for further details.

'Oh, naturally, you haven't _heard_ , Lorie!' he says, as if this has only just struck him. 'There's no suggestion, of course, of foul play; no signs of forced entry, no wounds upon his body. And yet, his _body_ , Lorie...'

He fades off, his mouth gaping, aghast at and still not quite believing what he's about to disclose.

'Why, when they came to pick him up, there was a surprising lack of _solidity_ to him, Lorie!'

I frown all the more in bewilderment.

'But how can that be, Mr Nisse? I mean, all the _food_ he ate!'

'Yes, but his _eyes_ were always bigger than his _stomach_ , as they say, Lorie! And he swallowed it just about whole, rather than savouring its taste, he was such a glutton! That's the very _worse_ thing you can do!'

'Then it was his heart...?' I ask unsurely. 'Or maybe his liver, suddenly giving out on him?'

Mr Nisse chuckles grimly at my innocence.

'Didn't I just say his innards appeared soft, unformed? It seems, Lorie, that he became so _abruptly_ over satiated, he more or less _exploded_ from within!'

*

# Chapter 15

'If only – when I'd stopped to chat with him – I'd recognised how _ill_ he must have been!' I say with all due sadness and regret, shaking my head in a mingling of shock and remorse.

'It really wasn't _so_ hard to miss!' Mr Nisse shrewdly observes. 'Why, I frequently found _myself_ choking on the stench of Mr Zhu's cooking; all that fat, that grease! Killers, every one, Lorie! It was enough to kill a rhino!'

'Still...'I say morosely. 'If only there'd been _some_ way to help him, poor man!'

Mr Nisse grins, as if pleased, or maybe even amused, by my concern.

'We mustn't dwell on such things,' he opines sagely, instantaneously changing his tone to a gayer one as if in response to his own observation, 'On a more cheerful note, you were heading to your Gran's, I believe you said?'

'Why, yes, yes,' I blurt out in relief, grateful that he's given me – doubtlessly unintentionally – good reason to be on my way. 'I'd better be going; before my loaves grow cold!'

'Naturally!' Mr Nisse jovially agrees. 'Although, might I ask; which route will you be taking?'

_'Which_ route?' I ask, perplexed, adding in more startled tones than intended, 'Why, there's only the _one_ route, Mr Nisse!'

He grins once more, again as if either pleased or concerned, but this time by my naivety.

'Why, I've lived here far longer than you,' he points out authoritatively, 'and to my knowledge, there has always been at _least_ two!'

I cannot, for the life of me, see how there could be _two_ routes to Gran's, let alone any more!

'I can see this discovery amazes you!' Mr Nisse chuckles. 'But please; let me explain...'

He holds his door wide, inviting me to step inside.

'Well...'

I need to think, quickly, of an excuse that will allow me to carry on with my journey without appearing in anyway impolite to Mr Nisse.

'...the loaves; they'll grow cold?' says Mr Nisse helpfully, to my great surprise.

I nod, smile gratefully.

'Yes, yes; I can't let them cool _too_ much!'

'All the more reason, then,' Mr Nisse says, more forcibly repeating his invitation to step across his threshold, 'to make _sure_ you choose the _quickest_ route!'

*

Mr Nisse's apartment is decorated completely differently to Mr Zhu's.

For a start, there are red hats everywhere.

You can't sit down without having to remove a few of them, putting them to one side on top of yet more hats.

I pick them up gingerly, between my fingertips, flinching in disgust at the soft touch of the tender skin.

'They can't _hurt_ you, you know!' Mr Nisse jests, as he always does.

'It's _lamb_ skin, that's all!' Mom had always sternly assured me whenever I had described Mr Nisse's collection of incredibly pliable hats. 'And lamb's _blood_ ; what else would it be, silly girl?'

'You are a silly little lamb!' Mr Nisse says, guffawing at the way my nose turns up in repugnance at the hats decorating the high back of his armchair, as if they were throws.

'Would you sit on the flesh of your grandmother?' a small squirrel at the open window cries out to me in horror.

'Throw something at that noisy squirrel!' Mr Nisse snaps angrily.

Without thinking, I take up one of the hats – well, what _else_ is so handy, so near at hand? – and toss it towards the poor, shocked squirrel, who naturally scampers off.

Mr Nisse's pet canary similarly cries out in horror as, flying up from her perch, she lands upon the soft shoulder of my hooded cloak.

'Would you drench yourself in the blood of your grandmother?' she chirps.

'Throw something at that noisy canary!' Mr Nisse complains wearily.

I throw it a baleful glare; it's enough to scare the frightened bird off.

'Now, now,' says Mr Nisse, drawing his own chair up closer to mine, such that our knees are almost touching; such that they _are_ touching, 'it's the ways of the _world_ you need to know, my precious lamb!'

*

# Chapter 16

'Which path will you take?'

Mr Nisse takes my hands in his.

His nose twitches, as if he's detected a change in scents, the way I might notice the released fragrances of flowers I've unwittingly disturbed.

'But as I've said, Mr Nisse, I only know of the _one_ path.'

'And is that...the Path of Needles or...the Path of Pins?'

As he says this, Mr Nisse deftly reaches into his work materials on the desktop by his side. Pulling out both a pin and a needle in each hand, he raises them up before me as he refers to each path.

I briefly think about this, going back over the path I so regularly take, seeking a clue that might help me define which of these two paths it is, in the hope that I can give him a straight answer,

I shake my head.

'I can't think which it is,' I admit. 'I don't know how it's possible to differentiate between the two.'

I've never come across any pins on my journey, or any needles. Unless, of course, you count the ones lying here amidst Mr Nisse's own constructions.

It all sounds really painful, to be honest. Neither the Path of Pins nor the Path of Needles sounds like a track I'd like to take.

'Come, come, my little red cap!' Mr Nisse says admonishingly. 'You of all people must be aware which one you were about to take!'

'Which way do I go to follow the Path of Pins?' I ask.

'Why, you turn out of this door, and continue to head in the direction you were already taking!' Mr Nisse replies gaily, using a raising and curving of his hand holding the pin to describe the actions I must take.

'Ah, then obviously, it's the Path of Pins I _was_ taking!' I reply a touch elatedly, for I'm glad that we at last seem to be getting somewhere. 'So which way would I head to take the Path of Needles?'

This time as he answers, Mr Nisse raises and turns the hand holding the needle as he describes the directions I must follow.

'Turn out the door,' he says, 'head down the corridor and continue heading in the direction you were already taking!'

I frown.

'But...haven't you just described the very same path?'

'Oh, my dear, innocent little red cap,' Mr Nisse, sighs sadly. 'They're quite obviously _completely_ different.'

'How can they be different paths, following exactly the same direction?'

'It's how you _approach_ the paths that's different!' he exasperatedly declares.

_'That's_ the same too,' I persist. 'I _leave_ through your door.'

'Don't you see?' he says, taking a tone implying it's all so obvious. 'Until now, you've chosen neither path. For you've been too young to decide which it must be.'

'Despite my age, I've regularly visited my Grandmamma,' I point out adamantly.

'So; which is it to be?' he suddenly growls, as if suddenly weary of our conversation and requiring a snap decision. 'The Path of Needles or...the Path of Pins?'

Once again, he holds up the pin and the needle before me, as if my choice will be determined by whichever I reach out for.

The needle appears to me to be the more painful option, even though I know I'm being silly, and there are no real needles to encounter on my journey.

Still...it is on such personal choices that we often make our most important decisions.

'The Path of Pins,' I say determinedly. 'I'll take the Path of Pins.'

*

# Chapter 17

I can tell by the expression on Mr Nisse's face that he's disappointed with my choice.

'I must say,' he says, 'that I had hoped you saw yourself as old enough to take the Path of Needles.'

With a regretful shrug, he puts the needle aside. Then he leans forward to slip the pin into the material of my red hood.

'There,' he sighs, 'it will have to do; until you feel ready to take the Path of Needles.'

He takes another pin from his table, and another, and similarly pins these to my cloak. And each time he does it, he breathes in deeply, as if taking in fragrances he is releasing by puncturing the surface.

'The Path of Pins!' he says scornfully. 'Why are you insisting in dragging out the _inevitable_?'

As he inserts more pins into my reddened robe, his breathing becomes harder, more pained for him, even though his face is increasingly creased up in a blissful ecstasy.

'You're ready, can't you see that?' he says irately; lecherously too, I believe, for my flesh creeps, picking up the meaning of the tones in his voice, even if I'm otherwise too innocent to challenge them.

His breathing now is strained, his eyes bulbous in the agony of whatever effect the fragrances are having on him.

'Why can I _smell_ what you cannot see?' he wails miserably. 'Why must I suffer, only for you to offer to someone else the prize that should be mine?'

Now he's gasping for breath: hyperventilating, perhaps.

'It's _intoxicating_ ; like the nose of the sweetest wine.'

'Mr Nisse,' I ask worriedly, 'do you need help; some smelling salts, perhaps?'

'Your scents are so, so delicious, so overpowering,' he pleads miserably now, 'I could breathe every _inch_ of you in, my little...but there is so, so _much_! How is that possible, how can I hope to...to...?'

'Breathe in _deeply_ , Mr Nisse,' I warn him. 'I'll let you take in one _last_ lungful; and then we must bring all this silliness to an _end_!'

*

It seems a shame.

All these beautiful hats, with no owners to appreciate the softness of their flesh, their rich, bloody colouring.

Mr Nisse had no right to keep them all to himself.

He could, at the very least, have sold them on to all those lonely people in desperate need of something that could keep them warm.

I suppose I could take a few of them with me, perhaps handing them out on my journey as I meet those who have lost loved ones, and still wonder after them.

Yes, it is indeed such a shame to leave them lying to waste here.

Unfortunately, despite the warmth I think they might possess, when I pick any up, they simply make me shiver.

*

# Chapter 18

The Path of Pins.

It seems no different at all to the one I normally take when heading out to Gran's.

Apart, of course, from all these pins Mr Nisse has stuck about my bloodied-red cloak.

It's all just another silly and quite nasty little joke of Mr Nisse's, obviously.

Such cruel jokes were his one true forte and all to no real avail; for he was really so miserable, they could raise neither a true smile in his permanently morose face, nor a true chuckle from lips forever parched of compliments.

I mean, there was never any real _joy_ in those crooked smiles, those evil chuckles of his.

There was no reforming him, I'm sure.

I've always thought he'd be like that to his very last breath.

Perhaps those who know me might snidely point out I'm hardly the one to go casting stones, despite my calm, kind exterior.

And yes, I must confess that – like us all, dare we care to admit it – I have my own particular faults.

I keep them hidden deep within me; hidden from everyone else, that is, yet remaining completely aware of them myself, so that I might adequately deal with them when needs be.

Not that I worry endlessly over them, like some worry endlessly at a spot on their face, only serving to make it worse, more obvious.

You see, faults come in many forms, don't they?

There are some more apparent to others than to ourselves, and these, of course, are the very worst kind. We won't admit to having them, hoping they will go away, or at the very least won't be obvious, won't reveal themselves.

And people laugh at us, sneer at us, for our stupidity in believing we successfully hide or perhaps don't even suffer this fault; and so, like that spot, it festers and becomes worse.

Then there are those faults we somehow believe are blatantly obvious to everyone around us, fearing that they must loath us for bearing such dreadful imperfections in our character; and yet the truth is, most remain blissfully unaware of our supposed fault, for they possess neither the will nor the time to study us as closely as we study ourselves.

When we pass by most people, we're hardly more apparent to them than a whirl of leaves caught up in a wispy breeze; for they have their own lives to contend with, their own faults to contemplate.

It grieves us, naturally, to admit we play no real importance in the lives of others, and so we flatter ourselves they pay us far more attention than they're capable of.

So I don't worry too much about my own faults.

It could only result in those faults more obviously showing themselves, either upon my face as the creases of anger, jealousy, or misery, or in my gait, as the gross effects of greed and laziness.

As a consequence, I'm thankfully lithe in my movements. For it requires an incredible ability to remain perfectly quiet – as if actually stilled, motionless – as I make my way past the apartment of Mr Orochi.

His hearing is so acute, he could hear a pin drop.

*

A pin drops.

It clatters ever so noisily across the creaking wooden floor.

Of course, it's one of the pins Mr Nisse had affixed to my cloak.

Had this been his intention all along?

His means of alerting Mr Orochi to my presence?

Another of his cruel jokes.

Perhaps this is what he meant by his Path of Pins?

*

# Chapter 19

One of the black slabs of darkness slips aside, a sliver of dim light revealed, a patch growing into a larger rectangle, into an open doorway.

As the door opens, I can hear plainer and plainer the pained screeching of Mr Orochi's many cats.

Then there's the weary meows as cats languidly awake, stretch, leap down from where they're lazing and make their way to the door, curious to see who's calling.

'Lorie!' Mr Orochi wails as happily as he's able through his strained vocal cords. 'Come, come in; it's so good to see you calling, my little kitten.'

How could it know it was me, from little more than the falling of a pin?

Who knows?

His hearing is like no human hearing; although it's rumoured that the source of his acute hearing is based on far more than the many cats and kittens that disappear into Mr Orochi's apartment, never to be seen again.

If seen from a distance, in the dim, watery light peculiar to Mr Orochi's apartment, anyone seeing him for the first time could be forgiven for thinking they are seeing an oddly obese man playing a number of harps, and all at the very same time too. They would undoubtedly marvel at the incredible height, the remarkable size, of the harps being played, just as they would be surprised at the strained melodies emitting from them, each note painful to the ears.

The more observant viewer might also notice the equally ineptly played glass harmonium, albeit one whose many glasses are each partially filled to varying degrees with darkly reddened water, perhaps to make each glassy note more immediately recognisable.

Stepping closer still towards this strange sight, that same more observant viewer would now begin to pick out at last that the arching bodies of the harps were formed from Mr Orochi himself, his softly flailing tentacles dragging the agonised screeching from the tautly stretched gut strings by pulling them tighter still, rather than plucking them. The gut strings are of many varieties too, thick; smooth, course and incredibly slender, each possessing its own unique wail.

It is from these many cords that Mr Orochi's voice also emanates. They also serve as the means of his quite remarkable hearing, each shivering as they detect the slightest vibration in the air about him.

'I have an errand to fulfil, Mr Orochi!' I say, trying to keep the fear from my voice. 'I will call in later, on my way back,' I add, hoping he won't detect the lie.

'I love the sound of your voice; of your inner fears, your poor attempts at a lie,' Mr Orochi screeches in delight. 'Come, come in, child! You have nothing to fear from me, I assure you. You need not lie to me, so why should I lie to you?'

Has anyone out there ever been bullied at school?

Did you ask Mom, or maybe your dad, for help? Asking them what to do?

If you did; well, poor old you.

Because you don't get any real, useful advice, do you?

You just get wishful thinking.

You get Mom or maybe Dad flattering themselves that they'd have been able to handle it all far better than you if it had ever happened to them.

They've seen it in the movies, haven't they? You know, that prime source of practical solutions in a real life environment; Tinseltown!

Stand up to them; bullies can't take it when you stand up to them.

Hit them on the nose; every bully's a secret coward, really. Once you do that, once they see what you're really like, they'll run away and never bother you again.

Sure; that's _just_ how life operates, ain't it?

You know – like all life runs smoothly and fairly on pure, refined bullshit.

Let's face it; stand up to a group of bullies or – even worse, _hit_ one of them – and you know, don't you, that your life's gonna be nothing but complete misery from hence forth.

The people letting you down here, I'm afraid, are your parents, the authorities.

They're too scared to confront the problem.

They just wish it would go away.

And if that means they've gotta live in a fantasy land to achieve this, leaving you to live in the real world, well, they'll do that _everytime_.

Cowards, that's all they are.

And because they're unwilling to support you, it means you end up being a coward too.

So I enter Mr Orochi's dingy apartment.

*

# Chapter 20

'Take a seat, take a seat,' Mr Orochi shrieks triumphantly.

That's the worst thing you can do in Mr Orochi's apartment.

And not just because every seat in here is full of cat hairs, cat mess, and anything else cat's like to leave lying around; no, it's because as soon as you sit down, every one of Mr Orochi's eight remaining cats start crawling all over you. One playing about in my hair like she's planning on combing it, one making herself comfortable in my lap like she appreciates the warmth down there.

And that's not the worst of it.

See, Mr Orochi seems to benefit for some sort of imperceptible connection to his cats. Like there's already some invisible cord stretching out from each one and leading right back to him, their guts already being magically spun from directly within them by a deft Mr Orochi.

That's how every one of his cats inevitably end up anyway, of course; as another vocal cord for one of Mr Orochi's harps. Along with, as I've heard it, any other creature Mr Orochi takes his fancy to, in his efforts to increase his already vast range of chords.

Anyway, whatever the nature of his link to his cats, Mr Orochi's growing excitement is quite plain to me in the elated vibrating of his innumerable cords, the moaning and blissful groaning apparent, even as they vainly attempt to mute their rare cries of ecstasy.

'Why Mr Orochi, this is such a sad lament you play!'

'Yes, yes, an undoubted dirge it is, my dear, for our poor, poor Mr Nisse!'

'Mr Nisse? Why, what makes you play such a terrible, terrible wailing for him?'

'Haven't you heard?

'Heard what? I've heard nothing of late but your playing, Mr Orochi!'

'And that's the thing, my dear, innocent little kitten. It seems we must now refer to the _late_ Mr Nisse!'

'Late? He's passed away, you mean?'

'Unfortunately, yes; it seems he took his last breath – and what a breath it must have been. For the way I've heard it told, unless I've got my lines badly crossed, is that it's believed his lungs exploded, then collapsed!'

'What an absolutely dreadful way to die!'

'A stinker!' Mr Orochi agrees.

Naturally, I'm startled to hear of poor Mr Nisse's unfortunate demise. And straight after the death of poor Mr Zhu too!

The remarkable coincidence isn't lost on me; for not only have they died within a relatively short time of each other, but they've also both met their end not long after I'd passed them on my journey to Gran's

There can only be one explanation.

That gruesome insect that has been following me everywhere I go has been slipping into their apartments as I leave! Why, the open door has being nothing but an invitation to him (to her?) to enter and murder these poor unfortunates.

What a truly, truly horrible way to die!

Mr Orochi's playing of the glass harmonium has become rushed, excitable, the whirling of what passes for his hands a blur, the emanating shrieks close to shattering their own containers. The strings of the harps shimmer as if made of glass themselves, their vibrations equally excited, such that I fear they could easily break.

The cats continue to clamber everywhere about me, leaving no part of me untouched by their soft caresses, no inch of skin left unwarmed by their hot, urgent breath, their harshly licking tongues

On the windowsill of the opened window, the tiniest of kittens has stopped to help herself to the dish of small fish left out by Mr Orochi; his means of attracting the cats he needs to perform his own particular strand of music.

The kitten looks up in horror, crying out a warning to me.

'Would you strum the flesh of your grandmother?' she yowls.

'Throw something at that noisy cat!' Mr Orochi's many quivering cords yell out to me.

What is there to throw at the poor kitten other than an angry glance? Thankfully, it's enough to scare off the kitten, who nimbly scampers away across the iron grill of the fire escape.

Another warning cry comes from a small bowl overly crammed with tiny fish.

'Would you play with the blood of your grandmother?' a fish gurgles, though it's naturally hard to tell which one.

'Throw something at that noisy fish!' Mr Orochi's glass harmonica rings out shrilly, bell-like in the urgency of its message.

What is there to throw at the tiny fish other than my voice? A cat, as far as the fish is concerned, suddenly shrieks at it, 'Be quiet, or I shall eat you!'

'You are so, so good, my little kitten!' Mr Orochi screams out elatedly over all the caterwauling of his many enthusiastically vibrating cords. 'Now, throw you voice _my_ way; please, please, please throw me your delightfully entrancing voice!'

This, of course, is far more than I had ever intended to do. And yet, I sense Mr Orochi is ensuring I have no choice in the matter.

The tones of his pained music are already penetrating deeply within me, thrumming hard against the drums of my ears, pounding upon the blood surging about my head, causing the pit of my stomach to turn, and my innards to coil in agonised horror at what they are being subjected to.

Such is the power of music, of deep beats and otherwise undetectable high notes, on our bodies, our soul. My teeth are on edge, my heart beats wildly, erratically.

My skin shivers coldly at the thought.

And the cats, still meowling everywhere about me, pick up that shivering of my skin, sending back what are increasingly uncontrollable vibrations to an unsuspecting Mr Orochi.

He doesn't mind.

He just thinks that, at last, were both on the same frequency.

*

# Chapter 21

I leave the door open behind me, each cat heading off in her own preferred direction.

No Path of Pins or Path of Needles for them, I suppose.

Who'd have thought Mr Orochi could ever be persuaded to spare them?

Not me, that's for sure.

I've never known this section of the corridor to be so quiet!

*

Silence is good for contemplation, don't you think?

And, in my case, for my _complexion_ too.

It's no longer wrinkled, every hair standing on end, like it is when you hear nails screeching on a chalkboard.

My beauty is remarkably enduring, Gran tells me.

Unlike my poor mother's.

When Gran says that, she says it like it's a distasteful admission she's been forced into making.

'She couldn't deal with it; couldn't handle her beauty, the way you can,' Gran once explained sadly. 'She placed the blame for her mishandling of life on her own beauty, silly girl!'

How could Mom have held her beauty responsible for Dad's leaving?

Surely, her beauty would have ensured he stayed close, loved her?

Wouldn't it?

Or, maybe, he felt her beauty was too much for him to handle. Some men, well, they end up fearing the very thing they desire, don't they?

How can they hope to hold on forever to such a beautiful woman?

I can only assume that that's the reason behind Dad's departure.

Mom's never explained.

Neither, strangely, has Gran.

Normally, she's very open when it comes to talking about beauty.

It's obviously very important to her.

So, does that mean she fears eventually losing it? As she must, as she ages?

Naturally – or should that be _unnaturally_? – she's so far managed to completely hold off the effects of time upon the way she looks.

How does she do it?

Maybe she'll tell me one day.

I inwardly chuckle excitedly at the thought of knowing her secret.

But, abruptly, my chuckle becomes a silent gasp of fear.

The silence is broken.

I can hear the most terrifying _scuttling_.

*

# Chapter 22

This time, thankfully, the scuttling isn't out in the corridor with me.

It's coming from beyond the walls.

I can tell by the way the noise changes, however, that just like before, this terrifyingly immense insect is effortlessly rushing up the walls. And just on the other side to where I'm standing too.

Then there's another change in the tones of its scuttling, a sign that it's reached the point where the ceiling meets the walls. Then the scuttling rapidly fades, as it rushes across that ceiling.

Then I remember; poor Mr Zhu, poor Mr Nisse.

They had been alive until I'd left, unfortunately leaving the door to their apartments open.

Perhaps, in this case, this odious, murderous insect has somehow got ahead of me, finding a way into the apartment without my help.

Not that I know who lives here. Not that I had ever intended to visit anyone living here.

This door has always been firmly, darkly closed whenever I've passed by.

I can pick up another noise coming from beyond the door.

A violin being played.

Beautifully, too.

It's not at all like Mr Orochi's pained screeching.

This is how a violin is meant to be played; harmoniously gratifying, relaxing, moving.

Which means that either our fearful insect is an amazingly talented musician; or the person living here is still thankfully alive.

*

I must admit, it wouldn't surprise me to open this door and find myself confronted by a giant insect movingly playing the violin.

In fact, the only thing that makes me doubt that I will is that I presume a large double bass would be more his style.

All those hands to run up and down the fingerboard, while also wielding a number of bows all at once; he'd be a virtuoso, wouldn't he?

Now, I've gotta confess my flesh creeps at the thought of opening this door; but if someone's still alive in here, I've gotta try and save them, right?

So I turn the handle as quietly, as slowly, as I'm able.

As it clicks free, I open the door equally slowly, equally quietly.

A beautifully elegant woman is seated on a simple wooden chair in the very centre of a remarkably plain yet filthy room. She plays the violin so intently, she weeps, lost in another world of the most profound emotions.

The only light comes from a bared light bulb hanging directly above her, leaving most of the room unlit, an apparently endless dark shadow.

And yet, rather than hiding away in the veiling darkness, the hideous insect excitably scuttles about in the edges of the light.

He's colossal, the size of a full grown man; and yet the woman is oblivious to his presence, so engrossed in her playing that she never, ever looks up towards where he waits, clinging effortlessly to the ceiling.

*

# Chapter 23

'I'm sorry; but I fear you might be in danger.'

Isn't that just great?

I mean, even when I'm hoping to save someone's life – and from a six-foot long insect at that – I go about it _ever_ so politely.

_'If I might be_ ever _so impolite..._ '

Maybe _that's_ how I should have introduced myself, right?

Or maybe I should just throw politeness to the wind and yell out that there's the most terrifying apparition I've ever seen hanging just above her.

Because, despite my attempt to warn her, she continues her playing uninterrupted.

She's so absorbed in her efforts to play so beautifully that even my entrance into her room isn't enough to attract her attention.

I'm worried, though, that simply hollering out to her might disturb the insect, causing it to instantly leap down upon this poor unsuspecting violinist.

Despite fears for my own safety, I step farther into the room, intending to get as close to her as necessary, seeing as how this seems to be the only way of drawing her attention to the fate awaiting her.

It's only when I'm so close to her that she can actually sense my presence that she actually glances up from her playing. Yet even now, she refuses to put her violin down.

She merely frowns, as if annoyed by my rude interruption. As if seeking an explanation for why I'm here, disturbing her.

'Your...life...is...in... _danger_ ,' I say, carefully enunciating every word, opening my mouth unnaturally wide in the hope that she can understand me even if she can't hear me over the melody she's playing.

At last, she regretfully slips the violin out from beneath her chin.

'Danger?' she repeats, as much bewildered as frightened.

Of course, she doesn't think to look up towards the ceiling. Rather, she peers fearfully into the room's darkened corners.

This is despite the insect's obviously agitated clicking of its antennae and legs. It's shuffling about suddenly, too, as if nervously responding to the ceasing of the calming melodies.

Maybe that's why the woman was playing; to calm the dangerous beast.

Or maybe it's my presence that has unnerved the creature.

Either way, it seems I have unwittingly placed the woman in more peril than ever, for the insect appears suddenly increasingly anxious and therefore an even greater danger.

'Let me take your hand,' I plead with the woman, reaching out to help her rise from her seat and exit the room.

She doesn't respond to my invitation to help her other than to make moves to return to the playing of her violin, expertly slipping it once more beneath her chin.

'I can't leave,' she insists. 'I _must_ play; to calm my brother.'

'Your _brother_?'

Now I'm the one to urgently, worriedly glance about the room, peering into the dark shadows.

I've neither seen nor heard any signs of any brother.

Even now, as she mentions him, he fails to reveal himself.

Is he already dead, perhaps, his body lying in the darkness of a corner?

Surely this woman would know; unless, of course, she's been driven mad by whatever she's witnessed?

'Yes,' the woman continues nonchalantly. 'He's become entirely unnerved by this murder of his neighbour.'

If she's already aware of the murders of poor Mr Zhu and Mr Nisse, then why isn't she acting more cautiously?

'So you _have_ heard of these murders?' I ask incredulously, while keeping a beady eye on the massive insect still hovering above us.

_'Murders_?' she says, startled, like this is suddenly news to her.'Then there's been _more_ than one?'

'Why yes, yes; which have you heard of? Mr Zhu or Mr Nisse?'

She abruptly appears more shocked than ever, now wide eyed in fear.

'I'd heard of _neither_!' she admits, her expression still one of complete horror. ' _I'm_ talking of Mr _Orochi'_

Suddenly, I'm the one who's startled.

This is a truly murderous beast we are sharing a room with.

Perhaps he doesn't even have to leap upon a victim but, like many other insects, can eject a venom that strikes people dead from a distance.

'Are you sure?' I ask hoarsely, wondering if she might be mistaken. 'How did you come to hear of this?'

'Why, the threads of title tattle spread quickly and wildly of course, reaching everywhere in a moment!'

I reach out to her once more, this time glaring at her far more sternly and forcibly than before.

'All the more reason why you must come with me, _now_!'

There is still no sign of her poor brother. And yet I fear this woman must have been truly driven mad as he succumbed to the attack of the beast, for she still insists that she must stay to help him.

'No, no! I rarely come here, but I came today to calm my brother down! If I don't, he'll surely leave here and move back in with us, which I couldn't abide!'

This time as she speaks, she at last raises her head; and forlornly stares at the massive cockroach clinging to the ceiling above her head.

And finally, I understand – the _beast_ is her brother.

*

# Chapter 24

'But how _can_ he be your brother?'

I'm dumbfounded. How can a sister and a brother be so remarkably – so impossibly – different?

'Do you think I haven't asked _myself_ that?' she snaps irately back at me. 'He woke up like this; until then, he'd been the most perfect of brothers!'

Could this be possible?

Can a man go to bed, and wake up a monster?

Well, why am I asking such a stupid question?

The proof lies before my very eyes!

And if he is so agitated by news of the death of Mr Orochi; well, then perhaps he's not a murderous monster at all, despite his horrendous form.

'You never said,' I point out to the clearly distressed woman, ' _how_ Mr Orochi died.'

'This is only from what I've heard, naturally,' she says, 'but it's said that his heart must have shattered like the most delicate glass when his precious cats deserted him.'

Ah, then I have to admit, it is indeed highly unlikely that this is the work of a gigantic cockroach. I have obviously sorely misjudged him, basing my false judgement purely upon his terrifying appearance.

'Please; you _must_ let me return to my playing!' the beautiful woman insists, lifting her violin into place and beginning to play before I have time to delay her any longer.

Her playing is beautiful, soothing, and quite emotionally stirring too, as if she is bringing out every hurt she feels into her music.

Her brother – this dreadfully hideous cockroach – is comforted by the gently rhythmic melody, the urgent clacking of his legs stilling, his movement now so restrained he could be asleep.

'It's such a terrible thing that has happened to him,' I say consolingly.

'To _him_?' the woman half hisses, half mumbles, as she continues to play her moving tune. 'And what of me and my parents, who now have to work? For, obviously, _he_ can no longer support us!'

She says this far more venomously than I might have expected of such a beautiful woman.

How can she blame her brother, this poor boy, when such a terrible thing has befallen him?

Why can't she see that his spirit, at least, remains pure and true?

I understand that we each have a spirit. And if we have a spirit, than why not animals too?

More than this though, we most also recognise that a tree – that in many cases might well be thousands of years old, a witness to events we could have no knowledge of – thereby has no less right to a spirit. What, as well, is a bush, but a small tree?

Would we deny the most beautiful of flowers a spirt too? Of course we can't! Nor can we deny it to those more bountiful plants, those that nourish us, or feed our animals!

So, even the tiniest blade of grass must have its spirit too.

What kind of spirit, then, lives in the soil that nourishes that which nourishes us?

Do we not sense spirit, even, in the vast stones raised in the landscape by those who came before us? Do we not sense it in the smallest pebble we run between our fingers?

If you don't, I can only pity you.

For spirit is everywhere about us.

Connecting us.

For what is the alternative? Why, that there is no spirit at all.

Which is surely _unthinkable_ , yes?

Somewhere then, deep within the unfortunate brother of this whining woman, his spirit might for the moment remain as pure and as untouched as it has always been. But for how long will it survive the trails of living now as such an ugly, repulsive creature?

How _could_ such an apparently blameless boy suffer such a horrible transformation?

If only there was _something_ I could do for him!

*

It's such an artfully accomplished, such a beautiful song, that seeps out into the corridor as I open the door and step out once more into the passageway.

Which is strange, as its creator is so peculiarly soulless.

The door slams shut behind me, the music abruptly muted, yet still causing the walls here and there to vibrate in joyful unison.

It's dark out in the corridor once more, another bulb having spluttered its last spark of life.

But I no longer fear the sound of scuttling.

*

# Chapter 25

'Helllooo, my little vixen.'

Ah, now _that_ does make my flesh creep. It just about creeps right across the floor in its eagerness to get out of here.

Even in the dark, I know its Dr Lopez.

Those silky tones of his, somehow laced with a potential mischief.

'You're late for your appointment, you know; but I suppose we can keep that as our little secret. As you know, I'm not one for crying tittle tattle to your dear mother.'

'I don't have an appointment, Doctor. There's nothing wrong with me.'

'Ah, well, you see; that _isn't_ as your _mother_ sees it, I'm afraid. She's says you've not been yourself of late. Please, step into my surgery; fortunately for you, I've had a cancellation.'

He pushes open the dark slab of door lying alongside him, the light from within his brightly lit surgery spilling everywhere about him.

'It will be a _full_ examination, naturally,' he says.

I don't need to tell you, do I, that he's a wolf?

*

'I can't see why I need to undress,' I insist vehemently.

'Your mother insisted _most_ vehemently,' Dr Lopez growls assuredly through large, gritted teeth. 'You've always trusted me before whenever I've asked to see you naked!'

'That was before I...when I was _younger_ ,' I point out determinedly.

He stares wryly at my hood and its new silvery pattern of pins.

'As yes; the pins, I see,' he states coolly.

The pins? What can they have to do with all this?

I'd like an answer, but not from him.

I don't wish to be beholden to him in any way.

'Look, you _must_ be tired from your journey,' he says silkily. 'Why exhaust yourself further by all this unnecessary arguing? Once you've taken off your clothes, you can lie down and rest on my couch.'

I sigh.

He will only tell my mother if I refuse him.

'How can he cure you unless he inspects you?' she will say, as she always does when I complain of Dr Lopez and his unwanted attentions.

I shall simply have to watch out for any inappropriate behaviour. And stop him _then_ , if needs be.

'Where should I put my cloak?' I ask as I begin to remove it.

'Oh, throw it on the fire,' he says with a nod over towards where a weak flame spurts in an old grate. 'Surely you no longer have any use for such childish garb!'

I stop partway through removing my robe.

'I wouldn't want to rid myself of my hood just yet,' I protest. 'It's the finest and purest there is, Mother assures me.'

'Oh come now,' Dr Lopez sneers impatiently, using an imperious wave of a hand to tell me to continue undressing, 'I fear you'll soon find your precious hood can't avoid being ruined by the piercing of all these pins. If you must persist in not fully throwing off your childhood fancies, how can you ever hope to be cured of these monthly pains you've begun suffering?'

'Wait,' I say suddenly, once again half way through removing my cloak. 'There _is_ something I must ask you first.'

'Of course, of course,' he grins hugely, expectantly, relishing granting me an answer, for he knows I will then be indebted to him. 'I know what you wish to know; you need to understand the meaning of the pins, yes?'

I shake my head.

Dr Lopez's bushy eyebrows rise high in surprise, his teeth grinding in disappointment.

Of course, I do indeed wish to know the meaning of the Path of Pins; and yet there is something that bothers me far more.

'Doctor, do you know why a person with a just and true spirit could be rendered ugly beyond belief?'

He frowns, as if gnawing awhile at this question.

'Speaking as a surgeon, my little vixen, I myself am responsible for all manner of transformations. The _nipping_ of flesh, the _injection_ and _transfusion_ of the right blood, and _voilà_ ; a _transubstantiation_ is achieved. And a form that is in my eyes of far greater beauty and far more to my liking stands before you.'

'Would you change the flesh of your grandmother?' a bee hums agitatedly at the closed window.

'Throw something at that noisy bee!' Dr Lopez orders me.

With nothing else to hand, I grab at and pull out a number of pins from my cloak, sending then scattering nosily against the glass and scaring off the startled bee.

'Would you change the blood of your grandmother?'

A grey she-wolf has poked her long nose around the door; Adolpha Luna, I believe she is called, Dr Lopez's one-time assistant.

'Throw something at that noisy she-wolf!' Dr Lopez commands.

Thankfully, I don't need to throw anything Adolpha's way; recognising the anger in the doctor's voice, she quickly slinks away.

'I think you're beyond the childishness of the Path of Pins,' Dr Lopez declares firmly, stepping forward to help me fully remove my cloak, his blood rushing, his teeth bared in his determination. 'Let me introduce you, my little vixen, to the Path of Needles.'

My flesh creeps right across the floor.

*

# Chapter 26

You know how it is when you step out from the brightest of lights, moving into a complete darkness.

It's quite a while before you can begin to make out anything at all.

Maybe I should have left the door open a little, using its narrow sliver of light to help me navigate the rest of the way along the corridor.

Despite the darkness, I can sense that Adolpha is with me, if only briefly.

Of course, it's too late for her, for any further changes.

But she thanks me anyway, with a lick of my hand.

My skin tickles delightfully, appreciating her warmth and love.

*

Elsewhere about my body, my skin shrieks at what it has suffered.

Is this what comes of being beautiful, desirable?

Must everyone treat me as if my beauty must also be theirs?

It's a gift, they say.

An _unfair_ gift, they mean, but do _not_ say.

So why can't I _share_ it?

Why can a _part_ of it not also be _mine_? they mean.

It's at times like this that I can't help but hate my own beauty, as ridiculous as it sounds.

Wouldn't I be left completely alone, if I no one desired me.

Why can't I just break free of my skin, of who I am?

And yet...what of that poor boy who became the most undesirable thing of all?

Yes, surely, no one wishes to share in _that_ , do they?

Not even his sister.

And isn't that the most dreadful thing of all?

So who am I to complain?

*

The pins stuck everywhere about my cloak pick up even the dim light available in the corridor, reflecting back to play like patterns of shimmering water upon the nearby walls.

Everywhere else, however, the corridor remains impossibly dark, a lack of light that seems to have gained a physical presence, a solidity.

Yet, naturally, it is a darkness that is not completely impenetrable.

Within it now, just ahead of me, I can hear a familiar scuttling.

A scuttling that rushes along the walls, scurries rapidly across the ceiling, and slips down the corridor's other side.

Then the scuttling stops.

The cockroach – the boy – waits there, blocking my path.

'The Path of Pins.'

It isn't my voice; it's his, I can only presume.

'You don't know what it entails, do you?' he adds.

*

# Chapter 27

'I won't ever know, either, if you insist on blocking my way,' I tell him, hoping I'm hiding the nervousness in my own voice.

'He died, you know; Dr Lopez?'

Am I hearing him correctly?

His voice is far from being the clearest I've ever heard; in truth, I doubt that anyone else would be able to understand him at all.

'Surely not Dr Lopez too?' I sigh resignedly, adding – for I now presume, of course, that he's not responsible for this rash of deaths, 'Who do you think could be doing this; all these horrific murders, I mean?'

I do believe he shakes what passes for his head.

'Who can say?' he says. 'It seems in his case it was a faulty blood transfusion; a rush of blood overwhelming his own.'

'How do you know this? How can you be so certain?' I ask.

'This entire building, well, it's a web of intrigue, isn't it? Sent all a tremble when something unusual is caught up within its threads.'

Then I remember.

It seemed only a moment ago that he'd been about to inform me of the meaning of the Path of Pins, only to abruptly distract me by bringing up Dr Lopez's sad demise.

'What does the Path of Pins entail?' I ask, recalling his own choice of words to remind him that he'd brought the subject up. 'Have you ever travelled along it too?'

'I travelled widely when younger,' he begins sadly. 'As a travelling salesman, a job I hated, it was so boring. But I not only had my family to support – I'd also saved enough to fulfil Grete's wildest dream. I was about to announce I would pay for her to attend the conservatory, where she could pursue her other dream to be an accomplished violinist; only for my own nightmare to begin when I woke up like this.'

He clicks his legs irritably, then, with a prolonged sigh, appeared to slump lower to the ground, as if abruptly weakened in spirit.

'Now she wishes to be rid of me; as do my parents.'

Naturally, I'm eager to hear his explanation of the meaning behind the Path of Pins. And yet I sense it would be both unfair and cruel to interrupt him solely for my own benefit.

He draws a little closer to me, raises his head to look up towards me.

This time, his voice is sorrowful and pleading.

'Would you – for I know you _could_ – would you help me release my family from the burden I've imposed upon them?'

*

# Chapter 28

Maybe I should have insisted he told me more about this Path of Pins

But, unfortunately, the moment didn't seem right.

And now, of course, it is too late.

It was his wish.

His dreadful sister is freed.

On the threads of air now there is a weeping; the weeping of a beautifully played violin.

*

There is such emotion in this song, this playing.

All of it heartfelt, I'm sure.

Her brother is dead.

He's now nothing more than a husk, left blocking a corridor.

It's a sad lament, this melody.

But there are many other emotions that are missing from this tune.

Or, rather, they are being deliberately hidden.

For I know they are emotions and qualities she is guilty of subscribing to.

_Relief_.

How can you be relieved that your brother is dead?

_Hypocrisy_.

She plays this mournful song, like this all such a great loss to her; and yet isn't this precisely what she had wished for, and for so long too?

_Foolishness_.

She doesn't hide her crueller qualities as well as she believes.

Well, not from _me_ , anyway.

Not that that would bother her too much.

As long as she can hide the truth from herself.

*

# Chapter 29

These are the things the web of this building quite naturally picks up.

Not just dreams, but also nightmares.

For where does one become the other?

There are a couple here who dream of being parents.

They have shared this dream for so long now.

It's a dream, then, that tortures them nightly.

This is their own lament, one far more full of truth than the weeping violin could ever manage to possess.

There is so much dust about me, so useless, an irritation as it whirls in the air, vibrating to the melodies of the violin, the waves of the dreams.

All it needs is a spare, freshly netted spirit, presently given only a temporary abode.

A spirit that will bring it all together and give it all a new form.

Taking away the cloth covering the still hot loaves, I plunge my fingers into the fleshy baked dough, breaking its bread-like texture, crumbling it in my hands to release the spirit requiring a new home.

Before I do this, though, I must know.

And so I ask the spirit for his name.

'You never told me; you only gave me your sister's name,' I explain.

'Gregor; it's Gregor,' he says happily, smiling.

'And the Path of Pins; you never told me of that either,' I say.

*

# Chapter 30

'What time did I have for courtship?' Gregor sighs. 'I was so busy.'

It seems, however, that despite his traveling, Gregor did attract the interest of a young – and he assures me, very delicately pretty – apprentice seamstress.

Naturally, she was still learning her trade. Yet she was also picking up other things from working with the more experienced seamstresses who shared her building.

Mainly, how to dress up and adorn herself.

Refining her behaviours, too; working out how to compose herself when in the company of others.

Growing up, in other words, and remarkably quickly too, by all accounts.

She was 'gathering pins', as the other seamstresses called it, with knowing chuckles. Reaching an age and an understanding when it would be deemed safe for her to seek a sweetheart.

What did Gregor look like at this time?

Well, he was much younger then. Little more than an apprentice in his own trade.

Learning the tricks of the business, of life.

He paid court to his pretty little maiden by gifting her dozens of pins.

'Yes, yes; it seems _most_ mean, I agree!' Gregor stammers defensively when he catches me frowning here. 'Yet it was a symbolic offering; the way others might present a bouquet of flowers. For the chosen girl was then supposed to cast her pins into a fountain, as only in this way could she be assured that she would win her sweetheart.'

'Is that all it is; this Path of Pins?' I ask, confused and yet still curious. 'It all sounds so horribly arduous; so very very painful!'

_'Isn't_ it arduous? And _always_ painful?' Gregor says a touch miserably. 'If you believe it's an easy journey to make, then I envy you; as I'm sure a great many others presently following this path will envy you too!'

'Then...the pins in the fountain?'

He shrugs resignedly.

'Maybe...maybe she thought I _was_ mean; for I had little to spend on her, what with the family to support and the conservatory fees I knew I'd be paying.'

'What of the Path of Needles? Do you know anything about that?'

He shakes his head.

'It sounds more painful still, doesn't it?' he observes mournfully. 'Maybe that's the path you invariably take if you've failed to come safely to the end of the Path of Pins?'

It's a reasonable assumption to make, I suppose. Yet I sense it's not the correct answer.

Hadn't I been offered the choice between the two paths?

How could that be if one had to be attempted before the other?

'I think you deserved her; this girl you lost,' I say candidly.

'Thank you,' he replies, managing a wan smile.

He looks so hurt when he smiles I reach forward and kiss him on his sadly formed lips.

My skin prickles at his tender touch, his warmly responsive embrace, a pleasant pins and needles sensation.

But...is this _natural_?

My _ankle_ feels _ever_ so _odd_!

*

It's a sensation not unlike the sudden unloosening of an incredibly tight grip on a wrist, arm or leg.

A grip you've become so used to, you've become inured to it; and so, to all intents and purposes, it doesn't exist.

Like an annoyingly continuous humming sound, which your brain automatically blocks out to prevent you being driven crazy.

You're not even aware of it being there anymore.

At least, not until it suddenly vanishes.

Then you instantly know _something's_ changed. That something that _was_ there _isn't_ there anymore.

I whirl around, glance behind me, down towards my ankle.

What the heck is _that_?

It's still dark, like the crookedly constructed tunnel of a mine. Yet in what little light there is, I can just make something out, something urgently rushing away from me – writhing, retreating, like a serpent abruptly realising it's tried to take on something far too big to swallow.

Like a serpent that, for an awful long time, has had its jaws locked around my ankle without me ever being aware of it.

*

# Chapter 31

There are no marks on my ankle.

No puncture holes, as you might expect of a serpent's fangs.

There's not even any reddening of the skin, the sort of rash you might get if something has been tied about your flesh for too long.

'What was it?' Gregor asks.

Ah, so _he_ saw it too.

I hadn't _imagined_ it.

'I don't know,' I confess.

'Are you all right? Are you hurt?' he asks concernedly.

I shake my head.

'I don't feel any different at all to be honest.'

But I'm lying.

It's just that I can't explain _how_ I feel, let alone _why_ I should feel this way.

I feel bereft.

Like I'm nothing but a husk of the person I'd been only a moment ago.

*

'It's nothing,' I insist

I fear this might be far more truthful than I'd ever intended.

Isn't that what I feel like?

_Nothing_?

Empty?

I forcibly shake off my confusion.

There is another shapeless husk to be dealt with, one requiring my attention.

The dust and loaves need kneading into a more pleasing shape before being given life.

Thine eyes did see my light form, raw material yet unformed.

I look towards Gregor, taking him in as he is now, assuring him that this time his parents will be a better choice.

Upon the yet to be born child, I inscribe a word, _Treow_ : Truth.

And in thy book all my members were written, which in continuance were fashioned, when as yet there was none of them.

As I let him go, I whisper into the pained dreams of those about to be his parents.

'Take care of him to the letter,' I warn them, 'for without the cross of the T, his name shall be _reow_ : fierce, and cruel.'

*

# Chapter 32

'I think, maybe, we're getting a little ahead of ourselves?'

Gran is _here_ , standing somewhere in the darkened corridor with me!

'Granma! What are you doing here? I'm on my way to visit _you_!'

'So I heard,' she chuckles. 'It's a good job I came looking for you too, it seems; are you really ready, do you think, to perform such miraculous acts?'

I frown, puzzled by Gran's bizarre accusation.

Just what is it that I'm supposed to have done?

Miraculous acts?

'Why, all I've done is run an errand for Mom,' I protest innocently. 'What could possibly be so miraculous about _that_?'

'Indeed,' Gran replies sceptically. She eyes the basket, probably detects, too, the delicious fragrance of the fresh baking. 'Let me guess; you've brought me some of my daughter's loaves, yes?'

'Precisely, Granma!' I say, smiling warmly and pulling back the covering cloth to reveal the loaves lying in the bottom of the basket.

But apart from the small cloth, a few scattered crumbs, my basket is bare.

'Oh, but...I don't _understand_ , Gran!' I insist, truly horrified that I must have dropped them along the way. 'I could have _sworn_ I set out with them in my basket!'

*

'Maybe,' Gran says with a wry, questioning grin (which, obviously, I can't see in the darkness of the corridor, but I can easily detect in her familiar tones), 'you're hoping to hide them from me?'

'No, no, Granma,' I insist, appalled that she could even accuse me of such a thing, 'I wouldn't _ever_ do _anything_ so _foolish_!'

It's so dark here that I can hardly make Gran out.

I always get the impression that the darkness of these corridors never really bothers her. She even seems to relish the darkness, which is odd, with her being so incredibly beautiful.

Anyone else blessed with such beauty wouldn't want to hide it away.

Not that Gran wishes to hide it either, of course. I would say she delights in her beauty far more than she does the darkness.

Nevertheless, the darkness does seem to have some kind of hold over her. Like it's more substantial than light, more physically real; whereas light, naturally, feels and appears more spiritual.

Maybe it's because darkness is more suited to brooding, for thinking deeply upon a subject.

There's nothing to distract you, is there, in a darkened room?

Her room – or her lair, as she jokingly calls it – is often spectacularly dark. Spectacular is the right word, too. When darkened, the room appears to stretch on endlessly everywhere about you, a sense enhanced by the glittering stars she's had painted on an ultramarine ceiling.

Sitting with her in her room, briefly maintaining a perfect silence, it's easy to imagine yourself sitting at the very hub of the universe, seeking out the many geometrical patterns linking everything together.

And so to be told off by someone as wonderful as my Gran is, well, quite, quite dreadful!

I breathe a sigh of relief when she doesn't appear to anywhere near as angry as I'd supposed she was.

'So, you really _can't_ recall what you used your mother's loaves for, can you?'

'I didn't _eat_ them, Granma! I swear!'

Even in the darkness, I can tell Gran is smiling, gratified by my concern and honesty. I can see the smile, too, in her eyes, eyes glittering with the sparkle of the pins pinioned within my cloak.

'No, I don't think you did, my dear Lorie,' she says with a hint of a satisfied chuckle. 'Maybe all those people you met on the way helped themselves to your loaves when you weren't looking?'

I think about this for a brief moment.

'Yes, yes; that _could_ be it!' I say with yet another sigh of relief.

Not, of course, that I'm sure it is.

Wouldn't I have heard, or at least sensed, something was wrong?

I mean, it's not like I owe these guys anything, is it? I've got every reason to dislike them, maybe even hate them.

But is it right to let them take the blame for this?

Aren't I being just a tad hypocritical making out they're at fault here, when it's more likely all down to me?

I must have dropped them at some point.

But I don't want to admit that to Gran.

I don't want her thinking I'm clumsy, or irresponsible.

Maybe this is something I _can_ hide from _her_.

But it's one thing I can't hide from _myself_.

*

# Chapter 33

Gran's room, as usual, is almost as dark as the corridor.

Above us, however, spread everywhere across what could be a lapis lazuli ceiling, are stars that glitter as wonderfully as sun-sparkling dew caught within a web.

The similarly darkened walls blend seamlessly into this webbed sky, their existence in doubt. I believe there are doors to other rooms I've never been allowed to enter, but here the walls themselves appear to have entirely dissolved, opening up onto other, new worlds.

No; not _new_ worlds.

_Old_ worlds.

Worlds _far_ older than our own, this glittering world of uncountable stars.

Now, why would I think _that_?

What an odd sensation.

I've never thought of Gran's lair in this way before whenever I've been here.

Maybe it's because...well, didn't something _odd_ happen out in the corridor?

I'm sure it did – but I can't quite clearly recall it, whatever it was.

Wasn't I feeling a little strange, a touch empty – yes, _that_ was it, wasn't it?

Like I'd been hollowed out, made into nothing much more than a husk; like Mom.

I still feel a bit hazy, even now, but definitely not as bad as I was, now I'm in familiar surroundings.

'I know you've had quite a journey here, child,' Gran says kindly, pouring me a drink from the pot of tea she has made for us. 'It's your waif-like innocence, you see: many find it irresistible, fooling themselves into believing you're seeking and need lessons in love.'

As Gran sits down at the table with me, the flame of the candle set in the top's centre briefly flickers excitedly.

Gran reaches across the table, placing a consoling hand upon mine.

Suddenly, I feel entirely whole again.

I mean, that sense of loss, of emptiness, I'd first experienced only a moment ago, has thankfully vanished.

I no longer feel bereft.

I'm no longer just a husk; I'm _me_ once again!

'Unfortunately, your beauty will always be a magnet for unwanted attention,' Gran affectionately warns me. 'But I _can_ help you, you know?'

*

Naturally, I believe Gran _can_ help me.

She's so understanding, after all.

Far more than Mom could ever hope to be.

Mom, she's been a spiritless husk _forever_.

Maybe it's because she never fully trusted Gran?

Maybe, like me, if she'd come here to see Gran, she'd have suddenly felt whole again too?

Who knows what goes through Mom's head?

Probably not even her, I suspect.

'Is that really what causes all my troubles?' I ask Gran innocently. 'My beauty?'

'Not your beauty,' Gran replies with a concerned smile, 'so much as the desire it arouses in others.'

My only desire is to please Gran.

I don't want to end up like Mom, a mere apparition of someone who must, at one time, have been every bit as beautiful as Gran.

'Can't I have one without the other?' I ask naively.

Gran caringly places her other hand upon mine, cupping it tenderly.

'As long as you continue to trust me, you have nothing to fear,' she assures me.

*

A cold breeze swirls about my ankles, my skin prickling.

I've never known Gran's apartment to suffer from any unwanted draughts.

Glancing down towards my feet, where it's as dark as anywhere else, the already weak candlelight completely blocked by the table's top, I vainly try to work out where the draught could be coming from.

Looking farther about me, I at last catch what could be an urgent vibrating of the darkness, or a wave of flowing, disturbed dust hovering just above the floor.

Something swiftly rushing towards me, elongating as it does so, a writhing serpent of movement.

_The_ serpent!

Yes, I _remember_ now!

It's the serpent I'd seen coiling away from me just after Gregor had kissed me.

*

# Chapter 34

'A snake!' I yell fearfully.

As I leap up from the table in horror, my chair is sent violently spinning back into the darkness.

Startlingly, it makes no sound as it falls – if, indeed, it _does_ actually fall.

And so far from being scared away, the serpent continues its writhing approach.

'I've seen it before!'

I can't drag my foot away; it's like it's obstructed by or even caught amongst the legs of the fallen chair.

But I see now that it's not a snake slithering towards me.

It's a thread, a _glittering_ thread. A thread that seems to be alive

'What _is_ it? It had a grip on my ankle – when I'd seen it before, I mean!'

Gran remains strangely clam throughout my horrified reaction to the snaking thread.

'Oh come now, my child,' she says reassuringly. 'And what could be so wrong with that?'

With an airy wave of a hand, she asks me to take my seat once more.

The chair stands upright beside me, as if it had never, ever fallen, or even been knocked over.

And if that's so, why couldn't I move my foot out of the way of the thread now swiftly, silently, snaking about my ankle?

'Had you ever noticed it before?' Gran asks me coolly. 'You were never aware of it, were you? And yet it was through this thread that we maintained our all-important connection.'

My skin is attempting to resist the contracting of the thread, like the way it shrinks away at the merest hint of the most loathsome touch. That's the only thing, I realise, that is taking the thread so long to bind me.

The thread is confused; it's not used to being noticed, let alone refused.

'Let...it... _be_ , Lorie!' Gran firmly insists, tightening the grip of her hands on mine.

And so I relent.

And so does my skin.

And the thread tightly wraps about my ankle.

*

Now the thread binds me once more, it is once again totally invisible.

Totally unnoticeable.

Even my tender skin is suddenly unaware of the thread's binding presence.

As if it has been forgotten already.

Hidden deep, beyond the recall of our memories.

Yet _I_ know it's there.

And I also know I'm not _supposed_ to know it's there.

*

# Chapter 35

Gran pours me another cup of tea.

I hadn't drunk the first cup; I'd spilled it when I'd leapt up from the table, knocking the cup over.

Like the chair, however, the cup has been righted. The spilt tea has simply vanished, the tablecloth as sparklingly pure as it had been when we'd first sat at the table.

Gran acts like nothing unusual has occurred.

'So, was it a pleasant journey here, Lorie?' she asks with a gracious smile.

'Of course, Granma,' I lie, hoping that I'm managing to hide the truth from her.

I can't remember _everything_ about my journey, I realise.

But of course, I don't know _which_ bits I can't remember.

It's just a sense I have that there are some blanks in the recollection of my journey here.

'I worry for you sometimes you know, my dear,' Gran say, suitably frowning worriedly.

'Do you Granma?' I reply innocently. 'Surely there's nothing for you to worry about?'

I can only hope I seem to be acting as Gran's expecting me to act.

Its difficult, isn't it, trying to act natural when you know things you're not supposed to know?

'Granma,' I ask as innocuously as I can manage, 'do you know anything of the Path of Pins? And the Path of Needles?'

Gran frowns again, this time as she gives my question a brief moment of careful thought.

'I can't say I do,' she says at last. 'But they both sound like they should be _avoided_ , if you ask me.'

*

Out in the corridor, it's even darker than it had been in Gran's lair.

I've got my basket, now empty. Not, of course, because I've completed my errand, and delivered the hot loaves safely to Gran.

I remember that, somewhere on my journey here, I'd managed to lose them.

Not that I'm _supposed_ to remember this.

As Gran had shown me to her door, kissed me on the cheek and waved me goodbye, she'd told me to distinctly remember to thank Mom for the loaves.

'Tell her I'm sure they're every bit as delicious as they smell!' she'd added with a warm smile.

*

# Chapter 36

So, Gran's _hiding_ something; but what?

Hiding something from me, too, to the extent that she's making sure I forget certain things.

How's she doing that?

This damn thread binding me by the ankle, I reckon.

When the previous thread binding me had broken – yes, I _can_ remember _that_ – I'd suddenly felt empty, bereft; and yet I'd also felt...

Well, I'm not quite sure _what_ I'd felt.

It was a sensation I'm not used to experiencing; a sensation I've never had before.

And so, just as you can never remember something you've been made – or, maybe, made _yourself_ – forget, so you can't put a name to something you've never experienced before.

Does that make sense?

I'm sure it does.

What did I do to break free of the thread?

I really, really can't _remember_ anymore!

This thread – this _connection_ to Gran – is making damn sure of that!

Just as her room, her lair, had made me forget how I'd come to lose the loaves.

As long as I'm linked like this to Gran, I'm never, ever going to be _really_ free, am I?

*

She means well, I suppose; after all, it is _Gran_ , isn't it?

She's always looking out for me.

This is just her way of ensuring I'll always be safe.

Hasn't she always said she felt a definite connection between us?

Obviously, this is what she meant; it's a way of keeping tabs on me, making sure I don't go naively wandering of, getting myself involved in things I don't understand.

And haven't I always said I feel awful because I don't have any sense of connection with Mom?

Sure I have; _plenty_ of times.

So what am I complaining about?

Obviously, Gran cares so much for me, she's gone to an awful lot of trouble somehow conjuring up some kind of magical link between us.

Keeping me safe.

Keeping me out of trouble.

Or, maybe, at the _very_ least, _warning_ her when I'm _close_ to getting myself into trouble.

Yeah, maybe that's how it works, this magical, connecting thread.

What else could it possibly be?

*

# Chapter 37

You know, the more I think of it, the more I realise this connecting thread of Gran's _is_ a good idea.

This corridor, like all the others, is badly lit.

Most of the bulbs packed it in years ago. The rest are spinning out the last dregs of life, spluttering and wheezing like old men.

It's not really possible to see where you're going; like you're in a fog, and the most you can ever hope to make out is a couple of yards lying ahead of you.

Thankfully, the corridors are reasonably straight, and I've walked along here countless times.

That, probably, is why I can sense there's something different about this corridor today.

In the darkness lying just outside my limited sphere of vison, there's something blocking my way.

No, not _something_.

_Someone_.

*

'Who's there?' I ask nervously, wondering if Gran can pick up the tremors in my voice, in my very soul.

Dr Lopez; _please_ don't let it be _Dr Lopez_!

Please, also, _don't_ let it be that awful, massive insect I hear scuttling around on a night; facing _that_ horrible thing would be even worse than facing Dr Lopez!

There's no answer, apart from what sounds like a short step forwards, a step closer towards me.

It's not a _scuttling_ , thankfully; so, it's _not_ the insect, then.

He takes another step towards me, stepping into the dim edge of my sphere of vison; yes, it's a _he_.

But not a _man_.

It's a _boy_.

The most beautiful boy I've ever seen.

Weirdly, though, he has a word written on his forehead

_Treow_.

Truth.

'Who _are_ you?' I ask curiously.

*

# Chapter 38

_Truth_.

Maybe if it had been some other word – maybe, for that matter, if there had been no word at all, seeing as how he's come out of the darkness unannounced, and is completely blocking my way – I'd have turned and run.

What, for instance, if that simple word _Treow_ had merely lacked that all-important T?

Then it would have been _reow_ : fierce, and cruel.

Surely, then, I _would_ have run?

Strange, isn't it, that such a minute difference in his appearance could have conjured up such entirely different reactions within me?

'My dream...' he says, staring at me with an expression of wonderment that I fear I might be replicating as I gaze awestruck at him. 'My dream was right; you _are_ beautiful!'

'You dreamed of me?' I ask, both curious and flattered; even though I recognise this is probably no more than some ridiculous poetic licence on his part.

_'Every_ night,' he says, as if this really really _has_ to be the _truth_. 'Every night since I was _born_.'

*

Have I ever seen him in _my_ dreams?

No; I don't think so.

And yet...there's something about him I find strikingly _familiar_.

As if he's someone I _should_ remember.

Gran's protecting thread; is _that_ preventing me from remembering him?

But then, even _he_ doesn't seem to think we've actually ever _met_ : he's just seen me in his dreams, he claims.

Which _could_ be a lie.

Despite the word on his forehead; _Truth_.

Whatever am I to make of him?

*

# Chapter 39

Dreams are far more important than I'm giving them credit for.

I _know_ this, _somehow_ ; _know_ it for _sure_.

Why?

Why am I so confident dreams are more than just...well, _dreams_?

Dreams are seen as just that, aren't they? Wishful thinking, at best? Weird experiences, when we've got no control over them?

Yet dreams can be sensed; caught – acted upon.

I _know_ because...because...

No; I _don't_ know why!

*

'This dream,' I ask the boy, 'how did you know that I'd be _here_? And here at exactly this precise _time_ too?'

Surely he hasn't been waiting here for _ever_!

No, of course he hasn't – I'd have seen him before now, passed him on my way to Gran's, or on the way back.

'Although I saw you standing here every night, I could never know exactly where "here" was!' the boy confesses sadly. 'Otherwise, I'd have had to wait here endlessly for you, frightened I'd miss you. As it was, I feared I'd have no way of ever finding this place, this time; but then, tonight, as I dreamt of you – suddenly, I was _here_ , with you!'

He's here in _spirit_ then?

Or is it something to do with his consciousness, separating form his body, his flesh?

Yet he seems to me to be perfectly substantial.

'I'm sorry,' I say to him, realising I need to see for myself if he's real enough; even if by _seeing_ I actually mean _feeling_ , 'but...may I touch you?'

'Of course,' he grins, like he's relishing me drawing closer, touching him.

I reach for his hand, touch him; he's real.

My skin...my skin _delights_ at the sensation of holding his hand in mine.

A connection; a connection far more wonderful than the connection I have with my gran.

And suddenly, I understand what is meant, what is entailed, by the Path of Needles.

*

# Chapter 40

The Path of Needles; it's the path Mom took.

And Gran never forgave her for taking it.

For 'trying to grow up too quickly'.

And yet it was through Mom taking the Path of Needles that I came about.

How do I know this?

I don't know; I just suddenly _do_.

Mom's thread was severed, just as mine was – yes, I remember that too now!

It was when I kissed this boy – Gregor, yes, that's his name!

In Mom's case, however, the connection could _never_ be repaired.

She had gone too far. Too far along the Path of Needles.

So Gran had punished her. Throwing her spirit down into a whole other world, a world of the most complete, infinite darkness: the First World.

Leaving Mom wholly hollow, a sad, empty piece of flesh.

Even so, even though I might well be risking suffering a similar fate, I realise now what I have to do.

It's time.

Time I broke free of the nurse strings and made my own way in the world.

And this time, I won't allow Gran to attach another thread to me. I have to take responsibility for the decisions I make, no matter how many mistakes I make, no matter how arduous my life becomes.

'May I kiss you?' I ask the boy.

This place, it catches dreams, like a spider's web caches unwary, fluttering butterflies. And here they're not ephemeral, brief, fleeting and insubstantial, but given reality, body – flesh.

The boy's grin is wider, happier than ever.

'Naturally,' he answers, bending, bringing his face, his lips, closer to mine.

And as our lips touch, and meld, as if made to fit so perfectly one against the other, we also embrace, our arms curving about and wrapping around the other, pulling each tighter, closer.

Like this, we could be one, not two, our souls entwining, our separating, constricting flesh no longer of importance to us.

It might as well have vanished.

Have never, ever existed.

Naturally, I can no longer sense any feeling, or even any sensation, about my ankle.

And yet I know the thread has gone.

As if it might never, ever have existed.

*

I don't need to glance over my shoulder, looking behind me, back into the darkness, to know that the thread is shrivelling away from me, like it's recoiling in horror, a witness to something it would have preferred neither to see nor experience.

Why is this – a simple kiss, an embrace – so abhorrent to it?

So abhorrent, obviously, to Gran?

Did she really expect me to retain my innocence for ever?

Even as the thread so hurriedly retreats, I sense something else rushing towards me, reaching out, eager to take the thread's place.

_Another_ thread?

_Another_ connection?

As _softer_ , more _pleading_ connection.

_Mom_.

Mom's _calling_ me.

*

# Chapter 41

It's a darkness like no other I've experienced.

A complete darkness; a sense that no light has _ever_ shone here.

The First World.

There's land, because I'm standing on it.

Air, too, because I'm breathing it.

Water, as I can hear it.

Chuckling, murmuring, as only water can, as if it's talking to you.

Because yes, language exists here too I realise.

Someone is whispering to me.

Mom.

Mom's speaking, softly, to me.

Mom's spirit is here with me.

*

'Mom; where _are_ you?' I ask concernedly. 'I can't _see_ you!'

'We've been apart for so, so long...'

Mom's voice isn't at all clear. If fades in and out, and it's already frustratingly quiet, soft, and trembling.

Maybe I didn't really hear her correctly; maybe I just heard what I _wanted_ to hear her saying.

Maybe I'm imagining I'm hearing her voice, and it's just some other variation of the mumbling of the waters in the darkness.

At least it makes me turn around and look everywhere about me, looking for some sign of Mom.

Nothing.

I can't see Mom, not in this endless darkness.

I can't hear her anymore either.

I can just hear the trickling of the water, whispering over the pebbles of its bed.

Glancing over to where I can hear that soft whispering, I begin at last to make out something in the otherwise sheer darkness; a rippling of the dimmest light, something more of the dullest greys than anything silvery, as might be expected in any world but this one.

Amongst the greys, however, I begin to discern a black with a hint of blue, as I'm told the sea might look far out from land. And within that midnight blue, I see the beginnings of an only slightly lighter blue, the blue of waters so deep, any light struggles to reach there.

And yet that means there _is_ a light, if one illuminating a surface so far above, it is here nothing but the merest hint.

Yet there's not supposed to be any light in this First World of pure darkness.

Which means I must be looking at another world.

The Second World.

*

# Chapter 42

The Second World is where the very first spirits came to be, waiting for the day when another world, a world of physical forms, of flesh, would be created.

I'm not supposed to be able to see the Second World from here in the First. That's why Mom was placed here, beyond all connection with the other worlds.

And yet, like the coming together of these spirits, somehow a connection _was_ formed.

A connection created between me and Mom, despite all the restrictions created by Gran.

And it is because of this very connection that I know all this.

What _is_ that connection?

Another thread?

I don't think so.

Peering deeper into the blue waters, into the other world, a memory of the source of that connection begins to come together before me.

The boy.

He waited here as he waited to be born; half in the Second World, half in the Fourth World, the Glittering World of all matter.

Naturally, any spirit has to forget he or she was ever here. But this boy, he had dreams, dreams of a girl he felt destined to meet – and when we met, the connec–

No, no; the connection came _before_ even that, didn't it?

For _I_ was the one who had arranged for the boy to be here.

This is Gregor, of course.

I'd been made to forget.

But I remember it all now.

*

But...if all this is true, then how can Gregor be with me now?

There's been no time to...

Yes, _naturally_ there's been no time; where these worlds come together, there's no time at all!

Gran's 'lair' is the Third World, from where she weaves the patterns of the starry sky determining our every move.

'It's more than that, far more than that,' the soft whispers warn me.

'Mom?'

I whirl about, hoping I might at last be rewarded with at least a glimpse of Mom; my real Mom, the one who should have been with me throughout all my years of growing up.

'Where are you?' I groan miserably. 'Why can't I _see_ you?'

'Every artery of life stems from Esdza Na'acdjei; everything is a part of and a connection in her expansive web.'

I see what could be exposed red arteries taking shape before me. There are also the blurred threads of veins.

All, too, in an increasingly human shape.

Mom is taking shape before me!'

*

# Chapter 43

'Naturally, your Gran wanted some way of experiencing her creation, especially its myriad of exhilarating emotions; a way ensuring the flattery, the love, would only add to her beauty, while the ill effects of jealousies and cruelties were avoided.'

It's clearer than ever now that Mom really is gradually taking form before me. Although bare of details, she already has the elegant, graceful body of a beautiful woman, while her long, flowing hair tumbles everywhere about her.

Yet those threads of red and blue I'd assumed where the veins awaiting a covering of flesh are still unnaturally visible, and joined by strands of green and yellow, all of them fluttering about her like wispy flower tendrils caught in a breeze.

'And so what better way was there to do that than to live her life through her beautiful daughter?'

It's hard to tell if the woman who appears before is indeed incredibly beautiful.

Her face is warped in agony.

And every inch of her skin has been pierced by needles, from which colourful threads gaily flutter.

*

# Chapter 44

'Mom!'

I'm horrified.

I'm alarmed, incredibly concerned, wondering if there's any way I can help alleviate the incredible pain Mom must be suffering.

I want to reach out and hug her, but hang back, realising that would only add to her torture.

Despite this, Mom reaches out to embrace me.

'Lorie!' she cries happily. 'I thought I'd _never_ see you again!'

In some places, where the needles have been entirely pushed through Mom's flesh, exposing the sharpened point, I suffer a sharp twinge of pain as it penetrates my robe, my own flesh.

But I don't mind.

It's only a fraction of the agony Mom must be enduring.

'Why's Gran _done_ this to you?' I wail through tears of anger and joy.

Even through her pain, Mom wryly smiles.

'She told me women of ill-repute once advertised their offerings through wearing needles on their sleeves...'

Up close, I can see the many threads, each penetrating the oval opening of a needle's eye.

'But Mom, how _could_ she accuse you of such a thing!'

'I'd become tainted, losing the innocence that kept her young, that was so easily malleable, that always sought love and approval and never complained; innocence that _you_ could supply her with.'

'She used me! Used us both!'

_'Abused_ ,' Mom says bitterly.

I hug Mom all the tighter, despite the sharp stabs of the innumerable needles.

'Mom, I'm so _sorry_ ,' I weep. 'I never, _never_ knew!'

*

'Well, here's a pretty pair.'

Gran is abruptly with us.

The three of us now in the First World, the world of darkness.

'Some people just don't like the skin they're born in, do they?' Gran sort of snickers knowingly, challengingly. 'But have you ever considered it may be your skin that doesn't like _you_?'

'Gran, you _have_ to free Mom!' I demand irately. 'Otherwise...otherwise, well, we might have to look at making changes.'

I hadn't intended in sounding so ridiculously threatening.

I hadn't fully thought out what I'd originally intended to say.

But then I'd remembered my encounters with Mr Zhu, Mr Nisse, Mr Orochi, and Dr Lopez.

And I remembered, too, how I'd brought all that abuse to an end.

I'd granted them everything they desired, all at once.

Overwhelming their senses, their bodies incapable of coping with such an abrupt overload.

Their flesh couldn't cope with such a sudden, uncontrollable rush of blood.

Arteries had swelled, exploded, collapsed.

I sense that Gran wasn't happy about that; the way I was destroying her creations.

They were her way, of course, of ensuring she experienced certain situations without suffering the consequences.

Worst of all, it had meant that, like Mom, I was gradually realising my own powers.

She couldn't allow that.

She had to make me forget whatever I'd managed to achieve.

To keep me innocent.

Pliable.

Maybe she'd even allowed my first encounters with Gregor; giving her a reason to reapply a fresh, no doubt more powerful thread.

But it hadn't worked out exactly as she'd planned.

Which means she _does_ have a weakness.

If a very, very small one.

Gran laughs at my threat.

'Easier said than done, I'm afraid; as your mom is fully aware, Lorie, I am not so easily removed from my world.'

'She's right, Lorie,' Mom agrees dejectedly. 'She _is_ the world.'

'She's just the centre of a web of deceit, spinning false tales,' I snap irritably. 'Perhaps such a world _should_ come tumbling down!'

'Would you eat the flesh of your grandmother?' a tiny bird at the window had asked me.

'Would you sit on the flesh of your grandmother?' a small squirrel at the window had asked me.

'Would you strum the flesh of your grandmother?' a minute kitten at the window had asked me.

'Would you change the flesh of your grandmother?' a miniscule bee at the window had asked me.

'Then, Grandmother,' I declare sternly, ' _I_ must _replace_ you!'

*

# Chapter 45

Gran guffaws richly at my impertinence.

'Oh, Layanne,' she says to my mom, 'please throw something at this noisy daughter of yours, can't you?'

My skin trembles at the way she talks of me so dismissively.

I suspect that Gran has never, ever been so confident in her powers.

So remarkably assured that she is the centre of everything.

She is greater, even, than her daughter, and her granddaughter.

But is she greater then her daughter and her granddaughter _connected_ ; combined?

'No,' I vehemently cry out, holding Mom lovingly close. 'You can't defeat us if we work together against you. You're not stronger than the two of us! '

'Yes, I most certainly _am_!' Gran triumphantly laughs.

Abruptly, Mom throws herself clear of my embrace, writhing as the needles in her flesh burn even deeper into her soul.

And I writhe in agony too, my robe suddenly vanishing, leaving behind what are now countless pins, every one of which is fiercely penetrating my skin as if given a life of their own

*

# Chapter 46

It's hard to think clearly while your skin is shrieking out for release.

But I have to think all this out, otherwise this torture will literally never end.

Gran means to leave us both here for ever, completely cut off from the created world, even from her own lair of the Third World – because, of course, the Second World is a barrier that normally severs all connections.

Me and Mom, were only here through a series of chance connections. Otherwise, I'd never have met, never have known she was trapped here.

Yet...Gran's here too.

Even though the Second World lies between here and her world.

_She's_ passed over the barrier.

Well, maybe, _she's_ got the power to do this, right?

Or maybe, just maybe, she's managed to arrive here, to gloat at our fate, purely because she's utilised the very same connections we have.

If _we_ weren't here, then she'd be incapable of visiting too.

Our presence has created a taut sheet of connecting threads for her to use as a bridge.

Fortunately for us, Gran's so satiated by her sense of triumph and unparalleled power that she's no longer able to consider that we might still have the merest thread of hope.

Despite the torturous pain, I reach out to Mom, embracing her once more, tighter, more lovingly than ever.

Gran only laughs at our stupidity, our foolish, debilitating emotions.

'Ignore the fierceness of the cruelty, Mom,' I whisper softly. 'It's Trust we need!'

*

# Chapter 47

It's like, I suppose, firmly shutting a door behind me.

Or, maybe, pulling a supporting sheet from underneath Gran.

I'm with Gregor once more, still kissing him.

Because naturally, as far as he's concerned, I never went away.

No time has passed at all.

So imagine his surprise when he realises someone else is with us.

Someone whom, now he sees her, he begins to remember, to recognise.

'You,' he says in surprise to Mom, adding, with hints of even greater surprise when he begins to recall those things that should have always been denied him, 'But weren't you trapped...in _another_ world?'

*

The pins, the needles, once given physicality, still remain painfully embedded within our flesh.

But stripped of their spiritual powers, they are at least removable.

We shall heal, eventually.

As for Gran, well; her time is over.

She's trapped in a permanent darkness where time can never heal anything.

*

# Chapter 48

Even though some of us may not like it, it's the way of the world; we must eventually give way to our daughters, our granddaughters.

And I will willingly let my daughter take my place, when she feels ready.

I shall tell her what I tell everyone, if they are only prepared to listen.

The whole world revolves around _you_.

Yes, you doubt this, don't you?

You doubt your own importance.

Which, in many ways, is good; admirable even.

Yet _think_ about it.

Once you've gone, replaced by your own daughter, you may well fear you cease to exist; in which case, as far as you're concerned, the world vanishes too.

Whereas if you find that, despite your leaving of this world, the world continues to exist; well, then obviously, there is far more to you than you ever presumed, isn't there?

And your daughter still forms an important part of that world.

The world _is_ you.

You _are_ the world.

End

If you enjoyed reading this book, you might also enjoy (or you may know someone else who might enjoy) these other books by Jon Jacks.

The Caught – The Rules – Chapter One – The Changes – Sleeping Ugly

The Barking Detective Agency – The Healing – The Lost Fairy Tale

A Horse for a Kingdom – Charity – The Most Beautiful Things (Now includes The Last Train)

The Dream Swallowers – Nyx; Granddaughter of the Night – Jonah and the Alligator

Glastonbury Sirens – Dr Jekyll's Maid – The 500-Year Circus – The Desire: Class of 666

P – The Endless Game – DoriaN A – Wyrd Girl – The Wicker Slippers – Gorgesque

Heartache High (Vol I) – Heartache High: The Primer (Vol II) – Heartache High: The Wakening (Vol III)

Miss Terry Charm, Merry Kris Mouse & The Silver Egg – The Last Angel – Eve of the Serpent

Seecrets – The Cull – Dragonsapien – The Boy in White Linen – Porcelain Princess – Freaking Freak

Died Blondes – Queen of all the Knowing World – The Truth About Fairies – Lowlife

Elm of False Dreams – God of the 4th Sun – A Guide for Young Wytches – Lady of the Wasteland

The Wendygo House – Americarnie Trash – An Incomparable Pearl – We Three Queens – Cygnet Czarinas

Memesis – April Queen, May Fool – Sick Teen – Thrice Born – Self-Assembled Girl – Love Poison No. 13

Whatever happened to Cinderella's Slipper? – AmeriChristmas – The Vitch's Kat in Hollywoodland

Blood of Angels, Wings of Men – Patchwork Quest – The World Turns on A Card – Palace of Lace

The Wailing Ships – The Bad Samaritan – The 13th Month – The Silvered Mare – SpinDell

Swan Moon – Lesser Nefertiti – The Unicorndoll

