It Comes in Threes . . . Short Story Contest Runner Up!

This week I’m featuring the second of two runners up in my Harris Burdick short story contest. If you missed the first feature, The Book of Dreams, you can access it here!

Rachel Atterholt is a young author with a big imagination, as you will see! Equally entertaining, it has a very different feel from The Book of Dreams, but still captures the possibilities in the mysterious sketch by Harris Burdick. Read on and leave some love for Rachel in the comments!      

It Comes in Threes

By Rachel Atterholt

Don’t open this book. Whatever you do, please do not open it.

He had warned me about the book. So, in that, he was not to blame. And so, I pass this warning to you, the reader: put this story away.

I can promise you the consequences far outweigh your curiosity, if you don’t heed my warning.

***

Once you open it, it’s already too late.

I listened. I really did.

I tried hard to obey such seemingly simple words. Yet there was no simplicity to be found in the act of respecting those few letters jumbled up to make something profound.

The book wanted to be read. How could I stop such a force as fate? For it was a needful thing. A powerful thing. A wanton creature that—unless glimpsed—would very surely destroy me.

Allow me to start at the beginning. Yes, I am aware how cliche this sounds, but what can I say?  If any sense can be found in this tale, it can only be understood if explained beginning to end.

It was a cold morning when I awoke. Clouds covered the sky, darkening the world. I pulled my scarf over my face as the wind found tiny holes in my clothes and gathered around my skin.

I didn’t have a car. Not since my neighbor decided to get high and imagine that my car was, in fact, not a car at all, or even in existence, and proceeded to drive through it—or, rather, into it—testing his theory.

Thus the reason, I had to walk through the skin-grabbing cold. I should have known to stay home that day. Even the sun was hiding. My grandma had instilled in me weird superstitions that most people claimed to be old wives tales. However, it didn’t escape my notice that most people still instinctively respected the tales anyway. Black cats were rarely bought and no one stepped beneath ladders.

I finally found my way toward the modest library/bookstore where I worked. It was a small town, kinda like that theme song from the TV show Cheers: everybody did know your name. A bookstore and a library might seem redundant. If someone wanted to keep a book, they bought it. If they didn’t want it any more, they would drop it in the box and it would become the library’s. A system which meant no books were left behind and forgotten—one of the things I loved about living in this small town.

Another thing I appreciated was that I rarely met strangers, thus avoiding that awkward first meeting, as I had already experienced that years ago. No one moved here and no one left.

Which is why seeing that stranger sitting on the bench in front of the library should have made me pay attention. Or at least be more cautious. Instead, I walked over to him with a casual smile, getting the awkwardness out of the way.

“If you’re waiting for the shop to open, it opens at ten,” I said.

He didn’t look up. Merely said in a monotonous tone, “It says eight on your door.”

There was a slight accent to his voice that caught my attention. I nodded. “I haven’t changed it yet. Sorry. Most people just know because I tell them. Didn’t even remember there was a time displayed on the sign.” I laughed quietly, glancing at the door and back at the man.

His skin was haggard, pale, and wrinkled, not so much with age, for he only seemed thirty, if that. But rather weighed down with something that set upon him, born out of worry . . . or fear. He wore simple clothes, baggy and worn, but with enough layers to keep him warm. Was he was a homeless person? There weren’t any vagrants around here. Not because we threw them out or something, but because if ever someone needed help—couldn’t pay for their mortgage for instance—others were there to lend a hand or a spare bed.

Now we had two odd things here. If there was a third….

“Anyway.” I took out my keys and walked up to the door. I felt, rather than saw, the man stand and follow me. I opened the door, stepping aside so he could walk in.

Then I looked into his eyes for the first time. Blue drowning in a sea of green. Old as time yet echoing with a youthfulness that could not be easily hidden. I think if someone could fall in love with another person strictly because of their eyes, he’d be the one.

He looked down. “A rabbit’s foot,” he noted.

I broke my stare and looked at the furry paw hanging on my keychain. “It was my grandmother’s. Er . . . my grandmother gave this to me. Not that she was a rabbit and I kept her foot—which sounds really macabre.” I cleared my throat.

He walked past me. I took one more look at the outside world before closing the door behind me. I should have taken a longer look. Taken the time to notice the colors painted against the sky, the town sitting quietly in front of the canvas of the world.

“Would you like some coffee?” I asked.

“No.” He shook his head.

“I’m gonna pour myself some, if that’s…”

He nodded. I took out my mug, which I lovingly called Chip because of a broken piece at the rim, and poured myself some steaming black coffee. Alice, my friend, always came in an hour before I did to straightened up and made coffee. She had been a widow for five years, and a widow to a soldier no less. I tried offering her a job but she refused. She had money but claimed she only wanted to do something. Stay busy, I guess. She always made the coffee hot and strong, exactly how I liked it. Even on days when she was scheduled to come in later to help organize the new arrivals shelf, she still made coffee in the morning.

When I turned, the stranger hadn’t moved. Was he just a figment of my imagination? Well, I had been reading a lot of horror stories lately.

“So, uh, is there a particular book you need me to help you find?”

He cleared his throat and straightened. “No, I-I need to sell one.”

“Oh. Oh, okay. So where is it?”

The man pulled something wrapped in cloth out of his trench coat and set it on the counter. He unwrapped the book. A black cover stared at me, its edges gilded with gold. An odd drawing  graced the front. A tree, its roots going up, up, up, without end. Which was certainly odd. Why were the roots going the wrong way? Both the roots and the topmost branches extended around the book.

My fingers reached for it. The stranger grasped my hand, gripping tight. A shock of lightning coursed through me, ending at a warmth in my center. We stared at each other for the briefest of moments before he let go.

“I’m sorry. It’s just, you-you can’t open the book,” he said.

“What?”

“You just can’t. Trust me.”

“I need to inspect it or I can’t pay you properly.”

“That’s okay. I don’t need money. In fact, I’m gonna be back for it. I promise.”

I shook my head. “Sir… I can’t just hold on to it.”

“You have to. My—a lot of lives depend on it. I’m not kidding. I wish I didn’t have to do this to you. Really.”

I pursed my lips. His eyes were full of sadness, as if they had seen all the pain in the world and they were holding it tight. How odd it must be to find solace in sadness and grief.

“How long?” I said.

“A day at the most.”

I swallowed and nodded.

“Thank you. Thank you.” He turned to leave.

“Wait!” I called out.

He paused.

“I don’t even know your name.”

The stranger turned. “Peter.”

“Peter.” The word felt familiar on my tongue, as if I had said it before. “I’m Claire.”

“Nice to meet you Claire,” he offered a smile, aged and worn and beautiful. Like an ancient painting found in a dusty attic, or a beautiful sculpture hidden from the light for years. Perfect in its mystery and silence.

His smile faded. “Don’t open that, whatever you do. Once you do, it will be too late.”

And with that he left the bookstore, imparting a wake of shock and an odd sense of loneliness.

I remained still, staring at the place where he had been a moment before. I glanced down. The book remained, proof that I had not been hallucinating. There was something about it, something odd, something cold and distant yet also familiar and comforting. I shivered and pulled my sweater close around my shoulders.

I touched the book, doing what Peter had denied me. I’m no rebel, but I wanted this badly, though I wasn’t sure why. Lightning, or what felt like lightning, zapped through my fingers and down my spine, sending waves rippling like currents down my body. What was this? I couldn’t tell, but it suddenly seemed wiser to listen to Peter than not.

I grabbed my scarf off the chair and—without touching the book—wrapped it up as quickly as possible, then placed it on a shelf behind the counter and tried to get my mind off of it by working. Truth be told, I actually did forget about it, along with Peter and his eyes full of sadness and his smile full of the world. For the time being, anyway.

But my keys were on the shelf below the book and it caught my eye as I bent to leave. Slowly, I slid it out and pulled back a small piece of the scarf. It was still there, dark and aged, full of the cold emptiness that threatened to swallow me whole.

I grasped the book tight, tucked it under my sleeve, and left. The night was bone chilling. The moon a cold, distant light that seemed to turn its face away from the Earth and her sins, ignoring me in the process. I pulled my coat close with my free hand, bent my head, and pushed onward. Darkness settled upon the world, the only light coming from the 24/7 diner across the street.

Once home, I flipped on all the lights—the sense of someone following me whispering close at my heels. I bolted all three locks behind me and went to the kitchen, set the book down, and made myself a cup of warm chamomile. Steam leaped up at my face, calming me. I inhaled several deep breaths before taking small sips.

I sat at the counter staring once again at the book wrapped in the red scarf my grandma had knitted for me. I wondered what she would think of all this. She who was my world for as long as I could remember, until she was taken away too early. The loss still weighed heavily after these three years.

Moira was Scottish, sarcastic and superstitious, and I loved her for it. So much so that I decided to move in with her when I was eighteen, instead of sticking around another day with my adopted parents (who were really only my parents by law and occasionally treating me as such). It wasn’t until I was eighteen that I found out about Moira, who had decided not to reveal herself to me after my parents had died.

I don’t know what happened to my real parents. My grandmother never told me. She always grew silent whenever I asked. But before she died, I asked her again. This time she patted my head and said, “One day, my bairn, ye will know. Then you’ll meet who you’ll have ken from the beginning.”

I never knew what she meant. How would I meet someone I had known? And from who’s beginning did she mean? I looked at the book and thought of Peter, and I wondered if maybe I did understand. Would I ever know for certain? All was cloaked in mystery and doubt, like the rest of my life.

With a sigh I went to the bathroom upstairs, deciding that a hot bath would do me good. I turned on the hot faucet all the way, letting steam fill the small space. I washed my face and then wiped a hand across the mirror, trying to see if I missed any makeup.

Well, I had. Didn’t really matter though as, to my amazement, there was suddenly a girl behind me.

In the bathroom.

She stood in the corner, long dark hair covering her face. I blinked and, just as suddenly, she was gone.

I turned. Nothing but shadow and steam lurked in the corner. I shook my head.

“Isnae ye havin’ nightmares again? I can help ya, dee ya ken?” I did my best imitation of my grandma’s accent, always offering her help after all those nightmares I experienced that one very long year after I had moved in with her.

Returning my gaze to the mirror, I flinched.

The girl stood there again, this time right next to me.

I spun around. Nothing. I looked back into the mirror. She remained, her face in view now, dark eyes staring at me. She was young. Not an adult, yet not a child. Something in between.

“Wh-who are you?” I forced out.

“I am Umbra.”

“Who?”

“Open The Book,” she said, vibrating in and out of focus like a video watched too many times. “Open it.”

“Or what?” I said, finding the words to speak. Words that sounded distant and hollow in my ears.

A smile split her face. “Or you die!” she leaped at me, falling into the mirror with a screech. “Like your Moira!”

I fell backward on the floor, the air whooshing out of me. A cackle sounded in my ears. And then, all was silent. I stayed there on the cold tile, staring at the mirror, fear freezing my body in place. Something hot touched my hand. I glanced down.

Water pooled around me, burning through my clothes. And then sound returned and I heard the faucet still gushing forth its burning water, overflowing the tub, and spilling onto the floor.

I reached inside the flooded tub to turn off the faucet and leapt back, my hand scorched. I winced at the pain. Grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my hand before trying again. The heat was still bad, but I managed to turn off the faucet and pull the plug to drain it.

My lungs felt devoid of air. I took several deep breaths trying to calm myself but failed.

What had I seen? I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. A ghost? An hallucination? Something else? Something worse?

She had said to open The Book. Said that I would die if I didn’t. Just like . . . like my grandma. What had really happened to my Moira? A heart attack, they said. And I believed it. I had just found her on the floor of the bookshop one day. Unmoving.

Had she held The Book? Did she refuse to open it and that thing in the mirror . . . killed her? Had Peter given her The Book? Was that why he carried the world in his smile? What was The Book’s connection to all this? Whatever it was, I planned to find out. I needed to.

Running down to the kitchen, I unwrapped The Book without touching it.

Peter had said not to open it, but he was a stranger. Could I trust him? Could I trust anyone? I didn’t think I could even trust myself at this point. Maybe Peter was the villain in all this. Maybe he had purposely killed Moira.

The Book whispered to me, speaking indiscernible words that coiled around my body, pulling me closer and closer to the dark cover.

My fingers hovered above it. If I opened it, what would happen? Well, if I didn’t open it I would die, according to that phantom in the mirror. Maybe I would die either way. Was this one of those things like in the story, Sophie’s Choice, where neither option was good and both resulted in terrible consequences?

At least I would know what was inside. My hand touched the cover, lightning flaring through me once again, electricity burning my extremities.

I opened The Book.

Nothing.

Blank pages.

A waste of time and emotion.

But then . . . words appeared. Words written in red ink—or blood. Words pooling into each other, mixing together. Scrolling incoherently through the pages.

A nearby window flew open. Wind flipped the pages like a madman trying to find the right phrase, the right words.

The wind stopped, halting the movement to one particular page. I could barely make out the words, “By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.” Then, the words rearranged to millions upon millions of the phrase “help me”.

Suddenly, a hand emerged from the page, it’s fingers covered in bloody words. It turned towards me. Ripped itself out of The Book and grasped at my throat. I clawed at the thing, struggling to breathe.

The air was slowly siphoned out of me. My eyes rolled back, and darkness was all I could see.

***

The shadows were alive. I felt them, creeping past me, wrapping around my limbs. I knew nothing apart from the darkness, not time nor gravity. I just floated in an abyss, becoming one with the deep. I was aware that somewhere else, somewhere far and distant, I was laid in a bed and a book was set beside me.

Vines slid out of The Book. They sought to engulf me, swallow me. Swallow this whole town until nothing was left. Until only the Shadows remained. The world would soon be theirs just like the . . . Dreamer.

This knowledge stirred inside with certainty—somehow imparted to me.

“Who is the Dreamer?”a voice called out. It sounded like mine, but maybe it wasn’t. I didn’t care. “Who is the Dreamer?”

It was too late now. Too late to worry about this question. Now it was time to—

“Have you so quickly forgotten the Sinner?” a man’s voice scoffed at the darkness.

I knew that voice. Recognized him. Couldn’t place him.

Through the darkness I strained to see—blinking, squinting, needing to know. Movement and shapes coalesced.

The Shadows sneered, stretching dark hands to reach the man.

He raised his sword, shining a light that pierced through the night and shattered my abyss. The darkness inside me screamed and then diminished, slowly fading back into The Book as it closed.

I felt the man touch my forehead. Then he kissed me on the temple, ever softly. I recognized his familiar touch from ages past and forgotten. “Sleep, my angel,” he whispered. “Tomorrow you wake into a wild world.”

***

Light streamed through the window, turning my eyelids orange. I blinked them open, and it took me a minute to realize I was in bed.

“There’s a flood in your bathroom,” a voice suddenly said, making me shoot up and pull the covers around me.

Peter stood in the doorway, drying his hands on a towel. He continued like nothing had happened. “Nearly slipped and broke my neck. Luckily, I’m quite good on my feet.”

“Why-why are you here?” I found my voice enough to snap.

“Well, after I saved you I had to stay and make sure the Shadows didn’t find you.”

I shook my head. What is he talking about?

Peter sat on the edge of the bed. I scooched backwards instinctively. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I . . .” I thought. “I opened The Book and then . . .” I closed my eyes. “The Book began to write stuff, some-some poem I think or some line. And then, I can’t remember.”

“Well, you let the Shadows out,” Peter said as simply as if he were explaining how daylight savings time worked. “And I stopped them.”

“The Shadows?” I asked, and shudder involuntarily.

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “Basically ushering in the end of the world. The Shadows were trying to end it through you.”

“Why?” And why isn’t he angry with me for breaking my promise?

“Because you’re the Saint.”

“The what?”

“Saint. Death doesn’t discriminate between the sinners and the saints, but the Shadows sure do.”

“I don’t—

Peter sighed. “It’s a long story. Longer than I care to explain. The short version is this: to control the world, the Shadows need three. A Saint, a Sinner, and a Dreamer to connect the two. It already took the Dreamer and, last night, it almost took you.”

I paused. “Was . . . was the Dreamer’s name Moira?”

Peter nodded. “Your grandmother. She never opened the book, even though she kept it for five years while I was trying to save the town. Still, somehow, the Shadows found a way to take her.”

“How?”

“I was away when it happened so I don’t really know. Maybe because you were related or maybe because you were so close to each other. But, the point is, they got to her before I could.”

I closed my eyes, fear circling through me and setting a hold on my soul. “I don’t—I can’t . . .”

“It’s okay. A lot to process. I know.”

“How do you tie into all this?”

“Well, for one, I’m the Sinner. For another, I’m the Guardian of The Book.”

“The Sinner?”

Peter nodded again. “I’ve lived a long time. Experienced a lot in that time. I’m sure hell awaits me, but not until the Shadows are gone.”

“But why? I mean we’ve all done bad stuff and good stuff. Why am I the Saint and why are you the Sinner? And why does that make you the Guardian?” I rambled, barely able to control the flood of questions pouring out of my mouth.

“Have you ever taken a life?” he asked, throwing me a curveball.

“What? No. Never.”

“Why?”

“Because . . . because why would I? I’ve never been in any sort of position in which I had to think about such a thing.”

“And you wouldn’t kill, even if you were.” He gave a wry smile. “I’ve killed plenty. I’ve put myself in positions to kill, and I wanted to do it. Sure, the victims were bad, but after a while that was just an excuse.” He frowned. “I’m covered in blood, Claire. And it’s taken many lifetimes to try and remove even a little of it.”

“So why do you have The Book then?”

“Well, one way to redeem myself is to protect something I’ve been destroying for years: life. Guess whoever chose me as the Guardian of The Book knew what they were doing.”

“So, why did you give me The Book?”

Peter studied me for a moment then turned his attention to the sunlit window. “This town, it’s small for a reason. The Shadows have been trying to destroy it for a long time, because of Moira and you. There was something dark creeping into this place yesterday—I could sense it—and I had to destroy it. But I couldn’t bring The Book with me. The darkness wants possession of it. And its willing to draw me into a confrontation as a ploy to lay hold of The Book. So, I thought it would be safer with the Saint.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Well, it was the only option I had. Besides, I didn’t explain anything to you, so the fallout is on me.”

Guilt for my own actions in opening The Book made me give him a rueful stare. But it was too late for remorse or pointing fingers. “Where did The Book come from?”

He blinked as if he felt hesitant to answer. “Do you remember the story of Pandora’s Box?”

I nodded.

“All of its wickedness, when it flew out into the world, created something—something dark and only shadow. And it ruled the land for a long time, until . . . until that small winged gift of  Hope fought the shadow and locked it away into its own box. Or, actually, a book. This Book.” He rested his palm on the worn cover and a glimmer of electricity traced the length of his arm.

“How do you know this? How could you know this?” I asked.

Peter placed both hands in his lap and studied them, as if suddenly surprised that they looked quite normal. “I was there. I was destroyed by the Shadows, or nearly so, until Hope saved me. And I’ve been the Guardian of the book ever since.”

I paused, struggling to find words.What could I possibly say to such revelations? It felt half-dream, half-fairytale.

“Moira told me that I would meet who I’d ken—er—known from the beginning,” I finally forced out.

He smiled. “And you’re wondering if that’s me? Yes. You and I are . . . well, we’re two halves of a whole. Once upon a time, you and I were split from the same being. We shared a special oneness until something tore us apart. And the two of us have been searching for each other ever since.”

I furrowed my brow. “Didn’t Plato come up with that?”

“A reader, I see. Impressive.” Peter grinned. “He did, yeah. And he was right.”

“I . . . don’t understand what it means, though. Not really.”

“Well, Plato was talking about certain souls. Souls that were once singular but had been divided into two. And because they had once known utter completeness, they continued to search for each other, trying to reconnect.”

“Soulmates.” The fervency of his words made my stomach stir and flutter.

He nodded. “Exactly. So . . . you and I were once one soul. Whole. The Shadows tore us apart, however, because we were superbly—intensely—strong together.”

Soulmates? We are soulmates? The word buzzed around my brain. I had heard of such a thing, but only in stories Or maybe as a word implying that people were meant for one another. But this was neither one of those things.

“So, I’m the Saint and you’re the Sinner, and my grandmother—the Dreamer—was supposed to bring the two of us together,” I said, puzzling it through. “But the Shadows wanted to destroy me. Or you. Or maybe both of us?”

Peter’s face looked pained. “Yes. But the Shadows took Moira before she could bring us together, and I’ve been playing catch up ever since.”

“She also told me that I would understand what happened to my parents. Why they died.”

He nodded. “The Shadows wanted to kill you before you could grow up to fight them.” He grasped my hand, his gaze full of sadness and regret. “Or find me. They failed to get to you but managed to kill your parents instead. Your parents died protecting you.”

All the answers I ever wanted had finally come. But now that they had, I wasn’t sure I knew what to do with them. All my life I knew that my past was shrouded in darkness. But now I understood that it was not merely shrouded but swallowed whole by it. “So what do we do now?” 

“Because you opened The Book and jumpstarted everything, the only option we have now is to open The Book again, except this time our goal will be to kill Umbra.”

I shook my head, trying in vain to clear it. To understand all this. Any of this. And that name. Where had I heard it before? And in the back of my mind, I saw a flicker of something in a mirror. “Um . . . Umbra?”

“The leader of the Shadows. It can appear in any form, as a Shadow, a human, anything it wants. Whatever it takes to deceive its victims into submission. Once, I saw it morph into a young, innocent looking girl. I have faced Umbra more than once over a long span of time. At one point in history, it nearly destroyed the world. It brought a measure of hell to this earth which took a few hundred years to stop.” He smiled again. That world-carrying smile. “I had always wanted to be in the history books and it looks like I ended up doing that, after all.”

“Wait. Are you referring to the Dark Ages?” My mind reeled. Exactly what sort of ‘long span of time’ was Peter talking about?

“Yes.” He nodded. “It was a very odd period. All manner of things crept out of the darkness. Yet an abundance of good people rose up and fought against it. People that were brave and willing to sacrifice everything to help the world. That was when I learned I couldn’t fight it on my own. I needed to find my other half. That’s also why I believe we can defeat Umbra together. I’ve been waiting for you a very long time, Claire.”

“Me? Are you sure?” I whispered, his words seeming unfathomable. Peter spoke of epic things with a simplicity which made it hard to doubt their truth. But these were such insane things. Terrifying things. I wished for all the world that I was back at my bookstore, cataloging new arrivals instead of whatever alternative reality my life had become in a day.

“No, I’m not sure. But this is the only possible path to victory that I can see and we’ve got to try.” He offered a hand. “So let’s get started.”

I stared at his hand for a moment. Then grasped it, embracing the lightning that surged between us.

On your feet, Claire. Time to save the world.

***

We sat in the kitchen, staring at The Book.

Peter’s thoughts are a mystery to me, but I couldn’t contain the doubts or squelch the fear which had settled inside my mind. This was all so outlandish. So . . . otherworldly.

He finally cleared his throat and stood. “Better get started.”

“Wait,” I whispered.

He looked at me.

“You sure? Because I’m not.”

He nodded.

I stood beside him, taking in his soft face, his blue-green eyes that echoed with sadness. “I wish I knew you better, Peter. Before this, I mean.”

He gave a wan smile. “So do I. Yet, in some ways, we’ve always known each other, haven’t we? In stories we’ve read, in our dreams . . . in our nightmares. We’ve been looking for each other our entire lives. Well–you’ve been looking, I’ve been waiting. All in all, I’d say you had the easier job.” His face crinkled into a smile.

I stared back. Far longer than I should have. “I wish we had found each other sooner, then.”

“Me too,” he finally said.

“What do you think will happen?”

“I don’t know. But . . . it won’t be good. Or easy. Dark things are coming.”

“By the pricking of my thumbs—”

“Something wicked this way comes,” he finished. “That was in The Book.”

“Yes. Seems kinda random. You think Agatha Christy knew about The Book?”

Peter arched an eyebrow. “Really, I couldn’t say. But nothing is ever random when it comes to this Book. It needs blood to be strong. Human blood. So don’t go pricking any thumbs.” He winked, which seemed out of place given the atmosphere.

And then, without warning, he opened it.

The window sprang wide again, with a sudden blast. The pages flipped into a deathly spin, words created from red ink—or blood—that mixed into one another.

It felt familiar like a distant nightmare, forgotten with the morning light yet still clinging to the outer reaches of memory.

“By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes,” scrawled itself onto the blank page and then was quickly drowned amongst millions inscriptions of the phrase, “help me”.

Once again a hand ripped itself out of The Book, words becoming flesh. Instinctively, I held my own hands in front of my throat. It didn’t lunge at me this time.

It flew at Peter.

He jumped out of the way. The hand fell onto the tile floor, skittering away like a grotesque insect, around the counter to an empty space in the dining room.

Slowly the thing grew. From a hand, to an arm, to a body, to a person. It was like the creature was wearing one of those full body suits. Except instead of it being blue or green or white, it was made up of words—bloody ones at that.

Was this Umbra? The ruler of the Shadows?

I felt deep in the hollow parts of my bones that, yes, it was.

Peter pulled a sword out of thin air. It even looked like air. Or glass, rather, narrow and invisible but for the sharp edges reflecting the light.

He charged at Umbra. The sword passed through it. And so did Peter. He skidded to a halt beside me and turned back to the monster. Then, Peter took my hand, and wrapped it around the blade. Pain lashed at my skin before Peter pulled it away. A crimson streak lined my palm bringing with it a stinging pain. The red glint of blood tainted the blade as well.

The leader of the Shadows bent its head, its gaze intent on me. With slow, clanking steps, it moved closer. I stood, frozen in fear, oblivious to the blood that dripped from the cut on my hand.
     

Then, Peter’s blade pierced into Umbra’s chest, rather than passing through it like before. Had my blood made that possible?

Umbra looked down at the sword. It opened its mouth and let out an unearthly screech—like both a raven and a barn owl. I clamped my hands over my ears.
      

Peter mouthed something to me that I couldn’t catch. I never was a good lip reader.

He pulled out the sword and sliced off the creature’s head. The head fell and rolled away. The thing dropped to its knees and crumpled over.

Smoke poured from its neck and slithered across the floor. It coiled around my ankles. Moved up my legs, covered my skin.

“Claire!” Peter screeched.

It was too late. I think I realized that when it reached my neck and wrapped around it like a python.

Smoke slid inside my ears, burned my eyes, crawled down my throat. The Shadow became me. The Shadow was me.

Somewhere far away, as if I were miles underwater, I heard Peter calling, “Claire!” Was that my name? Where was I? Who was I? What was I?

All I could remember was Peter and his sad, blue-green eyes. All I could see was him as I wrapped my hands—that were now Umbra’s hands—around Peter’s throat and squeezed. All I could hear was his gags, his pleas.

And then, all I was consumed by darkness as the Sinner held the glass sword to my throat and sliced.

I didn’t feel any pain, but I felt myself bleeding. Didn’t see the blood. Just felt something liquid pour from the center of my throat.

And then the underwater feeling slipped away and I saw Peter again, except from a different angle. This time he hovered above me. His incredible eyes more tired than ever, his face more worn and weary.

Lyrics from The Who’s song “Behind Blue Eyes” echoed in the back of my head.  No one knows what it’s like to be the bad man, to be the sad man, behind blue eyes.

“My love is vengeance, that’s nev—” I tried to choke out more of the lyrics, but blood strangled my words.

“Claire,” he whispered, combing a loose strand of my hair from my face. “My Claire. My Gráigh.”

Peter bent down. He kissed me. Softly, slowly, not caring about the blood between our lips. Pain became us as we became one. I felt calm, peaceful. Felt whole. More whole than I had ever been.

Plato said that humankind was originally created with four arms, four legs, and a head with two faces. And then we were separated, condemned to search for the other half of ourselves our entire lives.

That may not be true for everyone, but I believe it to be true about Peter and me. Hadn’t he said as much?

I have found my other half.

With that kiss we became complete once more. I had found the one I had kenned from the beginning, as my grandmother had promised.

Not from my beginning or his. But the beginning of everything. The beginning of us—all of us.

The Sinner and the Saint made human once more.

***

These are my final words. Peter and I are united again. We are together. And together, we will destroy Umbra and the realm of Shadows. Even with my sacrifice, the leader of the Shadows lives on. But, it’s weaker now.

How did I survive, you ask? I don’t know if words can explain it. I used to think words had the power to do anything—I understood the transporting power of a good story or the life changing power of the three little words, “I love you”. I used to believe that such words would save us. And maybe they still will, but they are not what saved me.

Peter did.

He may have released Umbra and set the Shadows free, but deep inside me—the almost lost Saint—winged Hope found freedom too.

But what about you? You who opened this book?

I did warn you, didn’t I? Warned you not to open it, told you that once you did it was too late.

And yet, here you are, reading the tale. Out of curiosity? Or something else? Some darker need born from the darkness itself?

Has the room gotten colder? Gotten darker?

The Shadows are coming for you now. But . . . it’s not too late. It wasn’t too late for me. I just needed my other half.

So go, my Saint or Sinner, and find the half that will make you complete. Go, my Dreamer, if that’s who ye be and find the two to make them whole once again.

Remember, it takes three.

Perhaps they are already with you. Perhaps you just needed assurance. It is given to you. It has always belonged to you.

Go and find your soulmate.

But beware the Shadows. They will come.