Keep Quiet - 6. The unblinking watcher

Though I cannot say that the numerous poorly-educated and traditionalistic servants took enthusiastically to the change in the sleeping arrangements which followed, they were nevertheless prudent enough to not voice any sort of complaint or negative remark while in our presence.

The very next morning after Charles’s nightmare, I sought out Mr. White and promptly informed him that I would like to have my clothes and belongings moved into the master suite. A startled blink was the only thing which showed his surprise, but he was an efficient and trustworthy fellow, and he saw to it that my wishes were carried out promptly. I suspect it was thanks to him that most of the household came to accept the fact that Charles and I were now sharing a bed without too much commotion. In fact, during the first week after the change, the only incident which might have betrayed the feelings of our servants was a scandalized look which I perchance caught, shared between two of the maids as they were preparing the bed for two occupants one night.

Aside from that, very little changed in our routine. Charles and I went out regularly for walks in the woods, and we dedicated our days towards fascinating scientific observation, analysis, and experimentation. In the evenings, after dinnertime, we retired to his – to our – room, and together we would talk for long stretches until Charles felt tired enough to risk attempting sleep without too much fear.

It was clear to me that Charles suffered from a malady of the nerves which was the culprit of both his nightmares and the anxious attitude with which he always seemed to greet the night. As soon as the shadows grew long with approaching darkness, I would notice the steady but ever-increasing nervousness in his attitude, his gestures, and his movements. By the time we were in bed, about to turn off the lights, he would often resort to a glass of wine in order to calm himself. Then he would hug me, and only thus was he able to reliably fall asleep. It saddened me to see Charles suffer so, but aside from being there for him and offering what comfort I could, I did not know what else to do. I myself had had a period in my life when I had been accosted by nightly troubling dreams, and I knew how debilitating it could be to have the certainty that each night would bring with itself a nightmare to torture the mind as it tried to rest. Often, Charles would wake in the middle of the night, sweating, sometimes even shouting. We would then talk for a little while, burning a single candle because the glare of the electric lights appeared far too harsh at those late hours, and Charles would eventually fall back asleep.

As the weeks went by, it appeared that my company was helping him, because Charles’s nightmares slowly became less frequent and less severe. He regained a measure of motivation and zeal during the days, and his energy levels improved steadily, according to what he told me. This had many benefits, not the least of which was to allow Charles’s brilliant mind to once again focus fully on whichever project he deemed worthy of the honor of his attention. Back then, the subject illuminated by the floodlight of his intellect was the hypothesis that there were objects which could theoretically orbit the Earth, unseen, at fixed distances from the planet due to fascinating quirks of orbital mechanics.

Lagrange had, of course, more than a century before posited that certain points located between two orbiting bodies possessed gravitational properties such that a third object, placed at those positions, would orbit the two-body system without changing its distance relative to either of the other two. These Lagrange points fascinated Charles. Of particular interest to him were the points located between the dual system of the Earth and the sun, and the dual system of the Earth and the moon.

Imagine the possibilities, Danny, he said to me one evening as we sat next to the roaring fireplace in our room. Outside there was heavy snowfall, along with unyielding, howling wind. The firelight was the only illumination, and it lent our cozy enclosed space a magical quality of safety and romanticism. I was sipping some mulled wine, fragrant with exotic spices, feeling thoroughly at ease on the comfortable armchair which I occupied. Charles sat nearby, wearing a heavy sleeping robe against the chill. I remember thinking that I was happy – that life, such as it was, was perfect for me.

About what? I answered, mouthing the words because my hands were occupied with the wine glass. The beauty of my conversations with Charles was that they could take so many different forms – signs, code, words either spoken or merely suggested. Sometimes we combined two or more forms of expression, adding nuance and depth to our ideas in a way which the spoken language could never hope to match.

If I wanted to observe a planet from space, such as the Earth, positioning the observation device at the Lagrange points L1 and L2 would be the logical choice. It would offer a fixed position, with none of the uncertainties associated with establishing an observation base on a moon, for example.

Provided the technology for such a feat could exist, I reminded him.

I am convinced that humanity will be able to create such observation devices within a hundred years, he asserted, his expression one of total confidence. Consider how much information we have been able to gather using my modest telescope here. Consider how much further out into space we would be able to see, were we to possess the technology to position a telescope at the top of the tallest mountain ranges on the planet, such as the Andes or the Himalayas. And, finally, imagine the wealth of information which would be available to us, were we able to send a telescope out into space, orbiting the planet, looking out at the stars without having to filter light through the murk of our thick, protective atmosphere.

Were such a thing possible, I imagine we would be much more interested in looking out than looking back at our own planet, I told him. Why would we aim such a magnificent telescope at something we already know so well?

Charles grinned. At this hour of the evening, his jaw was already shaded by light golden stubble, which made him look more mature, and wiser.

Ah. But that is because this is our own planet. We know it well. Others… Might not.

Others? I asked, smiling. I liked to tease Charles about his conviction that intelligent life was out there, waiting to be contacted. I myself was a little bit more skeptical and tended to believe that the universe, or at the very least our own solar system, was devoid of intelligent life aside from humans.

You’ll see, he retorted. I have been calibrating the telescope very precisely to catch minute fluctuations in apparent brightness at L1 and L2 in the Earth-moon system.

I-K, I signed. I helped you do it.

Yes, but only I have been gathering data, since apparently you find the task too dull, he said to me, his expression making it clear that he was being playful. I already have months of observations. I have a theory… But, of course, we need more data.

Let me guess. There is an observation device, sent by an intelligent species, hovering at one of these points and observing the Earth. I raised my eyebrows in evident skepticism.

You are a cheeky little know-it-all sometimes, Danny. I’ll prove you wrong yet. I will get the Nobel for the discovery, you mark my words. It is evident that such an object has not been discovered because it is either too small to be noticed or because it is being deliberately concealed. Nevertheless, nothing can be made completely invisible. Careful calculations and tiny gravitational anomalies leave their mark everywhere. Fluctuations in brightness will inevitably be made obvious even if artificial material is being used as a cloak. If there is something there, I will find it. The entire world will marvel at my discovery and nothing will ever be the same. I might very well get more than one Nobel at the same time! I will make sure not to include you in my acceptance speech when that happens, hopeless skeptic that you are.

I smiled, happy that Charles was feeling well enough to employ humor despite the late hour. It was good to see him climb out of his erstwhile depressive state little by little, and seeing him relaxed and content made my own heart feel lighter. I cared deeply for Charles, and wished for nothing more than seeing him smile.

January give way to February and the cold became ever deeper and more biting, despite the fact that I would not have thought it possible. Our isolated valley was blasted by icy winds from the north, and I saw our reserves of wood dwindle rather alarmingly fast during this period. It gave me a not insignificant measure of worry to realize that we were now effectively cut off from the world until the roads became traversable again once the snows melted. The last shipment of goods had come from Tupper Lake at the beginning of the year, and nothing else was expected until late March. Our world became, therefore, reduced to the Observatory grounds and their immediate vicinity. Aside from us and the servants, we might have as well been the last human beings on the planet – and, some days, it really felt thus.

The bitter cold forced us to stop taking our regular sorties into the woods, and many days on end were spent shuttered indoors, as close to the fire or to the heating pipes as we could, the world outside appearing to shift between impenetrable darkness and overcast, grey gloom. It was a challenging time for Charles, since the lack of sunlight appeared to affect him particularly strongly, and the fact that we could not leave the property during the worst of the season, not even to go to the Observatory tower, made him restless and somewhat moody at irregular intervals.

It was not only us suffering the hardships of winter, however. One morning, Mr. White came into the chemistry lab, where Charles and I were experimenting with different salt concentrations on a moist substrate in order to find the optimal ratio for electrical conductivity. Quite unusually for Mr. White, he appeared somewhat ill at ease and begged for a moment of our time after apologizing profusely for interrupting us.

“What is the problem?” I asked him aloud, for, although quite capable a butler and a reliable administrator in household matters, the employment of sign language appeared to either surpass his intellectual capacity or merely his drive towards self-directed erudition.

“You see, Mr. Fenton,” he said to me, “It’s Sarah Avery, the youngest maid. She says she wants to leave. She’s been talking… Saying the place is haunted and the like. I’ve told her to keep her thoughts to herself, because I know how superstitious some of these folks can be. They know about the tragedy which happened here so long ago and their imaginations run wild. Most of them have settled in quite well, but Sarah, if you will forgive me for saying so, appears to be losing her marbles.”

“In what way?” I asked politely, glancing at Charles to exchange a puzzled look with him.

“She says she has nightmares every night now,” Mr. White informed us. “She says they terrify her and she believes they are not normal. She told me it’s always the same thing, too. She’s trapped in a dark cave. She’s drowning. She wants to reach a light but she can’t.”

At this description, Charles started so violently that both White and myself turned to look at him. Almost as quickly, however, Charles turned his back on us and pretended to be very interested in the readouts from one of our instruments.

“Please go on,” I said to White.

“Well, she’s been complaining about the nightmares for weeks and weeks, but last night she became hysterical, according to Mrs. Thompson. They share a bedroom. Mrs. Thompson says that Sarah started shaking very violently, as if she were having a seizure of some sort. When Mrs. Thompson went to wake her up, Sarah was still shaking and it was several minutes before she calmed down. Then she kept repeating the same thing over and over again, which spooked Mrs. Thompson very badly indeed and now Sarah is saying that she wants to leave. I’m afraid that, if we don’t address this, Mrs. Thompson will follow very soon and then who knows how many of the staff might imitate them. They will talk, too – it’s going to make it tough to find replacements if the entire village of Tupper Lake listens to their rumors and others refuse to come and work here. We need to nip this in the bud, so to say. That’s why I took the liberty of coming to talk to you, sirs. All of us here respect you greatly, and we know you do important intellectual work and the like. You know more about the world than we ever could hope to learn, and I’m sure that Sarah will listen to you if you reassure her there’s no such thing as spooks or ghosts around. Or evil plants,” he added with a smirk.

“Evil plants?” I echoed.

“Yes, that’s what Sarah kept repeating last night, according to Mrs. Thompson. She kept saying that the mold was evil. That’s why she wants to change rooms, too – but I told her I need your okay to give permission for them to occupy a different bedroom. I hope you won’t find it too inconvenient. I think that, if we allow the two of them to move, and after some talking to, they’ll come around and stop whispering about things they don’t understand.”

“I will go talk to them,” I offered, glancing at Charles for agreement. It was always easier for me to talk to the servants, since Charles had a tough time making sense of their often muttered words, and they always appeared, with the exception of Mr. White, ever so slightly unsettled at being in conversation with a man who was practically deaf.

I’ll be here, Charles said to me, and resumed his work as though he had not been disturbed. I noticed, however, that his hands trembled slightly as he lifted the cathode cable of the electrical array we had built.

I followed Mr. White out of the laboratory and down the hall, past the kitchen, and into the servants’ quarters. Despite having lived in the property for months, I had not had either the desire or the need to visit this area of the household, and I noted idly that the bedrooms on either side of the narrow hallway which we now traversed, although lacking the sumptuous expansiveness of the suites, appeared nevertheless quite cozy and comfortable. Most of the doors were open, offering glimpses into small but tidy spaces with beds, desks, and closets full of personal belongings. Each of the bedrooms had a window looking outside, although at the moment there was not much to see but murky gloom because of the heavy, overcast sky. All the spaces but one were empty of occupants, since the servants were all working at the moment. It was only in the last bedroom that I saw a young woman sitting on her bed, legs drawn up to her chest, staring blankly at the wall ahead of her. She was young and slim, looking scarcely older than twenty years old, with long blonde hair which was almost white and faintly aristocratic features which clashed rather sharply with the careless way in which she had dressed. It looked as though she had merely draped a blanket around her shoulders while still wearing her sleeping gown even though it was now almost noon.

She did not look up when Mr. White and I stopped outside her door, so I knocked to draw her attention.

“Sarah, this is Mr. Fenton,” White said to her. “He’s here to talk to you about your problem.”

“Good day, Ms. Avery,” I said to her, stepping into the room. She looked up and nodded, but did not stand up or otherwise indicate that she welcomed our presence. After an awkward pause where I waited for a word of greeting which never came, I decided to be direct. “Mr. White here tells me that you have been experiencing trouble at night. Would you care to elaborate?”

Her eyes darted to me and then back to the wall. “There,” she said curtly. “Look if you want.”

Mr. White gasped softly. Her tone and attitude were decidedly far away from respectful deference, but I decided to overlook it because it was clear that she was in a state of high agitation.

“Certainly,” I answered, and obliged by looking at the place her gaze appeared to be inexorably drawn to.

She had directed my attention to the brickwork underneath the window to her bedroom. I at once saw that, between the cracks in the bricks, a fuzzy growth of very dark green had sprouted. It looked like mold, which I confirmed when I stepped closer and knelt to observe it. I was puzzled, since it was certainly too cold for mold of any kind to survive, but then I immediately considered that our building was always much warmer than the freezing temperatures outside. I also recognized the particular variety of mold – it was the very same I had found all along the crater’s surface when Charles and I had first explored the area. Mystified, I reached forward.

“Don’t touch it!” Ms. Avery shouted.

I jerked my hand back. Mr. White appeared to be about to scold her for her tone, but I spoke over him.

“Why not?”

She merely shook her head. “I don’t know. I just… I don’t want to disturb it. I think.”

“Is this why you have been having nightmares?” I asked her, standing up again.

She shrugged. “I’m not sure. It’s always the same dream. Like I’m trapped. Like I want to go out and – no, not escape. I want to find something.”

“Find what?”

She shrugged again. “I don’t know. This place is haunted, I reckon. This bedroom. I can feel it.”

Mr. White and I exchanged a worried glance. I then spoke up. “If it is this place which is causing you to feel unwell, we can arrange to have your belongings moved to one of the empty bedrooms on the far side of the hall. Would that be agreeable to you?”

She met my eyes. “Really?”

I nodded. “Certainly, it is no trouble at all. Mr. White, see to it that both Ms. Avery’s and Mrs. Thompson’s possessions are moved by the end of the day. I will also personally see to it that you get some tea to help you sleep tonight, Ms. Avery, the same one which Mr. Wentworth uses when he cannot fall asleep. It is quite effective and should provide you with relief from anxious thoughts and nightmares alike. We are all suffering to some degree or another under this oppressive weather, and it may very well be that your negative mood is due to nothing more than the long winter nights – but do not worry, spring is just around the corner and, in the meantime, I will see to it that you get a cup of this tea every night until you feel better.”

She blinked several times, almost as if she were waking up from a dream. She focused on my face more intensely. “I… Thank you, Mr. Fenton. Thank you. I’ll be glad to never sleep in this bedroom again.”

“Then consider it done. If I may, I would suggest that you get ready to resume your duties for the day as soon as you are able to. Being occupied is one of the best ways to distract the mind from idle brooding, and you may find that your mood improves as you work.”

She nodded. Satisfied, I left with Mr. White. A few hours later, he notified me that the change had been completed and that the supposedly haunted bedroom was now completely empty. I thanked him, and went back to the room with a petri dish and a wooden spatula. I scraped off a generous portion of the mold into the dish, since its resilience at surviving even in the wintertime and its possible as-of-yet-undiscovered properties interested me. While I assumed that Ms. Avery’s bad mood was indeed nothing more than seasonal depression, perhaps, there was also the slight possibility that this mold possessed either hallucinogenic or otherwise psychoactive properties which could explain the consistent nightmares and the conviction Ms. Avery had that her bedroom was haunted. I intended to discover what I could, and so I carried my sample back into the chemistry lab, indicating to Mr. White that he was to completely eradicate whatever had been left of the mold by any means possible.

Back in the lab, I presented the sample to Charles, who appeared ill at ease but nevertheless agreed that some proper experimentation on this new fungus was in order. We placed the mold in a container with suitable humidity, along with a substrate, and I placed the glass container next to one of the heating pipes so it would enjoy advantageous temperature which might encourage the growth of its contents. Having done that, I went back to helping Charles with our previous electrical experiment.

The next few days were quite uneventful and, in all honesty, more interesting matters had chased both the incident with Ms. Avery and the strange mold from my mind. Charles and I were hard at work devising an optimal schedule of observations from the observatory once the skies cleared up. I was also helping him build a small and quite unique generator which, he assured me, would be able to precisely modulate both amplitude and frequency of radio waves within his desired specifications for when his great antenna was finally built. It was fascinating work, and quite demanding. Half the time I did not truly understand what it was we were doing, but I was a capable and reliable colleague and I knew Charles valued my help enormously. He would often compliment me on this or that task well done, and the warmth of his smile made my heart skip a beat sometimes. I was glad to be able to share my days with him, to pursue our lofty academic goals, and to know that each of our days was but one more link in the chain which would eventually connect us to discoveries which would make us famous.

Nights, just being with Charles, talking or merely holding one another, made me feel both thankful and happy. Slowly, I had tried to show him that the long winter nights were not necessarily something bad, or something to be afraid of, and little by little he began to share my way of thinking. We would sit up on the bed together, looking out the window when the moonlight permitted us to see the landscape beyond, covered with glistening snow, and marvel at the beauty of nature. One such night, under a waxing moon which was particularly bright, we even saw the first stirrings of life which signaled approaching spring. A single squirrel with a light gray coat came into view, and Charles and I watched with amusement and fascination as it dug in several apparently random places, plunging into the snow as it ostensibly looked for nuts which it might have stashed during the fall. It was fun to watch its antics, and when it hopped closer in the direction of the window I was able to see that it was a particularly large and beautiful specimen. It appeared well-fed despite the season, and its movements were fluid, graceful.

Perhaps that is why I laughed so hard when it crashed into the window by mistake, evidently not having seen the glass.

I would have expected for the squirrel to dash off immediately, terrified, but instead it merely glanced sharply in the direction of my laughter, paused for a beat, and then left as fast as it was able to. I shared a good chuckle with Charles over that, and I was glad to see him laughing too, able to enjoy the small things in life once again.

These days of carefree and intellectual enjoyment came to a rather abrupt end, however, the very next morning. Mr. White knocked more than an hour before his usual visit to bring us breakfast, and he appeared bedraggled when I opened the door for him.

“It’s Sarah,” he told me without preamble. “She’s disappeared.”

That entire day was spent searching for the maid. Everyone participated and we all feared the worst. Mrs. Thompson, her roommate, was the last person to have seen her last night before sleeping. According to her, she had woken up very early in the morning only to find that Ms. Avery’s bed next to hers was already empty. Mrs. Thompson had assumed that her companion had simply begun the day early, but after an hour of searching for her and not finding her, she had gone to Mr. White and shortly thereafter it had been established that she was not in the building.

It was a blustery day, but even so we all set out to search for her. The cooks and Mr. White were sent out into the forest, while the maids and Mr. Scott were to search the observation tower. I myself accompanied the groundskeeper and Charles in an exploration circuit of the gardens around the main building to try and find footprints or anything which might tell us where she could be.

It was grim work, chilly and uncomfortable, all the more so because we knew that, with every passing minute, the probability of finding Ms. Avery alive decreased significantly. None of the servants could offer us any explanation for the disappearance aside from what everybody already knew – that Ms. Avery had believed the place to be haunted and that she had suffered from nightmares, even after changing her lodging to a different bedroom. I could not help but wonder whether Ms. Avery had been more seriously unwell than any of us had suspected, and whether she had simply succumbed to a nervous breakdown or a panic attack of some sort, which had forced her to escape into the deadly winter night. She had not taken any of her possessions with her, and in fact we would later discover that she had not even put on a coat before she had left. What sort of blind terror could possess a person to leave everything behind like that and wander off into the wilderness to meet almost certain doom? And why was the situation and the echoes of memory it disturbed so unsettlingly familiar to me?

Charles and I made a complete circle around the building but found no tracks which could have belonged to a human. There were some animal tracks in the snow, however, particularly around the area near the window of the master suite. Johnston, the groundskeeper, joined us there. He stopped and looked at them with a frown.

“What is the matter?” I asked him, thinking that perhaps they held a clue as to the whereabouts of our missing person.

He shook his head. “Those tracks are lookin’ weird,” he answered.

“How so?”

He nodded in the direction of some faint indentations in the snow. “Those look like rabbit tracks, maybe a squirrel. But those critters don’t walk like that. See the prints? Too far apart. And this big one here, it just looks wrong.”

“Does this have anything to do with Ms. Avery?” I asked, rather impatiently I admit.

“No sir.”

“Then we keep looking.”

Our thorough observations demanded several hours of toil. We were freezing by the time we reached the crater’s edge, around which we made an entire circuit without seeing anything. However, Johnston’s keen eye picked up the faint imprint of a human foot within the crater bowl as we were preparing to return to the Observatory. Puzzled, yet excited at this first hint of the fate of Ms. Avery, Charles and I waited at the crater’s edge while Johnston went forward alone so as to disturb the ground as little as possible. Daylight was fading by the time he finally returned with his report.

“Don’t make no sense,” he told us, scratching his head. “I see just a couple tracks, they lead to the center. Then they stop.”

Charles looked at me. I knew what he was thinking.

“Is it possible that she… That she fell into the crater hole?” Charles said aloud.

Johnston shook his head. “There’s no hint of that, no sir. It’s weird, is all. But she’s not around here. Maybe the others found her.”

We returned to the building, where, to our dismay, all other parties reported not having found any trace of Ms. Avery. Darkness had fallen by then, and we were forced to suspend the search. The next day efforts were redoubled, but we found nothing. It was a grim time indeed, particularly because by now we knew that we would probably not find Ms. Avery alive anymore. It was simply not possible for a human being to survive without protection in such inclement weather for two days.

The third day, Charles ordered Johnston, Mr. White, Mr. Scott, and two of the cooks to explore the crater hole, the only place which had not been investigated. They came back after a few hours, reporting that the endeavor was hopeless – the hole was found to have been frozen solid under a layer of snow that had been at least six feet deep and there was no way, according to them, for someone to have fallen through somehow and yet left no trace. This left us with no closure to the tragedy, and the morale of all in the household suffered greatly. There was talk among some of the servants of not coming back once springtime came and the roads were passable again. Charles took it hard, feeling as though it was his personal responsibility somehow, although I tried to reassure him that, if Ms. Avery had indeed been deranged, she would have eventually found a way to hurt herself despite our best intentions.

There was also the possibility that some other factor might have influenced her actions. I therefore dedicated the next week or so to careful analysis of the mold culture which I grew in the lab, and which was the only possible lead into whatever had happened. It was fascinating study, and indeed for a while, despite the horrible circumstances, I was thrilled to have stumbled upon such a remarkable organism.

The mold had taken very well to its controlled environment and had grown to fill the entire glass container within just a few days. I was strongly reminded of fungi because of the way it appeared to grow, but examination under the microscope revealed that this was not a simple fungus, but also some form of plant, paradoxical as that may sound. The chloroplasts were clearly visible, although the cellular structure appeared somewhat more complex than I was used to. I spent several nights reading as much as I could about similar plants and fungi in the many books which Charles had purchased for the library. In this I was alone, since Charles himself refused to have anything to do with the mold and would actually make a point of going somewhere else whenever I studied it. Nevertheless, I was able to quickly ascertain that the mold, if indeed that is what I should call it, was more akin to a colony of single-celled, symbiotic organisms reminiscent of phytoplankton encased by a larger unicellular fungus, rather than a multicellular plant or a mushroom of some kind. This gave it remarkable resilience and flexibility, as I was able to find out in the course of my experimentation.

I discovered that the mold would survive both very low and very high temperatures by encasing itself in a sort of cyst which bore a very strong resemblance to a fungal spore. Indeed, the way it multiplied reminded me of the way a fungus’s mycelium grew and spread, and I began to suspect that I was indeed in the presence of an organism which straddled the division between the kingdoms Fungi and Plantae– a very remarkable discovery if that were the case. The microscope showed me that, although individual cells were relatively simple, when grouped together and under the right conditions they would spontaneously organize themselves into rows of three-dimensional structures which, when viewed macroscopically, gave the mold its characteristic fuzzy softness as it grew like a carpet on any surface it could attach itself to. These structures were remarkably efficient at transporting water and nutrients where they were needed, or at least that was my conjecture given the limitations of my equipment. The organisms themselves were not indestructible, of course – I lost nearly the entire culture when I thought about using chlorinated water to test its resilience to a harsh chemical – but, overall, I was certain that I was in the presence of a form of life with remarkable potential, and which had certainly never been documented before.

Learning all of this offered no insight on the fate of Ms. Avery, however. I used myself as a guinea pig, deliberately spending lengthy amounts of time with the mold such that any fumes or chemical effluvia which it may produce might have a chance to affect me as well, but I did not experience any nightmares nor did I have any hallucinations. It soon became clear to me that, aside from its remarkable survival abilities and its puzzling combination of attributes from both fungi and plants, the mold was not particularly noteworthy when it came to interacting with more complex organisms such as human beings.

I shared my conclusions with Charles one night, a week after the disappearance of Ms. Avery. The day had been clear and sunny, and the night was bright under a full moon. Winter was losing its hold over the land, but it was hard to feel cheerful about that under the circumstances. Nevertheless, I told Charles that, now that I had essentially eliminated the last extraneous factor which might have led Ms. Avery to escape in the night to her death, we could essentially exonerate ourselves from having had a part, either through oversight or direct action, on her ultimate fate. It was all but evident that she must have been a disturbed individual, and her irrational actions were proof of that. It was lamentable, certainly, but there was little we could have done to prevent it.

Strangely, the more I spoke, the more Charles frowned. It was as if my words were the exact opposite of what he had expected to hear, and in the end he settled into a sullen silence out of which I could not move him. We sat on the bed without saying a word, looking out the window as if it would somehow offer us answers, or closure, or something.

That was when I saw the squirrel approach. It was undoubtedly the same individual which we had seen once before, judging by its lustrous silver coat and its unusually large size. I pointed it out to Charles, hoping to distract him, and I was glad to see that the sight of the curious animal did indeed appear to wake his interest. The two of us watched as the squirrel hopped with very little hesitation across the snow, approaching in a slightly erratic but determined fashion. The moon outside was bright, and by its light we saw clearly not only the squirrel but a sizable portion of the landscape beyond, beautiful in shades of white and black. The snow had not receded yet, but it was a matter of time. Now that the end of winter was in sight, I could allow myself to enjoy the majesty and calmness which the cold brought when it settled over the land, like tonight. The quietude around us was not the empty silence of death – it was the gentle pause of dormant life, waiting to awaken once more to the warmth when the time was right.

The squirrel hopped closer until it was standing less than an inch away from the window. This time, however, it did not crash against the glass. It appeared to remember what had happened the last time, and I watched, fascinated, as it reached forward with tentative gestures of its front paws. It was almost like watching a small child explore a clear glass window for the first time. The squirrel appeared unsure of whether it was going to encounter resistance again, and when its claws brushed against the glass, it did a minute and adorable double take. It recovered quickly and reached forward again. This time, it pressed both paws against the glass and explored the surface with quick motions, looking like the smallest mime I had ever seen. I could not help it – I chuckled. Charles did as well. We looked at each other, and in that moment I was able to see past the worry, gloom, and foul mood which had plagued Charles for so many days and behold the man beneath. He was an attractive, brilliant, and thoughtful man. The smile he gave me at that moment dazzled me with its genuine joy.

I leaned forward and kissed him gently. He returned the kiss and soon I was lost in the warmth of his embrace, our caresses alternating between tenderness and passion. His lips were soft, his fingers eager, and his scent wonderfully intoxicating. Sex with him was a wonderful release, all the more so because it happened so seldom, and for once Charles appeared to let go of the fearful hesitation and slight embarrassment he would often seem to feel when he shared such intimate moments with me. I felt happy afterwards, holding him close while he rested his head on my chest.

“I like it when you hold me,” he said in the moonlit night, his deep voice rumbling in my chest.

I did not answer, but stroked his hair gently in peaceful contentment. After the uncertainty and unpleasantness of the last few days, it was a great relief to be able to simply feel at peace with the world for once. The wonderful silence dragged on and my eyelids grew heavy with the approach of welcoming sleep.

Something crashed against the window so hard it made it rattle in its frame. Both of us jumped up, startled out of our wits.

“What in the seven Hells…?” I said, looking over at the window. It had sounded like someone had tried to smash it open.

But I saw nothing under the moonlight. Charles reached for me, evidently scared, and I squeezed his shoulder in reassurance. Then I stood up and went closer to investigate.

There was a small crack in the glass, about knee height, but no trace of the projectile could I see anywhere. It could not have been a person, since there were no large tracks in the snow outside. Neither could it have been a bird, since such a violent impact would have stunned it, and there was nothing lying on the ground either. Puzzled, I looked back at Charles, who appeared to be as confused as I am.

Can’t see anything, I signed.

Maybe it was nothing, he answered. There was a slight tremble in his hand gestures as he spoke. Come back to bed.

I did so, still puzzling over what could have happened. I could find no explanation, and as the minutes dragged by and I started feeling more and more sleepy, I decided to simply ignore the matter. I settled down onto the pillows, still holding Charles, and closed my eyes to try to get some sleep.

It felt like only an instant later that I was awoken by Charles shaking me. When I opened my eyes, however, I saw that the moonlight now spilled into the bedroom. At least an hour must have passed since I had fallen asleep. I was groggy, but then I saw Charles’s terrified expression not two inches from my face.

Danny, he mouthed, eyes wide.

“What’s –” I couldn’t finish because Charles placed his hand over my mouth before I could say anything else. I felt him trembling.

Danny, he mouthed again. We are not alone.

At once I sat up in bed, adrenaline surging, looking for an intruder. There was a revolver under the mattress which I could get, and –

But I saw no one. I looked all over but saw no intruder.

Charles tugged on my hand lightly to draw my attention to the window. There, standing inside the room and not three feet away from our bed, was the squirrel from before.

I was so relieved that I almost laughed, but then I noticed something odd. The squirrel ought to have bolted at my sudden motion, and yet it remained great was, head held high… Watching us.

I felt a cold shiver crawl up my spine when, as I moved to rest my back against the pillows, the squirrel turned its head slightly so it was looking directly at me. Something was not right. Now that I saw it inside the room, I had the distinct impression that the squirrel was much too large for a member of its species. I could also see that its coat, while mostly silver, had a dark and irregular stripe running along its tail and its back and which stopped at its neck. I didn’t know why, but upon seeing that dark splotch on the otherwise flawless fur, I felt keen revulsion at a visceral level.

Things were not helped by the fact that the creature did not blink. It merely stood there, looking at me, its eyes glassy and yet horribly alert. When I made as if to stand up, its eyes followed me although the rest of its body was kept rigid, standing on two legs, almost as if it were analyzing me. I settled back down on the bed as a result. I risked a quick look at Charles, who appeared paralyzed by fear. Seeing how afraid he was, a wave of terror washed over me which had nothing to do with the potential threat such a little animal posed. It was evidently not affected by rabies or it would have been much more aggressive. Aside from the fact that it was not moving, there really should not have been anything particularly terrifying about it – and yet there was. I could not explain it, but I felt it, more with every passing second.

Charles sniffled next to me. It sounded as though he were trying to contain a sob. The squirrel turned its head slowly at the sound so it would be looking at Charles now. Then it hopped closer, once. Charles gasped. The squirrel looked at him for a long, horrible moment, and turned its head to the side like a bird analyzing prey it was about to devour. It was then, since I was seeing it from the side now, that I realized the reason for the horrified disgust which the creature caused in me.

The dark sections in its coat did not look like fur at all. The strands looked thicker, like dense plant growth or moldy fuzz.

And they were moving. They swayed ever so slightly this way and that although there was no wind inside our bedroom.

With an angry cry, I finally broke the spell and stumbled out of the bed, reaching for the revolver. I yanked it out of its hiding place and pointed it at the creature, but the squirrel took one look at me and then dashed away, climbing one of the curtains near the window with dizzying speed. It then disappeared into the darkness near the ceiling, but just a couple of moments later I saw it fleetingly through the window on the other side of the glass. It must have jumped, because I saw it fall down from considerable height and then land on the snow just outside. It stood up immediately, shook itself once… And glanced back at us. First it looked at me, but it was a glance I could not help but interpret as dismissive. Then it looked at Charles for nearly five charged seconds. It lifted a paw in his direction.

Then the horrible creature was gone, leaving in its wake a stench which I only now sensed: the earthy rot of vegetable matter left in the dark and damp for too long.