Marcus Cole's Arc

Chapter 4 of 4

Marcus turned from the empty water to face the door. The porch boards sagged under his weight. He had crossed a flood for one thing: clear footage of the entity's proof. That proof was inside. But inside, the house swallowed all light. He raised his camera and looked through the screen. The doorway showed nothing. Just a black square that gave back no image. Blind footage would prove nothing. He had learned that lesson already. He dug through his pack. His flashlight was gone. It had rolled off the flatboat, or Cooter's boot had kicked it into the water. He had matches, but matches burned out fast. He needed steady light to film. Then he remembered Mama Eshe. The old swamp woman had pressed a rag into his hand two nights back. She had folded his fingers over it and told him to carry it. He had thought it was foolishness. He pulled it out now. The rag felt warm. Not from his pocket. Warm on its own. He stepped through the door into the main room. Dust covered a rotting couch. Wallpaper hung in strips from the walls. Cobwebs stretched across every corner. The dark pressed in thick. He held the rag up, and a faint glow bled from the cloth. Weak, but real. It pushed the black back an arm's length. He crossed the room, camera in one hand, glowing rag in the other. The light showed him the floor, the broken chairs, the peeling plaster. It was not enough to film a moving thing across a room. But it might be enough up close. The proof was deeper in. He found the base of a staircase. The stairs climbed into worse dark. Rotting green carpet clung to each step. The banisters were carved with faces. At the top, a tall arched window let in no light at all. Its glass had gone black with age and grime. Something waited at the top. He felt the cold roll down the steps and touch his neck. He set the camera to record. He wedged the rag against the lens so its glow lit the frame. Then he climbed. Each step groaned. Halfway up, the cold turned sharp. The rag flared brighter, fighting something. On the screen, a shape formed at the top of the stairs. Pale. Wrong. It stood in the light the rag threw, and the camera held it. No blur. No corruption. The glow steadied the image. Marcus stopped climbing. He had it. Clear proof, framed and lit. The pale shape lifted its head and looked straight into the lens. Then it stepped down toward him. The rag's glow shrank fast, pulled thin, like the cold was eating it. Marcus backed down one step, then another, camera still running. The light was dying. And the thing on the stairs was between him and the door.