14.4

 

The pressure began to build again, and as she turned to face the door, thinking that it was better to face the threat than keep her back to it, the pressure switched from her shoulder blade to just above her ribs; probably the same spot inside her body but was now being released just below her clavicle. The pressure now pressed against Roisin’s ribs, growing like a slow pulse until she was gritting her teeth trying to bear it, then letting out a whoosh of breath as it died down again, leaving her with a moment of giddiness as pressure suddenly released. Her legs felt wobbly with the effort of bearing the pain, and she abruptly sat on the step of the second stair down as the pressure increased once more.

The echo pulsed again. Harder, this time, causing her to let a tiny gasp of pain escape her lips. If it was like having a baby before, then this would be akin to contractions, though she hadn’t though to time the gaps between them. Why were these contractions coming, anyway? It’s not like she was about to give birth, although Steve had said it was draining her of her spirit. He’d also said she had very little of it and after the trials her short life had given her, she’d have thought she had as much spirit as anyone if not more, thank you very much.

She grunted as the pressure released in a sudden flood.

“I’m back,” Steve whispered in her ear, making her jump. Why hadn’t she heard him coming? He’d brought a small variety of objects with him, presumably part of his collection, and each one had the tell-tale shimmer of prisms. “How are you holding up?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “Stay behind me.”

He squeezed past her and began to advance on the shadow in the doorway. She grabbed hold of the handrail and hauled herself to her feet. Were prisms spirit? Is that why he’d said she had too little of it? The girl at the gallery – she still hadn’t told her what her name was – had said she had no prisms either.

But she felt the darkness watching her.

Waiting.

Recognising her.

The darkness at the end of the hallway didn’t move.

It didn’t need to.

Its stillness was worse than movement — a kind of waiting that felt deliberate, as though it were holding itself back, testing the air, tasting the threshold. Roisin felt it pressing against her ribs, the pressure inside her chest building in response, like the opposing poles of two magnets held too close together.

Steve stood between her and the doorway, shoulders tense, jaw tight. He wasn’t afraid — not exactly — but he was braced, as though he’d been here before and knew how quickly things could shift.

“Stay behind me,” he murmured again.

Roisin nodded, though her legs felt unsteady. The pressure pulsed once, twice, then steadied into a pull reminiscent of a resistance rope on the sprinting track at the gym, though it seemed to be increasing its pull the closer she got to it.

Steve took a slow step forward.

 

From the bundle of artifacts he held between one arm and his chest he pulled out a small one wrapped in ragged cloth and took a slow step forward. The cloth was frayed at the edges, stained with something dark, and seemed to be a small figurine, and although she couldn’t tell what it depicted between his meaty fingers, she could see the prisms inside it flickering. As he held it aloft, and she had to stifle a laugh at the cinematic image of a priest confronting an unholy being, the pressure inside her chest suddenly released. She would have fallen backwards had she not been holding the handrail, so sudden was the forward pull halted.

The darkness thickened. Not visibly — not in any way she could point to — but she felt it, like a pressure drop before a storm. The air grew colder. The shadows along the walls lengthened, stretching toward the centre of the hallway.

Steve held it carefully, almost reverently, as though it were fragile or dangerous or both. He didn’t unwrap it. He didn’t need to. The air around it shifted, the faintest ripple of warmth spreading outward.

The darkness shifted, switching its attention from her to the figurine, which puled with light once, twice, then flared like a light bulb plugged into a voltage higher than its filament could withstand and died. No more prisms. No more spirit.

Steve exhaled slowly. “Well that one didn’t last long.” He stooped to set it on the stair. It might not be alive in whatever sense that meant any more, but it was still an artifact that should be in a museum.

Roisin swallowed. “Now what?”

Steve didn’t look back. “I was hoping that would satisfy it and keep it occupied while I called for backup.”

“Backup? From where? The police?”