Tether
Sunlight crept across the faded quilt before Clara stirred.
For a moment when her eyelids first fluttered open, she didn’t remember where she was. She knew only the golden warmth pressing against her eyelids, the muffled hum of voices downstairs, the steady rise and fall of someone’s chest against her back. Warm. A stark contrast to the haunting events of the previous evening.
Almost stiffly, she rolled ever so slightly, just enough to see Harry’s dark hair. Sighing contently, she snuggled closer.
His arm was slung loosely around her waist, so when she shifted, he murmured something incoherent and drew her closer. His slow, sleepy breaths brushed the back of her neck.
The comfort was fragile – too sweet to last – but Clara let herself linger in it.
When she finally sat up just slightly, the clock on the nightstand read forty-five past eleven. Sunlight pooled through the lace curtains, speckling the wooden floor with gold. Dust motes drifted lazily in the light, and somewhere outside, a horse-drawn buggy rattled by.
“Harry,” she whispered, reaching out to rest a hand on his, now draped over her thigh.
He opened one eye and lifted his head, squinting at her like someone waking from a dream they hadn’t expected to end. “Oh. We’re still alive.”
“Seem to be.”
“Then it’s already a good day. Made better by waking to you.”
He pushed himself up and ran a hand over his face. His hair stuck up at odd angles. She smiled faintly, leaning to press a kiss to his temple before swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Her nightgown rustled softly as she crossed the room to retrieve her dress from where it hung over a chair.
By the time they’d freshened up and dressed, the sunlight had turned bright and hot through the windowpanes. The faint scent of roasted meat and fresh bread wafted up from downstairs, making Clara’s stomach growl.
They found Edward’s door half open, his shirt wrinkled, suspenders hanging loose. He was seated on the edge of his bed, cigarette already burning between his fingers. He looked up as they entered.
“Didn’t think you two were ever getting up,” he said dryly. “I knocked at your door, Lari, and never got an answer. Hell of a night, wasn’t it?”
“Hell of a few days,” Harry corrected. “Come on. Lunch is waiting.”
Downstairs, the dining room was near-empty, only boasting a pair of travelers in the far corner and a bored-looking hostess behind the buffet counter. A small table by the window had been set for three – sandwiches, cold cuts, salad, a pot of coffee, and a pitcher of water already sweating in the heat.
They ate quietly at first, the clink of silverware the only sound in their group. Each of them seemed half-present, drifting in thought.
Edward finally broke the silence. “Feels strange, doesn’t it? Being out of the woods. I keep thinking I’ll hear those massive wings again.”
Harry chewed slowly, eyes distant. “You might, if we don’t figure out how to put that thing back where it belongs.”
Clara glanced up. “Do you think James… I mean, I didn’t see him, not like Millie. Maybe he’s still out there.”
Harry’s expression darkened. “Even if that’s true, we’re not going back. Not tonight, and not without some strategy. We’re only still alive because dawn came fast enough to drive that thing back underground.”
Edward exhaled, staring out the window. “So what now? We just… pretend this never happened? Go back to the carnival and pretend Walter didn’t die screaming in a forest?”
Clara set her fork down, her appetite suddenly gone. “I don’t think there’s any going back, Eddy. Not for us. I don’t think there’s a carnival without Walter. We’ll get our things, maybe, but…”
Her brother looked at her – his gaze sharp and sympathetic – before something in his face softened, just slightly. “Maybe you’re right. It’s time we figure out what’s next for us. Figure out where the Watersons belong, maybe hunt down Mom’s family.”
Harry leaned back in his chair, finishing his coffee in one smooth chug. “We’re not going back to the circus. Not yet, anyway. There’s someone I want you both to meet. A woman named Eloise.”
Clara’s brows knit. “That medium you mentioned last night? Er, this morning?”
At the mention of a conversation he’d clearly been excluded from, Edward cocked an eyebrow, but he didn’t say anything.
“Not exactly.” Harry pushed his cup aside. “I met her years ago, back when I first started testing spiritualists. She told me outright that she couldn’t speak to the dead, said she was more of a scholar of the unseen than a conduit for it. She deals in old books, ritual symbols, obscure faiths. The kind of knowledge that might tell us how the Gates were made in the first place.”
Edward fished out and lit a post-meal cigarette. “And you think she’ll help us? With what, exactly?”
“I don’t know if she can help, but I want to try. I think she’s the only person who might understand what we’re up against.”
After a slow drag, Edward ashed and leaned forward to meet Harry’s gaze. “So… just as a theoretical… What would you think about leaving? Pretending we never saw what happened in those hellish woods?”
When his friend and sister glared at him, Edward recoiled and grumbled as he lifted his smoke to his lips again. Harry finished his meal and Edward his cigarette in silence after that.
When they finally stepped out into the afternoon glare, the heat was thick enough to shimmer over the hood of Harry’s car. The world outside world looked deceptively ordinary – children skipping rope near a cluster of houses, a milk delivery truck rumbling past, sunlight bouncing off storefront glass.
Yet beneath it all, a quiet dread pulsed in Clara’s chest. She could still feel the woods clinging to her, damp and heavy in her lungs.
It was a distant instinct, perhaps. The lingering doubt from coming in such close contact with uninhibited evil was enough to leave her jumpy. Nevertheless, the mundaneness of the afternoon was almost enough to chase it away.
She climbed into the passenger seat beside Harry as Edward folded himself into the rumble seat. The car’s engine sputtered to life, coughing once before catching.
“Lancaster,” Harry said, tipping his hat down against the sun. “We’ll be there in about an hour.”
As they pulled away from the inn, Clara turned her face to the window. The countryside blurred past – golden fields, fence posts, a distant line of trees. She could almost believe the world was safe again.
Almost. There’s that word again.
As she watched her reflection in the glass, the unease returned.
Clara took a deep breath. Eloise. Another supposed expert. Another person who claims to understand the other side. That ended so well for James.
She folded her arms and leaned back in her seat, jaw tight.
If this Eloise turned out to be just another zealot or fanatic in fine clothes, Clara wasn’t sure whether she’d laugh or cry.
***
By the time they reached Lancaster, the sun was already lowering behind the rooftops, painting the streets in a sleepy gold. The air was warm and dry, carrying the scent of hay and coal smoke. Harry guided the car down a row of tidy townhouses until he stopped before one that stood apart – a tall brick home whose shutters were painted deep green, its windows filled with plants and faint curls of incense smoke.
“This is the place,” he said quietly.
Eloise’s brass nameplate gleamed on the door, catching the afternoon sunlight in a glint. No surname. No title. Just Eloise’s Place.
When Clara followed Harry up the steps, she found herself expecting beads and candles, a woman in scarves and perfume with a flair for the dramatic – the same way her scam felt. Instead, the door opened to a woman of quiet elegance with silver-streaked brown hair swept neatly into a bun. Eyes the color of old amber lit up above a soft gray dress.
“Harry Seaman,” she said warmly, as though greeting a distant relative she’d been itching to reconnect with. “I was wondering when you’d darken my doorstep again. You brought company.”
Harry tipped his hat politely. “It’s good to see you, Eloise. These are my friends, Clara and Edward. We need your help, if you’ve got a moment to spare.”
“Friends. Don’t be so modest, Harry. An old friend knows when she’s meeting your future wife. I see you found family, as we talked about.” The woman stepped aside to let them in, grinning at Clara’s flaming cheeks. “You’ve come a long way for this, I can tell. Come on in, the tea kettle’s still hot.”
As she guided them toward the kitchen, Edward caught his sister’s arm and pulled her to his side. In a hushed voice, he asked, “Future wife, eh?”
“Shush, Eddy. We just met him.”
“Oh, horsefeathers. I’m your twin. I can read you like a book, and I’m starting to think you might know him pretty well. Might explain why you didn’t answer your door earlier. Were you even in your room?”
“No.” To Clara’s surprise, her statement wasn’t met with a side-eye or scoff of disapproval.
Edward actually chuckled, but then pulled her even closer so he could whisper. “The child of Nellie Bly and Robert Seaman would marry within his social class, Lari. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“We’ve got bigger things to worry about, Eddy.”
The twins silenced when they came into a kitchen. One by one, the spiritualist produced three teacups and sprinkled loose tea leaves in them. She added a bit of honey to each and stirred them before nodding to her guests, gesturing for them to claim a cup.
She paused when Clara stepped forward, running her eyes over the younger woman curiously. “You’re a medium.”
Clara brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “Not a particularly practiced one, but yes.”
“That’s alright, my dear. It’s good to have you here. I don’t have your type of gift, so I always appreciate when I do encounter it. Come, all, let’s go to the parlor.”
The parlor was unexpected: less séance hall, more library. Shelves lined every wall, stuffed with books that looked hand-bound or centuries old. A phonograph played softly from a corner, something slow and stringed, its melancholy threads weaving through the faint aroma of sandalwood.
Eloise gestured to the velvet settee by the fireplace, then sat opposite them in a high-backed chair, legs crossed at the ankle gracefully. “Tell me what’s brought you here.”
So they did. In vivid detail.
Harry took the lead, his tone crisp and measured. Edward interjected only once or twice, helpfully filling in gaps for added color. Clara sat still through most of it, staring into the flames as she listened to the words tumble out. Gates, demons, screams, wings. Blood. The more Harry spoke, the more surreal it sounded, like an old ghost story that couldn’t possibly be true.
When he finally fell silent, Eloise didn’t move. She only studied them for a long while, her eyes flicking from one to the next. Then, softly, she said, “You’re right. It can’t be killed. Nothing from Heaven or Hell can.”
Edward gave a humorless laugh. “I’m relieved to hear that you believe us. This all sounds crazy.”
Eloise ignored him as she leaned forward, folding her hands on her knees. “These things, they are bound, not slain. The old ones understood this far better than we do now. The beast you speak of was conjured, yes, but not necessarily by design. Madness has always been a doorway. And, unfortunately, it sounds like your friend James opened that door yet again. Figuratively, then literally.”
Clara looked up. “A door? That’s interesting. You frame it as a singular, but there were Seven Gates at the site.”
Eloise nodded. “You mentioned the asylum. That makes sense. I’ve read fragments about a place out there, a sanitarium that housed a small group of patients who practiced ritual geometry – sacred diagrams drawn to contain power. Most called them delusional, as they simply didn’t understand, but their patterns were consistent, deliberate. It’s been said that one of their rites opened something… and what came through could never quite be sent back. Suddenly, those doctors and tormenters had to work with their patients to bind that creature, lest it escape and wreak havoc. And, like you mentioned, seven is a sacred number. Seven Gates makes sense, a way to use the holy to bind the infernal.”
Clara leaned forward, heart hammering. “You think those patients created the creature?”
“I think they invited it,” Eloise said gently. “And the doctors, desperate to stop the madness, bound it instead of sending it back. Truthfully, that’s probably the easiest solution.”
Harry frowned and absentmindedly reached for his cup on the coffee table. Lifting it, he asked, “How’d they bind it?”
“As I understand it, through geometry and sacrifice. Seven Gates arranged in sacred proportion, forming a lattice of containment. But those shapes are inert without a living anchor. A life had to be given to fuse the ritual.”
“That’s why Tabitha said she gave her life to keep it here,” Clara said in realization. “The seal was broken when the asylum burned, somehow. She gave herself to restore it again.”
The fire popped, a sharp sound in the quiet room.
Clara felt her stomach twist. It fit. All of it. The smell of sulfur, the lost souls, the half-finished whispers from the trees. It all came together in one terrible realization.
“So to bind it again,” she said slowly, “We’d have to rebuild the seal, to some degree. Recreate the geometry, or use the existing site, assuming we can lure it back there.”
Eloise nodded once. “And offer a new anchor.”
Harry stood abruptly. “No. We’re not doing that. This thing has already taken enough lives.”
Eloise watched him calmly, her face unreadable. “The world doesn’t care for what we think is fair. The mathematics of the divine are cruel.” Her expression softened as she turned back to Clara. “You’re not powerless, you know. You’ve seen beyond the veil. That’s rare. Dangerous, but rare. If you truly can reach those who built the first seal, you might find a way to survive the offering. To borrow the death without keeping it.”
Clara swallowed hard. “You think, if I give myself up, I could come back?”
“I think belief is half of any magic, young lady. And you already believe more than you did yesterday.”
“No,” Harry growled, still hovering over the settee. “Absolutely not, Claire. I dragged you into this, remember? This is not your mess to resolve.”
She stared at him with wide green eyes before she shot a glance at her brother, who pursed his lips. With a deep breath, she shifted her attention to Eloise. “Can you help me reach those who built the Gates? I want to know everything about this sacred geometry as possible.”
Eloise rose, crossing to a cabinet. “If we’re to speak with them, we’ll need stillness. And faith. But yes, I can help.”
She returned with a candle, its wax the color of bone, and set it on the table between them.
The séance that followed was nothing like the ones Clara performed for carnival crowds. There were absolutely no theatrics – only candlelight, still air, and the sound of their breathing. Eloise’s voice was low and rhythmic, her eyes closed, palms open.
Then, faintly, another voice began to speak louder than hers – strained, echoing, like something spoken through a dream.
“I warned them,” it said. “They wanted to touch God, and they reached for the pit instead. I told them we must bind what we had drawn forth. Seven points. Seven gates. Seven lives to guard the circle, but only one to seal it. And one to patch it time and time again as guardians come and go.”
Clara’s fingers trembled on the tabletop as the group around her stayed still, seemingly unaware of the new presence. “Who are you?”
“Dr. Hensley,” the voice replied. “I built the Gates. My patients carved the marks in their cells, then on each Gate. It was supposed to hold forever… until the fire. When the center burned, the lattice broke. Only the girl remained.”
“The girl,” Clara whispered. “Tabitha? Was she one of the souls that guarded your circle?”
“She was,” said the voice. “And, when it broke, she gave herself willingly to reseal it. Both a Gate and a sacrifice. Light against dark. Her soul was the weight that kept the door shut. But now the weight is gone, and the Fifth Gate is broken.”
“Please,” Clara said, “Can you tell me how to repair it?”
“There must be a new structure,” he said. “Constructed at the Fifth Gate, inscribed with the same symbols. Or… A soul inscribed with those same symbols, ready to serve an earth-bound purpose.”
Frantically, Clara scrambled to pull a notebook toward her, exclaiming, “I give you permission to use my hand to write! Please, show me the symbols.”
She gasped as her hand scrawled across the page. The candle’s flame flared, then shrank to a pinprick, followed by a short burst of smoke as it died out. Chest heaving, Clara stared at the paper before her unseeingly.
Eloise exhaled, the sound sharp and human again. “It seems the spirit has gone.”
“Claire,” Harry said softly. “Are you okay? Whatever you saw, it seemed intense.”
“Heard,” she said quietly. Then, her eyes locked on the notebook. “Though now I see. He said we have to construct a new structure where the Fifth Gate stood, then inscribe it with this. Then, of course…”
She trailed off. She didn’t have to say that it would require a sacrifice to bind the seal once more. And, of course, the presence of the creature itself.
She also, with a churning stomach, recalled that Tabitha had referred to herself as one of the Gates. Perhaps they wouldn’t have to build any sort of structure if Clara carved these symbols into her skin…
Outside, the day was beginning to fade. It wasn’t quite near dark yet, but the light over Lancaster turned pale and dusty, as though the sun itself were uneasy.
Staring toward the window, Clara could almost hear the whisper of what she would have to do.
The fire popped, and the sharp sound made the solemn group jump. Against her better judgment, Clara uttered a chuckle.
Eloise took the brief levity as an opportunity to tilt her head toward their untouched cups. “Before you kids go, drink your tea. Let’s see what remains at the bottom.”
Edward arched a brow toward his sister skeptically, but obeyed. Clara followed, her hands trembling slightly as she lifted the cup to her lips. When all three had finished their tea, Eloise rose, gliding toward the gleaming empty china. She turned each cup slowly in her hands, counterclockwise three times, then set them upside down on their saucers to let the liquid drain. Steam curled from the rims as the curious trio, still tense, sat in silence.
After a few moments, she righted Clara’s cup and peered into it.
“I see a storm,” Eloise murmured. “See here? The cluster near the handle – it’s shaped like an arch. That’s your current path, dear. You’ve crossed a threshold you can’t uncross. And here,” she traced the pattern on the outside of the cup with a polished nail, “A single leaf shaped like a heart near the rim. Someone has already begun to tether themselves to you. Protection, not romance. Not yet, at least.”
Clara’s cheeks flushed as she averted her eyes, but Eloise was already turning to Harry’s cup.
“Yours is fascinating,” she said. “This long streak near the base? I’d read that as travel, but interrupted. A road half-taken. You were seeking something buried, something lost. Money, perhaps, but more than that. Absolution. You want to repay a family member, and on your parents’ behalf, I think. Beyond that, you want absolution from your lineage’s legacy of stunts. You want to be loved for who you are, not what they said. You won’t find that absolution without her.” She inclined her head toward Clara, then smirked lightly. “But you already know that.”
Harry’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t reply.
Next up was Edward’s cup. As she tilted it and peered in, he leaned close to his sister and muttered, “She knew Harry. She probably just researched him before all this. It’s all bunk.”
Eloise’s smile faded, her eyes moving from Edward to his cup. “Yours is easy. A serpent coiled around a tree. Vice and avoidance. You’re running from your purpose, and if you keep it up, you’ll wind up lost in the woods for good. I sense you two are in a situation you can escape. She stays out of loyalty to you. You stay because you’d rather drown yourself in drinks and women than figure out what the world holds for you.”
Edward’s face fell, and he finally scoffed before averting his eyes.
Eloise returned to her seat and reclined, folding her hands. “Tea leaves only show the currents, not the outcome. Like water and like the course of our lives, one good rush of energy can change their shape. They remind us that we have a choice. Even when the future looks like a storm.”
Harry exhaled and rubbed his jaw. “And what choice do we have now?”
“That,” Eloise said gently, “depends on how much you’re willing to lose.”
“Not her,” Harry said, gesturing to Clara. “Not ever.”
“Then you just might be sacrificing the entire world, Harold, dear. We all must make sacrifices. Some bigger than others.”
The room seemed to tighten again, the scent of sandalwood thickening with the heat of the fire. Clara felt her pulse hammering in her wrists. The tea reading had only added to the weight in her chest, the sense that she’d already stepped into an inevitability.
Eloise stood and moved to collect the china. “Well, it seems you have your answers. Rest tonight. Eat something warm. Tomorrow, you’ll need strength to chase a thing that never tires. To give up what you’d rather hold close.”
Harry stood, adjusting his hat. “We’ll find a way. I’m not losing her.”
Eloise smiled faintly. “Of course you will, dear. I’ll eagerly await your next visit to hear the story.”
As they stepped back into the fading daylight, the warmth of the house seemed to cling to them for just a moment before vanishing altogether. The town smelled of bread and smoke. Somewhere, a church bell struck four.
“Dinner,” Harry said finally. “Then we plan.”
Clara nodded, glancing back once toward the window where Eloise’s silhouette lingered in the flicker of candlelight.
She turned back to the street. The sun was dipping lower, and her shadow stretched long behind her. She knew it wouldn’t safe to head out at dark – not with that thing loose – but tomorrow, that very shadow would be trailing her on a path through the Gates again.
If she could draw the creature out to that same location, she’d then give her life and seal it once again.
***
The jazz was loud enough to almost drown out the memories. Almost.
Ruth sat in the corner booth of the bar, her gloves off, her whiskey half-finished. The speakeasy smelled of cheap bootlegged gin, tobacco, and even cheaper perfume. A trumpet crooned somewhere over the chatter of men in fedoras and women with sequined headbands. It should have felt alive, but something in the air felt too warm. Too close.
Ruth unhooked her fan from her purse, unfolded it, and began waving it absentmindedly. As the jazz blared around her, Isaac, across the table, remained silent. She leaned toward her husband. “You’re quiet tonight.”
Isaac blinked and tore his gaze away from his near-empty glass. “Sorry, baby. Just tired, that’s all.”
She pursed her lips, eyeing his hand as it trembled and fumbled with his drink. As he lifted it for a sip, the sheen of sweat reflected on his temple. Neither had slept the previous night, but he looked more exhausted than she felt.
“Maybe we should head back to the hotel,” she offered, her voice almost lost under the music. “Find a movie palace tomorrow. There’s that new thing they’re calling a talkie – The Jazz Singer, remember?”
Isaac forced a smile. “Sure. Normal sounds good.”
When a saxophone loudly blared, Ruth turned her head toward the bandstand. When she looked back, Isaac was already shrugging on his jacket. He was clearly restless.
“Hot in here,” he muttered. “I’m gonna step outside for a ciggy.”
Her brows furrowed. “Really? You haven’t smoked in years.”
“Guess I do tonight.”
Before she could protest, he had disappeared up the narrow stairway that led to the alley. The door swung shut behind him, cutting off the music and plunging him into a blissful silence.
Away from his wife, he breathed a sigh of relief.
He loved Ruth, of course. But she also had witnessed the events of the previous evening with him. Looking at her brought inevitable memories of the look on her face when they’d found Walter’s disemboweled body.
The air outside was damp and heavy, a reminder that summer was clinging stubbornly to the edges of what had turned out to be a surprisingly mild fall. It was getting dark. Streetlamps glowed through mist, throwing golden halos on the well-worn cobblestones. Isaac fished a crumpled cigarette from his pocket – one he’d bought off the bartender – and struck a match. The flame sputtered, caught, and for a brief instant, his hand stopped shaking as he lit his cigarette.
He inhaled deeply, savoring the sharp burn of smoke in his throat. The rhythm of the small city buzzed faintly beyond the alley. Listening to distant tires, laughter, and the muted honk of a horn, Isaac couldn’t help but consider how strange it was that life moved on so effortlessly.
He’d gone through an experience that had permanently changed him, yet all around him, people went about their business.
Hell, even Ruth seemed largely okay. Under her short blonde hair, her brown eyes sparkled with concern, something like pity. It was like she knew the experience had broken her husband, but not her.
Isaac didn’t love that.
But when the match went out, he was alone with the sound of his own breath. It was an oddly welcome distraction until something dripped nearby.
He frowned, glancing at the gutter. Rainwater, maybe? Except the night was dry. It had rained last night, sure, but any puddles had evaporated in the pleasant spread of sunlight the day had afforded.
There was another drop. Then another. Thick. Slow.
Plunk. Plunk. Plunk.
Isaac’s eyes followed the noise upward. Staring toward the roofline, he froze.
Darkness moved along the brick wall, too large and heavy to be a shadow. The lamplight seemed to bend around it, thinning as though the air itself was afraid to touch it.
Isaac swallowed hard. Almost thoughtlessly, he pocketed his matchbook as he stared at the dark figure.
It shifted. He saw a glint – wet, almost metallic in sheen – and then heard a slow, deliberate stretch of something leathery. A wing.
The cigarette fell from his lips.
He stumbled backward as claws scraped the wall, showering red dust upon the asphalt. For an instant he caught its face – horned, skull-like, eyes burning orange like furnace coals – before the alley erupted in motion.
Isaac ran.
He didn’t think, didn’t breathe. Just bolted down the narrow street, his shoes slapping against dry cobblestone, then concrete. Behind him, a single wingbeat thundered, followed by another. The sound pressed down on him, too big for the cluttered urban space.
He dove around the corner and hit the pavement hard. The matchbook flew from his pocket and scattered across the street. He scrambled to his feet just as a shadow passed over him, blotting out the lamplight.
A scream rose, then caught in his throat, cut off when the thing struck.The impact was silent. Efficient. Claws clamped around his shoulders, talons piercing through coat and flesh alike. The creature’s wings wrapped around them both, swallowing sound and sight in one awful motion.