Sacrifice
The inn had gone still hours ago.
Most of the other guests were asleep, and the soft hush of midnight had settled over the hallways like dust. Only the muted ticking of a lobby clock and the occasional groan of the old pipes broke the silence.
Clara sat cross-legged on the floor of her room, sorting through the scrapbook she’d filled with leftover “spirit messages” from over the years. She wasn’t sure why she’d kept them, but now, she found herself wondering how many of them were real. Beside her, Edward lounged on the edge of the bed, clad in pajamas, his tie long discarded in favor of cozy flannel. A low lamp burned on the night stand between them, its yellow light carving shadows across their faces.
“I wish there was a way to figure out what that ‘borrow the death without keeping it’ thing Eloise mentioned meant,” Clara muttered, her eyes scanning the pages hungrily. Absent-minded, she moved into the armchair and propped her socked feet against the night stand.
“You really think you can just… die and come back?” Edward finally asked, his voice rough with fatigue.
Clara didn’t look up. “I believe, Eddy. I just wish I knew how.”
“Ah, same difference,” he muttered sleepily.
She turned a page, slow and deliberate. “It’s not. Thinking is logic. Believing is trust. There’s no logical way to explain my abilities, but now that I’ve seen what I can do, I can’t not trust and believe. You and me, Ed, we drank from the same bottle growing up. Yet, only one of us took after Mom. I always resented it, but now… I don’t know. I believe there’s an answer out there, and I just wish I could find it. I wish you could help me, but I’m aware it’s up to me to find.”
He gave a humorless laugh. “And to think we thought you were a fakeloo artist. All this time, you’ve been speaking to the other side. Maybe you should just talk to Mom, then.”
Without looking up, she grumbled, “You’re drunk again.”
“And you’re chasing martyrdom because you can’t stand not being the one who saves everyone. Look, Lari, when Mom died… You took care of me. That alone was a sacrifice. I mean, hell, I’m older than you. By a few minutes, sure, but I should have carried my sister. Instead, you dragged me along. You’ve paid your dues to the world. Kept me alive, kept the other girls in the sideshow sane. This isn’t something you alone should have to solve.”
Clara blinked, startled by the rawness in his tone.
Edward shifted, perching on the bed as he gazed at her with eyes that were bloodshot but steady. “If you die for this thing, I’ll have nothing left. You understand that? Whatever’s left of me – the drinking, the pretending to be happy, the whole confident firebreather act – it’s just so I don’t have to admit that I’m vulnerable. But it was just you, me, and Mom. Without her, it’s always been just us. And without you… Fuck. With no family and nobody to keep me from going over the edge with the rams, what the hell am I even worth?”
His sister looked away, blinking back tears. For what felt like a long time, neither spoke. The lamp buzzed faintly as she hovered over her scrapbook. Then, biting her lip, she lifted her eyes to meet her brother’s. “You haven’t lost me yet. And you won’t.”
Again, Edward’s laugh felt hollow. “You say that like you can promise it.”
“I can,” she said. But her voice trembled just enough to give her away. Nevertheless, she ventured, “And I do.”
He sighed and reclined, dragging a hand through his unbrushed hair. “I guess I should just go to bed. I can’t keep arguing when I already know you’ve made up your mind.”
She hesitated, watching him for a long moment. He was her twin, her mirror, and her anchor. But right now, this ability she’d always unknowingly harbored was driving a wedge between them. They’d gone from mirrors to distinctly different people in a matter of days. She rose, extinguished the lamp, and quietly said, “Get some sleep, Eddy. No need to stumble back to your room, just get comfy.”
He didn’t answer, evidently lulled to sleep by the quiet embrace of darkness. When she closed the door, the sound of rain was tapping against the windows.
The hallway was dim and narrow. A lone gaslight hissed above her as she walked down the worn runner, her shawl pulled tight around her shoulders. She paused outside Harry’s door and, for a moment, almost turned back to claim Edward’s empty room for the night. But something in her refused to be alone with her thoughts for another minute.
She knocked softly.
The door opened. Harry, shirt sleeves rolled up, suspenders hanging loose at his sides, raised an eyebrow. His hair was mussed from sleeping on it, most likely, though he hadn’t switched into pajamas. He looked surprised, but only for a moment.
“Can’t sleep?”
Clara shook her head. “I gave Eddy my room. Figured it was better than letting him drunkenly stumble down the hall and pass out on the carpet. Saved you a cleaning fee, lest he throw up.”
He stepped aside to let her in, not daring to speak a word.
She managed a tired smile as she crossed to the armchair near the window. With a sigh, she admitted, “I sometimes hate how much I love him. How much he takes advantage of my love.”
“That’s what brothers do,” he said quietly. “We use love as a shield when we don’t know how to ask for help. And then we get drunk and pass out wherever and let our sisters deal with us.”
“Aren’t you an only child?” she asked, propping an elbow against her knee.
He studied her before he settled on the mattress. “I was. But my Aunt Mary Ann had five kids, so I grew up like a sibling. I think they all resented knowing that I’d come into money one day. Nevermind that my mother purchased our home for us and took care of us – we all grew up in the same upbringing. And, as adults, I’ve set each of them up for success, as a good brother should. So, sort of a sibling, I guess, but it’s complicated.”
She looked up, studying him curiously. “Eloise said you were born seeking absolution.”
“From my family’s legacy of stunts. Yeah. People assumed my parents tied the knot because my mother wanted a juicy story. She sent me off to live with her sister to save all of us the shame of gossip. I’ve always wanted to escape that legacy, to be appreciated as… Well, you know. She said you’d help me find that absolution.”
Clara averted her eyes. “I know you don’t want to lose me, Harry, but…”
He crossed the room, crouched beside her chair, and rested his hand gently over hers. “You think you have to die to win, but you don’t, Claire. You just have to live long enough to change the story, like she said. And whatever happens, I’m not going to lose you. I promise.”
Her throat tightened. “And if I can’t?”
“I don’t break my promises. I’ll figure it out.”
“I wish I could feel confident in figuring it out,” Clara said. “Can I tell you something, Harry? A secret I don’t want Eddy to know?”
“Sure.”
Clara ran her eyes over his face, looking for an ounce of anything that wasn’t sincerity. Finally, she sighed, allowing her lips to vibrate with the end of the exhale. “Ed asked me why I wouldn’t just contact our mother for help, since I’ve come into this strange ability. Truth be told… I tried. Years ago, when there was a part of me that wanted to believe. She never answered my call. I feel, deep down, that I’d know what to do if I could contact her. But I can’t. I believe there’s a way through this, but without my mom, I’m not confident I can pull it off. She knew so much about mediumship. Until I met you, I thought it was flim-flam.”
For a moment, the only sound was the rain outside, gentle and steady. She looked down at him, admiring the soft light as it cut across his face, and felt the strange, aching certainty that she was already somewhere she’d never meant to go.
Harry was sympathetic. His eyebrows knitted as his pupils rose to meet hers. In the silence, he drew a steady breath. “I’ll be honest, Clara, I don’t understand any of this. I don’t know how it works or why it works, but I know you’re special. Whether or not she answers you, I know you’ll find your way. And if you don’t, I will. I’m serious.”
Clara smiled, a soft expression spreading across her face as she gazed down at him.
He stood, brushing his thumb across her knuckles before letting go. “Get some rest. Tomorrow, we’ll chase that thing. Pray it left us a trail. But tonight, you don’t have to be the strong one. Rest. I’ll watch over you.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Don’t stay up, okay? After I fall asleep, I want you to rest, too.”
“I will.”
He dimmed the kerosene bedside lamp and sat on the edge of the bed as she lay down, eyes half-closed. The storm outside deepened, thunder murmuring low as, every so often, lightning tore across the sky.
By the time she drifted off, Harry was still sitting there, head bowed, watching the shadows dance across the wall with each flash of lightning, his heart pounding as he wondered just how he’d keep her alive. She’d seemed so solemn, so reverent as she discussed a fate she very much believed was inevitable.
Harry believed she was wrong to be so resolute. While she was obdurate, so, too, was he.
And in those haunted woods, he’d witnessed people dying for blind faith.
When Clara’s breathing softened, he shook off the thought and finally turned off the light.
***
The dining room of the York Inn was brighter than it had any right to be. Golden morning light spilled through lace curtains, cutting soft squares across white tablecloths. The air was fragrant with coffee, butter, and frying ham. After two days of smoke, mud, and ghosts, it felt indecently domestic.
Clara sat across from Harry, stifling a laugh as Edward tried to sweet-talk the waitress into bringing him a third helping of biscuits.
“Come on, darling, you wouldn’t want a man to starve after facing down the devil himself,” Edward said, flashing a grin that might have worked if he didn’t look half-dead from exhaustion. “And if you don’t believe me, well, I can breathe fire to prove I’ve been to Hell and back just for the chance to entertain someone as beautiful as you.”
The waitress snorted. “You look like you faced down a hangover more than a devil.”
Harry shot a look at Clara before he pursed his lips to hold in a smile. Clara nudged him under the table. “Don’t encourage him. He’ll start thinking he’s charming again. I like sleep-deprived, hungover Eddy. He’s more humble than my usual brother.”
“Hey now, I am charming,” Edward protested. “Ask anyone who isn’t related to me.”
“Well, you sold me on this whole damn adventure,” Harry muttered into his coffee cup. “This whole thing was a graft until the moment you heard mention of a finder’s fee.”
Edward scoffed. “You know what? You two are awful. I thought we were co-conspirators, but I’m starting to think you two are conspiring against me.”
“Now that,” Clara interjected, “is the first accurate thing you’ve said all morning.”
It felt good to laugh. Strange and temporary, but good. For a fleeting moment, the world seemed ordinary again: the clatter of plates, the chatter of guests, the faint ghostly jazz tune trickling from a nearby Victrola.
In the peace, Clara flirtatiously nudged Harry’s foot, and he met her gaze with a grin while Edward blabbered away about how ladies used to be impressed by the firebreathing act. It was surprisingly mundane, a much-needed moment of solace following everything that happened.
And then the front door burst open.
Ruth stumbled in, wild-eyed and gasping, her dress torn at the hem and her gloves smeared with dirt. A dozen heads turned. She caught sight of her acquaintances and rushed across the foyer and into the dining room, nearly tripping over a chair.
“Clara!” Her voice cracked. “The monster, it took him!”
Harry was already on his feet. “Isaac? What happened?”
All at once, Ruth collapsed into a chair, descending into a fit of sobs. Eventually, she tried to speak, but her words came out mumbled. They only caught bits of what she was saying – speakeasy, smoke, blood. Gone.
Conversations at nearby tables faltered. As stares settled on the group, Clara leaned forward to comfort the bawling woman. Ruth’s fingers shook so violently that Clara reached out to gently hold her hands still.
“Start from the beginning,” Clara said softly. “Tell us what happened.”
Ruth lifted her head and swallowed hard, trying to steady herself. “We went to a speakeasy last night. Isaac said we’d earned a drink after… after everything. He was trying to forget. I was too. And then he said he was hot, that he needed some air. I didn’t think much of it. He used to smoke. He bummed a cigarette. Stepped out, and…” She trailed off and choked down a sob. “He didn’t come back.”
Edward leaned forward, his voice careful. “You went outside to look for him?”
“I waited ten minutes. Went to check when he didn’t come back. There was blood on the sidewalk, running down into the ditch. His cigarette butt was right next to it. The police said it was probably an animal attack, but they really didn’t take it seriously. Just said they’d look for him. They seemed preoccupied with something.”
Harry rubbed his temples, then shot a look at Clara. “Well, we know it’s still in the area, at least. We’ll have to figure out how to lure it back to the Gates before anyone else gets hurt.”
At the next table, a farmer – presumably the supplier of the fresh eggs and sausage – was urgently whispering to one of the waitresses. “I’m tellin’ you, May, it weren’t no dog. Something took the steer clean over the fence last night. I seen its wings in the moonlight… Like a great bat or a fallen angel.”
The waitress clicked her tongue. “Look, Thomas, we love ya here, but… You do like your rye.”
“Swear on my mother’s grave! And it’s not just me that seen it. My neighbor said his herd was all distressed, and he saw something large block out the stars. Said it was like seein’ Charles Lindbergh soar past.”
Clara caught herself staring and quickly looked away, locking eyes with Harry across from her. He lifted his chin in the direction of the conversation, silently acknowledging that he’d heard it, too. Before Clara could mention it, though, Ruth buried her face in her hands.
“My God. Isaac’s gone for good, isn’t he?”
Clara reached for her hand again. “Speaking to the other side, I’ve learned that nobody is ever gone, not fully. But we’re not going to let this thing take anyone else. You can stay with us until this is over.”
“Really?” Ruth asked, lifting her raw, pleading eyes to meet Clara’s.
“Of course,” Harry said, his voice firm. “We’ll track it before nightfall. If it’s hunting, it’ll leave a trail. Now, the trick is just figuring out how to lure it back into the woods.”
Clara cleared her throat. “Tabitha mentioned that it likes people like us. I think, assuming it’s nearby, we might be able to get it to follow me out there. Unless we find another medium itching for the big sleep, I think I’m our best bet.”
Harry’s jaw tightened when Edward propped his elbows on the table and leaned forward, whistling through his teeth. “I hate to say it, Lari, but… Maybe we should see if there’s anything else we can learn or think up. You’re so brave, but… You know what I mean. You should be our last resort.”
Clara’s eyes once again landed on Harry, whose features were taught as he waited for a response. Finally, she relented with a nod.
The group finished breakfast, managing to get some food and coffee in Ruth before they decided to head back upstairs. At the base of the staircase, somewhere far off, church bells rang, the sound oddly hollow.
Clara paused, tilting her head. “You three plan, figure out our next steps. I’ll be up in a minute. I need to… look at something.”
Harry frowned. “What something?”
“The notes from the séance.”
He grumbled a brief “don’t be long” before the trio headed upstairs. Clara went back to the dining room to prepare a cup of tea, then headed back to her room.
She climbed the stairs two at a time, her heart thudding with an emotion too tangled to name. In her room, she locked the door and spread her notebook across the desk, the pages filled with the jagged symbols that had poured from her hand the night before. They seemed to pulse faintly in the morning light, as though alive.
She traced the first of them with her fingertip – a looping sigil like an eye set in flame – and whispered, “Borrow the death without keeping it. I just wish I knew how.”
The words echoed in her skull. Borrow death.
Tabitha’s voice followed, faint but insistent: it likes those like us – spiritually sensitive – best.
Clara pursed her lips. Her fingers trembled as she picked up a pocketknife from her suitcase – one she used for trimming candle wicks at the carnival. If these symbols were what bound the creature before, they had the power to bind it again. But every line she carved would have to be perfect, alive with intention. A broken shape meant a broken spell.
She ran a thumb over the inner part of the sigil, imagining its form pressed against her skin, the sting of metal and blood.
“This time,” she whispered to herself, “I’ll be the anchor. But I’ll come back. I have to speak to the dead when I cross over… The mediums from the asylum should be able to help me find my way back.”
Outside, she could hear the faint sound of laughter from the street. That was a world that still believed in daylight, unaware that something monstrous was stirring in the woods beyond York.
She pressed her palm flat over the paper, memorizing each curve, each sharp edge, until she could see the marks when she closed her eyes.
Pursing her lips and wincing through the pain, she lowered the knife to her left forearm and, careful to just carve into the skin and not permanently mar the bloody flesh beneath, she carved.
When she dropped the knife, she fell forward in pain, dropping her head until it met the table. She sat like that for a moment, then forced herself to her feet and stumbled to her suitcase to retrieve a clean stocking. Gritting her teeth, she plopped into the chair and wrapped the fresh wound.
When she finally rose to rejoin the others, the scent of tea and blood still clung to her hands.
***
The door to Harry’s room was cracked open, window-directed daylight spilling out across the hallway carpet in a pale golden line. Clara hesitated on the threshold, smoothing her skirt with trembling fingers. Her head still ached faintly from the séance the night before, the ghost’s words looping endlessly in her thoughts. Borrow the death without keeping it.
She shot a glance at her wrapped forearm. That burned a bit more potently. She was certain her friends would immediately notice it.
When she stepped inside, the air smelled of paper, tobacco, and whiskey. Harry and Edward had spread maps and newspaper clippings across the bed, the edges weighed down by coins, matches, and coffee cups. Ruth sat in the chair by the window, hollow-eyed but calmer than before, her gloved hands clutching a handkerchief damp with tears.
“Here,” Harry said, circling another point on the map. “That’s the biggest cattle field north of the main road. And Isaac happened over here. If you trace the attacks, we’ve got a literal triangle stretching out from the Gates. It didn’t go far.”
Edward leaned over his shoulder, squinting. “Hmm. Well, that’s good news, at least. Luring it back won’t be as hard as if it had traveled far.”
Harry jabbed the pencil against the paper. “I’m willing to bet it’s in this thicket just past the creek. About a mile, maybe two, from where the Fifth Gate should stand. And that’s if it didn’t go back to the Gates for cover… I assume it needs a certain thickness of underbrush to effectively avoid daylight.
“So back to the Gates tonight, then,” Edward said. “We’ll bring lanterns, salt for Lari’s ritual, and whatever guns you can scrounge, though we know they won’t hurt it. I just don’t fancy dying unarmed.”
Ruth shuddered, dropping a pained cry as she lifted her head. “And if it finds us first? Before we make it out there?”
“Then we make sure it chases us toward the Gates,” Harry replied. His eyes lifted to the medium, lingering near the door as she watched the men plan. “Clara, you said it hunts mediums? If it’s drawn to that kind of energy…”
He trailed off when Clara approached. She leaned forward to study the map, but her hand clutched her sleeve, fingers digging into the fabric. A faint hiss slipped from her lips before she doubled over with a strangled gasp.
“Claire?” Harry was on his feet in the blink of an eye. He caught her before she could slump forward, steadying her by the shoulders. Her skin was clammy, her pupils wide. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head, breath shallow. “It’s… It’s nothing. I just…”
The lie dissolved into a groan as she pressed her hand tighter against her arm. Her sleeve had begun to darken – a faint spreading of crimson through the thin stocking she’d tied around her forearm.
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “What did you do?”
“Harry, I –”
He didn’t wait for permission. With one firm tug, he pulled back her sleeve. The stocking, slick with blood, came loose, sagging down around her wrist. His lips parted as he gazed at a deliberate carving of a symbol – a looping, geometric sigil almost resembling an eye, raw and glistening against her pale skin.
Ruth gasped, covering her mouth. Edward went rigid. “Christ, Clara,” he said hoarsely. “You carved yourself?”
Harry didn’t speak. He just stared, horror flickering behind the tight control on his face. Then, moving quickly, he snatched a clean cloth from the dresser and the bottle of whiskey from the nightstand. “Hold still.”
Clara winced as he grabbed her wrist. “Please don’t –”
“Hold. Still.“
He poured the liquor over the wound. Clara bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, a muffled cry breaking from her throat as the whiskey seared the open flesh. The smell of it hit sharply, burning her nostrils as she forced her eyes away from the wound.
Harry worked quickly, wrapping the fresh cloth tight, his movements careful but trembling. “You don’t bleed for the sake of magic, Claire,” he said through his teeth. “You bleed when you’re dying. And you’re not. Don’t hurt yourself for something that might just be a fairytale.”
Her breath came in ragged bursts before her eyes narrowed. “It was the only way, Harry. Eloise said the marks were sacred geometry – living equations. I had a realization. They have to be part of me. The seal won’t work without life. This is the first phase.”
Edward swore softly, running a hand through his hair. “You’ve gone mad. You’ve absolutely –”
“Shut up, Eddy,” Clara said, her eyes suddenly going wide. She lifted her arm, her lips parted lightly, as she noticed a faint glow coming from beneath the cloth. It was subtle, pulsating like a heartbeat. Her flesh felt almost like it was buzzing. “My God. It’s glowing.”
Three blank stares greeted her. Ruth shook her head very slowly, but Harry tightened his jaw. “I don’t see anything.”
Clara tilted her head, then grabbed the edge of the cloth and peeled it back, just enough to see the edge of the symbol. It was absolutely glowing, and it came with a strange sort of awareness. “My God. The creature can feel me now. I think… I think this is showing me that it’s answering?”
For a moment, no one moved. The only sound was the low hum of the hotel radiator. Then Harry exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand across his jaw.
“I guess we don’t have to find it,” he said. “If you’re right, and I believe you are, it’ll come for you.”
Clara nodded faintly. “I can tell it will. We need to get to the Gates before dark. The symbol’s not just a bind – not until death seals it. For now, it’s a beacon.”
Edward stepped forward, anger edging into his voice. “I don’t want you to be bait, Lari. That’s suicide.”
“I won’t die,” she said softly, staring down at her arm. “Not for long, anyway. When I cross into the other world, I’m going to ask the mediums from the asylum to help me come back. The trick is going to be finding a way to, ah, do the deed without permanently hurting myself.”
Her words landed like stones. The rest of the room remained silent.
Harry finally exhaled before pacing to the far side of the room. He stared out the window at the street below – at cars and buggies passing, the pale dust curling off the wheels as life ignorantly moved on. His reflection in the glass looked older, like the previous days of stress had carved lines around his tired eyes.
Finally, he turned to face Edward and Clara, while Ruth remained curled in the armchair to his right. “We move before dusk. If it’s hunting, it’ll be drawn out after dark. If Clara’s instinct is correct, we’ll meet it at the Gates. Edward, see if you can get kerosene lamps and ammo. Ruth, you stay –”
“No.” Ruth rose abruptly, her chair scraping across the floorboards. Her face was blotched red from crying, but her voice was clear. “I won’t sit still again. Not after Isaac. If that thing’s out there, I need to see it dead… Or whatever counts as dead for something like that.”
Harry hesitated. “I don’t know, Ruth. It’s not safe –”
“Nothing’s safe anymore,” she snapped. “But I’d rather face it than sit in another room praying someone I care about comes back.”
Her voice, sharp and potent, silenced the group.
Harry looked between his peers with frustration. Clara’s pale face was emphasized by the glow of daylight trickling through the windows. Ruth trembled with resolve, and Edward just pursed his lips and nodded silently. Finally, he sighed and relented. “Alright. But no one gets separated. We go out there before dark, and if we lose sight of each other, we come back here. We don’t stay in those woods. Understood?”
The others murmured their agreement.
He turned to Clara, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “And you – you stay near me. No more carving, no more bleeding. You keep breathing. That’s an order. You still have to help me get through to my mom, remember?”
Clara gave him a faint, almost rueful smile. “I remember.”
“Good. Because I feel like I’m losing my mind worrying about you.” Something in his tone – that rare crack of tenderness under the steel of masculinity – made her chest ache. She looked away first, back toward her bandaged arm. The glow was fading, dimming to a slow, steady pulse like a second heartbeat.
“It’s okay. All silks so far,” she muttered, her eyes on that bandage. But even as she said it, she could feel it humming beneath her skin – the sigil’s rhythm syncing with her own pulse, faster, louder, like a whisper from something far older than she was. Ancient. Uncontained.
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windowpanes. The clouds over York thickened, gray and low, dimming the late morning light.
Harry poured what was left of the whiskey into four tin flasks and slid one toward Edward. “Let’s get supplies before the stores close this afternoon, damn Sunday hours. Lanterns, salt, matches, ammunition. Whatever we can carry.” After the men did a shot, he set the cups down and handed the others to the ladies. They toasted, their eyes heavy with worry.
Clara stood slowly, and the world faintly swayed around her. The sigil was warm, pulsing against the makeshift bandage. She pressed her palm over it, steadying her breath.
Somewhere, faintly, she thought she heard it – that low, guttural sound she’d heard before in the woods. Not loud enough for anyone else to notice, but enough to turn her blood cold.
The beacon was working.
And it exhausted her, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to rest. Not without medication.
Just like that, Clara had an idea. A belladonna tincture would make her drowsy and slow her heartbeat. She was decently convinced that, in a weakened state, she’d be able to sever her soul from her body for a moment and move into the world that existed between space and time.
After all, she thought. Wonder guides, not fear.