By Colin Alexander
The mold had grown since Hannah first noticed it in the corner of the warm attic—a fist-sized patch of black silken hairs with a silver shimmer. She sprayed it with bleach, then waddled down the ladder, and returned to tiling the bathroom. The doctor told her to stop working, but she couldn’t rest. The house wasn’t ready.
She’d fallen asleep fully clothed on a bare mattress in her unfinished bedroom, muscles sore from bending over with a hammer and trowel. Beads of sweat formed on Hannah’s brow as the small room’s temperature began to rise, the windows clouding over. The silken hairs of the mold became tendrils, binding Hannah’s limbs, then entering her nose, mouth, and ears. She started choking, tasting the rot and the bleach, its grip becoming tighter, pressing her spine into the bedsprings.
A car drove by, headlights casting long barred shadows through the slats in the empty crib. The mold pulled back abruptly, disappearing so quickly Hannah convinced herself she’d dreamed it. Still, her eyes darted around the room, toward the small mattress encased in plastic, the blue mobile turning in an unseen draft. Hannah took deep breaths, hands pressed to her face, relieved to awaken from her nightmare. She was in a house she owned, no matter how dilapidated. They were safe.
Then a shadow crawled across the ceiling, burrowing through a hole in the cracked stucco. Something shifted in Hannah’s stomach. She raced to the bathroom, reeling. Gagging in front of the rusted mirror, she vomited black bile the consistency of motor oil. The stench of wet grout and bleach filled her nose. She tasted pennies, and tongued a fresh wound on the roof of her mouth.
Something skittered in the rafters. Hannah’s heart dropped.
She grabbed a hammer, then mounted the steps to the attic, aware of every bend and creak from her shifting weight.
Moving slowly, she braced her left hand on the edge of the square attic cutout, right hand on the sticky plastic grip of the hammer. Hannah envisioned something black and feral biting her exposed wrist, or sharp claws piercing her eyes before she could swing the hammer. When her head breached the cutout her body tightened, primed for a blow.
The small patch of silver-black mold she’d sprayed had disappeared. In its place was a shadow, a two-dimensional specter running from the attic’s peak to the floorboards.
Not quite two dimensional. The shadow was raised, fine three-inch anemone-like tendrils reaching out in the near-darkness. Hannah stepped forward, and the tendrils shimmered like a disturbed school of fish.
Standing to her full height, head almost striking the low, peaked roof, she recognized different features of the shadow. Offshoots spiked from the head, as if depicting a haphazard pixie cut. It had broad shoulders, as if from years laboring with wood and concrete. The shadow’s hips were wide, its center of gravity low. Hannah turned slightly and the shadow turned with her. In profile, Hannah’s hand brushed along the curved bump of her abdomen. The shadow did the same.
It was her shadow. Stunned, Hannah lowered to her knees on the unfinished plywood. The fine black filaments of the shadow sucked back into the wall at the head, then began sprouting at the base. The filaments moved like a spined sea urchin down the wall, until the shadow was on its knees, mimicking her.
“What do you want?” she asked.
A raw shriek penetrated Hannah’s skull. She scrambled backward across the plywood, ready to jump through the trapdoor and break an ankle rather than confront what came next.
But the shadow was there first, blocking her exit. The steam-whistle scream halted.
Hannah stared at the shadow for a long time, arms and legs frozen under her torso mid-crawl, sweat dripping off her chin. Her belly brushed the floor.
Eventually, the black spines inched across the plywood, back toward the only finished wall. Afraid to turn, Hannah’s eyes followed, straining at the periphery of her vision. The shadow re-formed to match her pose mid-crawl. Then it slowly lowered and elongated, resting its left hip on the ground, hand under its head.
Hannah’s cramped muscles protested as she moved out of the long-held crawl, copying the shadow’s pose. Despite everything, her body felt some relief. It was the exact position she slept in, newly adopted to accommodate the pregnancy.
It was hard to give up consciousness. Hard to give up another escape attempt, to give up monitoring the shadow’s movement. Hard to give in to sleep on unforgiving wood. The shadow shimmered and pulsed, and her mind relented. Then the mold spoke.
She understood.
The next morning, she woke to the shadow standing over her, but she didn’t scream or run. She walked down the attic stairs, and before returning with the jigsaw, she made herself a cup of coffee. There was no rush now.
She cut the shadow-mold out of the wall piece by piece, starting with the head. Hannah then removed the legs, the arms, and finally the torso. She wrapped each of the six pieces tightly in brown flooring paper; they looked like steaks from the butcher.
Hannah packed them into the back of her truck, then went to work. She visited the six homes she was renovating. New kitchens, refurbished bathrooms. Another nursery.
She placed the spores in vents, under floorboards, beneath tiles. Then she sealed them in.
Hannah patched the hole in her own attic before going to bed. The space had transformed, becoming cool and dry. When she was done, Hannah could only see her shadow’s edges if the lights were on, and then only when looking for them. Departing the attic, she carved her initials into a crossbeam, leaving room for his someday. She slept soundly and without interruption, knowing their lives and investment were now safe.
A deal was a deal, and she held no malice. The mold was just another mother, trying to feed her children.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Scary stuff!
Nicely creepy. I think I’d rather burn the house down first.
spooky! very imaginative.
Good story, and I am a little jealous of your imagery. Fine work Colin!