Torn

By Dhiren S

“Pity be to those that must walk amongst the living after their day of judgment.” Chapter 2, Book of The Abyssborn. 

Jack enters the Court of Yami, walking by the hundreds of gray faces that wished an audience with the old king. The queue was long, its members visibly angry, some distraught, and some even pushing others around over who stood before who. He walked past them all, and entered the courtroom, where path leading up to the king was filled with ministers, generals and the rich sitting on each side. As he walks down the path of the marble floor covered with red satin, Jack feels the hundred eyes piercing into him. 

“…It shall be done. And for your losses, I shall arrange that you are adequately replenished of your food stores.” The king’s dusky voice echoes through the court. The farmer in front of him prostates himself, thanks him and leaves. The King’s eyes fall upon Jack, who promptly walks toward the king and kneels.

“Longer than expected?” the King asks.

“Much.”

“What happened?”

“The werewolves you tasked me to find split away the moment they spotted me. It took a while to find all seven of them.”

“Split? That’s never happened before…”

“I fear they are beginning to learn, my lord. Its only a matter of time before they begin to form colonies. But that is an issue for a time many years from now.”

“Hmmm… I regret doing this, Jack. But I received a curious letter a few days from the Cottonton family.” The king hands Jack a letter, the letter having a broken Cottonton insignia seal on it. “They are in need of you.”

“Might I ask who are these… umm.. Cottontons?” Jack asks, holding the letter.

“They are our largest suppliers of cotton, and one of our great benefactors. It is vital that you take care of this right now.” 

After a few seconds of reading the letter, Jack lifts his head to look at the king. He seemed offended for being tasked to do something this trivial.

“The letter describes a spirit, my lord. Spirits are harmless.”

“The spirit you claim has drove fear into the hearts of everyone in the estate- the workers included. If the Cottontons do not deliver the cotton we need for a ghost, everyone would make losses. Now, be on your way.” The king cuts the dialogue short, prompting Jack to leave before he is ordered to.

And so, our drunk, brooding, cloaked hunter leaves to the Cottonton Estate, the largest estate of cotton, sitting on the banks of the river Oma, outside the city of Yami. 

Jack reaches the estate late noon, riding through the muddy roads- miles and miles of cotton fields on either side. At sunset, Jack reaches the gates of the mansion, where he shows the letter to the slave guard outside to enter.

The mansion was enormous, fourteen to fifteen rooms, stables to his right, a flower and fruit garden to his left. The path leading to the mansion was paved with pebbles, with candle sconces lighting the pathway every six feet. A young woman approaches Jack midway to the mansion, her skin fair, hair blonde, clothes well put together. A house slave.

“You must be Master Jack!” she exclaims.

“I’m here to see the mistress of this house.”

“The mistress wants you to take a bath before you enter the big house.”

“A bath?”

“Yeah, mistress told me not to let you in until you take a bath.”

Jack sighs.

“Alright, where should I bathe?”

The slave points at a small shack past the fruit and flower garden. A rickety old building with a manual pump for water outside it.

“She wants me to bathe there?” Jack asks his face visibly becoming agitated. “The shack where all the slaves bathe?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Why, indeed.” 

Jack makes his way toward the rickety old shack, picks up a tilted over rusty bucket and begins to fill it with water from the manual pump. He takes his shirt off, and pours the bucket of water on himself, and walks back toward the house, carrying his shirt in his hand.

“We have some clothes for you to wear as well…”

“No. Take me to your mistress.” The cold stare Jack gives to the house slave makes her nod spastically. She runs along into the house. 

Lady Cottonton comes out the front door, wearing an exquisite blue and white dress, her hair well done and rolled in a bun, her face powdered. Her dark skin, lean build and large brown eyes augments the beauty of her clothes as she stands there, welcoming Jack.

“Welcome, Mr. Jack.”

“Jack would do.” Jack says as he walks up the stairs to the front door. “Quite the welcoming party you’ve given me.”

“Oh, cheeky, aren’t we? You must understand why.”

“Actually, I do not.”

“Well…”

“Go on.” Jack raises his eyebrow.

“Well, Mr. Jack… you are aware of your business and how bloody it is… not to mention your infamy.  Mind you, this is all just a show- a show that you are not welcome here, but are in need of your services. However, in truth we are ecstatic to have you in our land, and hopefully we can resolve our issue promptly.”

“That’s a lot of words to call me unclean but not unwanted.” Jack gets to the top of the stairs and looks around. “I would like to conclude this soon as well. Shall we begin?”

“Yes. But first, we know it must have been a long journey for you, so how about you join me for supper?” Jack nods, and follows the mistress into the giant mansion.

“Quite the number of slaves you have here…” Jack remarks.

“Sixty-two in total, all well trained and efficient. We are the largest supplier of cotton in all of the empire.”

“I take it that you’re the heiress to the Cottonton family?”

“My father was close friends with Sir Cottonton, my husband’s late father. Six years ago, I married him following Sir Cottonton’s death from tuberculosis.” Lady Cottonton stops at a portrait of the old patriarch, gazing at him fondly. “Good man, he was. Always so generous, so kind. Yet he was quite stern with my husband, him being the only child, with no mother to look after him. He probably died far too young being overworked.”

Jack looks at the mistress and portrait awkwardly, unable to provide anything of value to this conversation.

“So, ahem, I presume you’ve tasted salmon?” Lady Cottonton asks as she turns around, indicating Jack to follow her.

Half hour flutters by, and Jack finds himself with a knife and fork in hand, a napkin hanging off his collar, eating the long-awaited supper. The mistress truly had a way of imposing her upper echelon ways onto the company, regardless of their consciousness of it.

As soon as Jack finishes his meal, the mistress pulls herself a seat opposite to Jack and asks him if he enjoyed the meal.

“I’m not quite sure if that meat was cooked.”

“I assure you it is. The recipe is of eastern descent.”

She leans in closer, over the table and speaks in a soft almost whisper like voice.

“The letter doesn’t really tell the entirety of the story, Mr. Jack.” Jack leans in closer as well. “My husband found this ungodly apparition floating through our corridors ten days ago. Upon seeing the spirit he screamed and threw himself in our room, shutting it so fast it rivaled our honeymoon night. There he stood panting, sweat dripping down like beads, eyes wide and distant- almost as though he was trying to make sense of what he had just seen.”

“And?”

“A few minutes later, having regained his composure, asked me to write a letter to the court immediately, asking the king for… well… one of your kind…”

“I figured this much out on my own.”

“But-” She interrupts him. “The next day, my husband found the spirit wandering the corridors again, except, my husband returned back to our bed, an hour later, and goes straight to sleep. The next day, he asks me sheepishly if I had sent the letter away to the court, to which I replied yes, and his face became distraught. I hadn’t seen my husband fly into a rage such as this before- formerly known to be mild mannered.”

“And why was that?”

“I do not know, but I do not wish to entertain an apparition in my house.”

Jack sighs. 

“If I were to get rid of this spirit, would your husband be a problem?”

“Mr. Jack… let me remind you that you have no one to answer to besides me and the Goddess Oma. I’m your employer, and I’m willing to pay handsomely for your swift resolution.”

“What do you define as ‘handsomely’?”

“One thousand gold coins, two mares.”

“I would define it as ‘two thousand coins, no mares’.”

“And that shall be paid in full. Do we have a deal?” the mistress smiles and nods encouragingly.

“Not yet. I’d like you to show me everything this spirit does.”

“Very well then. Follow me.”

The two arise from their chairs and enter into the hall of the house, climb a wide staircase to the right of it, and up the stairs into the broad, short corridor. The walls are dark wood, furnished and glistening to the candle light, each candle light sitting atop the four doors present in this wing of the mansion. The corridor is adorned with tusk-made sconces, each door is a well-carved masterpiece of Oma in idyllic settings, Cleo in the midst of battle, Manu consuming hordes of what appears to be humans. Though terrible, it was a quite the image to look at. 

The mistress walks to the end of the corridor and turns around to face Jack. “It does this.”

She walks slowly down the corridor, and upon reaching the rooms to her right and left, she shifts toward them in order. Right first, left second. “And then she turns like this, and walks to our children’s room…”

 She turns slowly back at Jack and takes a few deliberate steps toward him, and upon reaching the children’s rooms, she repeats the process as before. 

“She merely just stands outside the doors?” Jack asks.

“Yes. And then she makes her way down those steps…” Pointing at the stairs to Jack’s left. “…and walks toward the backdoor of the house and just looks outside for about an hour and disappears.”

“Have you seen it with your own eyes?”

“My husband saw it in the corridor, and the slaves saw it from the stairway to the backdoor.”

“Does it interact with anything? Does it speak words, call out names, touch any surface?” Jack asks examining the carpet for any stains or the walls for any deformities.

“No, it merely just floats about these corridors…”

“No…” Jack interrupts her. “Are you sure it doesn’t interact with anything?”

“Yes, every person whose seen it the last ten days have claimed the same- it touches nothing.”

“Hmm.” Jack walks to the end of the corridor and follows the mistress’s footsteps from before.

“And this here is?” He turns toward the door to the right.

“Our master bedroom- my husband and I sleep there.”

“And this?” He turns to the left.

“Our guest room, previously housed my late father-in-law.”

“This?” He turns toward the right after a walking a few steps down the corridor.

“My elder son’s room.”

He points to the room on the left.

“My twins’ room.”

Jack walks down the corridor, down the stairs, behind the hall, and to the back door and looks outside the backdoor window.

“What is out there?”

“Just our backyard and the children’s playground.”

“Hmm.” Jack ponders. “Has anything gone missing, or have you received any gifts or items that seemed strange to you?”

“Strange as in?”

“Something that made you feel cold, or strange? I do not mean trinkets as such; it could be an everyday thing. However, on coming close to it, you might have felt a peculiar feeling.”

“No, besides the spirit itself…”

“Hmm. There is no evidence of malicious intent…” Jack murmurs to himself. “…No evidence of a probe from a different reality… too weak for a demon… no fur… repetitive movements…” 

“Pardon me?”

“Lady Cottonton, I accept your deal. Considering you have a spirit; I’ll require time to ascertain what it yearns for. Two thousand coins and no mares it is.” Jack nods his head, making the mistress smile slightly.

“Thank you, Mr. Jack. The spirit always appears at nine, disappears by ten-thirty.”

“I shall prepare. Make sure everyone in the house stay in their rooms.” The mistress nods. “Where is your husband?”

“He shall return tomorrow from his work.”

“Good. Now, let us begin.”

Jack sits in the guest room, opposite to the master bedroom at eight-thirty. The lights are turned off, and the sound of ticking clock resonates throughout the room. He laces his blade with the holy water of Oma, and chants some old prayers half-heartedly. He knew that they were just empty words, but routine gets the better of him. 

His eyes constantly shoot up to see the light from the corridor create a thin luminescence under the door. Once his preparations concluded, Jack sits down and meditates, quietly counting the seconds to nine.

His eyes open to see a shadow blotting the light under the door. A thin shadow. He sees the shadow turn, pause and turn again.

Jack gets up slowly and waits for the shadow to move down the corridor. He turns the lock slowly, and pokes his head out.

Patches of silver hair on greenish, tanned skin, riddled with pustules and blisters from the flesh that he sees, which wasn’t much. Barring the head, hands and feet, the spirit wore what seemed to be a jute blanket to cover its entire visage. It floated in the air, half a foot off the ground, yet as it moved, neither the flesh nor the cloth it hung on itself moved. It seemed to be the only thing in the world that seemed to have no inertia.

Jack stands behind the spirit, following its each step, acknowledging it’s every movement. 

The spirit pivots towards the children’s rooms, its face unchanging. Just as it faces towards the stairs and takes a step forward, a loud creak echoes through the short corridor, the untimely sound emanating from our hunter’s foot. Creak.

Silence envelopes the air within the mansion. 

The spirit turns in a menacingly unhurried way toward Jack. His blade is hidden within his black cloak, ready to strike it if it were to attack.

Jack’s eyes begin to water as he remembers he hasn’t blinked for a while. He peers straight at the spirits face as it rotates, only to see two bony index fingers pulling apart the spirits angle of mouth to asymmetric lengths. A smile. Like schoolchildren, mockingly. Some of the teeth are missing, the lips ulcerated and the interior of the mouth, darker than the abyss. 

And where they were to be two eyes, was two holes taking up their position. 

“Hollow…” Jack whispers to himself. After what seemed to be minute of it ‘smiling’ at Jack, the apparition resumes its routine by making its way down the stairs, with Jack following it every step of the way.

It makes its way down the stairs.

The slaves’ housing area at the end of the house.

And finally, to the back of the hall, where it stands before the backdoor window, delivering a thousand-yard stare.

Jack watches the apparition stand at the door for an exact one hour before disappearing into thin air. He gets to the backdoor and looks out. The swing, the fence, merry-go-round or the sky?

“What are you looking for?” he wonders.

The following morning, after a night of little to no rest, pondering majority of the night on what the spirit wanted, Jack makes his way toward the hall, hoping to tell the eager mistress more about the situation, however, he crosses path with Sir Cottonton, patriarch of the Cottonton family. A tall, dark, handsome and well-groomed man, having very heavy bags under his eyes. 

“What… are you doing here?” Sir Cottonton asks, clearly in shock that the Demon of the Crow Village walks around his house willy-nilly.

“I called him, darling. Do not unleash your anger on the blade when it is the mind that used it.” The mistress says walking into the hall. The couple look at each other for a brief second, nod and walk into their master bedroom. A very audible argument ensues, where the mistress’s unintelligible words begin to dominate the latter half of the argument, resulting in the patriarch of the family coming down to hall, clearly fuming from his ears.

He sits down in the biggest chair in the hall, and begins to glare at Jack angrily.

“What do you need to know?”

“When did you start seeing this apparition?”

“Eleven days ago.”

“Has anyone died in this house somewhere in the near past?”

“Besides the run-away slaves, we’ve had three deaths in the house over the last year.”

“And?”

“A young slave, barely seen twenty winters, ran away many months ago, and took her own life when we brought her back.”

“The others?”

“An old slave that died of old age. And…”

“Well?”

Sir Cottonton sighs. “My wife’s miscarriage eight months ago.”

An awful silence purges the room for a few seconds.

“If it’s of any solace, it is not your child that roams these walls.”

“I figured as such.” Sir Cottonton says coyly.

“Your wife tells me you wanted to revoke the letter you sent our way. Why is that?”

“I’ve entertained you long enough.” The man sighs and gets up off his seat. “I have duties to attend to. Speak to my ‘dear’ wife if you must. I would say it was good meeting you, but I would be lying.”

Jack nods slightly. The two part ways and Jack walks up the stairs to see the mistress, who seems to be wiping tears off her face.

Jack gives her a second to compose herself, and begins asking questions.

“Who are the two slaves that died in this house?”

“An old crone named Martha and a slave nymph named Mel.” The mistress says, her tone being uncharacteristically venomous.

“Where did you bury them?” Jack asks.

“Where else? In the backyard.” The mistress scoffs.

“You… what?”

“In the backyard, where we bury most of our slaves.” She says, surprised by Jack’s bewilderment.

“Why aren’t they buried in the cemetery?”

“Oma bless you, to bury a slave in the same soil we shall bury our dead… you must be out of your mind.”

Jack gives the mistress a cold stare, and walks toward the door. Just before he exits, he asks:

“Why did the slave named Mel flee?” He shoots a glance at the mistress, and didn’t need an answer. As she fumbled words to explain, Jack walks out the door.

He heads to the slaves’ housing area, where he gathers them thirty of them up and sits up on a desk. 

“You’ve all seen the ghost, yes?” Jack asks.

“Yes master.” A chorus breaks out.

“I believe it must be one of two people, the old slave named Martha, or the slave named Mel. What can you tell me about them?”

“Well, Old Martha died here on this chair a few months ago, many winters old.”

“How old was she?”

“Eighty-one, sir.” One of the slaves in the back announces.

“How did she die?”

“She was sitting here knitting something for master’s children, and she didn’t wake up. Even when she couldn’t see so well, she was trying to do something nice for her babies.” A slave in the front replies.

“Her babies? What do you mean?”

“Yeah, master. She raised us all.”

“Wait, what do you mean ‘raised us all’?”

“She raised all of us here in this house except for Lady Cottonton. She raised the master’s father, master, master’s kids, us and our kids.”

“Hmmm… what of this, Mel girl?”

“Oh, Lady Cottonton don’t like-” a slave begins-

“Shut your mouth Percy, you know you gonna get in trouble for that!” another slave interrupts.

“No, you will not. Now, I want the whole story.” Jack flashes his blade at the slaves, the steel glistening.

“Mel grew up here with us, our youngest sister. She fancied Master from a long time, and when Lady Cottonton left for the big city one day, she let master put a baby in her.”

“Oh. And?” Jack asks, his brow dipping lower.

“Lady Cottonton knew it was master’s baby, so she called the white coat master to come pull the baby out. A week later Mel hung herself over here.” The slave points at a notch on the roof, one designed to make a make-shift cradle for newborns, using cloth.

“Did the Lady beat her?”

“Oh yeah, a lot, master. Everyday Lady Cottonton would come down with her face red like roses and tears falling down her cheeks and snatch Mel by her hair and drag her out to whip her.”

Jack’s expressions shift to one of disgust.

“Lastly, do you where Old Martha and Mel are buried?”

“I can show you, master!” the slave named Percy leads Jack to the backyard, where he points at the children’s swing and says:

“Old Martha…”

Points at the merry-go-round, saying:

“And Mel.”

Jack thanks Percy, and sits down in the backyard, wondering.

‘Maybe that’s why Sir Cottonton wanted to revoke the letter- he didn’t want a hunter to part him from his slave-love.’ He looks down the yard to see Lady Cottonton and shoots a smile at her. ‘No wonder she wants me to rid of the spirit promptly… even in death the new love draws her husband away from her bed.’

‘Something isn’t right. I feel like I’m missing something.’ Jack thinks to himself.

The clock is about to strike at nine. Jack waits at the beginning of the corridor, at the front of the stairs. And just as the clock strikes nine, the spirit manifests at the end of the corridor, its movement slow, deliberate yet every fiber of the apparition seemed static.

He keenly watches its facial expression to each door, taking a step back quietly in front of the apparition. The apparition is blind, but reacts to sound, Jack realizes. As uneventful as its routine is, its expressions are just as uneventful. A long, greenish-tanned face full of cuts and lesions, with patches of silver hair on its cranium. An unchanging stoic expression throughout.

Jack deliberately makes a noise again, and just as he expected it, it pulls its angle of mouth apart mockingly. He stays in front of the spirit all the way to the slave’s housing area to the backdoor, and tries to ascertain where the spirit’s gaze sits upon.

It is while standing in front of the ghost, does he notice something- the spirit holds its mouth when it stares out the backdoor window. 

Is it horror, sorrow or shock? Is it trying to hold a scream in, or is it just comforting itself? Jack wonders. 

Early hours of the next morning.

“You knew all along, didn’t you?” Jack leans on the doorway, giving a cold stare at Sir Cottonton sitting behind the study. “My question is why?”

“What are you…”

“Why would you bury her there?” Jack asks sternly. “Let’s not waste both of our times.”

“My wife… she believes in purity… when she died, I told my wife that I shall give her a proper burial… but then she chastised me for even suggesting that our bloods mix, even as rotting flesh in the dirt. And so, I buried the woman who raised me as her very own flesh and blood to be buried like any other runaway slave.”

“Then why didn’t you tell her the true identity of the spirit?”

“I did, I did!” Sir Cottonton throws his hands in the air and buries his face in them. “No matter what I said, she only saw the spirit as Mel, and the mere thought that she would return to whisk me away drives her absolutely mad!”

“Do think your hands are clean, Cottonton?” Jack looms over the sitting patriarch. “You did little to nothing to free the spirit.”

“Listen, my wife doesn’t have to know… we can pretend that you’ve rid my house of the spirit, and my wife who has never seen the spirit would be none the wiser! You’ll be paid and-”

“Do you understand what Old Martha is going through right now?” Jack asks.

“What do you-”

“They say ‘Pity be to those that must walk amongst the living after their day of judgment’. Do you know why?”

The sweating Cottonton shakes his head slowly.

“She is alone, Cottonton. Her tether to this reality is holding her back here, while most of her being has already left. In other words, she is seen by everyone in this reality, but she sees none. Feels none. Unable to interact with anything she knows familiar. She is hooked to this house, even as her body putrefies in the dirt. She walks empty corridors every day, alone. Her existence is alone. Your selfish need to see her, tethers her to an unending, lonesome suffering.” 

Jack leans close to the patriarch and places a hand on his shoulder.

“Let her go. She’s watched over you long enough.” Sir Cottonton nods solemnly.

Jack begins digging the grave next to the swing, exhuming the body of Martha. The shovel kept striking the soft dirt until it hits something firm, to which Jack promptly digs around it, eventually getting Old Martha out.

He puts a white sheet over her decomposing body, covers his face and carries the body to the edge of the backyard.

“Where are you going?!” Lady Cottonton, having just woken up, yells at Jack as she approaches him.

“Doing the job you’re paying me for.”

“Why did you pull the old crone out of the ground, Mr. Jack? It’s the slave-nymph that haunts my house, not it!” She yells.

“Lady Cottonton, as much as I would love to explain how you’re failing marriage has taken not just one life, but two, I simply do not care enough. This is an issue between the Cottontons, and I wish to not interfere.” Jack says as he holds the decaying, pungent corpse of Martha. He turns back towards the farthest border of the backyard, where he walks past it and lays the body right outside the border. There he digs a grave, places her body and lays an unmarked tombstone.

He makes his way back into the house, and lies down on the floor of the hall, exhausted and panting.

“Why did you bury her out there, Mr. Jack?” The patriarch asks.

Jack regains his breathing slowly.

“From the very first day, I noticed Old Martha’s spirit approaching the occupied rooms in the house- specifically, the children she raised. Almost as a mother would check on her young.

She would turn towards your bedroom, your father’s old bedroom, your children and finally the slaves’ housing area.

 But then what boggled my mind was her mocking me.

Every time she heard a noise, Old Martha would turn toward the noise and pull the sides of her mouth, like this…” Jack enacts the movement.

“Even in death, she was forcing herself to smile.” Jack shakes his head, and looks at the Cottontons. “Her face was like plastic- devoid of emotion and unchanging as she watches you, your children and your slaves, sleep.

But after she had done her daily duty of ensuring all her children were asleep, she would walk to the backdoor, and gaze at that open field just beyond that barricade. Every day, through life and now death, she yearned for freedom, for a world outside this house, while her devotion and love for her children pulled her back into the very house, she was enslaved in. She was torn.

Hopefully, her burial out in the open is all that she needed leave this reality. To make sure, I’ll wait and watch.”

All three of the adults nod their heads in acceptance.

“As for what the both of you did to the slave Mel, it is clear to me that the both of you have violated the slave laws. Just because you own these white slaves, doesn’t mean you torture and kill them.” Jack stares at Lady Cottonton, who turns her head and scoffs.

“I will be reporting this to the King. Your cotton and money might save you then as well, but I won’t come to help you when the girl’s spirit stands over your bedside.” 

“Ugh…. What do you need us to do?” Lady Cottonton asks.

“Three thousand gold coins, and a proper burial for the girl.”

“…So be it.” The two dealing parties shake hands, and await for the night.

Jack sits on a chair, eating peanuts at the stairway end of the corridor, ten minutes before nine.

He waits, nine strikes, and no apparition manifests. Few more minutes go by and nothing happens. 

Realizing that his plan worked, Jack picks up his big bag of gold from the guest room and exits-only to see Sir Cottonton walk by him at ten. Jack cautiously watches the patriarch take slow calculated steps toward the stairs, and down. 

‘How did he not see me?’ Jack wonders.

Click. Click. Click.

Jack watches the children’s door open slowly, and the children walk down the steps as well. Curious, Jack follows them down the stairs, only to see Sir Cottonton, his three children, and forty slaves standing behind the backdoor window, all gazing off into the distance murmuring:

“Martha, put me to bed.”

By Dhiren S