The Creeping Darkness

III.

In which there is peril, perhaps for the first time in a young lady's life.

Charlotte was on the ground next to the Dunleys' stone garden bench, scrambling backwards in horror. The man standing before her was unlike anything she had ever seen before. His disheveled countenance brought to mind the factories in the city, and their workers who milled about the streets. Indeed, he was so coated in filth that it was difficult to discern his features.

A metallic scent came off him - the smell of butcher's shops, with skinned poultry and hocks of hindquarters hanging in their windows. It gave her an instant sense of unease, which was compounded by the man's gleaming eyes and unnaturally sharp teeth bared in his open mouth.

She tried to speak, but her voice was gone. There were tales in newspapers of girls who disappear on the streets of London at night, their mangled bodies fished out of the Thames weeks later. Was that to be her?

Her mouth opened and gaped, like a fish. He trudged closer, his gait stiff and creaking, his yellow gaze locked firmly onto her.

Finally, he spoke.

"Are you the lady of this house?"

His courteous tone contrasted with his ragged and hoarse voice. There was something strange to her about his pronunciation, a clipped and melodic cadence marking him instantly as no Englishman.

Charlotte shook her head frantically, hoping this would not seal her doom.

"We must get inside," he continued. "Quickly."

He quickened his pace towards her, and Charlotte yelped in terror, scrambling to her feet.

"Get away from me!"

He hesitated, taking a deep breath. He remained cordial, but was now terse with impatience. "We must get inside. Now."

She inhaled sharply, trembling but firm. "I will not allow a filthy madman into the home of a member of the landed gentry." Even if I do not particularly like them. "It is not my place to decide if they will shelter you. You will not enter the house with me." She was stepping backwards, dragging her now filthy train across the dirt.

It was a minor inconvenience. Charlotte's eyes were darting about to ensure this man would not unsheathe a weapon from his filthy rags. Her father would simply have to accept the expense of buying her a new dress.

The man was growing irritable now, but did not advance any further. He apparently accepted her decree. "Then go inside quickly."

Charlotte was still unwilling to turn around, but continued backing away. He was no longer looking at her. The man was gazing up through the tree branches, where the moon and stars illuminated him.

He's drenched in blood.

She knew this. Charlotte had realized it from the start, but it was impossible to allow herself to think about it.

A long, bony hand suddenly grabbed her back, prompting an immediate scream.

The bloody man's attention snapped back to her, and he dashed in her direction. Charlotte struggled in the phantom hand behind her, as a head looped in front of her, stretching from a horrifically long neck craning from behind her back.

The face was small and nearly perfectly round, with beady little eyes, a diminutive nose, and an enormous smile that encompassed nearly his entire head. It was a crooked, horrid thing, swerving wildly across his face with jagged and enormous teeth. In a rather ridiculous touch, this unnatural creature was wearing a gentleman's top hat.

A grin without a cat, her mind supplied, absurdly. I've seen a cat without a grin but never a grin without a cat. Was that how it had gone? She wished she were in her childhood nursery. She wished she were in her bed. It had only been a dream for lucky little Alice.