"Them" by Aubra Penner

         Elaine fiddled with a fold on the inside of her sleeve. They were too long; their previous owner had been lanky by castle standards. Elaine didn't know who he had been. Sometimes she wondered about him, but more often she wished he had left more in the single suitcase in the dusty room that was now hers. Or called hers. It was really anyone's as much as hers, she just slept there. A lot of the castle was like that.

         She balled her hands into fists to keep herself from picking a hole in the thin cloth or her shirt. The sleeves went past her hand and flopped forlornly. Gritting her teeth harder than usual, she shoved them up until they crinkled around her wrists instead.

         She looked back up at the wide, solid wooden door in front of her. Tentatively, she reached out and knocked once more. The delicate tap echoed in the stone hall, reproachful illustrating the silence. It was late, and everyone else had gone to bed. No one would come in that night; what was left of the drawbridge was raised at sundown.

         There was the brief whisper of bare feet, and the door opened enough for a weathered face to peer around it. The single blue eye looked her up and down, then retreated. The door swung open, releasing a breath of warm air. The musty old man who stood in the gap gave her another glance, then nodded and gestured her inside.

         The room was spacious, and the chair drawn up to the tiny fire demonstrated the inhabitant's standing- Elaine's room contained only a heap of blankets. Furniture was a luxury, and a fire was survival.

         The old man watched her from beside the closed door, warily. "What do you want?"

         "I wanted to ask you about Them." The man backed away, a step, but Elaine followed. "Everyone says you collect stories. I have to ask-" She stopped and looked away from him. She noticed that bits of wood had been stripped away from the inside of the door. That was how he could afford to keep the chair. The door was nowhere near as sturdy as seemed from without.

         "Yes, I collect stories. The old stories, from before Them. Nothing was known of them before, as nothing is known now." His back was against the door's splintered surface now, and he seemed to shrink in fear before her. "It is death to attempt to see them!"

         "But someone must know something!"

         "No! Those who see them die with the sight! The fire is known, and only the fire-" They had not noticed in their argument as the sputtering fire dimmed, and flickered, died. They noticed now.

         Both froze, hardly breathing. Elaine could hear her heart beating loud, but over the pounding came a whisper that almost made it still. Sibilant echoes sifted through the peeled-thin door, sounds that had made a younger Elaine shiver and huddle nearer the fire. But it was always worse when it fell silent. The deep, deep silence and the knowledge that They were at your door made you wake in the depth of sleep to wait until the whisper returned and faded into the distance. They always stopped, always checked for the flames that were the only safety.

         The pause came. Involuntarily, Elaine and the storyteller stepped away from the door. It was too late to run for the matches. It was too late for anything but watching, as first one, then another, then another thread snaked under the door, writhing and grasping like terrible ghoulish hands. tiny pops and snaps filled the air as more threads forced their way through thin spots in the door, cracks in the door frame, around the hinges. More and more poured in, twining around Elaine's ankles and climbing upwards, flooding across the floor to join the others. The door gave with a great crack, and Elaine screamed as the wave of twining tendrils washed over her and dragged her below. The old man simply stood as the grasping tendrils slid around his legs and climbed up, taking his arms and neck in their cold grip. Stood, and stared at the wide, delicate leaf he held in one hand. Its stalk dripped sap into the heaving mass below.

         "So. The stories were true."