"The Dagger" by Courtney Reger

She was huddled in a corner when they found her. Huddled and shaking. She lashed out with a silver dagger, stabbing at invisible or imaginary enemies. They tried to talk to her, to calm her down. One man made the mistake of trying to grab the blade from her hands, coming away instead with a long gash up his arm.

She could hear their voices; they were only more whispers that now plagued her mind, giving her no rest. Her blade slashed wildly through the air, trying to reach the source, to drive away the final whispers.

How had it come to this? It had seemed so simple, so easy. It had worked. But for what? The shadows had come to haunt her now; they swarmed her constantly, driving away any pleasure she might have had from her accomplishments. As she shrieked soundless, wordless threats against the whispers, her mind sped back over the events that had brought her to this dark corner, had imprisoned her with her own deeds. It was not so long ago, just this morning…

The day was bright, just as she expected it to be. It promised to be a lovely summer day, for others. Not for her. She slid out of bed, bare toes searching for her slippers. The sun had already risen over the horizon, but it hadn’t travelled very high up yet, so it was earlier than she had thought. It didn’t really matter.

Before she did anything, she checked on her dagger. The dagger lay safely where she had last placed it. The small blade lay on a black linen cloth, hidden behind a small panel on her wall. She replaced it carefully, not that it mattered; nothing mattered until they had come. But starting at the beginning would make more sense. She went over it all in her head, oblivious now to the chaos raging around her. Or, had it been this morning? It seemed that it started before that; when she had found the hidden panel. That was more than a few days ago…

The discovery of that secret place had been an accident, caused by one to many drinks the night of her birthday. A single misplaced step and she had stumble against the dark wooden wall, catching her hand on the rough paneling, leaving a small scratch on her hand. When the paneling had simply opened up, she had ignored it in favor of her bed.

The next morning, she had seen, through the pain in her head, the small black space against the normally brown wall. She still might not have been able to use it, if a careful examination of the surrounding wall showed her the small streak of blood left when she had cut her hand.

A cursory examination of the hole showed her nothing. She pushed the panel shut again, hearing a tiny click as it closed. Nothing else remarkable had happened the rest of that day. It was the usual; eat, get picked on by Tessa, have Tessa flaunt her latest expensive gifts from her father, hearing all the girls snicker at Tessa’s mean comments. Nothing unusual.

Home was her refuge; it had been since she moved to this town, since she started working in the office. Tessa was the problem. If she would simply quit, everything would be better. But, that couldn’t be counted on; Tessa’s father owned that particular office, and several others. She couldn’t be guaranteed a job anywhere, not if Tessa had anything to say about it.

She moaned as she threw herself down on the soft comforter, sinking into the bed in hopes of sleep. It didn’t come. With a sigh, she levered herself up, determined to do something to take her mind off of her troubles. She decided to check the hidden panel again, not entirely sure if it had really been there. Time would pass faster.

She pushed lightly against the marked spot on the wall. Nothing happened. Her hand tapped along the wall, feeling for a difference. Nothing. The hand tapped along the wall again, harder this time. Beneath her hand, the wall gave slightly. Without a sound, the small panel slid open.

She moved her hand away from the spot; the wall indented only slightly, not noticeable unless you knew to look for it. The hand moved from examining the wall to probing carefully around the opening in the wall. She worked her hand around slowly, feeling along gently, trying not to disturb anything.

Her hand nudged something tucked up against the back wall. She drew it out gently; a long, black box, tied carefully with a black satin ribbon. Without hesitation, she tore the ribbon off the box, and flipped the lid back. It fell to the floor and bounced under the bed. She never noticed, her eyes fixed on the single object the box held.

The dagger was gleaming, showing no evidence from long years of disuse. Nobody could have used it; she’d been living here for four years and hadn’t discovered the panel until now. Yet the blade was spotless, the silver tinted lightly with blue. The blue rippled and flowed beneath the light, moving down and up the blade in hypnotizing patterns. Engraved just above the crosspiece was a tiny inscription. Strange lines slashed into the beautiful silver, circled by a delicately carved pair of wings.

The hilt was black like the box. A single, small jewel was set into the pommel; a contrastingly bright white opal. It shivered with hidden colors, as many opals do. Light danced along its surface, drawing her eye to those carefully concealed colors. Other than the gem, the hilt was ordinary.

She picked the knife up in one hand, feeling it tremble in her grasp. The box fell to the floor, also forgotten. The hilt fitted easily into her hand; she shook away the idea that it was made for her.

Holding her arm away from her body, she made her way out of her room. She continued to stare at the knife in her hand, making her way by blindly feeling along with her, as she headed toward the basement. Her basement was dimly lit, old, the walls all hard stone. She headed toward one that was rarely, if ever, seen by her, let alone other people.

There, she raised the dagger. Almost gently, she slashed the knife against the stone walls. A line appeared, faint but there. Harder this time, she brought the knife down against the wall. A deep cut appeared; she probed along it carefully with her fingers. The edges were smooth, perfect, and hard. She backed a step away and dropped the knife.

She threw herself up the stairs, not in fear, but in disbelief. She rooted around in two drawers, coming out of one with a regular kitchen knife. The other drawer, in her jewelry box, yielded a pair of earrings. She hurried downstairs, half believing that the beautiful knife would be gone.

It wasn’t. It was where she had carelessly dropped it; hilt up, the blade had buried itself into concrete floor as if it was butter. Her hand reached out to grasp the hilt firmly and gave it a sharp tug. The dagger slid out of the floor just as easily as it had slipped in.

She held it negligently in her left hand, the right hand holding the kitchen knife. Her left hand struck out, carving another gash beside the first in the hard wall. Then, her right hand. She had swung it out hard; the force of the blade meeting the unyielding stone wall jarred all the way up her shoulder. She glanced at the useless half-blade she now held in her right hand. The dagger still shone brightly, not a nick on the razor-sharp edge.

Quickly, she knelt on the cold floor, laying out both earrings side by side. Their stones twinkled out at her; twin pairs of diamonds gleamed dazzlingly in their gold settings. She eyed them for a single second, and then brought the knife across both stones. She took a second, longer look at them then; the stones were perfect, unmarred. Gently, she nudged one with her free hand. The two halves moved opposite ways. The blade had sliced them so perfectly, passed straight through what was said to be the hardest material on Earth, that the tell-tale cut line had not appeared. Beneath them, the concrete floor showed the marks easily, the blade slicing through the dirty top and into the paler stone below.

She rocked back on her heels, amazed at the weapon she held in her hand. Her eyes stared at the wall she faced, the deep lines cut into its hard surface. And her hand slipped. The blade brushed gently down her legs. She felt no pain, no sense that something had even touched her, yet blood began to flow.

She stood slowly, more aware of the blade in her hand this time, not caring that blood dripped onto the sparkling dagger blade. The blood sank into the blade like it sank into water, leaving no trace that blood had ever touched the spectacular knife. She carried the knife up to her room, laying it gently on the bed.

She carried a chair over to the bed’s side, and sat staring, transfixed, at the gleaming blade. By now, the sun was setting, causing light to ripple along the edge. The spark created by the sun moved up the blade as the sun sank lower and lower. Soon it was night and still she sat. More time passed, hours melting into nothing, until the moon was high in the sky.

It was the sound that roused her. Faint, continuous, but not quite rhythmic. Coming closer, even as she sat and listened. It was followed closely by another sound, one she didn’t recognize. The other she knew, as would any city person, as would almost any person; the sound of running feet. Her house was dark now, and she was suddenly afraid. In her strange daze, she had never gone to lock the doors, or the odd window that might be open for summer air.

Another sound, once again familiar. The sound of her front door being opened; the bottom always got dragged along the concrete walk in the front of her house. A quiet curse was almost instantly shushed. Without thinking, she grabbed up the knife from the bed. She felt better with a weapon in her hand, even if she didn’t know how to use it.

The sound of footsteps grew closer, and then she heard another door being opened. The one that led to her spare bedroom, where she kept her few valuables. There were a few muffled clunks as something was dropped.

Slowly, she rose from her chair, her muscles sore from her long vigil. Her leg ached dully, the blood dried and pulling at the skin as she moved. She stared at the wall that separated her from the intruders, anger burning through her veins. She thought of the jewelry her mother had given her, stuff to valuable for her to wear in public, hidden in that room.

The house was dark, since the moonlight didn’t shine down brightly through the tightly packed buildings or trees, yet she moved surely. She had lived here for four years; she had little furniture in her way. How often had she moved silently through the unlit halls in her home, to go to the bathroom late at night?

She moved slowly, deliberately placing her feet to avoid any creaks that might alert someone. A door down the hall was open, showing as a lighter patch along the dark wall. The dagger held in front of her, blade still shining dully in the absence of any light, she went forward.

There were two of them in the room, moving fast yet quiet. Loading anything that might be valuable into a heavy sack, they worked their way along one wall. She could see anything about them with the night being so dark, except they were both around her height. Anger sizzled through her. Her stuff was being shoved into that bag. They had waltzed in here, prepared to grab it; but she wasn’t prepared to let it go.

Some sense alerted the men, but it was too late by then. The silver dagger plunged through the air, slicing easily through one burglar’s shoulder and chest. A wicked delight raced through her at the man’s soundless scream. The other was armed with a knife, also. He came toward her, confident in his abilities, even after her first show. It was beginners’ luck, after all.

He didn’t last much longer than his friend. The dagger’s blade sliced through the dark, still air in the room; once to severe blade hand from arm, the other a straight thrust through the heart. He dropped to the floor beside his companion, both still and cold on the hard floor.

Another wave of evil pleasure surged over her body as the knife struck the lifeless bodies again and again. The blade seemed to sing in her hands as it flew through the air, cutting deeply into the two figures on the floor.

She blinked suddenly, and then kept blinking. It was bright out now. What happened to the dark? Her hand flew toward the small table set beside her bed, to grasp the black hilt that lay within easy reach. She brought the flat of the blade up to her eyes. Nothing. Not a mark existed on the silver dagger’s blade. She jumped up, throwing her covers in a heap on the floor.

She ran to the spare room. There, in the corner, lay the sack the burglars had meant to steal the night before. But there was no sign of the men themselves, apart from a few stray scraps of blue cloth. She stared at the knife in her hand. The blade gleamed brighter today than it had yesterday. With a shrug, she disregarded it, turning to go about her day. Mysteries could wait until she got home again.

She was dressed in a hurry, throwing on any clothes that weren’t dirty and had a semblance of matching. Her purse lay on the kitchen table, where she had dropped it yesterday; or had it been years ago? It seemed as though so much time had passed; yet it had not. She left the dagger in its place.

At work, she was hauled before her boss. Where had she been the previous day? Hadn’t she been at work? They had called twice, with no answer, then assumed she was too sick to get the phone. She went to her office to think this news over; yesterday, where was she yesterday? Last night was the robbers, or was that the night before? She couldn’t remember. She sat quietly in her office, disturbed by no one, while she thought.

It was after lunch, when she was returning from a trip to the ladies’ room when the day went bad. Waiting outside her door was Tessa and two other girls she didn’t know. They smirked at her as she came closer.

One of the girls, a tall brunette was gazing enviously at a lovely ring worn by the smaller, pale-blond girl. Tessa, with her red-blond hair and blue eyes, had her eyes fixed on not the ring, but the hall before her.

They were blocking her office door. Very politely, she asked them to move. They started, as if they had not seen her approach, and began to gush over the ring. Solid gold, they said, a diamond center and emerald stones marching down the band to either side. They told her how very expensive it was, leaving no doubt in her mind that they knew she couldn’t have afforded a ring at one-fourth the cost of that one.

She nodded and tried to sneak past, but they wouldn’t let her go. They kept her there, telling her exactly how much each stone cost, how this was only a small ring, how they each could have afforded a more expensive one, but their friend had spent sparingly. She grew angrier as they kept her there.

They chattered at her constantly, not giving her a chance to say anything or slip away, as they told about the expensive things each had just gotten. Mutely, she stood, paying no attention, trying to hide the anger that still managed to show on her face.

Finally, they let her go, heading off to the next unfortunate person who couldn’t afford life’s more expensive things. She retreated to her office, holding down the storm of anger and rage that went on inside her. It wasn’t working well; her favorite pens were broken and in the garbage by the time she was done.

But the torture wasn’t over. They met her again by the exit doors, exclaiming again over the ring. Wordlessly, she walked away and out the doors, hearing their sarcastic comments follow her.

The knife lay in the same spot she had left it. She dumped her purse next to it and picked it up. It was a lovely blade. She sat, aimlessly turning the dagger over her fingers, thinking through the day.

It wasn’t fair. They didn’t have to do a single hard thing in their life, Tessa and her friends, yet they got the most expensive clothes, most expensive shoes, and the most valuable jewels. And everyone else worked hard their entire lives and died poor. With a yell, she dropped the knife; it was making a strange noise. Was it humming?

The dagger. She looked at it with new eyes. She could have expensive things, with this dagger. The humming grew louder. Ignoring it, she picked up the blade. It sang in her hands. She glanced at her windows; the sky was dark. She shrugged over the passage of time. Without another thought, she turned and left.

Later that night, she lay in her bed; the dagger on the table, a diamond-and-emerald ring on her finger. Sleep wouldn’t come; she was filled with a desire to go out again. Tonight’s work had left her with the same pleasure as last night; or was it the night before? Instead she watched silently as the shadows chase themselves across her ceiling. One swept across her, causing her to flinch.

The shadows were not quiet this night. They whispered and moaned, sliding harshly across the ceiling. She flinched as they kept sliding over her; she hide under her covers, but then only the whispers came through.

Daylight didn’t come soon enough. Slowly, the shadows faded against the morning light. She dropped the covers away from her face, eyes jumping over every surface. The shadows were gone.

Swiftly, she got ready for work; she left the ring on the table. Work that day was quieter. Tessa and her brunette friend, who was wearing her new sapphire earrings, weren’t quite worried for their other friend. She hadn’t shown up for work, that was all; they did that from time to time. Still, she got out of the office as quickly as she could.

At home, she went straight to her room. Everything lay just how she had left it. She put the ring on and picked up the knife. The knife was shining again, the light flashing down the blade in waves and patterns that were impossible to follow. She sat, staring, at the blade as the night drew closer. There were pictures in it, mesmerizing ones. Things that had happened; things she didn’t want to see. The blade showed her anyway.

Darkness spread around her, swallowing her. She didn’t notice. The night passed silently and sunlight fell through the windows; the phone rang. Still she sat, terrified and hypnotized by the horrible, glorious blade in her hand. Night fell again, not as quiet this time; shadows drawn up by the dagger’s stories found her. She sat still, unable to move, not even flinching. The sun was up again, forcing the shadows away, before she noticed anything. The phone rang.

She jumped, disoriented and sleepy, at the sound. Stumbling, she went over and answered it. Work? She was late for work? She was sick; she wasn’t coming in. The phone dropped back to its cradle. Silently, she sat on her bed, knees drawn up to her chin. Her eyes were wide, staring, but not seeing. Seeing nothing in her room; seeing plenty in a knife blade. The whispers were back, but not the shadows.

Her eyes flicked out over the room, focusing on everything, but the whispering went on, unidentified. The shadows, the horrors, were murmuring but refused to be seen. The day passed and as the sun started to sink, the whisperers began to show. Night fell and the dagger sang again.

Without another thought, she was out the door.

The shadows had come again, whispering, even more than before; shadows summoned up by the knife’s stories. They darted and dashed across the ceiling while she lay, eyes straining to follow their movements. They flashed down toward her every now and then, causing her to flinch back. One tried to grab the ring off her hand. Others raced by her head, grasping with phantom hands at her ears. She shooed them off with the knife, the blade slashing through air and shadows; the only things it couldn’t seem to cut.

Daylight eventually seeped through the windows, driving the shadows back. She got up, eyes wide, blinking wildly, wishing work wouldn’t come today. It had been a sleepless night. But, it might look odd; she had been sick so long. Tessa was by herself today, and evidently a little worried. She wrung her hands nervously, hands running over fingers covered in jewelry. Where were her friends? Did anybody know?

Work went by fast, something she was grateful for. She had nothing to do at home, except to sit, but home she went all the same. Night came on suddenly, bringing the shadows back. They were angrier this night, and they followed her when she tried to get away. She dashed down the halls, the shadows close behind her.

As she ran, she passed something that was more solid than a shadow. It watched her through dark eyes, and dashed after her; not whispering like the rest, but crying, shrieking soundlessly. Her house was small; she could not get away. The shadows stayed right behind her, making no attempt to cut her off, as she raced through the dark halls. Finally, she ended up back in her room.

She collapsed on the bed, sobbing. The shadows stayed away then, but continued to swirl around her room, whispering things that she could not make out. Trying to show her their stories again. More and more came, to join the rest. Where had they all come from? Their murmurs spun around in her head, echoing back. Not fading, but growing louder. Their stories were in her head. Would they come out again?

It was the daylight that drove them away again. Was it the next day? The day after? She wasn’t sure anymore. Weary, she stumbled down the hall, passing the large hall mirror without a glance. She passed silently through the corridors, walking the circle she had raced last night. The daylight should have made it safe, but it didn’t. The shadows weren’t there, but the whispers were.

Her knife was waiting when she reached her room again. It lay simply on the table. She walked over swiftly to the table, snatching the knife from its surface. Light danced along its edge, blindingly brilliant. She was trembling. Carefully, she lay the knife back down.

Night came again, though, bringing the shadows back out. They swarmed her, desperate to drive her insane. Was it working? She didn’t know. She didn’t run tonight, but sat, waiting for the sun to come up again. She would have to go to work; the house was too quiet. Noise would cover the whispers.

Work that day was bad. She was distracted. Tessa was worried, having not heard from either of her friends for a long time. The police were called. Tessa didn’t gloat over anything, leaving everyone alone as they avoided her.

Once again, she hurried home, hurried to be safe before night could find her. Night crept up on her as it had last night. But she didn’t stay home to watch the shadows; she couldn’t.

Except, when she managed to work her way home later, they were waiting, furious now. They dipped and swirled around her as she walked in. But she waved the dagger at them, and they fled, diving away from the shining blade. It did not hurt them when she hit one; it made them angrier. Exhausted, she lay down to sleep, but could not.

The shadows did not need to come close to scare her. She lay, eyes wide and staring as they danced their way across her ceiling. Their whispers were louder and she kept the dagger in her hands, ready for use. Late in the night, the shadows were gone, and she replaced the dagger in the secret hole and tried to sleep.

The next morning she didn’t go in to work; she called in sick once again. It was a bright morning, as she had expected it to be, but that didn’t matter. The air was warm, but she shoved her bare toes around until they found slippers.

Then she checked the dagger. The dagger was where it was supposed to be; placed carefully on a black linen cloth in the hidden panel. She picked it up for an instant, then set it down gently. Instead of doing anything, she sat on her bed, watching sunlit shadows play along the walls. The light hadn’t banished them as it had before, only dimming them. Their moans were sighs, their whispers barely audible. They weren’t going away. Would they ever?

She locked her hands on her knees, eyes darting to keep track of the moving shapes. They lashed out at her, but could not reach, falling back with a wail. The day passed slowly, as though the sun was watching her immobile on the bed. Night fell quickly, though, and as the sun dropped lower the shadows reached farther and farther toward her.

Night found her not on her bed as she had been all day. Instead she was in the basement, staring at the deep gouges in the stone wall. The dagger was held point down in her hand. Deeper cuts, dozens of them, covered the stone from floor to ceiling. The shadows crept down the stairs behind her, whispering and moaning.

Before long, they tired of hiding along the walls and came out. She lashed at them, but they nimbly avoid her clumsy swings. Anger came again as they swarmed; she lashed out harder and faster. They swung away and came back, dodging her blade arm, lashing out at her unprotected side, angry in their own way.

Screaming, she ran upstairs, the center in a cloud of darkness. In the hall, the sight of the other ghost, the one that wasn’t a shadow, once again confronted her; it didn’t whisper, but watched her with wide, blank eyes. It taunted her, not in whispers, but in shrieks. It knew what she had done. How could it know? She couldn’t let it know. She lunged forward with the dagger, throwing all her strength into the swing. Her aim was true, catching it right in the chest.

Then the shadows were on her, driving her to the floor, their whispers echoing in her head, stories driving out all other sound, all other thought. Footsteps were coming closer, lots of them; coming fast, running. The door was forced open.

They found her huddled in a corner. Huddled and shaking, a silver dagger in her fist whipping through the air. They heard her cries, the small screams she directed at none of them, but as something they couldn’t see. Scattered around her lay sharp, bright bits; pieces of glass from the shattered mirror.