PAST PROLOGUE

 

 

1928

 

      The paint palette shouldn’t have been there. 

      It lay on the cracked concrete floor of the old meat-works, half-hidden under a wind-rolled newspaper from three weeks ago, colours so bright they looked wrong against the grey dust and rust of the place. 

      Cassie Reilly was the first to see it. She was always first. First to climb the chain-link fence behind the McGivern place; first to dare the rest of them into the woods after dark; first to get grounded when the others got away clean. Her shoes squeaked faintly on the floor as she crouched to peel the newspaper back. 

      “Looks like something from school art class,” she said, voice echoing in the cold air. “Except…” 

      “Except what?” Benny asked. He was picking his way across the floor, stepping around busted bottles and bent nails. He was careful, always careful, because Benny knew how fast things could go wrong. His mom had a bad back and couldn’t work; if he came home with a nail through his foot, the hospital bill would be more than they had. 

      Cassie poked at one of the wells with a small stick. The paint was thick but smooth, like cream. Colours sharp enough to make her eyes water. “It’s wet.” 

      “That’s impossible,” said Jonah from the doorway. “It’s got to have been here for decades”

      Jonah always hung back. Tall and pale, with a permanent expression like he’d just remembered something he’d forgotten to do, Jonah was the one who saw patterns in things—shapes in clouds, faces in water stains. He had a sketchbook full of them. He also had a father who was “away,” though nobody asked too many questions about that. 

      “It’s not just wet,” Cassie said. She stood, holding the end of the paint-covered stick up to the light that slanted in through the high broken windows. The yellow was the exact gold of a marigold in July. The blue the colour of the river after a storm, the deep part where the current could pull you under. 

      A sound creaked in the shadows. The three of them froze. 

      “Wind,” Jonah muttered, though the air was still enough to make the dust hang in it like smoke. 

      Cassie set the palette back on the floor. “Bet you won’t touch it,” she said, grinning at Benny. 

      He scowled, but crouched. His fingertip came away slick and bright with red; red like something hot and fresh from a cut. He wiped it on the floor, right beside him, and laughed. 

      The laugh died as the red mark deepened, sharpened, expanded; became the shape of a boot print. Panicked, he scurried backwards, away from the paint. A second one appeared, just ahead of it. Then another, as if something unseen was walking away from them.

      The three of them watched the trail stretch forward, step by step, toward the far end of the meat-works. The air got colder. 

      “Cassie,” Jonah said, voice small. 

      She swallowed. “Yeah?” 

      “These… aren’t our footprints.” 

      The steps reached the shadowed wall at the far end and then something there moved, peeling itself loose from the darkness.