“Jacqueline Postills”

Jacqueline Postills

By Tilsen Mulalley

Originally Published In Hypnos Magazine, June 2016

Re-edited October 2025.

I.

The hour was late and the air was cold. The sky beyond the tangled, bare branches above the forest canopy was a cement slab. It had been slid over the world like the lid of a tomb, blocking the icy light of the winter’s moon and stars. Incorporeal snakes of fog slithered in underfoot. With each step that Verlaine and Bricker took, their feet disappeared beneath the surface of the mist in a silent poof of vapor. The snakes were climbing higher, wishing to consume the two men in their vast white stomachs. There had been snow the night before; it still covered everything in the dark woods. Now though, it was much too cold to snow. What had fallen the prior night was now under a thin layer of ice that crunched underfoot. It was no longer soft and forgiving; the snow had frozen to death.

A scowl was painted on Verlaine’s aged features. The flame of his lamp flickered and danced over the deep cravasses and craggy lines of his face. He shone the lantern on the blackened husks of the trees that lined their path. Their frostbitten trunks glimmered in the guttering, pale orange light. The bark was as aged and ridged as Verlaine was. Shadows made faces in the rough surfaces, faces of frozen men who’d lost their way in the woods. A tuft of snow dislodged itself from a branch above Verlaine and fell. It exploded silently on his arm, and the stocky old man nearly dropped his lantern as he jumped.

“You’re jumping at shadows again, old man,” Bricker said, a faint smile playing over his pale lips. A puff of fine, icy breath led each word.

“There are more than shadows amongst these trees, boy,” Verlaine snapped. “I could tell you stories about these woods that would make your skin crawl from the bone.”

Bricker laughed. It bounced against the winter and died flat. “The only things in these woods are foxes and squirrels, both of which have gone to sleep for the winter,” he said. 

“Bah,” Verlaine grumbled, “you’re too young. Legends weren’t always just legends, boy.”

“You’re too old,” Bricker replied, “you put too much stock in silly old stories.”  He shifted the rifle on his shoulder.

“Besides, we are armed,” Bricker said, nodding toward the matching old rifle that Verlaine carried across his pack. 

Bricker looked up at the sky. The clouds were layered and relentless. He sighed heavily, his breath fuming and hiding his handsome features. “I do wish we could get out of this chill for the night,” he said.

Verlaine did not reply. Perhaps he was soured by the ‘too old’ comment. The thought of that returned Bricker’s faint little smile to his lips.

The two men trudged along for some while, the air growing chillier as the mist crept its way up from their ankles to their waists, before finally engulfing them completely. Their entire world became an unsolid mass of shifting cloud. 

“I suppose we should make camp soon,” Bricker said cautiously.

“No.” Verlaine’s tone flat and unflinching.

“Come now, Verlaine,” Bricker chided, “we can hardly see three feet ahead of us. I’m not even particularly sure we are on the main road.”

“We will not be stopping in these woods tonight, Bricker. Besides, we’d freeze.”

“I’d make us a fire,” Bricker persisted stubbornly.

“With what? All this wet timber?”

“I suppose you’ve got a point there,” Bricker conceded reluctantly, “But– hold on a mo.”

A shape had begun to cut itself out of the fog ahead of them, and Bricker had noticed it first. He pointed it out to Verlaine as they approached. It began to flesh itself out of the fog, becoming a two-story, timbered log inn. It was set back among the trees. A short path lined with bushes of white and pink flowers, unbothered by the cold, led to the heavy-looking front door. Firelight warmed the bottom windows, and even Verlaine felt a sense of relief wash over his cold extremities. A signpost standing guard crookedly by the road read: Traveler’s Inn.

“Well, it seems we’ll have a reprieve from our misery after all,” Bricker said, starting down the pebbled pathway to the door. Verlaine wearily followed. He’d known these woods since he was a boy, and he did not recall this inn. But these woods were large, and they had hunted a new patch of trees this year. This particular path home was not familiar to Verlaine. He could feel the warmth of the inn even out here in the fog, and his reservations eased as he drew closer. Dreams of a warm bed danced in his mind and soothed his old bones. The potent fragrance of the flowers filled his nose and stuck there, cloyingly sweet and beckoning. A lamp burned on a hook by the front door under the eaves of a simple porch. The men huddled around it, letting its warmth lick the cold from them. A sign hung on the heavy oak door itself, declaring one word: VACANCY. Bricker grinned at Verlaine, who could not help but crack a smile back. With a bit of gusto and a small grunt, Bricker pushed the door open. 

The lobby was dim. No lanterns hung. A fire burned low in the big stone hearth against the back wall. It cast deep shadows over the room. They wavered like tapestries sewn from nighttime. It was a plain place. The only furniture was two overstuffed chairs by the fire, and a large desk set against the left-hand wall at the foot of the stairs. Behind the desk were empty hooks meant for keys, drilled into the logs of the wall. Only one had a key hanging on it. On the desk stood a blue vase filled with the tiny white flowers from the bushes outside. Their smell had not diminished in here. In fact, it was stronger. But there was something else in the air, too; something hiding below the flowers’ pungent notes. It was sweet as well, but not pleasantly so. Verlaine and Bricker did not notice this, because behind the desk stood one of the strangest women either man had ever seen.

She wore a gray dress that was once blue, patched here and there with brown rag. Her skin was the color of fresh milk, and smooth. The veins under her skin were numerous and purple, almost black.  Her eyes stared directly at the wall across the room, unseeing. They were grey and spiderwebbed with hazy film. The hair that lay against her forehead was almost translucently blonde and thin like old straw. The rest was hidden by a head wrap. It had once been blue like the dress, but it too had become gray with age. 

“Good evening, miss,” Bricker said. He was happy that the unease the woman’s visage had instilled within him did not leak into his words. He made his way briskly across the room and over to the desk. 

“Might you have any rooms available for the evening?” He asked, smiling. It too did not betray the subtle twist in his gut. It even had warmth to it.

 The woman remained comatose. Her stare seemed like a ghost; it peered directly through Bricker and the wall behind him. He realized that telling her age was impossible. Her skin looked young and clean, but her features were dredged in years that did not seem to belong to her. Not good years, either. Bad ones. Ill ones. Bricker noticed the chill had followed them inside despite the coals of the hearth. Or had it? It had been warm by the door, where Verlaine still stood. The old man was eying the fire, fingering the lapel of his wet coat. He was warming to the idea of a rest, but he hadn’t noticed the peculiar woman yet.  Bricker had to work fast before she spooked the old fella back to an all-night trudge back to the village.

“M’am, did you hear me?”   Bricker said.

Her eyes twitched, as though they were refocusing. They still looked like those of a blind woman, but Bricker felt their gaze lying upon him now. The chill of the room had deepened. It fingered its way down his back like ice water. God, is it actually coming from her? Bricker thought. No, it couldn’t be her. It’s just a cold night. A cold-

“We have a room available,” she said, interrupting Bricker’s brief panic. Her voice was a flicker of a whisper.

She turned away, plucked the only key from one of the hooks on the wall behind her, and handed it to Bricker. He tried not to flinch as her hand, the nails blackened and cracked, brushed his. It was like brushing up against winter.

“Thank you,” he said, using a smile to cover his discomfort. He dug in his pocket for the money. His eyes wandered over the vase.

“What are these flowers exactly?” he asked.

The woman’s face surprised him. It contorted itself into something akin to a smile at his question, wrinkling the skin and almost tearing it at the corners of her mouth. It looked painful.

“Jacqueline Postills,” she whispered, “Fragrant, aren’t they?”

“Indeed,” Bricker managed.

“I cultivate them myself. Excellent scent.”

“That’s nice,” Bricker said lamely. She continued to smile at him as he searched for something else to say.

“It’s a bit cold in here, isn’t it?” he asked at last.. His fingers found purchase on the coins he was looking for and produced them from his pocket. He put them on the table in front of the woman. She ignored the money. Her smile dropped suddenly. Bricker was sure for a moment that her entire face would slide off her skull with it.

“I like it,” she whispered, “but feel free to stoke the fire and add coal. It is important that guests be comfortable.”

Her blind stare had not wavered. Bricker was suddenly sure she hadn’t blinked since he’d come up to the desk.  

“Thank you,” he said, relieved that his voice was steady. The woman bothered him. It was silly; she was just old– he’d decided she must be– and probably half-senile. Still, she bothered him all the same in a way he couldn’t quite figure out. A way that gnawed at the pit of his stomach. Bricker sniffed back a runny nose. Even clogged, it began to pick up on that unpleasant sweetness beneath the flowers in the pot. Like gone-off meat, that’s what it was. Bricker swallowed and decided he would not ask about dinner. It’d be rude at such a late hour, besides. 

He turned toward the hearth. Verlaine had already situated himself in one of the overstuffed chairs by the fireplace. He’d removed his wet outer clothes and was stoking flames back to a roar. Rifle and pack had been offloaded in the corner. The old grouch even had a smile on his face again. Bricker grinned and forgot the unpleasant whiff beneath the flowers as he went to join his companion.

Bricker dropped his pack and rifle with Verlaine’s. Unburdened, he stripped his wet coat and boots, as well as his hat, and set them to dry by the fire. Then, he sank slowly and with great pleasure into the plush, shabby cushions of the available chair. Dozens had broken it in before him, and he felt quite content in its musty folds. Verlaine stoked the fire until it had entirely revived, sucking the cold out of the two men. For a time, they sat in silence, watching the flames dance and flip and pop so that sparks flew up the chimney in a rush of hot air. 

“And you wanted to walk all the way back home tonight,” Bricker said. 

Verlaine actually chuckled. The fire had thawed his humor as well as his bones.

“So I did,” Verlaine said, “And if we hadn’t come across such a fine little oasis, we’d be walking still.”

“Too many shadows to jump at in the dark, eh?” Bricker said cheekily.

“You’re generation takes so little to heart,” Verlaine tsked. A trace of gruffness had returned to his tone.

“Verlaine, really,” Bricker insisted. He leaned forward in his chair. “What is there to be so afraid of out here besides the dark?”

The old man looked at the younger, a thoughtful look touching his wrinkled features. 

“What’s the point of telling ya?” he asked. “You’re already primed to doubt. Cast it off as the ramblings of a silly old man.”

“Oh, don’t be like that.” Bricker flashed a jovial smile. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll scare some sense into me.”

Bricker sat back in the chair, looking at the old man expectantly. Finally, Verlaine sighed.

“Alright,” Verlaine said. 

The old man had slumped in the chair as the fire had melted the cold night off of him. Now he straightened in his seat and leaned forward toward his companion. The flames cast his face in shadow and caught in his pale green eyes, making them glow.

 “My father was a hunter too, boy,” he began in a quiet, even tone, “The finest in the village. He knew places in these woods that no other man had ever seen. Tucked away in the dark, cold corners, beneath trees so thick not a speck of light could shine. The place we hunted the last week was a place I found marked on one of his old maps.”

Bricker knew this. Verlaine had shown him the yellowed, well-folded map. The old man had pointed to the circled spot denoting a place deep in the forest, further in than most from their village bothered to go. ‘Untouched rabbit ground’ had been written in the circle. They’d found plenty, too– their packs that sat near the fire now were filled with meat and skins.

“He’d let me come along on some of those trips,” Verlaine continued, “but in the winter. ‘Too dangerous,’ he said, ‘for a boy of my age.’” 

The old man laughed dryly at the memory. His eyes had clouded as the story took him somewhere else.

“Imagine how frustrating that was for an adventurous little village brat like me, eh? Oh, I wanted so badly to go for a winter trip. The deer and the rabbits were so much bigger in the early cold season, fat from Fall. I begged and pleaded and prodded enough to try the patience of any man. Finally, the winter of my 12th year, Dad agreed to take me along. Said I was finally old enough to ‘handle it.’” Verlaine layered air quotes over the final two words.

“What does that mean?” Bricker asked.

“Don’t interrupt me,” Verlaine growled. He continued: “It was an icy one that year, Bricker. Icier than even the winter that lies outside this inn right now. I’d never heard these woods so entirely silent before. Every word you’d say was muffled by the cold hands of winter. We didn’t go deep that year. The cold kept us closer to home, and we’d gone to Dad’s regular spot. He’d built a cabin there, years before I was even born. It’s gone now, but it still stood that year. Had a good little fireplace to keep the bite away at night. Days were fine if you layered up.”

“It had been a good trip, that one. Not for meat, mind you, we didn’t so much see a deer for the first two days but… ‘twas a mighty fine time with my father. Then, the third day come, and we had managed to track a buck from his leavings in the snow. We stalked him for most of the day. Saw him a few times, too, but we’d lost him by dusk. We must have been a mile from the cabin or so. I was so disheartened over the deer, I didn’t notice how quiet Dad had become as we were walking back.”

The old man shifted in his seat. His eyes were firmly planted on the flames in the hearth.

“The sun had gone down, and it was cold; colder than tonight. The snow on the ground had a frozen skin two inches thick. Each step sounded like firecrackers. Dad didn’t talk. He moved quick through the snow. Never let me lag behind him either. He drove me forward like a pack mule. I didn’t know why, except that he probably didn’t want to be caught out in the cold too long. Neither did I, of course, so I kept pace. I suppose we were a quarter mile from the cabin when we saw him– I could see the lantern light on the porch dancing in the trees, bright in the cold air. The wind had begun to kick up by then. It whistled over the snow, cracking ice like an opera singer shatters glass. I picked up my pace. Even pulled ahead of my Father. His hand lashed out. Fingers dug deeply into my shoulder. I started to protest to him, but his other gloved hand covered my mouth. He turned me to face him on the path. I still remember how his eyes burned into me through the dark. They were aglow with fear, Bricker. Fear was something my Dad did not show. That night was the first and only time I’d seen it on his big, craggy face.”

“When he knew I would not speak, he let me go. I was confused, of course, but I knew I must be quiet until we reached the cabin. Unfortunately, we had already drawn attention to ourselves. The next gust of wind brought with it the smell.”

“The smell?” Bricker asked. Verlaine nodded solemnly.

“Sweet rot. Like Death wheezing its last rattling breath into our faces. The next gust carried the screams. Then the laughter. Then screams and laughter and noises that come from somewhere between the two. They bounced off the snow and echoed through the night on a sharply frigid wind. It screamed too. The night became almost deafening. Dad was running, dragging me behind him. I’d dropped my gun in the snow. Never got it back.”

“We were a hundred yards or so from the cabin when we saw him. He’d stumbled from the treeline just ahead of us. Each step was a marionette jerk. I remember thinking his legs had to have been broken. The wind blew from his direction as he fell face-first into the snow. The rot in the air became so strong that I thought I was going to vomit.”

Bricker recoiled a little. For a moment, the cloying smell of the flowers had turned rotten in his nose as Verlaine told his story. He tried to ignore it while the old man rambled on.

“I attempted to go to him. He was a man after all, though I could not make out his features in the dark, and he was clearly in need of assistance. Dad nearly wrenched my shoulder from its socket, dragging me past the man on the ground. ‘Ain’t no man,’ he’d tell me later, once we were inside the cabin and the sun was up. He dragged me inside that little log house and bolted the door up tight. The screams and the smell echoed outside and seeped through the cabin walls until sunrise. Dad had managed to fall asleep after lighting a fire. That seemed to make the noise and smell distance themselves a little. Me, though? I couldn’t sleep. Not in that little tinderbox cabin that night. Just before dawn, at the single window that little box had, I saw the eyes. Blue and lifeless like an icicle about to melt. They looked at me for a long while. Predator’s eyes. They left with the daybreak, along with the screams and the smell.”

“What was it?” Bricker breathed. He cringed at how small his voice sounded. He did not want the old man to think the story was getting to him, all the more so because it was. Verlaine shrugged and showed his hands.

“I don’t know,” Verlaine said simply, “Dad wouldn’t speak of it, other than telling me the man we’d seen was not a man. I don’t think he knew either. It was gone in the morning light, though the impression where it had lain in the snow was still there. It had been the vague impression of a man. I think that’s what the thing itself had been, too. A vague impression of a man. My rifle had been taken as well.”

The old man fell silent. It was a heavy, thoughtful silence, and Bricker found it difficult to break. He managed to succeed with a large, if forced-sounding, laugh.

“You must be mad to think such an outrageous story could scare me,” he said. Still, he eyed their rifles in the corner, wishing they were a little closer at hand. Verlaine saw where Bricker’s eyes rested, and he chuckled to himself.

“Guns wouldn’t do any good against that thing of the woods,” Verlaine said, “but sleep with your rifle tonight if it gives you any comfort, boy.”

Verlaine stood suddenly and stretched, breaking the tension. He let out a groan that seemed to help loosen his back with a few pops and crackles.

“Let me see that room key,” he said, turning to Bricker, “I’m off to bed.”

Bricker handed him the key to their room. The old man took it and dropped it into his pocket. As he turned to go, Bricker reached out a hand and put it on Verlaine’s forearm to stop him.

“That story,” he said slowly, “is that a true thing that happened to you? Really and truly?”

The old man regarded Bricker for a moment.

“Whether I saw what I saw or not, shouldn’t weigh on the mind of a healthy skeptic such as yourself, eh?” he said.

The old man turned on his heel and headed for the stairs before Bricker could say anything else. He did not acknowledge the silent woman at the desk. Bricker watched him go until he’d disappeared onto the floor above. 

Bricker’s gaze drifted from the stairwell to the fire. He watched the flames, dozing in the warm glow. As his eyes began to feel heavy, he found himself laughing at his reaction to Verlaine’s story. It had gotten to him. The old man was a wonderful storyteller. As minutes separated him from the words, though, he found the jumpiness was draining from him, being replaced by the fire’s comforting warmth. He shot a final gaze at the woman behind the desk. Such a peculiar woman, he thought to himself. He noticed offhandedly that she seemed to be staring at him. Well, that made sense. He was staring at her, after all. Then his eyes shut for good, and he drifted off. 

II.

Bricker awoke with a start, sluggishly looking around as he remembered where he was. He was chilled. The fire had burned down to embers. The lobby was now deserted. As Bricker sat up, he realized that he and Verlaine’s packs and rifles were gone from their corner. The old man must have taken them up to the room, he thought. Too bad he didn’t bother to wake me to help.

Bricker inhaled deeply and nearly choked. The flower’s once enchanting scent now seemed to throttle him. The rotten meat smell below it had become stronger, as well.

Bricker stood. He saw now that his breath once again clouded in front of him with each exhale. His coat had dried, and the leather of that at least was still warm to the touch, having been lain near the coals. He threw it over his shoulders and pulled it close. 

Bricker crossed the silent lobby and plodded up the stairs, each one groaning beneath him. The second floor was nearly pitch black. As he waited for his eyes to adjust to the inky dark, he registered that the sweet stenches comingling throughout the building had somehow ratcheted up another level. Ignoring it as best he could, Bricker cautiously began making his way down the hall, straining to read the numbers on the door. He found his and Verlaine’s at the end of the hall. An end table in the alcove was adorned with a pot of the disgusting little flowers.

Bricker tried the knob of the door. It was locked. He sighed; the old man had locked him out and was probably fast asleep by now. Still, with the delusional hope that only comes with knowing it’s useless, Bricker knocked lightly on the door. When it unlocked before his fist had finished drumming the wood, Bricker was actually surprised.

“I thought for sure you’d gone to bed,” Bricker said as he opened the door to the small room, “I’m sorry if I woke yo–”

The words died in Bricker’s throat when he saw that the room was empty save for two beds and himself. A single window in the wall opposite Bricker let in the silvery moonlight from outside. The clouds outside had parted at last.

“Verlaine?” Bricker whispered. He took a tentative step inside the room. The door had been locked. Someone had unlocked it. Bricker had heard the latch.

“Verlaine,” Bricker said again, louder this time. The curtains around the window wavered. Cold air brushed up against Bricker, and he realized that the pane had been left open slightly. He crossed the room to shut it.

Outside, the moon shone brightly down. The roof was frosted by snow and ice, and it sparkled like stardust in the moonlight. Bricker shut the window and had nearly turned away when the marring of what should have been perfect white on the roof caught his eye. He opened the window again, wider this time, so he could get a closer look. There, sparkling in the moonlight, were a set of tracks. They were pressed deep into the otherwise untouched white, leading up to the window from the edge of the sloping roof below. They looked almost human, as though a man had clambered up to the window on all fours;  but the hands were much too big, with long, spindly fingers like spider legs. The feet seemed to double in length the closer that the tracks got to the window. A breeze exhaled suddenly, tossing the powder up and throwing a rotten-meat smell at Bricker’s face. There were no flowers to hide it on the roof, and Bricker’s stomach suddenly pitched forward, ready to unload at the slightest provocation.

Bricker slammed the window shut. He turned. A scream tangled itself in his throat as he saw the silhouette of someone in the doorway behind him. It slammed shut as well. He heard the scrabbling of feet outside as someone ran for the stairs. 

For a moment, Bricker did not move. His stomach was still unsteady, and his quickening pulse made it hard to catch his own breath. He registered that their packs and rifles were not in the room as he had thought they would be. However, Verlaine’s lamp and his box of matches were on the table between the two small beds. Bricker grabbed it and gave it a shake. There was oil in it yet. He managed to get it lit in two matches, his trembling hands extinguishing the first one. 

The old man must be trying to frighten me, Bricker thought. He didn’t believe that. Verlaine was never one for pranks, but he told himself that just the same. It made it easier to force his legs to carry him over to the door. Bricker stood in front of the door for a long time, straining to hear anything that might by lying in wait behind it. The smell of rot was all encompassing now, drowning out the smell of the flowers instead of the other way around. However, the hall beyond the door was silent. At last, Bricker managed to force a shaking hand to grab hold of the knob and turn it. Just as the silence indicated, the hallway was empty. Bricker stepped out of the room.

Bricker?

The whisper came from behind him. Bricker swung around so violently that he nearly smashed the lamp into the wall. He screamed inside, but what burbled from his mouth was a pitiful mew as his throat tightened in fear. There was no one in the room. 

A vague impression of a man.

The voice was Verlaine’s, but it was not. It sounded like someone doing a poor impression. Bricker swung back into the hallway.

“Verlaine, is that you?” he called out.

My rifle had been taken as well.

Before Bricker could begin to tell where that whisper had come from, an ear-piercing scream erupted from everywhere and nowhere. Bricker’s bowels turned to rippling water. He rushed for the stairway, clattering down the stairs loudly and nearly falling down the last half of them.

Laughter, crazy and off-key and inhuman, followed him down into the still deserted lobby. The fire was nearly dead now. Every shadow was a hand reaching to pull Bricker into the shadows. He beelined for the front door, focused only on getting outside and away from the smell and the screams and the laughter. He breathed a sigh of relief when he touched the door and found that it was unlocked. Bricker began to pull the heavy door open. A voice stopped him.

“Leaving so soon?”

It was both familiar and foreign. Inhuman and garbled, but known to Bricker. Two voices forced to combine into one: Verlaine’s gruff cadence and the bone-dry whisper of the innkeeper.

Bricker did not wish to turn around. He wanted to fling the door open and flee into the night. His body did not listen to the frantic command of his terrorized mind, though. Instead, it let go of the door and slowly rotated to face the speaker. 

It was behind him. It stood there quietly,  in Verlaine’s clothes. A small smile was traced over the lips. Verlaine had never had black hair since Bricker had known him; that was a feature left over from the innkeeper. She still hung loosely on the frame of the thing, the sloughing skin now gray instead of white. Verlaine’s old man features tried to poke through from underneath, new skin fresh and pale as milk. It was approaching from the front desk, each step a jerky and uncertain, as though it wasn’t sure how to walk like men. The rot wafted from it in great yellow waves, and Bricker was sure he was going to be sick. He wanted to get away from it, but it would not let him move. Each step it took toward him sounded like a death knell as he waited for it to come.

It stopped in front of Bricker, its face inches from his. The eyes in its skull belonged to neither Verlaine nor the innkeeper. They were pale blue, like icicles. Predator’s eyes, Verlaine said at the back of Bricker’s mind. Its face was inches from his. It spoke again in its unholy blend of voices.

“Are you not comfortable?” the thing asked.

“No,” Bricker found his mouth saying.

“No refunds,” It whispered.

“Keep what you took.”

It smiled at that. It was a too-wide, ripping smile. More of the innkeeper sloughed off of it. It reached down for Bricker’s lantern and took it from him. He did not resist. It lifted the light to its face and opened the glass.

“Goodnight sir,” it whispered, and blew the lamp out.

The room was plunged into blackness. Bricker was free to move again.He ripped the door open and ran into the frigid night. A single shriek from the inn that was neither human nor animal followed him into the dark. It was the cry of a damned thing.

Bricker did not look back or stop or even slow until the sun began to peak over the horizon, and he found himself on a hill overlooking the village. There, he stopped for a moment to catch his breath before stumbling down the hill and into town. He passed through row after row of quiet cottages. He passed Verlaine’s, where the old man lived alone. Had lived alone.

Bricker’s own home was a few more houses down. He saw that the lights were on in the windows as he approached. The sweetness in the air this time did not make his stomach flip, for it was the smell of griddlecakes and good syrup. Myra was making breakfast. 

He opened the door as quietly as he could, removing his snow-covered boots in the mudroom.

“That you, dear,” Myra’s voice came singing from the other end of the house.

“Yes, honey,” Bricker breathed. Relief was in his voice. He must figure out something concerning the missing Verlaine, but he was safe now. 

“Honey, you have a guest,” Myra sang.

“Coming, dear,” Bricker yawned. He stretched. The run he had made ached in his bones. Who could possibly be visiting this early? On the day he was due back from a hunt, no less. Didn’t people have manners anymore?

 Bricker made his way to the kitchen in the back of the house. The smell of pancakes made his empty stomach cry out. There was another smell wafting with it. Something unpleasant. However, Bricker’s hunger demanded he ignore it.

“Who’s here, Myra?” Bricker called. He was in the dining room now. His eyes fell upon the corner table, and his heart nearly stopped. In the middle of the table, in a grey vase, was a bouquet of white flowers.

Jacqueline Postills.

Myra poked her head in from the kitchen and saw the curious look on her husband’s face. He was looking at the flowers.

“Aren’t they lovely,” she asked, “Verlaine brought them in this morning.”

A low moan escaped Bricker’s lips. Myra looked concerned, but said nothing.

“Verlaine is here?” Bricker asked.

“He’s in the living room,” Myra said,  her concern beginning to turn into fright, “What’s wrong, Brick?”

Bricker ignored her and rushed into the living room. There, sitting in a chair by the dead fireplace, was Verlaine. His skin was milky white. His green eyes were now blue and cold and sharp. Predator’s eyes. He looked up at Bricker. His formally half full mouth smiled at Bricker with a full set of razored, yellow teeth. Purple, almost black veins slithered under his skin. The flowers and the pancakes were strong, but Bricker could still smell the rot that wafted from him in cold waves.

“I hope your wife likes the flowers,” he said. “They’re Jacqueline Postills. Fragrant, aren’t they?”