Godwake

By Stephanie Hale

About the Book
The basement was huge, at least the size of the house’s main floor. Two stainless steel tables and a workbench lined one wall, the overhead fluorescent lights buzzing. Dozens of screens showed x-rays and charts of what appeared to be a child. Large red circles on the skeleton highlighted the joints and a scribbled word with a question mark and arrow pointing to the neck said “extra?” On the ceiling, a series of plumbing pipes were taped and caulked and showed signs of needing professional repair.
She saw a room made of reinforced glass walls, and standing on the other side of it was a thin, pale child. Bald headed, big blue eyed and couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years old. The child wore a man’s white shirt like a dress, it hung loosely on her thin frame. Long, straggling red lines ran down her neck, and were on her arms and bare legs. On closer inspection, they looked like fine cuts, sewn shut with tiny stitches.
“He’ll kill you,” the child said, her soft voice was level and cold. She pointed upwards and across the room. Hidden in the corner with a flashing red light as its only identification was a security camera. “He’s already coming.”

About the Author
Stephanie Hale grew up in Gainesville, Fl., where she found her love of writing and literature in the library. She enjoys crafting stories, both in the form of novels and campaigns for tabletop role-playing games. Her hobbies include art in many mediums, as well as video games. She lives in the northwest with her husband and children. This is her first publication.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Aug 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798886839814

Book preview

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The contents of this work, including, but not limited to, the accuracy of events, people, and places depicted; opinions expressed; permission to use previously published materials included; and any advice given or actions advocated are solely the responsibility of the author, who assumes all liability for said work and indemnifies the publisher against any claims stemming from publication of the work.

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © 2023 by Stephanie Hale

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted, downloaded, distributed, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, including photocopying and recording, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without permission in writing from the publisher.

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Godwake

V



It was three years into Adam Prescott’s employment when Amy Driscoll, his housemaid, began noticing strange things. Prescott was a decorated and well-respected military scientist, was single and had no children. He spent most of his time away at military headquarters, leaving his large home alone for long periods of time. She came every Tuesday and Friday and cleaned the three-story house in Bruxley top to bottom. Sometimes Adam would be there, sometimes he would be away at his office. Amy noticed the change in her employer at the end of her third year of cleaning for him; he had become excitable, and sometimes hurried her out the door the moment she was done cleaning. Twice she had to bang on the door after it had been slammed in her face to remind him that he needed to pay her. He was always distracted, sometimes calling her by the wrong name, insisting that he was far too busy to eat anything, and was always looking at a digital readout on one of the military-grade holo-tablets. He would wave his hand dismissively at her if she tried to talk to him while he was reading or studying or whatever it was that he was so absorbed in.

In the month following her suspicion that he was behaving oddly, Amy found herself alone at the house while he was away, which was nothing unusual, and had traced an odd smell to one of the guest bathrooms on the ground floor. It was a very faint mixture of mold and chemical smells, and she managed to find where she thought the smell was coming from in the bathtub’s drain. She popped out the drain cover and sniffed at the open drain. The smell wasn’t strong, and judging by how dry everything was, she guessed that this tub never got used. She got her gel bleach and steel wool scrubber and began scrubbing it clean. It was only when her head was close to the tub’s drain when she thought she heard a sound coming from within the pipe, a slight thumping and high-pitched noises. She ran hot water to clear the bleach, frowning at the drain.

Prescott arrived as she was packing up her supplies, and she asked if he would like her to call an exterminator, it sounded like he possibly had mice. He rushed her out again, saying he would call himself, and that he was going on vacation and would not need her services until he returned. The door slammed in her face, the brass door knocker rattling.

In light of the change in his behavior, Amy began to wonder if he was hiding something. She knew that she shouldn’t even think about meddling into something that wasn’t her business—she was a professional, after all, but the way he acted nowadays and the scramble to get her out after she had heard a sound weighed on her mind like a debt. It was a full six months before he allowed her to return to clean for him as was normal. The odd behavior continued for two full years, and no matter how she tried, Amy never heard the noise again.

Into the first month of winter, at the end of her fifth year of working for him, Prescott let her into the house and said he had to make a run to his office to get some papers he had accidentally forgotten but would return within the hour. Amy waited ten minutes to make sure he was gone, and stood alone in the middle of the kitchen, debating. She put her dark red apron on over her blue blouse and jeans and took her carrying case of supplies with her, beginning her search around the house, being careful to note how far open or closed the doors were and made sure everything was exactly as it had been when she had entered the room. I am just checking for mold, she practiced, in case Prescott came back and caught her looking around. If it sits all winter, by spring you’ll have a big problem. She paused to tie up her curly black hair, frowning at the scroll-top desk in one of the rooms. There was a lock on it, and it was held tightly shut.

As suspicious as it felt, Amy couldn’t find any proof of anything weird. Both relieved and disappointed, she began her cleaning routine. Again, in the bathroom, she noticed a moldy smell coming from the drain. Out of nothing more than to prove to herself that she was imagining something that had been no more than a mouse in the piping of the home, she moved close to the drain and shouted, Hello? After a minute of waiting, a call came back, distant and hardly audible. The high-pitched sound of a crying child.

Her heart thudding, Amy stood up and paced. What should I do? If she called the police and turned out to be a trick of her own mind, she would be in more trouble than she knew what to do with. But if there was someone under the house and she did nothing…. She decided that she would continue her search, keeping a scrupulous eye out the window for Prescott’s return.

Maybe my mind’s just playing tricks on me. Amy almost begged herself to stop listening for sounds other than her own footsteps and racing heartbeat. It’s just mice in the pipes. After fifteen minutes more of searching for anything, a locked door, a suspicious wardrobe or even a panel of wall that didn’t quite fit, Amy gave up. Prescott pulled into the garage a few minutes later, as Amy finished packing up her cleaning supplies.

See you Friday, Amy said, accepting her payment and hoping that she didn’t look as anxious as she felt.

Prescott held a shiny silver briefcase in his hand, and it looked heavy, far too heavy to be laden with only papers. She could see his arm straining slightly. Either Prescott didn’t notice her change in expression or didn’t care. He waved her out, same as always, and closed his door.

In her car, Amy drove down the block and got halfway home before suddenly whipping her car around and heading back. She parked just down the street between two resident cars, and quietly watched Prescott’s home. He came out only once, to put something in the mailbox, and after that she only caught a few glimpses of him though the kitchen’s bay windows. He seemed to be going in and out of the garage a lot.

The garage. The only place I didn’t look.

Amy drove away, her heart pounding and her thoughts churning, formulating a plan.

V

On Fridays, Prescott usually wasn’t home until very late into the night, and Amy used the hidden key to get inside once it got dark. She checked to make sure he had gone to work and began looking for a way into the garage. The door out from the kitchen was locked and she wasn’t quite ready to be breaking windows. What about a garage door opener? It’s probably in his car… but maybe there’s a spare. She searched the kitchen drawers and after finding nothing, she moved to the living room and searched everywhere you might hide a spare door opener. In the middle drawer of the decorative table near the front door was the spare she sought.

Amy snatched it up and ran outside, frantically mashing the open button. The garage door slowly opened. It was mostly empty, a nicely kept wooden workbench was affixed to the left wall and a standing freezer sat opposite of it near the door into the kitchen, which was padlocked shut. A row of gardening tools hung near the workbench, meticulously organized by length. There were no tools or projects or much of anything else, not even oil stains on the ground.

But there was another door, set into the back wall with a padlock on it. She entered the garage and closed the door behind her. I need to be quick. If Prescott comes back and I’m caught snooping....

She stood, looking from the padlock to the row of tools. Should I? If I break that lock and it’s nothing, I’ll be in so much trouble… but if I don’t, and there is someone down there, the guilt would kill me. She chose a tire iron from the hanging rack of tools and lodged it into the loop of the lock and pulled, allowing her whole body to sink almost to the concrete floor before the loop on the door broke free and she hit the concrete ground slightly hard. Tossing the tire iron aside, she got to her feet and slowly opened the door.

A cool draft rushed up to greet her, carrying with it the smell of sterilization and the faint chemical smell she had found in the bathtub drain. A dim light was coming from beyond the bottom of the stairs, but she heard no sounds other than her own pounding heart. Slowly, Amy set foot on the concrete stairs that led down into the earth, mostly closing the door behind her. She descended, every careful step sounding horribly loud in the stifling silence.

The basement was huge, at least the size of the house’s main floor. Two stainless-steel tables and a workbench lined one wall, overhead fluorescent lights buzzing. Dozens of screens showed x-rays and charts of what appeared to be a child. Large red circles on the skeleton highlighted the joints and a scribbled word with a question mark and arrow pointing to the neck said extra? On the ceiling, a series of plumbing pipes were taped and caulked, and showed signs of needing professional repair. There was a faint leak under what Amy knew to be the guest bathroom. That explains the recurring mold.

A sound, little more than a small shuffle, caught Amy’s attention. She turned around quickly, her heart leaping into her throat. Instead of seeing Prescott like she had feared, she saw a room made of reinforced glass walls, and standing on the other side of it was a thin, pale child. Bald-headed, big blue-eyed and couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years old. The child wore a man’s white shirt like a dress, it hung loosely on her thin frame. Long, straggling red lines ran down her neck, and were on her arms and bare legs. On closer inspection, they looked like fine cuts, sewn shut with tiny stitches. Beyond her was a bed, with a pile of pillows and blankets, several stuffed animals and a plastic desk with coloring books and crayons, some puzzles and a painting kit. Paintings on the walls depicted a large house with a happy stick family of five. The painting directly next to it depicted the same house, but on fire; only one stick family member stood outside with a sad face. The little girl clutched a stuffed animal to her chest, the head tucked under her arm. Judging by the stiff back legs and tail it was either a dog or a fox.

You shouldn’t be here, the child whispered. You’ll get in trouble!

Amy saw the bruises around the wrists and ankles and associated them with the straps on the steel tables; the thin arms bore many needle tracs. Amy approached the glass wall and knelt to be eye level with the child.

Who are you? I’ll get you out, I promise.

The child’s eyes followed her movement, but she said nothing.

Amy stood, looking at the scanner-lock device to the side of the door. She didn’t know how to get it open. 

He’ll kill you, the child said, her soft voice was level and cold. She pointed upwards and across the room.

Hidden in the corner with a flashing red light as its only identification was a security camera.

He’s already coming.

Step back, get away from the glass, Amy said, her eyes moving from the camera to the desk chair in front of the glowing monitors. She grabbed it and slammed it into the glass.

The chair bounced off, making Amy lurch and stagger to catch her balance. She struck it again, to the same effect.

I can’t break it, it’s safety glass, Amy said, breathing hard. 

I think that’s the point, the child said, her face devoid of expression. She sat down on the edge of the bed, crossing her legs and cocking her head just slightly, as if curious.

Okay, stay back, I’m going to break it down, no matter what.

After a few more hits, the glass showed no signs of breaking. 

Use something sharp, the child suggested. She sounded almost bored as she watched Amy scramble around the lab.

Amy ran, disappearing up the stairs and knowing she had only literal minutes before Prescott arrived. She grabbed the tire iron she had thrown aside and ran back down the stairs and stopped in front of the glass.

Stay back, she warned again, and swung the tire iron, and the sharp end puncturing the glass.

A few more hits and it began to break, a spiderweb forming in the center of the door. Amy retrieved the chair, and after making sure the child was out of the way, slammed it into the glass with every ounce of force she could manage. The glass broke, showering into the small room. Amy scooped up the child and ran for the basement stairs. 

The little girl clutched her stuffed pet to her chest as Amy set her down, free of the glass and grabbed her hand.

We have to run, Amy told her. Okay? Can you run? Can you keep up?

The girl nodded. "The question is can you keep up?"

They ran, the child easily outrunning Amy, but stopping and waiting patiently for her at the top of the stairs. Out the door and into the garage, Amy frantically mashed the open button on the door opener and then threw it aside once the door began moving. They didn’t wait for the door to open, instead ducking under it when they had just enough room. Amy hauled the girl with her, racing for her car.

How long have you been down there?

Amy put the girl in the back and buckled her, and without bothering to buckle her own seatbelt peeled off down the street, just as a pair of headlights came into view far down the street behind them.

Five years, the child said softly.

About the time Prescott changed.

Amy floored it, beelining for the police station. She shot into traffic, cutting off several cars and getting several angry honks and a middle finger out the window. She ignored them. In the six lanes of traffic, she lost Prescott, if only for the moment.

Amy looked at the child in the rearview mirror, breathing slowly to catch her breath. What’s your name?

Avara. The child shrugged. She was looking at her stuffed toy that she had brought with her and slowly set it on the seat beside her.

I’m taking you to the police station, do you know where that is?

No. The child sat quietly in the back seat, her thin hands folded in her lap until they turned a few blocks and arrived at the police station.

Amy pulled down the side alley instead of parking out front. Get out, she told the girl. Go inside and tell them about what happened, they’ll protect you. Hurry!

I can protect myself, the girl said, in the same cold tone. But she obeyed and hopped out of the car and headed into the police station, reaching for her stuffed animal and then pausing. It was a clue, and if she left it behind, someone may come along and put the pieces of the puzzle together. She withdrew her hand and closed the door, leaving her toy in the back seat.

Amy knew Prescott was following her, but she hoped he was far enough behind for her stop at the police station to go unnoticed. She ventured back out into the light traffic and several streets away saw Prescott’s shiny car a block behind her and catching up fast. Prescott gained speed and rammed into the back of her car without mercy or remorse.

V

What’s your name? the officer asked the child.

She sat on a chair, observing the room around her, swinging her legs slightly. The officer was a younger, slightly heavyset woman with dark hair pulled up on top of her head in a bun. To the child, she looked like she was an islander, with her smooth, dark skin and the black tribal tattoos around both ankles and wrists. Her hair, in hundreds of tiny braids, had small golden beads in them. The child observed the woman’s nametag and the way the woman stood, as if her knees were hurting her.

Avara.

What about your last name?

Blaire.

Blaire? The woman scratched her head. Where are your parents?

Dead. The girl noticed the missing child posters. She was not among them. "My other dad takes care of me." There was a clear tone of distaste in her voice.

Who’s your ‘other dad’?

Adam.

Adam who?

The girl shrugged. I don’t know. It was clear she was lying.

Where does he live?

I don’t know.

The woman frowned a little. Where are you from?

I don’t know. The girl answered immediately and without a change in her tone. It was mechanical, as if she had been trained.

V

Several hours of questions and a visit to the doctor gave the police just enough to open an investigation. The girl had been a victim of torture and what could have only been classified as experimentation. Her blood tests all came back confusing, even to the most experienced of technicians. They could not identify what her blood type was, if something had changed her cellular makeup, or why she had an extra allele. Their only outward proof that there was something physically different about this child came from an incident while the officers were trying to verify the child’s identity. One of the large male officers tried to get her attention and when she didn’t answer he took her gently by the arm. She recoiled from