Play of Shadows

00.9 Broken Tombstones Hold no Ghosts

Ann was no stranger to avatar death in VR games, her own or otherwise. Inexperience, an unsuitable level of difficulty, or unreliable teammates – there was no shortage of pitfalls for a player. It was never a pleasant experience, naturally, but it had also never been quite like this.

Ann couldn't see James around the gardener's swaying body but she could hear him, the man's anguished scream and the stifled whimpers that followed like something out of hell. A patch of flowers was dyed red.

James wasn't dead yet, but that was hardly a mercy.

"One," the gardener cackled.

Ann drew a shuddering breath. "Run!" she called, as loudly as she could.

James stumbled to his feet. His face was washed white, the pain and fear clear in his shaking eyes. The hand that clutched his injured arm was pale with tension, veins bulging.

The other lay limply at his side. Part of it was missing; two, three fingers perhaps. Ann clenched her teeth and forced her shaking legs forward.

The gardener moved again. This time, James managed to avoid the shears. He rolled painfully onto the pebbled path that curved around the garden. Blood dripped from his mangled hand and he swayed in place, nearly losing his footing.

"Two," the gardener said, tone unhappy. The shears in his hand snipped the air like the claw of an agitated crab.

The gardener moved again. James was slower in dodging this time. The shears cut through his vest and suit as if through paper, snagging at the skin below. It was a relatively shallow gash but it did bleed. The gardener's face contorted around a pleased smile.

"Three," the man counted.

Ann drew near enough to flank the gardener on the side James was not. She had a good grasp on the timing of the instance – the gardener took action for half a minute, followed by a full minute of rest. The NPC would act five times, once for each flower cut. James and Ann could bounce the man between them, one herding, the other running, until time ran out.

That was however only true if James could run. The man's pallor and the sweat dripping down his temples didn't give Ann much hope.

The matchbook appeared in Ann's hands. The gardener turned to her as soon as she struck a flame, his black eyes wide and perfectly round, like two holes in his face. His stooped body hung over James. He swayed back and forth on his thin legs, just like the flowers around him swayed on their stems.

Ann dropped the match.

The gardener gurgled out a scream that scraped at the back of Ann's skull. He lunged for her, forgetting James, whom he had very nearly cornered.

"Follow the fire," Ann called, and ran through the flowers, trampling them under her feet.

Another lit match fell, then a third. Fire bloomed where they landed. It consumed the flowers and turned their ghostly glow into the hungry lick of orange flames. The flowers twisted and writhed, their stems thin necks under withered human heads.

The fire spread out in a wave, lighting up the dark like the sun coming over the horizon. The gardener was soon engulfed himself. He struggled forward, desperately swinging his glinting shears, but his efforts were futile. The entire garden was in flames now and his feet had sunk into the earth. Like the flowers, he could only twist in place, dancing in the flames.

Ann ran in a circle, back to where she had lit the very first match. The fire had died there and would not start again. James sat in the ash, panting, his mangled hand clutched to his chest.