The wool of my coat had begun to rot before the winter did, a slow and silent disintegration that started at the elbows and crept inward, turning the sturdy brown fabric into a pale, fibrous dust that fell away from my skin like dry snow, a shedding that I did not notice until the wind, which had a way of finding the thinnest places in our armor, began to bite through to the damp, feverish heat of my body, a heat that was not entirely my own but seemed to radiate from the very stones of the abbey where I kept the ledgers, a place that had stood for six centuries and now stood in a fog so thick it seemed to have a weight, a physical presence that pressed against the high windows and muffled the bells into a dull, rhythmic thumping that sounded less like a call to prayer and more like the slow, heavy heartbeat of something vast and sleeping underground, a heartbeat that I felt in the soles of my feet as I walked the long, flagstone corridors, my footsteps swallowed by the silence, the silence that was not empty but full of a low, humming vibration that set my teeth on edge and made the hairs on my arms stand up in a prickly, electric fear, a fear that I had told myself was simply the result of the damp, the old, unheated stone, the draft that whistled through the cracks in the masonry, but which felt, in the deep, quiet hours of the night when the candlelight flickered and died and the shadows stretched out like long, grasping fingers, like a presence, a living, watching presence that was waiting for me to make a mistake, to slip, to forget, to let the old, tattered edge of my duty fray just enough to let the dark in, and the dark was hungry, the dark was patient, the dark was wearing my face.

I had been the junior clerk for three years, a position that required a silence so profound it was indistinguishable from death, and I had learned to keep my thoughts as tightly coiled as the spring of my watch, a watch that had stopped ticking the day I arrived, its hands frozen at the hour of our appointment, a time that felt suspended, a time that belonged to no day, and I had worn the coat because it was the only thing that fit, the only thing that felt like it belonged to a man who was still whole, still a single, coherent entity, but the wool was thinning, and the holes were growing, and with every hole, a piece of me seemed to leak out, a small, gray fluff that drifted away into the air and was never seen again, a loss so gradual that I could not mark the moment I became less, only the slow, creeping realization that I was becoming a draft, a place where the cold could enter and take root, and the cold was not just temperature, the cold was a substance, a viscous, gray sludge that pooled in the corners of the room and seeped under the doors, a substance that tasted of iron and old blood on the back of the tongue, a taste that I could not wash away, no matter how often I drank from the cold, stone basin in the refectory, no matter how many times I brushed my teeth, the taste lingered, a metallic, rusty film that coated the inside of my mouth and made every word I spoke, though I rarely spoke, taste like a lie, a bitter, sour lie that I was swallowing whole, a lie that was becoming the truth, a truth that was becoming the lie, a circular, dizzying confusion that left me gasping for air, for clean, clear, honest air, but the air was thick, the air was heavy, the air was full of the dust of my coat, the dust of my self, the dust of my soul, and I could not breathe, I could not think, I could only exist, in a state of suspended animation, a state of waiting, a waiting that stretched out into an eternity that felt like a single, long, unbroken breath.

The Abbot, a man whose face was as smooth and featureless as a blank page, whose eyes were the color of the stone floor, whose voice was a dry, rasping whisper that sounded like leaves skittering across a pavement, had told me, in the very first week, that the abbey was not a place of refuge, but a place of containment, that the walls were not there to keep the world out, but to keep something in, something that had been sleeping since the time of the Romans, something that fed on the silence, on the stillness, on the absence of noise, on the lack of movement, on the lack of change, and that I, as the junior clerk, was the first line of defense, the first layer of skin, the first barrier between the waking world and the sleeping god, and that my coat was not a garment, but a seal, a binding, a magical construct that held the threads of my reality together, that kept the fraying edges of my sanity from unraveling, that kept the dark from spilling out of me and into the world, and I had believed him, or I had wanted to believe him, or I had been too tired, too cold, too hungry to question the logic of it, the strange, twisted logic of a place where the walls were alive, where the shadows had weight, where the air tasted of iron, where the only sound was the slow, steady drip of water from the ceiling into the stone basin, a sound that was not a sound, but a vibration, a pulse, a rhythm that matched the beating of my own heart, a heart that was growing slower, heavier, more distant, a heart that was losing its connection to the rest of me, a heart that was beginning to beat in time with the abbey, with the stone, with the dark, with the thing that was waking up, the thing that was stretching, the thing that was reaching out, the thing that was looking for a way in, a way out, a way through, a way to me, to my coat, to my skin, to my soul, to the place where I was, the place where I was not, the place where I had been, the place where I would be, the place where I was always, the place where I would never be, the place where I was now, the place where I was nothing, the place where I was everything, the place where I was the dark, the place where I was the light, the place where I was the silence, the place where I was the noise, the place where I was the dust, the place where I was the wind, the place where I was the stone, the place where I was the air, the place where I was the blood, the place where I was the bone, the place where I was the spirit, the place where I was the ghost, the place where I was the man, the place where I was the beast, the place where I was the god, the place where I was the devil, the place where I was the truth, the place where I was the lie, the place where I was the beginning, the place where I was the end, the place where I was the middle, the place where I was the forever, the place where I was the now, the place where I was the then, the place where I was the here, the place where I was the there, the place where I was the who, the place where I was the what, the place where I was the when, the place where I was the how, the place where I was the why, the place where I was the answer, the place where I was the question, the place where I was the silence, the place where I was the sound, the place where I was the dark, the place where I was the light.

And then, one morning, or what I took for morning, because the sun had not risen for many days, and the fog had not lifted, and the bells had not rung, and the water had not dripped, and the silence had become so loud that it was a roar, a scream, a howl, a wail, a cry, a call, a command, a promise, a threat, a warning, a prayer, a curse, a blessing, a sin, a virtue, a good, an evil, a right, a wrong, a truth, a lie, a dream, a nightmare, a reality, an illusion, a fact, a fiction, a story, a legend, a myth, a fable, a parable, a sermon, a speech, a whisper, a shout, a silence, a sound, I looked down at my hands, and I saw that they were no longer hands, but claws, long, black, jagged claws that were tearing at the fabric of my coat, a fabric that was no longer wool, but skin, my skin, a skin that was peeling away, revealing not bone, not muscle, not blood, but darkness, a pure, black, void-like darkness that was swirling, churning, roiling, boiling, exploding, collapsing, expanding, contracting, pulsing, throbbing, beating, breathing, living, dying, waking, sleeping, waiting, hoping, fearing, loving, hating, creating, destroying, making, unmaking, becoming, unbecoming, being, not being, the place where I was, the place where I was not, the place where I had been, the place where I would be, the place where I was always, the place where I would never be, the place where I was now, the place where I was nothing, the place where I was everything, the place where I was the dark, the place where I was the light, the place where I was the silence, the place where I was the noise, the place where I was the dust, the place where I was the wind, the place where I was the stone, the place where I was the air, the place where I was the blood, the place where I was the bone, the place where I was the spirit, the place where I was the ghost, the place where I was the man, the place where I was the beast, the place where I was the god, the place where I was the devil, the place where I was the truth, the place where I was the lie, the place where I was the beginning, the place where I was the end, the place where I was the middle, the place where I was the forever, the place where I was the now, the place where I was the then, the place where I was the here, the place where I was the there, the place where I was the who, the place where I was the what, the place where I was the when, the place where I was the how, the place where I was the why, the place where I was the answer, the place where I was the question.

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