The hand was red.

It was not a healthy red. It was the red of old brick dust, of dried blood, of the rust that eats the iron gears in the basement. Silas Vane looked at it. He held it up to the gaslight. The light hissed. The flame danced.

Silas was a tailor.

He made suits for the men of Blackwood Hall. He made coats for the women. He made gloves. Fine, thin gloves.

The hand did not belong to him.

He knew this. He had known it for three weeks. The hand had grown out of his left forearm. It was fused. The skin was one piece. He could not cut it off. The scalpel broke. The saw slipped.

The hand moved when he did not move it.

It pointed.

It pointed at the window.

It pointed at the clock.

It pointed at the door.

Silas tried to ignore it. He sat at his table. He picked up his needle. The thread was white. He sewed.

The hand twitched.

It pointed at the floor.

Something was there.

Silas looked.

The floorboards were dark. They were stained. The stain was wet. It smelled of iron. It smelled of rain.

He did not look closer.

He sewed.

The needle slipped.

It pricked his finger.

A drop of blood fell.

It fell onto the white cloth.

The hand on his arm closed.

It made a fist.

The fist was tight.

The fingers were long.

The nails were black.

Silas stopped.

He breathed.

The room was cold. The gaslight flickered. The shadows lengthened.

He thought of Margaret.

Margaret was his wife.

She was dead.

She had died in the winter. The fever took her. The doctor said it was the air. The doctor said it was the damp.

Silas did not believe the doctor.

Silas knew the truth.

The truth was a heavy thing. It sat in his chest. It sat in his hand.

He had seen the thing in the cellar.

It was not a rat. It was not a snake.

It was a shape.

It had no face.

It had many limbs.

It whispered.

The whisper was in his ear.

The whisper said: *Cut*.

The whisper said: *Hide*.

The whisper said: *Keep*.

Silas had cut the cord.

He had cut the thread that bound them.

He had cut the thread of the world.

But the thread was inside.

The thread was in his blood.

The hand was the proof.

The hand was the curse.

Knowledge is a blade.

You cut with it.

It cuts you back.

Silas stood up.

His legs were weak.

The hand pulled.

It pulled him to the door.

He went.

He opened the door.

The hallway was long.

The carpet was red.

It was old.

It was worn.

He walked.

The hand pointed forward.

He went to the study.

Edward Ashworth was there.

Edward was the master of the hall.

He sat in the chair.

He held a glass of wine.

The wine was dark.

Edward looked up.

His eyes were cold.

He saw the hand.

He did not scream.

He did not move.

He smiled.

It was a thin smile.

It was a cruel smile.

"Silas," he said.

His voice was soft.

It was like silk.

It was like ice.

"Sit down."

Silas sat.

The chair creaked.

The hand lay on the table.

It rested.

Edward poured wine.

He poured it into a glass.

He pushed it across.

"Drink," he said.

Silas did not drink.

He looked at Edward.

"I know," Silas said.

His voice was rough.

It was like gravel.

Edward laughed.

It was a dry laugh.

It was like a crack in the wood.

"Know what, Silas?"

"I know why the hand is here."

Edward leaned back.

He crossed his legs.

"Go on."

Silas spoke.

He told the truth.

He told it all.

He told them about the cellar.

He told them about the whisper.

He told them about the cut.

He told them about the thread.

He told them that the house was hungry.

The house ate.

The house drank.

The house wanted more.

Edward listened.

He did not interrupt.

He watched Silas.

He watched the hand.

When Silas finished, the room was silent.

The clock ticked.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Edward set down his glass.

He wiped his mouth.

"You are a fool, Silas."

His voice was flat.

"You are a tailor. You make clothes. You do not see the truth. You only sew the lies."

Silas shook his head.

"It is true."

"Is it?"

Edward stood up.

He walked to the window.

He looked out.

The rain fell.

It fell hard.

It hit the glass.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

"The house is old," Edward said.

"It has stories. It has ghosts. It has power. We use it. We control it. We keep it in the cellar. We keep it quiet."

He turned.

"He is not your friend, Silas. He is your master. And you are his slave."

Silas felt cold.

The cold was in his bones.

The hand tightened.

The fingers dug into the wood.

The wood splintered.

"I cannot control it," Silas said.

"He controls me."

Edward smiled again.

"Then you are weak."

He walked to Silas.

He stood over him.

He looked down.

"Remove the hand, Silas."

"No."

"Remove it."

"I cannot."

"Then remove yourself."

Edward drew a knife.

It was a short knife.

It was sharp.

It glinted in the light.

Silas did not move.

He looked at the knife.

He looked at Edward.

He did not fear him.

He did not run.

He felt a strange calm.

It was a deep calm.

It was a dark calm.

He knew what would happen.

He had known it since the hand appeared.

The hand was not a curse.

The hand was a key.

The hand was the door.

Edward raised the knife.

He swung it.

The blade cut the air.

It missed the hand.

It hit the table.

It stuck in the wood.

The hand moved.

It moved fast.

It was faster than thought.

It was faster than fear.

The hand grabbed the knife.

It grabbed the blade.

The blood flowed.

It was red.

It was hot.

Silas did not cry out.

He watched the blood.

It dripped.

Drop.

Drop.

Drop.

Edward fell back.

He tripped.

He hit the floor.

He gasped.

He looked at his hand.

It was open.

It was empty.

The hand on Silas’s arm closed.

It held the knife.

It held it tight.

The hand lifted.

It pointed at Edward.

Edward screamed.

It was a high scream.

It was a thin scream.

It was the scream of a bird.

It was the scream of a man.

Silas stood up.

The hand moved.

It pointed at the door.

Silas walked to the door.

He opened it.

The hallway was dark.

The light was out.

The shadows were long.

He walked out.

He did not look back.

He walked to the stair.

He went down.

He went to the cellar.

The air was cold.

The air was wet.

The smell was strong.

It was the smell of iron.

It was the smell of rain.

It was the smell of death.

The door was open.

The shape was there.

It was large.

It was dark.

It had no face.

It had many limbs.

It was waiting.

Silas looked at it.

It did not move.

It did not whisper.

It was still.

Silas raised his hand.

The hand was red.

The hand was wet.

The hand was strong.

He cut.

He cut the thread.

He cut the last thread.

The thread was in the air.

The thread was in the light.

The thread was in the dark.

He cut it.

The sound was sharp.

It was like a snap.

It was like a break.

The shape shuddered.

It fell.

It fell to the floor.

It did not rise.

It did not move.

It was gone.

Silas stood in the dark.

The hand was still.

It was quiet.

It was still attached.

It would not leave.

It was part of him.

It was his flesh.

It was his bone.

It was his blood.

He knew now.

The knowledge was heavy.

It sat in his chest.

It sat in his hand.

It was a burden.

It was a gift.

It was a curse.

He turned.

He walked up the stairs.

He walked to the room.

He sat at the table.

He picked up his needle.

The thread was white.

He sewed.

The hand moved with him.

It was slow.

It was steady.

It was his.

The gaslight hissed.

The flame danced.

The shadows lengthened.

He did not stop.

He sewed.

The work was fine.

The work was good.

The work was his.

He knew the truth.

The truth was simple.

The truth was hard.

The truth was the end.

He did not fear it.

He did not hope.

He only worked.

The needle went in.

The thread pulled.

The cloth held.

The hand rested.

The light faded.

The dark came.

The dark was warm.

The dark was still.

The dark was home.

Silas Vane closed his eyes.

The hand closed.

The world ended.

The story ended.

The thread was cut.

The hand was still.

The silence was deep.

The silence was wide.

The silence was all.