Immortal Mine

by Cindy C. Bennett

  An old building comes into sight. It looks a little like the Bates hotel from Psycho, and just as I’m about to remark on this, Sam turns into the nearly-non-existent parking lot. New weeds sprout between the cracks of both the parking lot and the sidewalk that runs in front of the rooms. A sign out front proclaims the place for sale, and I glance at Sam. Maybe this is his surprise that he promised me, that he’s going to buy the place and refurbish it. He knows how important it is to me to stay in Goshen, so maybe this is his way of letting me know he’s in for the long haul. I’m going to have to tell him that there is no point in buying the place. We have one small motel in town that has six rooms. If they have one of the rooms occupied, they consider the place to be overflowing.

  Sam opens my door, helps me out of the truck, taking my hand. I wait for the weird warmth that comes most of the time when we hold hands, but it doesn’t come. I mentally shrug as he leads me toward the somewhat creepy building, still silent. I’m bursting with questions, but don’t voice a single one, not wanting to spoil whatever surprise he has for me.

  “So, is this the latest venture in the Coleman dynasty?” I tease. He’s told me about the business ventures that Shane has been involved in, which is how they’ve accumulated their fortune. Shane is quite the business man, and neither he nor Sam would have to work the rest of their lives if they chose not to.

  “I want to show you something,” Sam says, pulling a key from his pocket.

  “Okay,” I say, deciding he’s already bought the building, so the least I can do is support him in his venture. We stop in front of the door that has a number three hanging askew on it. He unlocks the door, then turns to me.

  “Before we go in, I want to tell you something,” he says, looking decidedly worried. “I want you to remember that I love you, and that no matter what happens, everything is going to be okay.”

  I feel the first tinge of uneasiness at his words—and his expression. It’s the first time he’s said “I love you” that hasn’t completely sent my heart skittering off into bliss. He says it quite often, and I never tire of hearing it.

  “Okaaay,” I say. I decide to question him, in spite of the absolute trust I have in him. “Is everything okay, Sam?”

  He smiles and pushes the door open. Curious, I step around him. The inside of the room is completely refurbished, and quite nicely. It does not fit with the outside at all. With a sick feeling, I begin to wonder if he thought... the bed seems to loom in front of me. Sam and I have talked about this. He knows I refuse to take any chance that might put me in the dreaded category of “unwed, pregnant teen.” I turn to Sam, knowing I have to stop this before it goes too far.

  “No, it’s not…” he says, even as I say, “You know how I feel…”

  I laugh nervously. Sam smiles and places his hands on my shoulders.

  “I do know how you feel,” he says, squeezing my shoulders lightly, “and I would never do anything that would cause you to compromise your values for me. I didn’t really think about how this would appear.”

  I smile at him. I should have known better, should have known Sam would never do anything to hurt me. I put my arms around him, leaning against him.

  “I know that, Sam. I shouldn’t have doubted you.” I look up at him, and I’m rewarded with a kiss.

  Sam pulls one of the chairs away from the little table near the door, and nudges me, giving me the hint to sit. He backs away, stopping near the bed.

  “I want you to trust me,” he says, desperation tingeing his voice. “Just stay there, just... wait. And remember what I said before: everything is going to be okay.”

  Excited again to discover the surprise he’s promised, I wait. Then he pulls a gun from his pocket. Fear slides up my spine at the sight.

  “Sam, what—” Terror binds the words in my throat as my mind races, trying to imagine what he plans to do with the gun, here alone in this room—where no one knows we are.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.” His words are at odds with his actions as he opens the gun, turning the back of it toward me. I can see a single spot of silver within the cylinder. “Only one bullet,” he says, as if that should reassure me.

  I start to rise, unable to remain seated like some resigned victim, dread coupling with the fear now. I have that feeling I sometimes get when something bad is about to happen.

  “I think you should stay sitting,” he says calmly, which is how insane people always sound, right? He doesn’t sound crazy, but he’s also not putting the gun away. I begin moving toward the door, slowly, trying to control my panicked breaths, suddenly desperate to not be in the confines of this room, threat heavy in the air. I can’t decipher where the threat is coming from, my mind refusing to process that Sam could be the threat. It doesn’t feel right, that he could be the danger here, but something is, maybe something inside him.

  “Sam, I don’t know what you’re planning, but I think this has gone far enough.” I try to speak as my mom used to when she was trying to calm me down, firm but understanding. He snaps the gun closed, and I flinch at the sound, cold clamminess inching up my neck. I reach for the knob; if I can just open the outside world to us, this surreal scene will disappear.

  The knob turns, but the door doesn’t open, and my panic ratchets up.

  “Sam,” I say, trying to sound even more stern, desperately trying to hide my abject terror. “Unlock the door. I want to leave now.” Sam’s face changes a little at my words, and for one second I think he’s going to capitulate. Hope and relief comingle. I see the exact moment when his eyes harden, determination shining from his face.

  “Just trust me—” My stomach clenches at his words, and he stops himself. “Just give me ten more minutes,” he says. “Then I’ll let you out, and we’ll go home.”

  “I don’t like this. I want to go now.” I can hear the begging in my tone, but I don’t care. I suddenly, desperately need to be out of here. I need Sam to be out of here. Even as I think the words, he turns the gun toward his own chest.

  “No!” Instinctively I’d known this was his intention, and terror suffuses every cell of my body. I take a step forward, feeling as if I’m in a nightmare, feet stuck in quicksand, despairing at the thought that I will never reach him in time.

  “Everything will be okay,” he says again. “Remember, Niahm, everything is not as it appears. Don’t forget that. Please.” A loud, quick, explosion unlike anything I’ve heard before fills the room, reverberating off the walls. I recoil intuitively, the immediate ringing in my ears painful as my hands come up to cover them. The deafening silence following is worse than anything I’ve heard before. I’m crouched in the corner facing the door, frozen, unable to move, overwhelmed by the smell of the gun powder.

  For long moments, I wait. There’s no sound behind me, and I somehow know that if I turn around, my world will be irrevocably changed. I’m gasping like a fish out of water, unable to draw oxygen into my lungs.

  “Sam.” The word is whispered—croaked, really—from deep within my throat. I begin hyperventilating, horror shrouding me, holding me in place. No sound, no movement in the room. That scares me more than what I might see if I turn around.

  “Sam.” Louder this time as I lift my head. Still no response. “Please,” I whisper, not sure what I’m asking for—and all too aware of what I’m asking for. I take a breath, and slowly turn toward him.

  A scream rips from my throat at the sight of Sam, covered in blood, lying at an unnatural angle next to the bed. I’m propelled from my place on the floor before I’m conscious of my intention.

  “Sam!” I scream, collapsing next to him. I shove my arms beneath his shoulders, pulling his limp form into my arms. His eyes stare lifelessly at the ceiling, my heart contracting with a grief that runs deeper than the grief I’d felt at losing my parents. “Sam, please,” the words tangle over the tears clogging my throat, “please, wake up. Wake up!” I command, yelling, as if I can compel him by the force of my will alone. I shake him, an
d he rolls bonelessly to the side. In desperation, I look around.

  My cell phone!

  I awkwardly wrestle my phone from my pocket, my bloody fingers slipping against the plastic. I shove the realization of why my fingers are slipping from my mind; I can’t deal with that particular horror right now, even as the despair crawls up my throat, releasing as a half-choked wail. I have to get help for Sam. I try punching the numbers, my slick finger unable to make any kind of significant contact. Hopelessness engulfs me as I force myself to my feet, and stumble into the bathroom. I grab the white towel hanging by the sink, dropping it in my haste. A moan escapes as I scoop it back up, wiping the phone quickly. I punch 9-1-1 and put it up to my ear, trying unsuccessfully to calm my breathing enough to speak.

  Nothing.

  I pull the phone away from my ear. No service.

  “No,” I moan, running back out into the room. I hurry from corner to corner, holding it above my head, watching for a bar—any bar—to indicate coverage.

  Nothing.

  With a rage born of pure fear, I throw the phone against the wall, where it shatters. Now what? I look around desperately and see the chairs in front of the window. I pick one up and slam it with all my might against the window, a surge of hope filling me as the glass shatters. I grasp the curtains, pulling them from their rod—

  —only to see that the window is covered with bars. A furious cry is followed by placing my head as near the bars as I can get it.

  “Help!” I scream repeatedly, knowing as I do that no one is coming, no one is going to hear me. I scream until my throat is raw, and the sound coming out is pitiful at best. I scramble to the door, twisting the knob and pulling with everything I have. It doesn’t budge, thick and sturdy, nothing like the doors in the hotel in town. The key hole catches my eye, and I realize that Sam probably has the key, that I should have looked there first.

  I rush back over to him, refusing to look at him. I can’t look again, even though the sight of his motionless face will be forever burned into my brain. I begin searching through his pockets, revulsion thrumming through me at the act, as if I were nothing more than a pickpocket, and Sam nothing more than a random victim. It’s only my desperation to get him help that propels my actions, even if I know deep inside that it’s already too late.

  “Where’s the key?” I demand of the universe hoarsely when my search turns up nothing other than his truck key, which is alone on his key ring. I rush around the room, tearing open drawers, dumping their contents that seem as if someone lives here instead of empty as they should be, ripping the bedding from the mattress, then shoving the heavy thing to the side to look beneath, pulling up every loose item in the room that I can find.

  Finally, dejectedly, with a sob wrenched from the depths of my soul, I stop searching. In anger, I sweep the lamp from the bedside table and send it crashing against the wall. Tears sheet down my face unchecked as I collapse in the same corner, next to the door, where this nightmare began.

  Chapter 37

  Niahm

  The shadows deepen as time passes—how much time I don’t know. It feels like an eternity. Exhaustion drags at me. Collapsed against the wall in the corner, I long for sleep to take me from this new, horrifying reality I couldn’t have imagined in the furthest recesses of my mind. But my mind won’t let me rest. Where did I go wrong? Were there warning signs that I missed? I go back over the time I’ve known Sam, trying to maintain a clinical distance, to look at everything objectively.

  At times he acted oddly, or looked at me with something deeper than whatever he said, but at no time did I think him depressed. Sam was innately happy and cheerful whenever we were together. Maybe that was a cover.

  My mind goes to Shane. Did Shane know something? He didn’t seem too happy when Sam told him we were going—

  My heart stutters. Did Sam tell him where he was bringing me? I try to remember the exact conversation.

  “We’re going now,” Sam had said.

  “I don’t think this is the right way to—” Shane sounded troubled.

  “I know what I’m doing.” Sam was firm. “There isn’t any other way.”

  I search my mind, trying to discover if I missed some essential part of the conversation. I remember thinking it was a little strange, but I’ve gotten used to feeling like I’m out of the loop with half the conversations going on between Sam and Shane... and even Jean.

  With trepidation, I crawl back over to where Sam lays. I notice with a small measure of relief that his eyes are now closed. I didn’t know that happened naturally, but I’m grateful that I don’t have to see his eyes open and staring.

  Emotionally drained, I sit next to him, and slip my hand into his, wishing desperately for that strange heat to begin. His hand is warm and limp, and idly I wonder why. I thought that when someone was... well, I expected him to be cold, stiff. Numbly, I feel the tears slipping down my cheeks again. Exhaustion weighs on every inch of my body, my mind refusing to accept that he’s gone.

  After some time, when the reflection of the sunset lights the sky outside the window with an ethereal pink, I begin to hallucinate. I imagine Sam’s hand warming in mine into the familiar heat, the sounds of his light breaths, tiny, gasping. I scrunch my eyes closed, and imagine his hand moving slightly in mine. Please, stop. My mind refuses to let me go as the heat intensifies. I know that letting go will end the illusion, but I can’t. I keep his hand clasped firmly in mine, feeling the phantom tightening, ever so slight, of his hand on mine. A rustling sound, as if Sam had moved his leg, comes into my mind and the grief rears up again.

  “Sam,” I whisper. A deep gasp of breath startles me into opening my eyes, my gaze flying to Sam. His eyes are open again. But not just open—moving. His hand clenches weakly against mine and in terror I tear my hand from his, reeling away from him. He turns his head and looks at me, my heart thudding in fear.

  “Nee—” The sound, the beginning of my name, issues from his mouth and a half-scream on my huffed breath escapes as I push further away from him, my feet propelling my sitting body across the carpet, my legs lacking the strength to stand.

  He rolls to his side, grimacing in pain, and suddenly I realize—I was wrong! He wasn’t dead as I’d thought, just unconscious. Relief rushes through me, intense and powerful, unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, mingled with guilt over my inaction to help him before now.

  “Sam,” I enthuse, voice raw, crawling quickly back over to his side, helping him into a sitting position as tears begin anew, this time tears of joy. “Sam, you’re alive! I thought... It doesn’t matter. You’re alive.”

  I throw my arms around him, aware that this could be nothing more than an extension of my delusion, that there’s a possibility I’ve completely lost touch with reality. I don’t care though, as his arms come up around me, pulling me close.

  “I love you, Sam, I love you. You’re not dead. Thank you, God. Thank you.” I know I’m gushing, unable to stop myself in spite of the soreness of my throat. I kiss his cheeks, his neck, his forehead until finally he captures my face and pulls my mouth to his. I may be hallucinating, but if I am this kiss is as real as any he’s given me before—maybe more so.

  “You’re not angry?” he asks, hands cupping both my cheeks as he pulls back to look at me.

  “Angry?” I ask incredulously. “How can I be angry that you’re not—” I stop, as if someone has thrown a switch cutting off my speaking ability as his words sink in, and memory rushes back. Sam, with the gun...

  “You killed yourself,” I accuse as I push away from him.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. Not, Of course I didn’t, I’m sitting here just fine—which brings immediately to mind the fact that he shouldn’t be sitting here, just fine. His blood soaked shirt is clear evidence of that. I scoot further away as a new kind of fear shoots into my heart.

  “How can you be... I saw you. You shot yourself, and you were...”

  “Niahm,” he says, holding his hands toward me�
�trying to calm the insane person, I think cynically. “Please, let me explain.”

  “Explain what?” I explode, voice cracking from the stress of my previous screaming, rising to my feet in one smooth motion. “Explain what, Sam? Explain why you shot yourself? Explain how you could be lying there, looking dead, and now you’re...” My eyes drop to his chest, to the place I saw him put the gun barrel. “How did you stop bleeding?” I whisper.

  Sam pulls the front of his shirt up, and I reach out a hand as if to stop the motion, unable to tear my eyes from the sight of his blood covered but clearly unwounded chest—other than the angry red circle surrounded by a purpling splotch.

  “Was this some kind of trick?” I demand, fury coming up to replace the fear. “Is this your idea of a joke?”

  “No, Niahm, of course not,” he answers quickly. “I would never do something so—”

  “Don’t!” I exclaim as he begins to stand. He freezes, and sinks back down to his sitting position.

  “Niahm, please, let me explain.”

  “I want to go home,” I demand, ignoring the undertone of begging.

  “I wanted to show you,” he pleads. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me if I just told you.”

  “Told me what? No, wait, I don’t want to know. I just want to go home.”

  “Niahm, I—”

  “Stop!” I yell as he begins to rise once again. He holds his hands up in supplication as he continues to stand.

  “I’m getting the key for you,” he says softly, his eyes beseeching me. I look away from them, refusing to give into the love and desperation I see there. He takes a step and I smash myself back against the door.

  “Niahm, you needed to know what I am,” he says as he stumbles toward the head of the bed. “I want to be with you... stay with you as long as you’ll let me.” He puts one hand on the wooden cap of the headboard. “Which for me means forever.”

  He watches me closely, and his words penetrate through the terror and rage that grip me.