He remembered pain. He remembered a ringing in his ears. He remembered the warm and wet rush on his belly. But now, there was only a small scar that looked as if it had been there since his childhood. The warm rush was evident. He would later find the blood stained shirt that he had been wearing that night shoved beneath the front seat in Miranda's car.
Miranda. That was the very last thing he would remember from that night. Miranda was leaning over him, and all he could see was the twisted dance of shadows and light; bright, then fading to a deep, dark twilight. There was the heat from where she laid her hand upon him, and the final shot of pain, followed by darkness.
He awoke in Miranda's car the next morning all the way back in Preston, groggy and confused. When he had realized Miranda was nowhere to be found, he started the car and drove straight back to Grand Rapids. But once he had gotten within a quarter-mile of the Stratusaint Tower he noticed emergency crews were still blocking routes and redirecting traffic.
"What's happening?" Jake asked a middle-aged Grand Rapids police officer at one of the stops.
"There was some sort of freak accident at the top of the Tower last night. GRFD thinks it might have been a lightning strike from the storm that hit. Blew out the top floor windows and caused a major gas leak from a fireplace. The explosion knocked a guy outta the window and down to the ground. What a fuckin' mess! Crews been up there all day. Completely burned out the top two floors, and the whole damn building had to be evacuated," the chatty cop told him.
Jake sat silent for a moment, his heart had raced in his chest before he found his composure once more.
"Was there anyone else up there," he asked the officer.
"Don't know. Everything was burned so bad, it could be weeks before they know anything, if at all. So much for the indestructible building. Looks like God had a different idea. Anyway, no one's going in today. You can turn around up there to the left in the out lot."
Jake waited for weeks afterward to hear any news from the building fire, but no news of Miranda had ever come. And for those same weeks afterward, Detective Rice called and stopped by often, relentlessly asking questions about Miranda's whereabouts. Jake knew that Rice had thought of him as a possible suspect from the very beginning in the deaths of Miranda's parents and brother. If Jake had reappeared with Miranda's car and no Miranda, Rice would have him arrested on the spot. Although he hated having to do it, he left Miranda's car a quarter-mile down a two-track a few miles from Miranda's parent’s home. When it was found, Rice was at Jake's the very next day asking questions about where he had been the days prior.
Jake told Detective Rice that he and Miranda had taken a trip down to her school in Preston, and she wanted to stay with her roommate a day or two longer, so he caught a bus back. Paid for the ticket in cash. Sorry, no receipt. He didn't think he'd need it for anything. Lydia confirmed the story. She had only met Jake for a moment, but she felt as if she had known him for a long time. Miranda would mention him often, and if there was one thing that Lydia could tell by all of the tales that Miranda had told of her and Jake, it was that, despite their parting of ways, Jake Neilson was a good guy. If there was a reason that this story had to be told, she was going to stand by it; if for no other reason, she would do it for Miranda.
Jake had called Lydia before he had made it all of the way back to Native Springs. Miranda had decided to stay with her for a couple more days, and Jake headed home. Two days after Jake left, Miranda left to head back up to Native Springs as well.
Lydia confirmed everything to Detective Rice, as well as the other local Preston detectives that came to ask questions about Miranda's disappearance and the discovery of her abandoned car in Native Springs.
Without any other evidence, and Lydia's story to back him up, Rice started to eventually back off from Jake, occasionally calling to ask if he had remembered anything else, or had perhaps heard from Miranda. Every week Jake would get a text from Lydia asking the same things.
Sometimes he would call her back, and they would talk, albeit briefly, about what might have happened or where she might be. Both always kept the fear in the back of their minds that she may have never made it out of the building the night of the fire. Jake had told Lydia everything that had happened that night, up until the point where everything had gone to black. It was the least that he could do for her after backing up his story to Detective Rice, and it is what he believed Miranda would have wanted.
But they both knew that there had to be far more to it all. There was no explanation whatsoever as to how Jake ended up back in Preston, and they both wanted to believe that Miranda had something to do with it. But why did she disappear? The answer had come to Jake one day, just a few months after the night at the tower.
The letter was not stamped nor postmarked, and it was not sealed in the envelope. The top flap of the envelope was tucked inside the open edge, between the wall of the envelope and the handwritten letter within. She had given him letters like this before, and when he read it, he knew for certain it was from her. There was some relief in receiving it; he knew she was alive, and that she had survived the fire that night months before. But the tone of what was written gave him an unsettling feeling deep in his gut. This letter was meant for only him, and he did not share it with Rice, Lydia, or anyone else.
Jake,
I don't have the words to express how sorry I am for everything that I have put you through, nor do I have the words to tell you how much everything that you have done for me means to me...or what you mean to me.
I wanted you to know that I am alright. Please, do not try to find me. I have made this decision with a heavy heart, but everyone is better off the further away from me as possible. There is nothing left for me in the lives of those close to me, and I fear that my presence in your life, or anyone else that I care for, will lead to nothing but heartache and unknown dangers.
You, along with Lydia, are the last parts of my previous life that mean anything to me. Everything else is gone, taken from me, by my own reckless pursuit of things better left untouched. My parents...Steven...they deserved so much more, and they gave me so much love, a gift that I can never fully repay to them.
I am not deserving myself of that love, nor was I deserving of the life and name that they had given me and welcomed me into so selflessly and freely. I destroyed their lives just by searching for a past that was filled with darkness and tragedy, and even though I may not have been aware of it at the time, it is now the only legacy I deserve to carry.
Don't look back, Jake. Look into the future, and forget about me. This is all that I can ever ask of you again, and all that I ever will, with one exception - please look after Lydia. It is probably best if you not tell her about this letter. I don't think she would understand.
You will not hear from me again, but I will never forget what we have shared together, both the good times and the bad.
Yours always,
Miranda Gale
McAlister's Cross Street Bookseller was located in the downtown area of Petoskey, Michigan, situated conveniently next door to the Roasted Renegade Coffeehouse, which served the finest unique coffee concoctions in all of the northern Michigan area. The two businesses complimented each other nicely, and both shared a flare for finding interesting ways to stand apart from other businesses similar in purpose, embracing the culture and overall feel of northwest Michigan lifestyle with an urban twist and modern art ambiance.
Sketched charcoal drawings lined the high ceiling walls of the coffeehouse, featuring both past and present baristas who worked there over the years, as well as the other tattooed cuisine artisans that fashioned the delectable homemade soup and sandwich selections that served customers from all around the area every day of the week.
Like most coffee shops these days, many of the tables and booths were occupied by businessmen and hipsters alike, plugged into their laptop computers, iPad's, and other assorted electronic devices, sipping their cups and browsing the vastness of unlimit
ed cyberspace.
On many days and nights, sitting quietly in the far back corner, alone in a small, two-person booth, unnoticed by any and all, was Miranda Gale.
She would sit, day in and day out, watching people come and go, sipping their drinks and talking amongst themselves. Some would silently read the newspaper, while others may come in with several friends and be, at times, obnoxious and intrusive to others. Miranda didn't care either way. She found a subtle pleasure that came with the distraction of watching the people live their lives, and she would think of the different lives she had had at one time or another.
Miranda had discovered many of the things that she could do now after the night at the Stratusaint Tower. Petoskey was only 20 or so miles from Native Springs, but she didn't have to hide to not be found. She could choose who saw or noticed her, and she could virtually hide in plain sight. No one would take notice of her unless she wanted them to, and if she were to ever come across someone from her past who would surely recognize her, she could, just by the sheer force of her will and her mind, have them find themselves in a blank stare when they looked in her direction. Eventually, they would look away, and forget themselves for the moment, leaving them in a state that felt much like déjà vu.
That is how she moved about in the world these days. She could go anywhere, and take anything she wanted if she chose, and no one would know any different. But she opted to actually take a part-time job at the corner specialty foods place up the street from the Renegade, O' Riley's American Palate Designs. She signed the application Megan Gaunt, and used a set of random numbers as a social security number, but she had convinced the manager, who was a thin, librarian looking woman with a bun in her hair who wore long plaid dresses, that she would be better off paying her cash every night after her shift. The woman agreed, although in the back of her mind she would never know why she did.
Miranda found an apartment in the top floor above McAlister's that had been abandoned and unlived in for some time. The door had been locked, but locks were not a problem for Miranda. She would touch a door knob, and the tumbling lock mechanism inside would click and pop, and the knob would easily turn for her hands. Just in the same way that she could move about in the world almost unseen, Miranda had taken residence in the apartment in the top floor overlooking Little Traverse Bay, the small portion of Lake Michigan between Petoskey and Harbor Springs, just northwest across the bay.
Over the months she had been there she brought in a couple of chairs that she rarely used (she preferred to sit on the floor); a coffee table that only ever had a few classic novels found laying upon it, such as Jack Kerouac's On the Road and F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby; and four televisions that connected to a cable line that ran outside of the apartment off the small wooden balcony and down from the fire escape. She found that, when she wanted, she could take in all of the information being broadcast at once, even if the four televisions were on four different stations at a time.
There were other things she found as well, although like everything else, she did not know how to feel about them. When it occurred to her to do so, she would eat. It was in those moments when the delicious aroma from the fresh soups cooking down in the Roasted Renegade would capture her attention that she may venture to have a bowl, or whatever it may be that she came across to try. But she soon realized it was only to satisfy her taste, not her need to eat. The same was true for sleep. She could, if she wanted to, sleep for however long she chose, but she did not need to.
Many nights in early spring she sat out on the balcony overlooking the bay, seeing if she could count the stars in the sky, and she would often wonder if her parents were out there, somewhere in the vastness of it all. Her bitterness and self loathing would overtake her in moments like these, and she found it a nice distraction to venture down into the bookstore in the late night hours, long after the store had closed.
It had been rumored for years that the building that the bookstore was located in was haunted, and that was a fact that Miranda found to be true. In the many hours she had spent sitting alone in the dimly lit basement section of the bookstore, curled up on a soft cushioned arm chair reading book after book, she had noticed the little girl peeking at her from around the shelves.
The girl had a frilly party frock dress, with a rosebud trimming on the waist and a white, poplin collar. Her hair was blonde and cut shoulder length, and she had a tiny nose and thin lips. She looked to be somewhere between 10 and 12 years old. Her grey eyes stared at Miranda cautiously that first night, and at first, Miranda did not realize she was seeing a ghost.
"Hey. It's okay...you don't have to hide from me. I'm not going to hurt you," Miranda told the shy girl, who slowly began to step out from behind the tall shelf.
It was not long before Miranda saw that even though almost her entire upper body seemed solid and alive, her feet faded in and out of transparency. With the old style dress, it became clear to Miranda that the girl had been there for quite some time.
"What is your name?" Miranda asked the girl.
"My name is Miss Daniella Flock," the girl said nervously. "What is your name?"
"My name is Miranda. How do you do?"
Daniella bobbed a slight curtsy to Miranda, and replied that she was very well.
"Are you always here?" Miranda asked her, holding a smile on her face, trying not to frighten her away.
"Yes, I am...I don't know how long I have been here. People don't see me all too often, ma'am."
Miranda thought for a moment, then asked her, "Do you know what year it is, Daniella?"
"Why, silly, it’s 1923, ma'am!" Daniella said with a snicker.
Over the next couple of months, Miranda would return night after night to the bookstore. She and Daniella would talk about the books around them, and Miranda would read her a new book almost every night. Daniella was happy to have her new friend. Miranda would never tell her that she had been there for nearly a century. She had thought to ask, on several occasions, if Daniella knew how and why she was there in the bookstore instead of somewhere else, but had decided that perhaps the question was better left alone.
Then came the night in mid-June, eight months after Miranda's world as she new it violently crashed to its end.
Like any of the other nights, Miranda went into the basement to meet Daniella and find a new book to read. Miranda sat on the floor in front of Daniella, and as she started to read, she stopped, and looked at Daniella.
"Have you ever tried to read these books yourself, Daniella?" asked Miranda.
"I can read...it's just…I have trouble holding the books," she said coyly.
"Here," said Miranda, and held out The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman. Daniella slowly reached out for the book. Miranda softly set it upon Daniella's fingertips, and she could feel the resistance from the weight of the book resting on Daniella's hand.
Miranda let go of the book, and the book stayed in Daniella's hands, and Daniella brought her eyes up to Miranda's; they smiled together, but only seconds later the book fell through Daniella's hands and dropped to the floor.
Daniella sighed, and dropped her chin, but Miranda was determined to give it another go.
"Don't worry, sweetie. Here. We'll try it again."
Miranda picked up the book, and Daniella held out her hands again, concentrating hard on keeping herself in a solid form. As Miranda lowered the book on to her hands once more, she reached beneath the book and held her hand beneath Danielle's hands to try and help her steady the book. When she did this, for the first time in all of the weeks she had read with Daniella, Miranda could physically feel Daniella's hand. The brief moment of joy was gone in a flash.
Miranda could see the little girl, scared and crying, yelling over and over again at someone in the darkness. What light there was in the room dimly came through the dirty old window panes of that very basement. A hand came out of the darkness and struck Daniella across the face, and she cried even harder.
"No
, please no! You’re hurting me!" cried Daniella, screaming toward the dark, shadowy figure before her.
"You shut that mouth, girl, or I will shut it for good!" yelled the deep voice back at Daniella.
A man's hands grabbed her wrist and tore at her dress; the same dress that Miranda had always seen her in every single night.
"Please, Daddy...don't. Not any more..." pleaded Daniella. Daniella's father took the young girl forcefully and violently on the basement floor. Both during and after the vile act, he put his hands around her neck and squeezed tighter and tighter until she could plead and scream no more...and then she lied still on the dirty basement floor.
Miranda pulled away from Daniella, but it was too late. Not only had Miranda seen what had happened to the girl, but Daniella had seen it as well - lost and deeply buried somewhere far away to protect her innocent soul, but now everything was as if it were happening right now. Daniella looked at Miranda in horror, and screamed a blood curdling scream that shattered all of the windows and anything else made of glass in the entire room.
Daniella faded in and out of sight like a flickering fluorescent bulb on the verge of burning itself out, shaking violently before running into the wall that held an old, unused fireplace, disappearing into the stonework.
"Daniella! Wait! I'm...I'm sorry! Please...don't go..." pleaded Miranda, but Daniella did not return. Nor did she return the next night, or the night after that.
Miranda did not return to the basement after the third night without Daniella. She sat alone in the apartment all night and morning, on into the afternoon; the heavy humid dampness and heat filled the still air.
In the Shadows of Fate Page 30
