He grabbed her arm and her whole body leaned to the side. Her face was frozen, void of expression, but telling a dark tale. Wyatt grabbed her other arm and tried to tug her upright.
"Grandma?" he asked again, knowing he'd never get a response.
His eyes flitted to a pair of prescription bottles next to her chair, on their sides, empty. He touched a finger to one in disbelief. It rolled slowly away to clink off a half-empty liquor bottle. Wyatt fell to the floor. He couldn't breathe. He coughed, heaved, and coughed again. Had he swallowed an ocean, the pressure would not have been as great. If the sky fell upon him, the pain would have been nothing in comparison.
Wyatt clawed at the carpet, fighting to regain his sight. His fingers found a square of paper and wrapped around it like a claw. He wiped away the tears and uncurled his fist.
"A note?" he asked. A wash of anger rippled through him at the sight of the thing.
It wasn't a suicide note, not really. It gave no explanation or apology. It gave no closure and asked for nothing in return. Five words had been scrawled with a shaky hand to be nearly illegible. Wyatt remembered them immediately, but they struck him anew as though he were reading them for the first time.
Make your own damn dinner.
Wyatt wanted to yell. He wanted to shriek with fury at himself, not just the younger version he now remembered, but the whole of his being. Why had he said those things? He remembered them now, not just as a memory of a memory, but as they truly were. He had been so filled with such anger and malice that it made him sick.
Why did I make her do this? he wondered as he knelt beside the worn armchair, eyes locked on his grandmother, wishing her to move. He was still locked in his own memory, a prisoner in his body, forced to relive every painful moment with gut-wrenching clarity.
No, he said to himself, trying to shake his head, but failing. She was always in terrible pain. It wasn't because of me, no matter how despicable my words were. But then his eyes dragged back to the square of paper between his fingers. The simple words condemned him. Whether the root cause or not, Wyatt had been the trigger. And there was nothing he could do about it.
He twisted and squirmed against his body, against the memory, trying to seize some control. Wishing to flee. Lucy! he bellowed. Why did you send me here? Where are you? He tried to search his own periphery for the slight girl with dirty-blonde curls and terrible power.
Pounding came from the front door of the house, rooted in the corner of the living room, not ten feet from where Wyatt knelt. It sounded like an explosion in the silence, shattering it like glass, and blinding Wyatt with a pain that flashed white-hot across his eyes. He spun toward the door, at once realizing that what he was now witnessing had never happened. Not in the memory of his grandmother dying.
The pounding sounded again, ripping at the fabric of the memory and shaking the small house. Wyatt took a step backward, his eyes still locked on the portal. I can move, he realized. He flexed his fingers and took a deep breath. The relief of having regained control of his body was short-lived as the door shuddered at a third heavy impact. A deep crack ran down the center of the door. Smoke, dark as pitch, bled through the fissure.
Wyatt glanced at the armchair, found it empty, and snapped back to the door. His heart was hammering in his chest, and instinct told him that whatever was trying to come through the door was steeped in evil. Wyatt had thought the memory had been haunting, not having any control or ability to avoid what he now remembered so clearly...but this—whatever this was sent a chill throughout his body.
A fourth impact rang louder than the rest and the door caved in, admitting a pillar of black fog. Wyatt didn't wait to see what would step from the shadows. He ran for his childhood bedroom. He slid through the kitchen as something smashed into the living-room wall, the echo rippling past him. He shouldered into his bedroom door, spun inside, slammed the door shut, and bolted for the only safe place he knew.
His closet was little more than a large cupboard, but Wyatt wedged himself into the tight confines, shutting the door as he settled onto the floor. His knees were pressed to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his shins. The closet was hardly larger than the wall locker in the corner room of Dorm B on the campus of The Shepherd's Crook, but it always provided what he needed: sanctuary.
Wyatt tried to silence his ragged breathing and focus on the sounds of the house. Whatever was out there, beyond his hiding place, meant him harm. How he knew, he couldn't say. It wasn't a memory any longer, at least not his.
"Lucy..." he whispered to the darkness. "What's going on? Where are you?"
Blinding light washed over him as the closet door was ripped from its hinges and slung across the room to shatter the window. The air in the room went with it. Wyatt tried to crawl further into the closet, but there was no more space. No more sanctuary.
"You little fucking bitch," bellowed a voice, thick and slurred.
Wyatt squinted against the glare, but could only decipher a towering silhouette reaching for him.
"Lucy!" Wyatt screamed as rough hands wrapped around his arm and yanked him from the closet.
But there was no magical girl to answer him as he was sent sprawling into a room wholly unlike his childhood bedroom, but just as familiar.
"I heard what you did today, you goddamn whore," the man shouted, spraying Wyatt with spittle as he fought to see his attacker and as he struggled to crawl away.
His back hit something solid and his vision snapped into focus. A heavyset man stomped across the small room toward Wyatt, eyes sparking with violence, his straw-colored hair glowing in the morning light. He stumbled slightly as he lurched forward, and his cheeks were flushed red, nearly obscuring the wash of freckles that highlighted his stubbly face.
Wyatt had never seen the man, not in any life, memory, or dream, but he, too, was familiar in a far odder way than the room was. For in the moment, Wyatt recognized where he was. He had been here with Lucy the first time she had taken them into a memory. Ms. Abagail's room. Ms. Abagail's memory.
"The whole town's talking about you," the man said, words slurring like sludge dripping from a sluice pipe. "About what a fucking, piece of shit whore Henry Miller's bitch of a daughter is."
Wyatt recoiled and fought to stand against the dresser. The words were chilling and repulsive in their own right, but the man spitting them like hot fire seared Wyatt's mind like a hot brand.
"No, you can't be," Wyatt said, but the words sounded faint, like an echo of a dream. Am I even talking aloud?
"The whole town, I said," Henry Miller spat, jabbing a thick finger at Wyatt. He was close enough now that Wyatt could smell the alcohol and body odor drifting off the man in virulent waves.
"No," Wyatt said again, not caring if he was heard or not. "Ms. Abagail's father wasn't a monster. And she beat her dark memory. It was her mom. I was there. She—"
Wyatt was so focused on the crippling realization that he didn't see Henry's hand move. But he felt the strike. The meaty hand caught the side of his face and nearly turned his body horizontal. Wyatt hit the floor under a blinding flash of pain. He tasted blood. He clawed at the floor, coming to his knees. He coughed and saw a fragment of a tooth drop from his mouth.
Wyatt turned his head upward just in time to see Henry's foot slam into his ribs and send him crashing into the dresser. The piece of furniture shook, knocking free a framed photo that glanced off Wyatt's temple to land next to the tooth fragment.
His vision was beginning to swirl again, and he couldn't breathe. This doesn't make any sense, he thought. Wyatt didn't bother trying to stand again. Instead, he curled upon himself, attempting to produce as small a target as possible, for something deep within him warned the violence was far from over.
Henry grabbed Wyatt by the neck with both hands, pulled him upright as if he weighed nothing, and thrust him into the nearest wall with enough force to break the drywall. Wyatt fixed his eyes on the intoxicated brute. Behind the stubble and grime and hate, Wyatt
could see the uncanny similarity Henry had with Henrick, who, up until this moment, Wyatt had taken for his magical guide and mentor.
"It's not supposed to be like this," Wyatt said through a mouthful of blood. "Ms...your daughter worships you. You're supposed to be a...good guy. This isn't right."
He struggled against Henry's grip, but found no reprieve. And he found no solace in the violent green eyes staring into his.
Henry laughed coarsely and said, "That whore lied to you, Wyatt, my boy."
"You," Wyatt hissed.
Henry smiled, black smoke bleeding from between stained teeth. In a manner of moments, Henry was gone, as was the bedroom. All that remained was a field of twisting fog and the Bad Man, misty fingers still wrapped around Wyatt's throat.
"I should have known it was all a lie," Wyatt challenged, feeling a confident anger blossom. He and Ms. Abagail had exposed the creature for the coward it was before. And he would do it again.
"Tsk tsk," the Bad Man chided, cocking its head to the side. "Why would I lie to you?"
"Why would you tell me the truth?" Wyatt spat back. "Where am I? And where's Lucy? If you hurt her—"
"What?" the Bad Man asked, shaking Wyatt enough to silence him. "You'll do what? No, you'll do nothing. And besides, you wanted to remember. Isn't that what this is all about?"
Wyatt glared at the creature. "I don't need you to do that. Now, what did you do to Lucy?"
"Lucy? Nothing, my dear Wyatt. It is Lucy that is the one doing. She is the one who showed you things long since forgotten and buried in the shadows. I am nothing more than an onlooker, like yourself."
"Liar!"
"I do nothing without your direction," the Bad Man said calmly. "You wanted to forget and I let you. You wanted to remember and...well, here we are."
"Liar!" Wyatt shouted again. "You twist memories. Nothing you've shown me is real."
"You only see what you want to see," the Bad Man whispered. "Nothing more. Nothing less."
Wyatt squirmed against the Bad Man's grip. He snapped and snarled at the creature. "Where is my sister? Lucy!"
The Bad Man pulled its misty head back but said nothing.
"Lucy!" Wyatt bellowed, the force from the shout dispersing part of the Bad Man's head.
"Wyatt?" a voice called from the fog.
Wyatt froze and jerked his head about as much as he could, given the Bad Man's unyielding grip. He saw nothing but gray tendrils and blackness.
"Wyatt?" the voice called again. It seemed to come from everywhere.
"Lucy?" he called out.
The Bad Man shivered and smiled. "Seems she's calling you back," it said.
"I told you I'd find her," Wyatt said.
"Did you?" the Bad Man asked.
Before Wyatt could offer a retort, the Bad Man dropped him and the fog and darkness exploded into a world of green and browns. A dirt ground shook into existence as trees burst from near Wyatt's feet, throwing him off balance. He reached out a hand and found the rough bark of an oak to steady himself on. The thick scent of dew and soil invaded his nostrils and invigorated him.
"Wyatt?" the voice called out.
Wyatt pushed off the tree and saw he was standing among a sparse copse of trees. He was holding on to a long branch, rid of its leaves and fixed with a colored ribbon at the tip.
My old staff, he thought.
"There you are!" Lucy's voice sang from nearby.
Wyatt snapped his head up to see a young version of his sister leap over an exposed root to stand before him, grinning ear to ear, her arms clasped behind her tiny frame.
Wyatt tried to reach for her. He urged his body to embrace her, but it didn't budge.
No, he shouted to no one but himself. Not again. Lucy!
"Guess what I have?" Lucy asked, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. She was too young to be the version of Lucy Wyatt knew.
"I don't care," Wyatt said.
Lucy brought her hands out from behind her back, producing a wrinkled ten-dollar bill. "Look!"
"I. Don't. Care," Wyatt said.
What are you doing? his mind shouted, but as he had spoken the words, he remembered them and knew he was powerless to stop what had already been.
"Mom and Dad gave it to me for doing good in school," Lucy said, dancing in place, oblivious to the bitter indifference in her older brother.
"Doing well," Wyatt corrected with a sneer. "And so what? What are you even going to do with ten dollars?"
"Oh, I already know!" Lucy said. "I'm going to buy the biggest, fluffiest, cuddliest bear I can find."
Wyatt rolled his eyes, but his mind shivered.
"And I already know what I'm going to call it," she continued melodically.
Don't say it.
"You named a bear you don't even have yet?" Wyatt asked.
"Uh huh. I have the best name. Bet you can't guess."
"I bet it's something dumb," Wyatt quipped.
Don't say it. Please, don't say it.
"Wrong," Lucy sang. "I'm going to name it Bearsy!"
Wyatt stood among the trees of the small wooded area at the side of his childhood home. He could feel the breeze against his skin and could taste the earthy scent of it. It was just cool enough to draw up the hairs along his arms, but not cold enough to warrant a shiver.
He watched as the young visage of his sister skipped across the small lawn and quickly disappeared into their house. The sun was still low in the sky, transforming the dew-covered grass into a sea of emeralds. Nostalgia rolled deep in his mind, and he began walking the same way Lucy had gone, stepping heavily in her gentle footprints set in the neatly trimmed lawn.
Lucy, where are you? You've taken me into a memory. Are you dreaming this? Do you see me? Lucy, tell me where you are.
As if answering his thoughts, Lucy poked her head out of the back door. "Hurry up or we're going to leave without you!" Even shouting, her voice carried a musical air. Something that didn't seem to have fully carried over into the version of his sister that Wyatt knew. The joy in her voice was more Julia than Lucy.
Wyatt ran at her words, dreading being left alone. He couldn't tell if he moved intentionally or if he was merely a prisoner trapped in the memory Lucy had seen fit to open for him. It was growing increasingly difficult to tell. Every step, every word spoken, every moment, was placed just so. It electrified Wyatt—remembering so clearly a past he had abandoned. Surely, he had good reason to have cast aside the hurt and pain of his past, but to abandon all of it?
Wyatt skipped up the wooden steps of the back porch, shouting, "I'm coming. I just need to grab my comic book!"
He grabbed for the handle, and as he did, the porch danced beneath him at the same moment the door burst open, cracking into his nose and sending him sprawling backward. He landed hard on his tail-bone, the shock racing up to his skull. It dazed him, and the taste of blood filled his mouth, but so too did a creeping sense of dread. No, not dread. Desperation. Survival. An instinct to flee.
The shot to his nose had stunned him, but as hands grabbed roughly at his arm, his world solidified once more. His childhood home was gone, but he could still hear Lucy's voice. And his parents'. They were shouting, calling his name. But they sounded panicked.
Wyatt tried to resist the force holding him and turned toward his family's calls—for they were behind him—but he couldn't move. There was another figure standing in front of Wyatt, propping open the glass door that had struck him in the face and foiled his escape. The boy looking back was wide-eyed, clutching a dog-eared comic to his chest.
That's me! Wyatt thought as he was forced roughly past the younger version of himself. The shouting continued behind him as Wyatt was dragged across the sidewalk and into a crowded parking lot. Wyatt reached over his head and dug his nails into the thick hand he found there, but it only squeezed tighter.
The thing holding him growled.
Wyatt abandoned his effort to displace the meaty hand and focused on getting his feet beneath h
im, enough to gain some control of his body. He needed to turn and look back. He had to be sure of what he was experiencing before he dared accept it. Wyatt brought his feet in front of his body and jammed his heels into the asphalt. The thing that held him stumbled into Wyatt's back, momentarily breaking the hold on Wyatt's shoulder. He pitched forward, collided with a parked car, kept his footing, and began running.
The panic that had crept over him when Wyatt first crossed into this new memory festered and grew. It became not just an echo of a feeling, but a reality. If he didn't run as fast as he could, he would die. It was a certainty that shook him, and though nothing of what he was experiencing was familiar, the imperative was sound. Run or die.
It chased him, that unknown thing that hungered for him. The parking lot was a sea of people and vehicles. All Wyatt needed to do was get lost amid the waves of color and sound.
People stopped to watch as Wyatt flew past them, darting between cars in as random a fashion as he could. He nearly ran over a mother and her toddler, but spun aside at the last moment to careen off a pickup truck instead. The breath was ripped from his lungs and Wyatt went to his knees, desperate to become as small as he could.
He couldn't hear or smell the man anymore. A man! That's what the thing that wanted him was. It struck him like a wave, nauseating him as a rush of memories that weren't his swept through his mind.
He hadn't gotten a good look at the massive man—he'd been wearing a hood when Wyatt had first seen him. But the evil that drifted off him like vapor was nearly visible.
Wyatt peered around the hood of the truck, looking for the man and for an escape route. He found himself facing back the way he had come, staring straight at the storefront of M and G Toys.
I'm Athena, Wyatt thought, rising to his feet in dumb wonder. He had known that fact immediately, but hadn't been able to grasp it. But now, looking back at the toy store that lived in so many memories of his loved ones, it became frighteningly clear.
The Remembered Page 16
