by Shade, S. M.
“Of course.” We both get to our feet. “It was good to see you again.”
“You too, Darcy.”
Once I get to my car, the decision’s been made. The movie can happen, and while I’ll absolutely talk to my agent about Nash’s book idea, money won’t be an issue for him much longer. He’ll get to spend every second he wants with his family. My agent can take her cut of the money offered for the movie rights, and the rest will go to Nash. Someone who has worked so hard to get a happy ending.
* * *
I’m feeling good about my decision on my drive home. Nash has such a different way of dealing with his trauma than I do. He didn’t run, didn’t change his name or try to hide. Hell, he still lives in the same town where the murders took place.
This highway passes on the outer edge of Carterville. It didn’t occur to me to stop on my way past the first time. Honestly, my brain seemed to just edit those signs from my notice, but as the miles count down, the temptation grows. What if my writer’s block is trauma related somehow? Maybe I’ve run so far from who I was that I’ve lost the part of me that could channel that little girl’s anger and fear into stories.
When the exit to Carterville approaches, I take it without giving myself a chance to change my mind. It doesn’t take long for familiar places to surround me, though changed by time and circumstance. Some areas have grown and some have withered in the eighteen years since I’ve been gone.
This was my home. The town where I was born, and the place I ran back to when I was homeless. It holds a house where my family was destroyed by a teenage boy, and the only home I ever knew where I was some semblance of happy. That was also shattered in part by a teenage boy and my naivete of thinking I wouldn’t get pregnant.
When I ran away, I knew better than to go to Helena. They would look for me there, and she could get in trouble if she let me stay. My plan was to sneak and visit her once some time had passed, but I never got the chance. She died of a stroke two weeks after I was removed from her care. Strokes are common in women her age, but I know, it was the stress of having me taken away. She was a good person. The best. The system didn’t care.
While these thoughts swirl in my head, the car seems to have a mind of its own. When I pull to the side of the road and look up, I’m parked a few spaces away from Helena’s old house. It’s painted a different color—yellow instead of white—and the porch swing is long gone, but otherwise it looks the same. It isn’t difficult to picture her coming out of the front door with that smile she always wore, or kneeling beside the walkway explaining to me the best flowers to plant and how to nurture them.
A few lights glow inside. Someone lives here, likely a family, judging by the minivan in the driveway. The upstairs window illuminates while I’m sitting there. My desk was in front of that window. Many countless hours were spent writing while sunlight poured in through the glass. This place and what I learned here made me who I am every bit as much as my first home. I wish I could’ve told her that. Thanked her for everything.
Sadness tugs at me as I pull back into the street and keep driving. There’s no nostalgia for the school I pass. Other than having Helena for a teacher, that place was always a nightmare. Sometimes I still dream I’m walking the halls, looking for a way out.
This little side trip is only making me feel worse. What I should do is get back on the highway and go home. But I won’t. Because I can’t run forever.
Though a lot of my foster placements weren’t far from here, I’ve never been back to this house. Even the name of the street became a word not to be spoken in my mind. Traub. The neighborhood is as ugly as the name. Rundown houses and apartment buildings, every fourth one or so abandoned and rotting. Weeds reach through broken concrete sidewalks toward a world that hates them as much as it seems to despise me. Overgrown yards half hide the junk scattered over them.
A few kids play basketball down the street, and an old man on a porch follows his wife’s call announcing dinner inside. No one pays me any attention when I park in the front of my earliest home. It’s been built up to such a demon in my head that I’m not sure what to make of the reality. It’s just a dilapidated house with a sagging roof and crumbling porch.
It sits empty. It must be hard to sell a house where a serial killer massacred a family. My gaze moves to the empty lot next door, stuffed with weeds nearly waist high. The Babysitter’s house no longer exists.
What am I doing here? What purpose could this possibly serve? My memories of this place are nothing but a few flashes that I can’t trust are the truth. Even the exterior of it doesn’t look familiar. Without understanding why, I know I need to go inside. Maybe it’s just a victory scream of survival. I might be fucked up, but I’m still here, back where everything fell to hell.
The front door’s locked. My shoes crackle over broken glass from one of the windows as I cross the porch and step off onto the scrubby lawn. Someone must own it, or maybe the city mows because it isn’t overgrown, but cut so low that powdery dirt shows through more places than not. The back door doesn’t have a handle, but gives easily when I push it open.
What I find isn’t the piles of trash and alcohol bottles I expect. Maybe in a neighborhood flush with abandoned houses, this one wasn’t worth the bother. A few streaks of graffiti, faded with time and dust, are the extent of the vandalism.
My heart starts to speed up and sweat pops on my skin. It’s not a reaction I understand. I don’t remember this place, but some level of me must. The kitchen’s painted a chipped blue, and I can’t remember if that’s what it was before. There are no appliances, only a rusted sink and dusty counters. My foot slips on a loose tile. A faint scrabbling sound comes from somewhere, and I grab my phone out of my pocket to use the flashlight. The windows aren’t covered by drapes, but years of grime block most of the light.
Standing still, I listen, but don’t hear anything. Probably just a mouse. The door hanging ajar at one end of the kitchen shows a set of stairs leading down to the basement. Tingles race across my skin while I stare down into the darkness. No. Hard pass. I’m not going down there. Instead, I pull the door shut a little too hard, and the bang of it makes me jump.
Jesus, Darcy, relax. There’s no one here. A few deep breaths help, and the sound of my footsteps echo through the empty room as I round the corner to face the hallway like I might find a monster waiting. It’s just a hallway lined with closed doors and wooden paneling that’s long since needed replacing. A faded memory surfaces.
The first room was mine, my brother’s was next to the bathroom. My parents slept in the one on the end. The noise I heard before returns, like fingers scratching at a door. Fear nails me in place. It’s coming from their room. Shock pours frigid water into my bones when the knob to the door starts to turn. Back, forth, and back again.
Get out. Get out. He’s back, Somehow he’s back. He’s been waiting for you and this time he won’t leave you alive. The words beat through my head, but I can’t move. Without a sound, the door opens.
A man steps out of the bedroom, and I can’t breathe. It’s him. It’s Joey. I remember him. Countless memories slam into me of a monster disguised as a skinny neighbor kid. He played outside in the sprinkler with us, showed me an easier way to tie my shoes when I couldn’t get the way Dad demonstrated, always gave me chocolate milk. Choccy milk. It was choccy milk, Darcy. He killed your parents, made you breakfast, and said you were a good girl.
All of this pours into me in a matter of seconds while I stand unable to move. My body drains away from me, leaving only the terror of a five year old girl. He starts toward me, and my chest fills with bottled screams that can’t escape, any more than I can.
Thirty years. It’s been thirty years. It can’t be him. Can’t be. Can’t be. The words echo in my mind and darkness creeps in around the edges of my vision as I watch the boy walking toward me begin to change. His form becomes elongated, his features rippling like water when his skin is pulled like taffy, stretching until he’s
taller, wider. His hair grows darker, his eyes erupt into a luminous green, and the hands that reach for me are terribly familiar.
“Reeve.” The shout of his name comes out a whisper as my brain finally trips a protective breaker and sends me into a blackness where I’d be happy to remain.
My head hurts. Something smells bad. Old and musty. Consciousness drips in, returning by degrees until I’m struck with the memory of where I am. The thumping of my head when I sit up too abruptly makes me cry out.
“Easy,” Reeve says, and my feet scramble against the floor, trying to put distance between me and anyone in my vicinity. It doesn’t register with me for a moment that he’s really here.
“Joey…he…came after me.”
As soon as the words are out, I know I’m wrong. It’s impossible for so many reasons, the biggest being the version of him I saw hadn’t aged a day.
“No one else was here. You’re safe.”
“I fainted.” Rubbing the sore spot where my head struck the floor, I wince. “I remembered him. Freaked out and fainted.”
Reeve kneels in front of me. “We should get out of here. This isn’t good for you.”
“No, I need this and—wait, what are you doing here?”
My hand disappears into his. “You need me.”
His stalking knows no bounds. “You get how that’s creepy, though, right? Did you follow me all the way to that park?”
Another smile is his only response. I’m not going to push the issue. I’ve learned most questions are a waste of breath. Besides, I’m glad he’s here. The house feels a lot less threatening with him by my side.
A small burst of dizziness claims me then passes almost as quickly as I stand up. “You know who I am. Do you know what happened in this house?”
“I do.”
Nodding, I pull my hand from his and start down the hall. The first door on the right was my old bedroom, but the room itself isn’t familiar when I step inside. Green walls and a rotting mattress on the floor. Reeve remains silent and follows me back out of the room, sliding his hand into mine again while I stare at the door to my parents’ old room.
Do I dare?
People lived here for years after I was gone. I’m sure there won’t be any signs of what I saw that day. There’s no point in coming this far and not facing the reason I’m here in the first place. My hand trembles on the doorknob while a long forgotten conversation plays in my head.
“Always knock before you come in, Darcy.”
“Okay, Daddy.”
The urge to knock, implanted so many years ago, is still there. The thought of who or what might answer sends a streak of terror through me. I need to stop spooking myself. It’s just a room. It’s just going to be another empty room.
And it is.
But I only get a glance at it before it bursts into the color I hate most. A few frantic steps backward slams my back against the hallway wall. My legs fold, and I curl up there, burying my face in my knees. “Red!” I sob. “A world of red. He turned them red.”
The horrific memories imprinted in my child’s mind thirty years ago are now clear and it’s obvious why I chose not to recall them. Blood. So much blood. On the walls, the floor, the bed. Covering the bodies of both my parents and Louie. It wasn’t paint. Paint doesn’t pour out of your brother’s throat into a puddle on the floor. It doesn’t make your Mama’s dull eyes stare through you.
Reeve sits beside me, his body touching mine while I take some deep breaths and fight to get a hold of myself. I never should’ve come here. My mind had plastered over that day for a good reason, and I ripped the cover off.
We sit there for what feels like a long time, until the already insufficient light begins to fade. He doesn’t speak, but for once his silence isn’t frustrating. Sometimes there are no words that can help, and knowing when to just be there for someone is as important as knowing what to say.
Eventually the thoughts in my head reveal themselves aloud as I stare at the floor. “This place, what happened here…made me. It determined the course of my life. Left me perpetually alone and full of bloody stories to tell. I hate when I get asked why I wanted to be a writer or how I come up with my ideas. He gave that to me. He created me and destroyed me simultaneously. He should’ve killed me.” My voice wavers. “I wish he had. Why didn’t he kill me instead of leaving me alone?”
Reeve slides a hand up my nape to lightly grip my hair and turns my head until I’m caught in those potent eyes. “Even a psychopath can recognize a fire he can’t put out. He wasn’t stupid enough to waste the life of someone as remarkable as you.” His other hand slips around to join the first, cupping the back of my head firmly. “And you aren’t allowed to throw it away either.”
“You don’t understand!” Jerking away from him, I get to my feet. Before I make it another step, he grabs me, and pulls me into his body. Strong arms wrap around me.
“I do. I know how the lifeless night can climb inside you. I know about the hours spent begging the sun to rise in hopes of finding relief, but it’s thin and short. I know those nights and days intimately, how they pile up and wear you down.”
My face wets his chest, and his arms tighten around me.
“You aren’t alone. You’ll never be alone again. Wherever you are, I am.”
Something that’s been stretched taut inside of me my entire life loosens, and the relief is indescribable. Brought on by his words or the recovery of some of my memories, I’m not sure. All I know is I changed in that moment, standing in a dusty hallway that’s growing darker by the second. For better or worse, I found something in the place where I lost it.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
He smiles down at me as I step back and wipe my face. “Let’s get out of here.”
An empty street waits for us when we exit and walk to my car. “Wait. You’re riding back with me?”
“Yes.” He opens the passenger door and gets inside. Okay then. Did he not drive here? I mean, I’ve never seen him drive, but this place isn’t exactly accessible any other way. The walk from any source of transportation would take days.
“How did you get here?” I ask, getting in and starting the engine.
“Stole a car.”
His nonchalant answer catches me off guard, but he’s completely serious. His impassive expression remains in place while I stare at him. The whole situation suddenly strikes me as funny. His eyebrows rise at my sudden burst of laughter. “Of course you did! Because how else does the discerning stalker follow his target across state lines.”
It doesn’t matter. He can refuse to answer my questions, show up covered in blood, follow me in a stolen car, none of it changes what his presence does for me.
For the first time, I feel like I’m not living against my will.
Chapter Twelve
PAST
Thirst pulls me from a dream seconds before a train rattles overhead, making me scramble from my hiding place or get shaken to death. It’s colder than when I arrived here, but at least the rain has stopped. Glancing around to be sure I’m alone, I pull off my sweater and jeans—both soaked—wrap them in the tarp, and shove them in my bag. The sweat pants, t-shirt, and hoodie I put on are cold, but dry at least.
It has to be early, so I might be able to beat some of the other street rats to the food behind the grocery store.
Every morning the grocery store throws out bags of bread, donuts, and pastries that have gone stale, and since they’re sealed in their own little bags, it’s one source of food that’s not too disgusting. Once you get past the fact you’re digging them out of a dumpster.
A smile lifts my lips when I see there’s no one else behind the grocery store. The lid of the dumpster is open so I boost myself up and inside. Whew! They must’ve chucked out some meat or something as well, but fortunately, the bag on top is baked goods and it’s tied up, uncontaminated by the surrounding garbage.
I tear open the bag, rip open a sealed package of dinner rolls, and sh
ove one in my mouth, chewing while I look through the rest of it. Sometimes there are cheese rolls and they give me more energy than bread alone. A cupcake is probably too much to hope for, seventeenth birthday or not.
“Hey!” A loud bong echoes around me, making me wince. “Get the fuck out of there! I’ll call the cops!”
My head pops up over the edge, and I come face to face with the asshole who banged on the side of the dumpster. The guy is as wide as he is tall. He obviously never missed a meal. “You’re throwing it away! I’m not hurting anything.”
“I’m sick of you junkies digging through my trash. Get clean and get a fucking job.” He glares at me as I climb out, leaving my only hope for food today behind.
“I don’t do drugs. I’ll take a urine test. Will you hire me?” I challenge, knowing full well what response I’ll get.
As I expected, he sneers at my clothes and shakes his head. “Just get the fuck out of here before I have you picked up for trespassing.”
Two familiar faces round the corner. Bo and Gina stop in their tracks, their too large eyes widening as the grocery manager turns on them. “All of you! Out of here or I’ll have you arrested!”
Bo and Gina are homeless and unlike me, they really are junkies. That doesn’t mean they don’t still need to eat. “Darcy, what the fuck?” Bo asks. He slides his arm around Gina.
“Apparently, the store is under new fat ass management,” I explain, flipping off the red faced manager as I start away.
“Fuck it,” Bo says. “Let’s go lift something from the corner store.”
The look Gina gives me says she already knows my answer. “You go ahead. Good luck.”
I’m not a thief. Maybe I’m just a worthless human, but there are some lines I don’t cross. I don’t judge others for the things they have to do to survive, but I don’t fuck for money and I don’t steal.
Bo nods, and they take off in the opposite direction.
