Fingers in the Mist

by O'Dell Hutchison

  “Tell me what?” I ask.

  Miss Simmons moves toward me, pulling me in for a tight hug.

  “Traci, don’t!” Nana warns, but it’s too late. I’ve already seen it.

  Nana standing on the doorstep of our town home in Tacoma, Miss Simmons by her side. Nana rings the doorbell and my mother answers. A knowing look passes between Nana and my mother just as Miss Simmons points a gun at my mother’s head and pulls the trigger.

  No!

  I pull away from her, rage boiling inside of me.

  “You killed her? You killed my mother?”

  I have no problem tapping into my powers this time. They erupt outward, far too powerful for this tiny room.

  “Caitlyn, wait. It’s not what you think,” Nana says.

  Lies.

  I saw it. They killed my mother, and I intend to return the favor, right here, right now.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Miss Simmons hovers at least two feet off the floor, her face a nice shade of reddish purple. I have no idea what I’m doing, but it’s killing her and I’m loving every second of it. She deserves this. She killed my mother. No wonder she’s been acting all weird and stalkerish toward me. Guilt obviously got the better of her.

  “Caitlyn, stop it now!”

  I feel Nana try to use some sort of power against me. My scalp tingles like she’s trying to get into my head, but I effortlessly block her.

  And then she punches me.

  My grandmother seriously just went all cage fighter on my ass. Full on nose punch, dropping me to the ground. Blood spews down my face, dripping off my lips. The pain is almost more unbearable than the daggers in my head when they want to control me.

  “You almost killed her,” Nana says, grabbing hold of my arm and ripping me to my feet. She is freakishly strong for an old lady.

  “Like she killed my mother?”

  “She didn’t kill her,” Nana says, handing me an old towel.

  “I saw it. She shot her. Need I remind you my mother died from a gunshot—”

  “I didn’t die. I’m right here.”

  I turn in the direction of Miss Simmons who stands with one hand on the table, still trying to catch her breath.

  “I’m right here, baby girl.”

  “You’re not my mother,” I say. “My mother is dead.”

  I’m not dead.

  This time my mother’s actual voice enters my head. They’re messing with me. This is a trick to get me to trust them.

  “Cait, please,” Miss Simmons says, her arms outstretched. “Come here. Let me show you what happened. Let me finish.”

  “You are not my mother,” I say, sending a burst of power in her direction. She lifts a hand and deflects it back at me. I’m swept off my feet and find myself suddenly flat on my back.

  “You love grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. You love watching From Mundane to Model, but you would die if anyone ever knew that. It’s our little secret. We would watch it every Friday and make bets on who would go home. The winner had to buy the other ice cream.”

  No. She’s not my mother. My mom was taller with naturally bronze skin, long dark hair, and deep chocolate eyes. This blond, perky-boobed bitch is not her.

  “I took you to New York three years ago and we saw Wicked and on our way back to the hotel we ran into one of the leads and she invited us to dinner with her and her friends. It was the highlight of the trip and all you could talk about for days.”

  I don’t move. Don’t speak. That doesn’t prove anything. They could have read my memories.

  “It’s me, baby. I’m sorry for this. This was my last resort.” She lies next to me and wraps her arms around me and the vision returns.

  I see Nana and Miss Simmons standing on the porch.

  The gun raises and fires. The bullet comes at me in slow motion. Nana grabs Miss Simmons by the back of the head and slices her forehead with a knife while chanting.

  A light, tingly feeling washes over me, something tugs at my chest, and I begin to float. Pain fills my core, leaving me breathless, and when I open my eyes, my mother’s lifeless body lies on the steps in front of me.

  Blood runs down the front of my face. Is that from the bullet? No. The bullet is in the head of the body lying on the porch. I reach up and touch my forehead, wincing when my fingers brush the large gash just above my eyes. Nana grabs me by the arm, telling me to run.

  And then Jonah is there. He reaches for Nana as they run past, and she hits him with a force that sends him flying into the railing of our porch.

  “Keep running. You’re alive. We did it. It worked,” Nana says as she shoves me into her car and speeds off.

  I feel strange—uncomfortable. Like I don’t fit here. Like my body is too small for me. My head feels as if it might split in two. A fire erupts in my chest and I—Miss Simmons—scream in agony.

  “Fight it,” Nana says. “Her soul is trying to excise you from her body. Hold on until I can give you the blood.”

  Cars whizz by as Nana guides her car onto the freeway heading out of Tacoma. I feel myself begin to fade. I want to speak, but I can’t. It hurts. Everything hurts.

  The city fades behind us and soon Nana pulls off the road and parks at a rest station. A glint of silver catches my eye, and I see the athame she’s pulled from her coat. She lifts her hand, slitting her wrist and pressing it to my lips.

  “Drink,” she says. “It’s the quickest way to get this into your system.”

  I fight against her, the coppery taste of blood tugging at the contents of my stomach.

  “We have to fix this now,” Nana commands. “If she forces you out, we are both finished and Cait is as good as dead. Drink the blood.”

  The vision fades and I snap back to my grandmother’s basement, gasping for breath.

  No way.

  It can’t be. I refuse to believe it. Could my mother have really switched bodies like the Redeemers do? My grandmother certainly knows how to do it. She’s done it enough times.

  “Do you believe me now?” Miss Simmons asks, running a finger down my cheek. I don’t want to believe her, but the gentleness of her touch is so familiar. So comforting. Is that why I have been drawn to some of her actions the last few days?

  “How do I know you’re not just filling my head with these memories to appease me?” I ask, sitting up.

  “This is exactly why I told you that you could never do this,” Nana snaps. “The agreement was she would never know. That to save her—to save us—Cait would never be able to know you were still alive.”

  Miss. Simmons stands, offering me a hand to help me up. “Please, Cait. Believe me.”

  I look at her skeptically. Nothing about her physical appearance reminds me of my mother. Still, I can’t deny the familiarity—the love—rolling off her.

  “I don’t know,” I finally manage to say. “I don’t know what to think.”

  “You’ll have to think about it later. Right now we need you to trust us, and we need to work on our plan. Tomorrow night the sacrifice will take place. It’s our only chance to save Mitch and stop Malahas from taking a human form. If that happens, we’ll have a much larger problem on our hands.”

  “But, I thought you said that wasn’t possible,” I say, looking at Miss Simmons. “You said the other night that most human forms can’t hold Malahas’s power. That she drains them quickly. That it’s difficult for her to exist outside the confines of the mountain.”

  “They think they’ve found a suitable host. The Council has been prepping someone for years. She was bred for this—with the intention of being the vessel.”

  “Who?” I ask, looking between them.

  “Only a select few actually know who she is, but I have my suspicions.”

  Of course. It’s so obvious. “Monique?” I ask.

  Nana nods. “I have every reason to believe so.”

  It makes sense. Her father is the Reverend. It seems l
ogical that they would put the Reverend in charge of protecting the future body of the queen of all soul eaters.

  “Well, then,” I say. “I’m going to very much enjoy destroying this vessel. What do we need to do?”

  We spend the next couple of hours going over the specifics of how it’s all going to go down. Nana has it all planned out and goes over every detail with the precision of a military general. When we’ve finished, I have a clear vision of what I need to do. All I need is for my power to cooperate.

  Miss Simmons dons her robe as she prepares to leave, turning back to offer me one last piece of advice. “Remember, we’ll be there to help as best we can, but honestly we’ll be nothing more than a distraction. Once they realize we’ve turned on them, they’ll try to kill us.”

  I nod my head, searching her face for any sign of my mother. If her soul really is in there, how much is actually her and how much is the real Traci Simmons? Is there a percentage allowance? Some sort of algebraic equation? If this body eats this many souls in this many minutes, how many souls are left by next Tuesday?

  So many questions.

  Nana stands from her chair and walks toward me. “We have three hours before the final Gathering. We need to get some rest. Traci, before you go, I need you to numb her.”

  “Please, call me Angeline.”

  “Not until this is over. If I slip in front of them … please. Numb her, and then be on your way.”

  I pull away from Traci—my mom—whatever—and take a step back. “What are you doing? What are you talking about, numbing me?”

  Nana walks over and places a hand on my shoulder to stop me from leaving. “I told the Council I had drained you. I promised them that I would ingrain in you the idea that you must go to the mountain tomorrow night to save your brother.”

  “What do you mean, drain me?”

  “They think I’ve managed to take away a majority of your powers, so you will be less of a threat. Traci will numb you, which will make you extremely lethargic. When you go to the Gathering in a few hours, everyone—Council and Associates—will scan you to assess any possible threat. If they see you acting normally they’ll know I lied and we’ll all be in trouble. We have to do this to make it look authentic,” Nana explains.

  My defenses spike, and I feel something start to flutter inside my chest.

  “Please, don’t fight this. It’s the only way. You’ll be fine after a few hours. Please. Relax,” Nana begs.

  I breathe deep, struggling against the power rolling within me, and the need to believe what she is saying.

  Trust her. This has to be done.

  My mother’s voice—her real voice—soothes me and my breathing eases.

  Miss Simmons places her hands on my head again and I close my eyes, waiting for what she will do to me.

  “This won’t hurt. I promise,” she says.

  Sleep tight, snugglebug.

  My mother’s voice and the words she used to speak to me every night before I went to bed fill my ears as a calming effect rolls over me. Suddenly, my entire body is heavy, and it takes every bit of energy I have to move toward the door. Cotton fills my head, my body as useless as a stuffed animal. I can hear Nana and Miss Simmons talking, but much of what they say is lost within the rubbish that fills my brain.

  I lean against Nana as she walks me through the tunnels to my house and up the stairs to my bed. Once I’m tucked in, she kisses me on the forehead and then walks away, disappearing behind the door, closing it behind her.

  I immediately sink into a deep, dark slumber. My dreams are extreme ends of happiness and terror. At one point I find myself near the falls, tied to a tree, my head ready to explode, the Redeemers swarming around me. Just as they are about to rip out my throat, the scene softens and I’m sitting between Trevor’s legs, his arms wrapped lovingly around my neck. My mother, alive and well, stands in our backyard grilling burgers while Dad and Mitch toss a football between them.

  The happy image of the picnic fills with smoke, and flames surround me. I’m trapped in some type of cave. The walls are close, making me feel extremely claustrophobic. Fear swells within me as I search for a way out. I’m wearing a dress and heels; something suited more for a wedding than cave diving. I crouch down, away from the intensifying smoke filling the cavern, and work my way forward.

  “Come home, Caitlyn.” The ominous woman’s voice from two nights ago echoes off the walls behind me, followed by a chorus of children:

  Come home. You’re home. Come with us. You’re one of us. Don’t run. We need you.

  Their voices swirl around me, riding on the smoke that tickles my nose and burns my eyes.

  I reach a dead end, but a cool breeze comes at me from above. I look up and notice an upward sloping tunnel, and I begin to climb. My nails dig into the rocks as the smoke pushes past me, swirling upward out of the tunnel.

  I see a patch of light ahead of me and I keep pulling, heat tickling my toes and extreme cold wrapping around my fingers. Snowflakes drift down from the opening above me, planting quick, wet kisses on my hands and cheeks. I pull myself forward, focusing on getting out, away from the flames.

  I slip and feel an intense pain slice through the palm of my hand. Blood trickles down my arm from the fresh cut, leaving small, angry droplets on the sleeve of my dress. I ignore the pain and push on. Grasping. Pulling.

  I hear laughter in the distance—a high-pitched cackling that makes my stomach churn. The tunnel grows wider as the laughter grows in volume. I’m almost there.

  I finally reach the top and push my arm out of the hole, placing my hand into a cold pile of snow. A jarring pain shoots through my hand and arm as something strikes me with the force of a hammer. I cry out, trying to pull myself out of the hole, when I’m hit in the shoulder with a large tree branch.

  I look up and see a woman in a long, flowing, silver dress looking down at me. The light behind her casts her body in silhouette, preventing me from seeing her face.

  “Goodbye, Caitlyn,” she says before giving one last shove with the tree branch.

  I lose my grip when the branch cuts into my shoulder. The pain is enough to cause me to release my grip, and I find myself bouncing off the surrounding rock walls as I tumble backward into the waiting flames.

  Hands grab my shoulders, pulling, tugging, shaking. I struggle against them, crying out, trying to pull free. I try to call forth the power within me, but it barely sparks before dying out like a flame doused with water.

  My eyes fly open and I peer into Nana’s face. I bolt upright in bed, drawing in a deep, gasping breath as if I’d just learned to breathe.

  “Honey, are you okay?” Nana asks, sitting next to me on the bed.

  I nod, still trying to catch my breath. I run my hand across my forehead, wiping away the sweat. The entire movement is slow and lethargic. Though I don’t feel as brain-dead as I did earlier, my body still feels heavy and numb.

  “It’s time to go to the Gathering.” Nana places her arm around my shoulders and helps me stand. “Why don’t you wash up and change so we can be on our way?”

  I walk to the bathroom feeling completely detached from my body. I’m very light-headed, though not dizzy. I just feel like I’m no longer a part of myself. It’s very similar to what I feel when I get high.

  I wash my face, ignoring the dark circles under my eyes, and run a brush through my hair before going to my room to change. I throw on a fresh shirt and grab a bulky sweater that used to belong to my mom from my closet. I throw it on as I walk down the stairs.

  I find Nana and my father sitting at the table, making plans for Thanksgiving. It’s over a month away, but I guess it beats talking about what’s happened the last few days.

  “Ready to go, kiddo?” Dad seems overly chipper, a steep contrast to the sullen man that’s inhabited his body lately. “This is the last one!”

  He wraps an arm around my shoulder as we walk down the driveway to the main road.
>
  “Just think,” Dad says. “Tomorrow morning, we’ll see sunshine. Birds will be singing, cows mooing. Tomorrow night we can pop some popcorn and watch movies all night. How does that sound?”

  “Great.” I offer him a smile and walk the rest of the way in silence. As pleasant as it all sounds, I know I still need to make it through tonight. If all goes as planned, he’ll at least have Mitch there to celebrate with even if I don’t make it back.

  When we arrive at the church, I’m surprised to see that it’s already very crowded. Every other day we were some of the first to arrive, but today it appears that we are some of the last. Everyone’s mood is much more upbeat, no doubt caused by the promise of going back to our normal lives after today.

  I glance at the stage and see Mr. and Mrs. Anderson standing on the church steps. My heart goes out to them. It was hard enough standing up there and having all eyes on me. I can only imagine how difficult it must be for them to not only have to stand up there, grieving over the loss of their grandson, but to have the rest of the town chattering as if they are at a barbecue. Part of me wants to yell out at the people of Highland Falls, tell them how insensitive they’re being. These poor people have lost their grandson. Show some respect.

  If I weren’t doped up from whatever Miss Simmons had done to me a few hours ago, I might send a friendly lightning bolt down to remind everyone of where they are, but as it stands, I can only hurt for the Andersons.

  A set of strong arms wraps around my waist, easing the sorrow. I don’t have to turn around to know they belong to Trevor.

  “Good morning, sunshine,” he says, kissing me on the cheek. “Just a few more hours and all this will be behind us.”

  “If I survive,” I whisper. My mouth struggles to form the words.

  “You will. I know you will.”

  “Good morning.” Reverend Carter’s voice rises over the mutterings of the crowd and carries across the park as if he were standing right next to me.

  “I’m happy to see all of you in such good spirits this morning. I’m just as excited as you that things will be back to normal soon, but we can’t forget that we still have a few more hours ahead of us.”