9
Remy opened the book, cleared his throat, and read from the diary of Luke Todd.
10/7/66
Today is my 16th birthday, and I’m a monster. If I were a little older, I’d tell people I’d been in Vietnam. My face looks burned up. In a couple of places you can almost see bone. No one looks at me. Even the hoods at school leave me alone, finally. And Amy—Beauty and the Beast.
10/10/66
Three weeks ago. Will never forget that day when Amy and I became more than just friends. The first kiss for both of us. We’d been hiking in the woods. I know a place where a circle of stones sits in a clearing, and she seemed as eager to see it as I was to show it to her. We both knew we were in a serious crush. Being together at school over the last couple of weeks had seemed different. We were giddy. We both wondered if the other felt the same, but at the same time we knew that we did.
Finally we were alone together, and we could say what we wanted. We left the woods holding hands. I felt like the king of the universe.
That was then. This is now. I haven’t been in school for ten days. Dad’s hardly noticed. He works all day. Anyway, he’s been a zombie since Brian was killed. The first week Amy called every day. I’d pick up the phone and wait for someone to speak. When I heard her voice, I’d hang up. Once she even came by the house, but I stayed in my room until she went away. I can’t stand for her to see me like this. I don’t want anyone to see me like this; I don’t see a way out.
10/11/66
I don’t know anyone I can talk to. Guess that’s what diaries are for. But I wonder if I’m just quietly going crazy. “They’re coming to take me away! Ha-ha! Hoho! Hee-hee!” They played that song a lot last summer. Back then I thought it was funny.
My face looks like hell, but that’s just part of it. I’m so cold sometimes! My lips and hands and feet are blue. I tried to feel my heart beating the other day, and it was so slow. And the dreams! That blow-torched face with the yellow eyes staring at me. Is that my face?
10/12/66
The crazy part is this: I feel like something inside me, something that isn’t me, is taking me over. Using me. Spending me. For what?
10/13/66
I don’t know why I keep going back to that place in the woods. It’s like I’m drawn. Like there’s something there that wants me to show up. And I’m starting to stutter. I’ll just be talking to myself—yeah, like a crazy person—and I can’t get the words out. It’s like other words are trying to come out at the same time and there’s a kind of verbal traffic jam. Once in a while the other words will slip out. They don’t make any sense. But they come out loudly, like they’d been bottled up for a long time.
There’s a kid at church with some kind of problem. Every now and then, during Mass, he’ll just yell out a swear word. Everyone pretends they don’t hear. In school a couple of months ago, we saw a film about people speaking in tongues. They seemed to be babbling to me. But Fr. Remy said they believed the sounds they were making came from God. I wonder if the devil could make someone speak in tongues?
What’s happening to me?
10/15/66
As I’m writing this, I’m in more pain than I thought was possible. Not physical pain. Worse. I’m sick of heartbreak, of feeling it, of causing it.
Yesterday, I went to the woods again, for reasons I don’t understand. Back to the circle of stones. Except this time someone was there. Amy seemed to be meditating. Or praying. I should have turned back right then, but the place was pulling me. When I got within twenty feet of her, I said her name. She jumped a little and turned toward me. Her mouth fell open. There was a second of silence while she tried to understand what she was seeing, and then she let out a scream. I will never, ever allow that scream to happen again. There is no pain worse than causing pain to someone you love. I covered my face, turned, and ran away as fast as I could. Amy kept screaming. Was she calling me? I didn’t stop to listen. My fault, my fault.
10/16/66
This person (?) inside of me who wants to take me over: I’ve started calling him Al. I don’t like Al. He’s angry and violent. I’m in his way, and yet he needs me. Al is the one who interrupts when I speak. Al is the one who takes me to horrible places when I dream.
I’ve felt him working on my mind and my body. Yesterday, Dad said something about some chore I hadn’t done—as if he has a right to criticize—and Al wanted to kill him. Not just a temper flare. Al had a time, place, and weapon in mind. And I could feel in my muscles the kind of pleasure Al would take in beating my father to a bloody mess. Al needs my body and my will. Every day he seems a little closer to getting what he wants. But I know a way to stop him.
10/17/66
Another night of Al’s dreams. I know now that they’re Al’s, not mine. Fire—there’s always fire and always screaming and always the smell of flesh burning. But this morning I feel better than I have in a long time. Al, you look like toast, and today you are. Dad, Amy, I’m sorry. I love you both.
Remy closed the diary. No one had anything to say, but Tara had tears on her cheeks. I was freaking out inside, but I didn’t say anything. Finally, the priest broke the silence.
“Obviously, Luke’s affliction drove him mad. The day of this last entry was the day he hanged himself.”
“All because of a skin problem?” Tara asked.
“It would seem so,” Remy replied. “Although there was something strange about that.”
“What?”
“When they cut him down, Luke’s skin was perfectly clear.”
10
No scars?” Doc Farmer asked. “Nothing,” Remy said. “Except where the rope was.”
Tara looked at me. “Nick, does any of this sound like what you’ve been feeling?”
Sometimes you’re so full that nothing can come out. I tried. “Yeah. The clearing and the round stone wall—I know where that is. The coldness and the dreams. And the anger that seems to come from nowhere.”
“Nick,” the doctor said, “the reason I came today was because I got a call from my dermatologist friend. He’s not sure you have acne. He says your skin looks more like what he’s seen in patients who’ve been burned.”
I flashed on the face in the well.
Remy was getting up from the table. “I have a Bible study in thirty minutes,” he said. “May I bless you, Nick?” He put his hands on my forehead and my face—an act of courage for some—and said some Catholic stuff. Then he left.
Now there were three of us.
“Doctor—” I began.
“You can call me Zach.”
“What does your friend think about my skin?”
“He’s concerned,” Zach said. “In rare cases, acne develops into a spreading infection that actually eats the flesh. It can be fatal.” I must have looked pretty scared. “I wouldn’t worry yet. It’s really, really rare, and Ron has only seen a photo. But he’ll be in Bridgewater next week. He’d be glad to look at you. No charge.
“It’s funny, though, that he should mention burn wounds. Burn victims often die from hypothermia— from coldness. Their system is shocked, and they can’t maintain their body temperature. It’s strange. You have burns without pain, but with some of the symptoms of a burn victim. I wonder . . .”
His cell phone went off. (Coldplay, “Viva La Vida.”) He looked at the phone, said he’d be back in a minute, and headed out to the living room.
Tara took a sip of her tea. “So, Nick, what are you reading these days?”
“Not much,” I said. “A couple of weeks ago I started a Stephen King book, but . . .”
“Now you have enough scary stuff going on in real life?”
I nodded.
“Can you tell me about it?”
So I talked about the fight at school and the dream I’d had the night before. I watched her eyes for that look that says, Uh-oh, freaky, sorry I asked. But all I saw was kindness and concern. When I was through, she didn’t say anything at first. Then she reached out her han
ds and took both of mine.
Just then the doc returned. “Sorry,” he said. “That was Bob, a friend at the hospital. We were supposed to play racquetball this afternoon, but he has to cancel. Things got crazy in a hurry at the hospital. They brought in a kid this morning, and now the place is crawling with police.”
He seemed to think of something. “Nick, don’t you go to Bridgewater High?”
“Yeah.”
“Hang on a second.” The doc texted something and waited. The reply was quick. “Nick, do you know a kid named Stenson? John Stenson?”
“Jack? Yeah, I know who he is.”
“He’s the one they brought into the hospital this morning.”
“Jack?”
“Or what was left of him.”
11
We turned on the TV. A reporter was on the scene, standing in front of County Hospital.
“. . . in a bizarre attack that has left the youngster clinging to life,” she was saying. “We have Sheriff Sean Brady with us. Sheriff, what can you tell us about this brutal incident?”
Sheriff Brady was graying, with one of those bellies you see on movie cops.
“Well, the boy’s parents called 911 around nine this morning. They were very upset. The victim was in his room, unconscious. There was a lot of blood.”
“What did you see when you arrived at the scene?”
“The victim had lost a great deal of blood, as I said. He had numerous wounds, especially to the face and neck. He was breathing but not responding.”
“What kind of wounds did he have, Sheriff?”
“I won’t speculate on that at this time. The doctors will help us make that determination.”
“Did the victim’s family see or hear anything unusual before they discovered the boy?”
“We’re still interviewing the family. It’s a difficult time for them.”
“We can only imagine! Thank you, Sheriff. Once again, a Bridgewater teenager was rushed to County Hospital this morning, the apparent victim of a vicious assault. . .”
I turned off the TV. Doc Farmer’s expression was grim. “I heard he lost half his blood. He was in shock when the paramedics got there.”
“Did Bob say anything about his injuries?” Tara asked.
“He was beaten and cut. Repeatedly. With what, they don’t know. Bob said his face was unrecognizable.”
After a silence, Tara said, “OK, Nick, we need to get going. You have Zach’s number. Call us anytime, all right? I’ll check in with you on Monday.” Then she gave me a long hug.
I walked out with them. The rain had stopped. Just as we got to their car, I heard a familiar voice.
“Nicholas!”
It was Emma. She’d probably been watching the house for hours. We waited while she hurried over. “You’ve had visitors this morning!”
“Hello, Miss Costello,” Tara said.
Emma squinted at Tara a moment, then she exclaimed, “Tara Kelly! You were a freshman in my last year at Saint Philomena!”
“That’s right,” Tara smiled.
“Are you still a good Catholic girl? I heard you’d married a doctor.”
Tara introduced her to Zach.
“Your friend the priest was here too,” I said, though I was sure she knew already.
“Father Remy, yes. Was he comforting, Nicholas?”
“Well, he told us about a Saint Philomena kid back in the sixties who hanged himself.”
“Luke Todd,” Emma murmured, shaking her head sadly. “He was in my tenth grade class.”
“You knew Luke?” Tara asked.
“I made it a point to know all of my students,” Emma said proudly.
“Did Luke have a girlfriend?” Tara asked. “Someone named Amy?”
“Well,” Emma recalled, “they tried not to be obvious about it. But I don’t miss too much.” She smiled. “They were really darling together.”
“Do you know what became of Amy?”
“I do. After Luke . . . passed away, Amy Plasse— that was her name—became very devout. When she graduated, she joined the Sisters of the Holy Blood. Their cloister is out in the country, north of Baytown.”
I didn’t know the word. “Cloister, ma’am?”
“Sisters in a cloister stay in one place all their lives,” Emma explained. “They devote themselves to constant prayer.”
Tara looked at me. “Nick, I’m going to give the sisters a call. Maybe we can go out there tomorrow. I feel like the more we know about Luke Todd, the more we’ll know about what’s going on with you.”
The Farmers drove off and Emma went home. I went back in the house and tried to process all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. The dream. Luke Todd. The attack on Stenson. Tara’s hug as she left.
I jumped a little when the phone rang. I looked at the caller ID. It was the Sheriff’s Department.
12
I waited until the phone stopped ringing and then checked the message. The recorded voice was the same as the one from TV, Sheriff Brady himself. Nicholas Barry, please call my office about an important matter, etc. I erased it. If Mom got that call, she’d freak.
And then, just as she was pulling up, the phone rang again. It was Tara.
“Nick, I called the cloister. Amy Plasse is Sister Marie now. It’s all right for us to make a short visit tomorrow afternoon. Can I get you at one?”
“Sure.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah. Uh, my mom just came in.”
“OK, see you tomorrow.”
“Who was that?” Mom asked.
“Um, the library. I’ve got a book overdue.”
Mom had brought home pizza. So much for fighting zits with healthy food. But her mood was OK. After a dish of ice cream, she headed for her room. “Long day, Nick, and an early morning tomorrow. I’m turning in. Don’t forget to lock up.”
I did the dishes and put out some food for Toby. I could feel him watching me from a safe distance, from one of those places cats find to make themselves invisible. Why did he hate me these days?
Night was falling, as it always does, even when it’s the last thing you want. I wished I could talk to someone. I almost tried Tara, but it was getting late. I’d see her tomorrow, anyway. This having-a-friend thing was new, but I could already see how much I needed it.
I was beat. You’d have thought I’d been chopping wood all day. But I fought sleep. No more dreams, I prayed. No more dreams. God always answers prayers, Emma had told me once. It’s just that sometimes his answer is no. Tonight was one of those times.
I was in the woods again, heading for the well. I could see a red glow in the sky over the clearing. As I got closer, the high-pitched screaming began again. I looked ahead to see the well glowing blood red, as if it were brimming with lava. Down into the clearing I went. Despite the fiery pit not twenty feet from me, I was desperately cold. The sounds of tortured people seemed to be coming from all around me, and I looked up into the trees.
Dead men hung like Christmas ornaments from branches all around the circle. Their bloodshot eyes and black tongues bulged out. Their heads were tilted at impossible angles above their nooses. They moaned and twitched as if they were desperate to get down.
Suddenly there was a roar. Flames shot from the well, three stories into the air. At the top of the column of fire, the scalded face I’d seen the night before grinned at me. It hovered there, roasting like a marshmallow in the flame. The stench of burning flesh was overpowering.
As I turned to run, I bumped smack into Butch Blackstreet. The living corpse of Butch Blackstreet. He had a noose dangling from his hand. He was grinning as he held it out to me, and I could smell his rotten breath. I tried to run around him, but he tackled me to the ground. He had long nails that cut like knives and rotten yellow teeth that snapped at my face. Somehow I got my hands around his throat and squeezed as hard as I could. Something snapped. The creature went limp, and I woke up.
I lay for a long time in the shad
ows of my room. I craved a few minutes more in this “safe” place, between the sadness of my world and the horrors of my dreams.
My arms hurt, and the skin on my chest burned. Finally I leaned over and turned on the lamp by my bed. The first thing I saw was a map of deep, bleeding scratches, like claw marks, on my extended arm. My other arm was the same.
I carefully took off my shirt. My chest was crisscrossed with the same marks—the “writing” I had noticed after the last dream shone darkly through.
The clock said 3:30 A.M. I went to the bathroom to wash up, not turning on the light. Something flashed as I bent toward the sink. For the first time in days, I looked into the mirror. My eyes—were they mine?—and teeth glowed red in the dark. The pimples on my face were like dozens of red stars in a night sky. It wasn’t a face I recognized. I thought of Luke Todd’s words: “Something is taking me over.” Now I knew what he meant. That thing in the mirror—it wasn’t me.
After I washed up, I went outside. Softly, so I wouldn’t wake Mom. The moon was full. At this hour, the neighborhood—even Emma—was asleep. I drank in the quiet. My heart had been pounding when I woke up. Now it gradually slowed to normal. The coldness in my bones was going away.
Then I noticed a dark object on the step. I slipped back into the living room and found one of Mom’s lighters by the recliner. I came back and clicked it on over the thing.
It was Toby. He stared blankly into the flame, a small pool of blood by his mouth. His head bent at an odd angle to his body. His neck was broken.
13
I’m too old to cry, but I lost it when I saw Toby.
I remembered how he used to jump in my lap when I was reading. He’d head-butt my book out of the way so he could snuggle against my chest. Then he’d purr like a lawn mower. I wondered again why he’d been avoiding me for the last weeks.
Skin (Night Fall ™) Page 3
