Casters Series Box Set

by Norah Wilson

  Fresh from the shower, she dressed in her faded, most comfortable jeans, and favorite Maple Leafs jersey. She looked out the bedroom window to gauge the weather. Though the day was sunny, a stiff breeze tossed the branches of the trees below, so she threw her fall jacket on too before going downstairs in search of food.

  Oh, yuk! She wrinkled her nose at the sight before her in the dining hall, where the remnants of breakfast still lay on the buffet. A pile of soggy, buttered toast. Half empty pitchers of milk. The scene was completed by a couple of happy houseflies buzzing around the table. Oh, man, why hadn’t Mrs. Betts cleared this crap away yet? It was nearly noon. More to the point, what was she going to eat?

  Ah! Perfect. One sesame bagel remained, still securely wrapped in its original plastic bag. Maryanne opened a small plastic tub and scraped up the last of the cream cheese. She spread it on the bagel, wrapped it back in the plastic bag, and grabbed a small, unopened bottle of orange juice. She shoved these in her pockets as she left Harvell House.

  She didn’t know the town well, but she’d explored enough to know there were a few secluded spots where she could stop to have a quiet lunch and just relax in the fall sunshine. There were a couple of parks within walking distance that probably wouldn’t be too crowded. But even a small handful of mothers with their bundled-up children in swings were more company than Maryanne wanted today.

  The cemetery down by the old church... As soon as the thought hit, she knew it was the perfect place.

  She’d been there before, on a Jason day when she’d found herself practically stumbling through the streets with tear-filled eyes. It was tucked away behind an ancient-looking little church, set well back from the road and gloriously out of sight. Maryanne had cried her heart out there that day.

  But this time as she pushed through the creaky old iron gate and walked to the back of the cemetery, she did so with dry eyes. Today wasn’t a Jason day. This wasn’t a Jason moment.

  And Maryanne could finally admit it—the grief had been practically non-existent last night when she’d soared in the night sky with Alex and Brooke.

  Oh, the burden of it had been there, but it had been over there, somehow. Away. Detached from her the whole time she was out there. Even when she’d shot back into her body, that detachment had persisted.

  That’s why she’d pushed herself to stay awake, to enjoy the reprieve. It hadn’t lasted. As the night moved on and morning claimed the sky, it had dissipated. By the time she awoke at 11:11, she’d struggled to hang on to that precious bit of peace.

  And now, settling on a cold stone bench at the tree-lined cemetery’s edge, Maryanne just wanted to sit alone, quietly, before the full weight of her remorse crushed her again.

  She unwrapped her bagel and popped open her juice. She looked up into the bright blue sky and wished it were night again.

  “I want to do it again,” she murmured. “I want to soar.”

  And she had soared! She had successfully tap, tap, tapped that window and cast out. Glided over the town. She felt a twinge of guilt as she thought about scaring the coyotes. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have ever imagined doing such a thing. But the experience of casting out was about as far from normal as you could get. Experiencing that duality—helpless original on the floor and practically boundless cast outside—had been far from ordinary.

  “So far from anything!”

  Maryanne had been apprehensive about reuniting with her cast. After seeing Alex’s crazed re-entry the other night, she figured she had reason to be. Yet she’d been surprised at how easy it was for her body and cast to rejoin. There had been no push through the window. No struggle or even a shrug to get back into her body. As easily as she had realized herself cast out, she had realized herself back inside her body once she’d tapped on the glass.

  But it hadn’t been just a ‘tap on the glass’. She’d mimicked Alex’s words out there.

  I want in, I want in, I want in.

  And that surge that had followed! The force of it had sent them all reeling back, one right after the other—Alex, then Maryanne and Brooke.

  All of them had been thrown to the attic’s far wall with the force of the reunion. Thinking of it now, Maryanne rubbed her left elbow that still smarted from banging into an old bureau as she’d flung past it. But at least this time, Alex hadn’t come in to land with her hands around anyone’s throat! Though Alex had raced to snatch up Connie’s diary the moment she could move again. But this time, there’d been no rage in her, which Maryanne had been very relieved to see.

  And certainly there was no rage involved for Brooke or Maryanne. Quite the opposite. Brooke had come in biting down on her excitement, barely able to contain the laughter that surely would have given them away. Maryanne’s reaction had been very similar. She’d barely managed to hold her exuberance down.

  Alex, however, hadn’t seemed to be bursting with the same excitement, maybe because she’d done it before. Whatever the reason, she hadn’t been bouncing off the walls like Brooke and Maryanne. She’d simply sat there quietly against the back wall, appearing deeper in concentration than Maryanne had ever seen her. But it was a disturbed concentration. One that caused her forehead to line and a nervous hand to fly to her face so she could chew on a black-polished thumbnail.

  Maryanne looked down at the bagel she’d been eating, deciding she didn’t want the rest of it. The juice, however, she drained. She crumbled up the bagel and tossed it on the grass for the birds to find, recapped her empty bottle and shoved it back in her coat pocket. Then she tucked her hands inside her sleeves—left hand in right sleeve, right hand in left—and leaned back on the bench, snuggling down farther inside her coat for warmth.

  The wind was beautiful today, scattering the few leaves around the low tombstones. Maryanne closed her eyes as the wind picked up and blew through her long hair. Somehow, the wind made her feel even more alone. Alone in her own thoughts.

  It was dangerous, what she, Brooke and Alex had done. Hell, she wasn’t even sure what it was they were playing with. She wasn’t sure how much even Alex knew, though Alex had read Connie’s diary cover-to-cover. But one thing she did know—if she could escape from the guilt and grief of her life, even for a while, it was worth the risk.

  ‘Me-anne’. That’s what Jason used to call her.

  Maryanne hadn’t thought of that in ages. Hadn’t allowed herself to remember it. But she thought of it now—how Jason would clap his hands and laugh and call her Me-anne over and over until she laughed and tickled his belly and called him her silly J-bug.

  Just like that, the sorrow was back, renewed, heavier. Grief wrapped around her again because of what she had done. Her throat ached and tears stung behind her closed eyelids. Her hands in her jacket clawed—“Goddamn it!”

  Maryanne’s eyes shot open, but she didn’t stir at the sound of the man’s voice. She didn’t jump up or say anything. But she saw him and she recognized the older gentleman who stood nearby.

  It was C. W. Stanley from Harvell House. The pontificating old benefactor. The one who’d asked if she had any siblings.

  What was he doing here?

  Okay, then again—what was she doing here? That would be the first question Mr. Stanley would pose, no doubt, if he caught sight of her here. The last thing she wanted to do was have to explain herself. Or to have Mr. Stanley raise questions about Mrs. Betts’s chaperoning. Or lack thereof.

  Maryanne sat very still, hoping he wouldn’t turn to see her sitting just off to his right.

  She felt like a snoop. Like she was invading his privacy. From her own days of visiting Jason’s grave, she knew how personal cemetery visits could be. Still, she felt compelled to watch.

  “I’m... I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself,” he said, his words strangled.

  Maryanne held her breath as Mr. Stanley took a seat on the small marble bench placed by an old headstone. It was one of the largest stones in the graveyard, like those she’d seen with the names of many fam
ily members written on the front, or one that belonged to a very rich family. He leaned forward to run a hand over the top of the smooth stone then sat back again. From where Maryanne sat, she had only a profile view of his face, but she could still see the sadness in it. He was old; it was no surprise that he’d lost someone. But there was something more than sadness. Something deeper than lonesomeness for a departed loved one.

  Anguish. She knew the label was accurate the moment it came into her mind. That’s what Maryanne saw in the old man’s face as she watched him there.

  In less than ten minutes, C. W. Stanley stood. He looked down at the bench, frowned, and lifted a corner to straighten it. The apparently fastidious man, bent to straighten it two more times before he was satisfied. He ran his hand again over the polished stone.

  He must care so deeply.

  Mr. Stanley drew a deep breath. And somehow he drew his grief deep down inside again. Hiding it, or sheltering it with his public façade. With his back again straight and his arms at his sides, he walked briskly toward the cemetery gate. The wind picked up again as he walked around the last of the headstones and further away from Maryanne.

  And with every step the old man took, Maryanne somehow shared his pain.

  The peace was gone. Every shred of it now. And the grief was only heavier as it fully reconnected.

  “Me-anne! Me-anne! Me-anne!” It was as if the very wind carried Jason’s heartbreaking cry, causing pain to bloom in her chest.

  Suddenly, Maryanne more than wanted to cast out again. She craved it. No matter the unknown danger; no matter the cost! She would cast back into the night and find that reprieve. It was more than a foolish wish now, made at 11:11.

  With tears in her eyes as she walked along, she swore to God, she would cast out again.

  Chapter 12

  Read On

  Alex

  “What a... prick.”

  Maryanne hooked the completed math assignments into her binder and snapped the rings shut, continuing to mutter about her math teacher.

  Alex grinned as the usually polite Maryanne Hemlock colored the air with her opinion of Mr. McKenzie. Alex had had McKenzie for Math last year herself, and couldn’t agree more about his prick status. And so the extra math homework he sent home for Maryanne via Brooke didn’t surprise her. It hadn’t surprised Brooke either. But it was clearly a shock to Maryanne. Which was quite hilarious, really. Maryanne hadn’t been the least bit sick today, yet here she was getting all bent out of shape about a guy who sent extra homework to sick people.

  “Are you sure he gave me extra, Brooke?” she asked again.

  “Yep. Two pages for everyone else in class, four pages for you. Wrote them up special.” Brooke grinned devilishly. “You should feel honored to be so missed.”

  “Honored isn’t the word I’m looking for here,” Maryanne grated.

  “Okay, he’s a genuine, gold-plated tool,” Alex agreed. “But the homework is done, right? So let’s move on.”

  “Right.” Maryanne inhaled a big, calming breath and exhaled it. “You’re so right.” Yet she still used more force than necessary when she shoved her binder into her book bag and dropped it onto the floor at the end of the bed. “Okay, ready to read, Alex?”

  Ready to read? Ready to share Connie’s world with the others? Not really. Not by a long shot. But she didn’t exactly have any choice, did she? Her roommates were both deep in that world now, almost as deep as Alex herself. There were things they needed to know... Alex produced the diary from beneath her pillow. Maryanne’s mood seemed to lift instantly, and Brooke sat a little straighter when she caught sight of the little leather-bound book.

  “Ah, so that’s where you keep it stashed.”

  Alex didn’t respond to Brooke. She didn’t need to. The other girl knew damned well she didn’t keep it there. Yes, she’d tucked it under her pillow until tonight’s reading time, but that wasn’t its customary hiding place. She didn’t even keep it in the room with her. Not a freaking chance! Brooke had already snooped through her things once. And just about anyone could enter the room in the daytime, while the girls were at school. So when Connie’s little book wasn’t on Alex’s person, she kept it tucked away in a spot so well-hidden, the world would never find it.

  “So what did Connie write?” Brooke sat cross-legged on the bed, her knees bouncing a bit with restrained excitement. “About the scream, I mean.”

  Even though it had been Alex’s idea—okay, her absolute, desperate need—to postpone any discussion of last night’s events, it had been hard, even for her. And it had been absolute torture for the other two. Brooke especially had been excited about the events that had unfolded. She loved casting. And Alex could see it in Maryanne’s eyes too—that excitement. Joy. Abandon.

  Her roommates had come back into their bodies on a high they could barely contain. And yes, probably with a touch of fear. Alex had come back with those feelings too, but also with something else. Something the other girls couldn’t possibly share. She’d come back with the vaguest of memories of the night of her rape. She’d needed to focus every ounce of her energy on trying to recover those memories. Which was why she’d postponed the post mortem. She was afraid she’d lose what few tendrils she’d managed to grasp if she allowed her attention to be diverted.

  Not that she remembered everything. Just a shadow of... something. Someone. Hurting her. Oh, how he laughed, low and deep in his throat, and oh how she’d cried. She remembered that much.

  The hammer just outside her memory had cracked a little into her mind. She was almost sure of it. And though she reached to remember more, reached to remember concretely, dear God, she was afraid to. So very afraid it would all come crashing down and around her.

  If she recaptured the nightmare, would it recapture her?

  “Hello? Earth to Alex! Come in, Alex.” With an extended thumb and pinkie, Maryanne mimicked shouting into a phone as she sought Alex’s attention.

  Crap. Alex shook her head to clear it. “Sorry, my mind was wandering.”

  “Nowhere nice,” Brooke observed.

  Double crap. Brooke knew something was amiss in Alex’s world. Alex could see it in the other girl’s sharp, all-seeing, brown eyes. Damn her!

  Alex shrugged casually, easily, belying the panic she had to fight down. “Whatever.” She opened Connie’s diary to the page she’d chosen earlier. “You guys ready to hear this?” Her gaze moved between Maryanne and Brooke as she asked.

  “Absolutely,” Maryanne said.

  Brooke straightened on the bed. “Bring it on.”

  Alex pulled a deep breath. The last few nights they’d read in the attic. It had seemed important—it had been important—to read the words the way they’d been written. Where they’d been written, at least at the beginning. But now... she cast a glance at Maryanne and Brooke. Now these words—all of it—had gone well beyond the attic walls.

  Alex began to read.

  September 22, 1962

  Something strange happened tonight. Well, more strange than usual. It was terrifying. Oh, but it felt wonderful too!

  Something rose up from inside me tonight. I mean, from deep, deep inside. Maybe from a place I hadn’t even known existed until tonight.

  Or accepted until tonight? Could that be it?

  Everyone thinks I’m such a mouse. Everyone thinks I’m that quiet, passive, voiceless girl. And God help me, I am. That’s the way they want me. That’s how they’ve made me. Every last damned one of them. But I wasn’t quiet tonight. I was NOT passive. And I was far from voiceless.

  Dear Diary, from the time I open my eyes in the morning now, I count the hours until night comes so I can soar out again.

  I don’t have a clock or even a watch up here in my prison, so this is how I keep track of the hours: I know my first meal comes at noon. My mother sends it up on the dumbwaiter my stepfather and Billy built into this old house. That’s so I can’t see her for even a minute. That’s one of my stepfather’s rules. One of my
punishments for being such a whore. And I know my supper comes at six. Again, by the lift, or with Billy if he’s home and inclined to unlock the door, climb the stairs and torment me some more.

  After supper is when I really start counting down the time. Literally. I eat slowly. Then I start counting—one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, three-Mississippi, all the way to 725-Mississippi. That’s a little over 12 minutes. Then I do it again and again and again and again—and mark it off in lines, sets of five that I scratch inside the closet door. Every set of five is one hour. When I tire of that, I recite out loud the few poems I memorized from school, then lyrics from songs I heard on the radio, all to pass the time. I close my eyes tightly and keep them closed for as long as I can while I sit on the floor by the window, hoping that when I open them again, the sky will be a bit darker, and I will be that little bit closer to the only escape I know.

  I did all of this tonight, as I always do. I set my pillow and blanket beside me to cushion my body when it hits the floor. And I tap, tap, tapped on the window as I stared up at the Madonna. Once I was out, I raced away from the house. Maybe it was the day’s loneliness that sent me soaring away so fast. Maybe it was Billy’s threatening words when he brought up my cold meal: “I’ll be back later on.” Or maybe it was because today I felt the baby kick for the very first time. The baby I know I will never get to keep. Whatever it was, I soared fast and far until I found myself further away than ever before.

  Over at Walker’s farm...

  “Seth Walker’s family’s farm?” Brooke shook her head at the question as soon as she asked it. “Oh God, it would have to be! Seth bragged about that farm being in the family for generations.”

  “But that’s not so far,” Maryanne said. “We went there the other night on our first cast out.”

  “Yeah, we being the operative word,” Alex pointed out. “It would probably seem a lot further to Connie, out there on her own. Would you have gone that far alone? Without the courage of a group?”

  “Omigod!” Brooke said. “Seth’s grandfather! The old man died last year, but Seth said that right up until he croaked, he used to ramble on about—” All at once, Brooke paled.