by Rick Hautala
“What the—? Where have you—?”
He stopped and gritted his teeth as a thought struck him.
“Do you mean to tell me you’ve been out there, to the mill this morning?”
Dianne’s upper lip curled back into a sneer that was made all the more horrible by the tangle of wires that covered her teeth. For the first time since her accident, Edward saw how horrible, how truly repulsive she looked. A cold wave of guilt and pity cut through him when he considered that this must be how Brian saw her.
“I—I just don’t see what you’re upset about. I mean, so there’s an old building out behind the house. What’s the big deal?”
“There’s someone out there,” Dianne said, her voice crackling with intensity. “There’s someone living out there!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Edward said. He wanted to sound confident but couldn’t stop the shudder that raced through him.
“And you’re right,” Dianne went on, glaring at him with wide-open eyes. “I was out there late last night and early this morning. I don’t know what the hell was going on, but I saw … I saw somebody out there!”
Edward was staggered. The mere mention of the mill instantly brought to mind a single, clear image of Ray Saunders, sprawled on the pile of rotting sawdust with his back and legs bent around at an impossible angle. For some crazy reason, even though he knew that Ray Saunders was still alive and living in town, confined to a wheelchair, all he could think was that if Dianne had seen anything out there, it must have been Ray Saunders’s ghost … or at least the spirit of the person Sandy would have been had he not been crippled for life in that accidental fall through the trapdoor.
No! It wasn’t an accident!
Edward had to grind his teeth together hard to keep from crying out.
You know damned right well it wasn’t an accident, and you know damned right well whose fault it really was!
“It—it’s nothing … really,” he said. To his own ears his voice trembled horribly, but he hoped Dianne wouldn’t notice. “I—I don’t know why you’d even be going out there in the first place—especially at night, but—hey, if the place bothers you, just don’t go out there. Forget it’s even there.”
“Forget about it!” Dianne screamed as she clenched her fists and shook them. “That may be easy for you to say, but I saw something out there. Something that scared the shit out of me!”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
“As if you’d give a shit!” she shouted. With that, she turned on her heel and strode out of the room, her sodden nightgown swishing like sandpaper as she stomped upstairs and slammed the bedroom door shut—hard—behind her.
For a tense, silent moment, Edward just stood there, staring at the empty kitchen doorway. His legs felt rubbery, and he had to lean back against the counter for support. The coffee maker had long since stopped sputtering and hissing, but the thought of drinking a cup of coffee—of anything—made his stomach do a sour flip.
He knew that right now, without even thinking, he should go upstairs and talk to her, try to get her to talk about what was really bothering her. Now more than ever, she needed his support, but looking deep inside himself, he knew that he didn’t have that kind of strength … not right now. Thinking about the old mill had filled him with a dark, nameless dread.
No … not nameless.
He knew exactly what was bothering him. He had already been out there recently, after Brian mentioned being out there, but he thought maybe after breakfast he should go out and have another look around.
Then again, maybe the best thing would be to forget it even existed—let the place rot away into ruins just like the horrible memories he had of the place!
Edward went through the mechanical motions of preparing himself breakfast, sitting down and eating it. Then, without another word to Dianne, he got into his truck and drove out to the construction site. Somewhere along the way, he convinced himself that going out to the abandoned mill would only stir up more painful memories. He had already checked it out and had decided that the best thing to do was forget about the whole thing. If nothing else, he could immerse himself in his work, and maybe when he went home for lunch, Dianne would be feeling better and they could talk about everything that was bothering her. He convinced himself the way she was acting had nothing to do with him or the mill—it had everything to do with the trauma and surgery she was going through and the prospect of having her jaw free after so many months of being wired shut. But if she was starting to unravel, he had to let her know that, above everything else, he was going to be strong for her, whenever she needed him and for as long as she needed him … no matter what was gnawing at him!
Dianne had the bedroom window shades drawn and was lying on the bed with her hands pressed hard against her eyes, watching as bright spirals of light trailed across her retina. At some point—she didn’t even bother to look at the clock—she heard Brian’s bedroom door open and shut. She listened tensely as he went downstairs, but as soon as he was out of hearing, she pushed aside any more thoughts about him.
She had enough problems of her own.
This afternoon, Dr. Collett would be taking the wires from her jaw and checking on how well her face had healed. As much as she wanted to be done with this ordeal, she was terrified, wondering what it would feel like to have the use of her jaw back. And beyond that, she couldn’t stop fretting about what she would look like once this was all over. Dr. Collett had assured her time and again that he could remove most of the disfiguring scar tissue with plastic surgery, something he called “Z-plasty,” but day after day, what echoed in her thoughts was the word—most!
“Most of the disfiguring scar tissue!”
When this was all over, how much damage would remain?
She’d have the use of her jaw, but for the rest of her life, how disfigured would she be? When—if ever—would she recognize herself when she looked into the mirror?
She kept reminding herself that such thoughts were normal; her therapist had assured her of that. But knowing and feeling were two different things. The stark fear that she was no longer and never would be the same person she had once been—both inside as well as outside—had burrowed deeply into her mind and wouldn’t let go. Being able to eat and talk normally wasn’t going to be near enough to make her feel like herself again.
And besides all of that, right now she was angry … angry as hell!
She didn’t know or even want to know the source of her anger, but it, too, wound around inside her like a violent rage she was afraid would sometime, without warning, suddenly burst out of her against her will. Deep down in her soul, she knew that this wasn’t like her—not the real her. She couldn’t stop wondering if the person she used to be had indeed died in that accident up on Mt. Chocorua.
New face and all, like it or not, she was somebody else now.
Christ … who? Who the hell am I?
Whimpering softly, she heaved herself up off the bed and walked over to the bureau … the bureau that had once been Evelyn Fraser’s. Her hands trembled as she opened a drawer and took out some clean underwear. She cursed again as she slid the drawer shut because every time she used the dresser, she was painfully aware that this was not her dresser, just as the mirror hanging above it was not her mirror, and this was not her bed or her bedroom or her house. They had all belonged to Evelyn Fraser, and in many ways, they still belonged to Edward’s mother … certainly more to Evelyn than to her.
Sighing deeply, she rubbed her red, swollen face as she stared into the mirror. The skin looked like ripply, red leather—completely fake. She probed the wires inside her mouth, feeling an overwhelming impulse to rip them out with her bare hands.
But it was her eyes—her eyes that held her, fascinated.
A cold grip tightened inside her, and she almost screamed out loud when she had the uncanny sensation that she was looking at someone else. Her eyes were someone else’s eyes—someone who blinked when she blinked, and shi
fted her eyes when she shifted hers.
“Oh, Jesus, you’re losing it, girl! … You’re losing it bad!” she whispered.
A deep chord of terror thrummed in her heart when she saw her lips move as she spoke. The hard, grating whisper of her voice set her nerves even more on edge. And then it hit her!
—That face I saw in the mill window last night! What if … when the doctor’s all through with me … what if once the wires are gone and I look into the mirror for the first time … what if all I see is that same, horrible, expressionless, lifeless face I saw in the mill window?
She watched, curiously detached as tears formed in her eyes and spilled over, streaking her cheeks like glycerin. Her vision went blurry, and a wave of dizziness almost unbuckled her legs, but she gripped the top of the dresser and stared long and hard at herself, praying desperately to see even a faint spark of familiarity in the eyes that were staring back at her. She blinked her eyes slowly, wishing to hell the dissociated feeling would go away, but with every hammering beat of her heart, it got worse.
What’s the hell’s wrong with me? … What’s the hell’s wrong with me?
And then, in a whisper as faint as an evening breeze, another voice spoke inside her head.
It’s all because of him, you know!
She tensed; knowing exactly who “him” was—
“Edward!” she whispered.
She continued to stare at her reflection and watched as her lips peeled back, exposing discolored teeth and a gummy network of wires. Every ragged breath she took hissed through the wires, making saliva bubble up like foam on a rabid animal’s mouth. She realized with an aching pain just how horrible she must be to look at. Why would Edward even want to be near her, much less want to kiss her? She could easily imagine that, behind the wires, her mouth was filled with the convoluted, backward-pointing teeth of a lamprey eel,
“And this is all because of Edward!”
She couldn’t distinguish if it was a thought or a voice.
A low, rumbling sound started deep within her chest. A small portion of her mind wondered why she would let herself get so worked up. Why did just thinking about it make her feel such hostility, such hatred? Sure, she had been scared by what she had seen last night, but all of that must have been in her imagination … or she had been sleepwalking and had dreamed the whole thing, mistaking a nightmare for reality.
But she pushed such thoughts aside as the anger welled up inside her like a raging, black tide.
My whole life’s become a waking nightmare, and it’s all because of Edward!
She glanced down at her hands as if they belonged to someone else and saw that they were clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists. The veins stood out like blue pencils beneath the skin. Deep muscle tremors shook her body as a flood of heat rushed to her face. When she looked back at the mirror, she saw that her complexion—No! That’s not really my face!—had turned a mottled scarlet.
None of this would have ever happened if it hadn’t been for him!
She wanted to scream, but no matter how hard she struggled, the wires held her jaw shut, her teeth clamped firmly together. She thrashed like a person whose arms and legs were secured by loop upon loop of thick rope. The pressure was steadily building up inside her until—at last—it exploded. Nearly blind with rage, she twisted to one side and then, spinning on her foot, brought her clenched fist around in a wide arc. There was a heavy thump followed by a dull, splintering sound as a white cobweb exploded across the mirror.
Dianne was mildly surprised that the noise wasn’t louder. She had been expecting—had wanted—to hear an ear-shattering shotgun blast of glass and wood as the mirror and its frame were pulverized by her single blow. She took a deep breath that sounded like the wild roar of a racing engine, then collapsed forward onto the bureau and stared at her reflection, now broken into dozens—hundreds of jagged triangles. She counted at least ten reflections of her eyes—eyes that she was now positive were no longer hers.
“Damn you!” she whispered in a raw, shattered voice. “Goddamn you all to hell, Edward!”
“Hey, man, it’s been a while. Too goddamned long! What the hell’ve you been up to?”
“Not a whole helluva lot,” Edward said.
He forced himself to smile as he stood in the doorway of the living room. The shades were drawn to block out the bright morning sunlight. The room was cast with a pressing, pervasive gloom. The air smelled old and stale, like a house where someone had recently died. In the far corner, the blue glow of a TV flickered, but the sound was turned down too low to hear.
There came a high dentist-drill whining as Ray Saunders worked the controls of his wheelchair and swung around so he could face his visitor. The sight of his crippled friend sent a jolt of sadness mingled with anxiousness racing through Edward. He took a few hesitant steps forward, then abruptly stopped when Ray started moving his wheelchair forward.
“Hey, don’t worry. I won’t run you over,” he said with a forced, hearty laugh. “And even if I do, I have collision insurance.”
“Uh—your brother was just leaving when I got here,” Edward said, shrugging with a smile that inside felt completely phony and forced. “He told me it was okay to come right in.”
“Sure, no problem. Come on in and have a seat,” Ray said, twitching his head in the direction of the couch.
Edward rubbed his hands together as he went over to the couch and sat down. He perched on the edge of the cushion as though ready to bolt out of there in a flash. There were more mechanical sounds as Ray jockeyed the wheelchair around into position in front of the couch. Before the wheelchair turned, Edward noticed the bumper stickers plastered on the back of the leather seat: CAUTION I BRAKE JUST FOR THE HELL OF IT! and GAS, GRASS, OR ASS—NOBODY RIDES FOR FREE! The grim humor made him chuckle … at least a little.
“Something the matter?” Ray asked once the two friends were seated and facing each other. “I mean, no one we know has died or anything, have they?”
It never failed to surprise Edward how clear and precise Ray’s voice sounded. For some reason, he always expected a person who was confined to a wheelchair to have slurred speech; but he didn’t need to remind himself that Ray’s condition wasn’t the result of any mental deficiency.
“Ah—no, no. Nothing’s the matter,” Edward said softly. His knuckles crackled as he twined and twisted his fingers together. “It’s just that it’s—” He shrugged. “I hadn’t stopped by for a visit in quite a while, you know, and I thought—”
“In a while! Christ, man, it’s probably been something like five or six fucking years,” Ray said. “I think the last time I saw you was at Charlie Costello’s funeral.” There was no trace of bitterness or anger in his voice, and his face seemed not to betray any hidden thoughts or emotions, but Edward cringed under his friend’s words as if he had been given a lashing with a whip.
“Umm, that’s right.”
“Good ole’ Fish-eyes,” Ray said, taking a deep breath and shaking his head. “Who’d’ve thought he’d ever end up like that, huh? Getting into a barroom brawl and getting knocked into a coma he never came out of. Key-rist! You know, it’s crazy how we all ended up over the years, isn’t it?”
All Edward could do was grunt and nod as he stared down at his fingers, which were melded together like a knot of earthworms in a bait bucket.
“So if nobody’s died, why’d you stop by?” Ray asked. His tone of voice was a little sharper, and he looked at Edward with his head cocked to one side as though he was studying him.
Edward’s eyes had finally adjusted to the gloomy room. As he looked back at his friend, it seemed as though Ray was staring at him intently with eyes that had taken on a dull, lambent glow. Deep in his gut, Edward felt a strong stirring of nervousness. Ray’s voice, so quiet but strong in the darkened room, had a curious, almost frightening presence … as if he were whispering close to his ear through a megaphone.
“No—like I said, nothing’s wrong. I just fe
lt like stopping by.”
Edward resisted the impulse to wipe away the sheen of sweat that had broken out over his forehead.
“I realized, you know, how long it’s been since I’d seen you. I bump into your brother around town now and then, and he keeps me posted on how you’re doing, but I was wondering—” He ended lamely with a shrug, letting his voice trail away with a faint, “You know…”
“Well, I still haven’t learned how to do the rumba, if that’s what you were wondering,” Ray said, and this time Edward did detect a trace of bitterness in his friend’s voice. “I’m still strapped into this goddamned, fucking wheelchair … like I’ve always been. Ever since that retard—”
Ray caught himself before he said any more, then sawed his teeth back and forth over his lower lip, the muscles of his face twitching as he looked at Edward. The silence lengthened uncomfortably between them; then Ray took a deep breath and said, “Look, I’m sorry I said that. I—I shouldn’t have.” His eyes looked huge and moist, filled with deep sadness. They no longer shined with even a trace of the light Edward had noticed before. They had that flat, black, marblelike reflectiveness of a dead person’s eyes. Edward’s body tensed when—again, just like this morning when he’d had that argument with Dianne—he was struck by the thought that maybe what had really happened was Ray Saunders had died in that accident out at the mill back when they were kids.
No! It was no accident!
Most of Ray’s body and spirit had died that day, and now just a small piece of him was left hanging on to life as if—as if … somehow … miraculously—he could eventually get it all back!
The heat inside the room pressed in on Edward. He was dimly aware that his mouth had dropped open as though he were about to speak; air from his lungs pressed up into his throat, and he could feel the gathering strain on his vocal cords, but any sound he might have made was blocked, trapped inside him as firmly as if cold hands had wrapped around his throat and were squeezing, grinding, and crushing inward. The words he wanted to say were words he had wanted to say, had needed to say ever since he was twelve years old. They echoed like a long, hollow roll of thunder inside his brain.
