by Rick Hautala
His work boots clumped heavily on the packed sod as he jogged along the winding path. He sucked air slowly through his nose so he could pace himself but had to keep shaking his head to clear his vision. He didn’t want to miss anyone who might be hiding nearby in the brush, but because of his pain and confusion, everything around him was a swirl of sunlight and shadows that danced like crazy energy through the green canopy of leaves. The heavy throbbing in the back of his head sent a burning spike of pain into his forehead. He ran down the path leading toward his mother’s house until the ache in his head and the burning in his lungs was finally too much. At last, he had to stop and, leaning over, panted heavily for breath.
He didn’t want to, but finally had to admit that whoever had thrown the rock must have gotten away.
But who the hell would do something like that?
He winced when he touched the back of his head again, and his fingers came away sticky with black strands of clotting blood.
“Goddamnit,” he shouted, growling with frustration. “Fuck you!”
He straightened up, swung the two-by-four over his head, and sent it sailing off into the brush where it startled a bird into flight.
“Yeah, and fuck you, too!” Edward said, watching as the dark bird disappeared into the forest, chattering angrily. The bird’s cry receded, sounding almost like teasing laughter as it echoed in the distance.
He glanced around one last time, finally convinced that he wasn’t going to catch the culprit, then started back to the construction site. With each step, the pounding in his head grew worse until he felt as though his head was an empty oil drum, and someone was pounding on it with a jackhammer. He tried to content himself, thinking about how much he had accomplished on the house today, but he knew he couldn’t continue working—not with a headache like this.
What the hell? he thought. It was almost time for supper, anyway. If he didn’t get home and take some aspirin soon, this rip-snorting headache was going to last all night.
Still tensed and waiting to catch some sign of his attacker, he followed the trail back to the house. He wasn’t ready for what he saw when he got there. On the bare plywood siding, in bright red, spray-painted letters that were still wet and dripping, were three words, written in a huge, childish scrawl. Edward was so taken aback and angry that he barely noticed the misspelling.
FUKC YOU EDDDIE!!!
“I’m really losing it … I think I’m going out of my, mind!”
“And what makes you think that?”
“I just told you! All the things I’ve been thinking and feeling lately … and the dreams I’ve been having! God, they’re so vivid … so real!” Dianne paused and took a breath, a loud sip of air. “And then last night—well, I told you what I did last night!”
“Yes, you told me, but considering all the stress you’ve been under lately—and I mean family stress just as much as physical stress—I think it’s slightly more than understandable. I think you have to keep in mind the progress you’ve made. Look at you! The wires are out, and your face is healing beautifully.”
Dr. Murray’s voice was soothing and reassuring, but Dianne sat there in the easy chair, feeling wire-tight and ready to explode.
“But how could I—? I mean, why would I do something like that? I—I love my husband. I wouldn’t want to hurt him—ever!”
“I understand that,” Dr. Murray said calmly, “but I also recall you telling me last time that, in some ways, you do blame your husband for what happened to you. That you—”
“Well not enough to want to hurt him, for God’s sake!” Dianne said, her voice almost a wail. “I mean, last night—and even this morning, just thinking about him, I started thinking how maybe what I—I really wanted to do—what I had to do was kill him. It’s like sometimes I feel almost as though something’s … as though something’s—I don’t know, forcing me to do it.”
“Do what? You mean hurt your husband?”
Dianne gave her a quick nod. “Yeah.” She took a deep breath and held it. “Especially since we moved into his mother’s house, thoughts like that have been so … clear, so powerful. It’s almost like there’s someone telling me to do it, you know? Like I’m being controlled or directed to do it! Do you think I—” She snorted and shook her head. “I know you’re gonna think I’m crazy for even asking this, but could it be like the house is … is haunted or something?”
Dr. Murray laughed softly and said, “I don’t think so.”
Covering her mouth with her hand, Dianne bit her lower lip and nodded agreement, but that still didn’t rid her of the sudden impulse to scream out loud. She took a shaky breath and fought hard against the trembling inside her, but it did no good. Her stomach felt like it was full of Jell-O … or something much worse. “I don’t either,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ve been thinking a lot about how—you know, like you said, it’s got to be all the stress I’ve been under lately, and the medication. I think the medication I’m taking is still messing me up.”
“That very well could be,” Dr. Murray said. “I don’t think it would hurt if I prescribed you a mild tranquilizer.” She glanced over her shoulder at the clock on the wall. “I hate to cut you short, but I do have to get ready for an appointment in town.”
“Well, I appreciate you fitting me in on such short notice,” Dianne said. She was still thinking about Dr. Murray’s seemingly casual dismissal of the idea that the house was haunted. She didn’t actually believe it herself, but the woman’s almost condescending reaction galled her, as if the idea was totally beneath consideration. She almost said something about it but stopped herself as she watched Dr. Murray scribble something onto a prescription notepad.
“This sedative is very mild,” she said, tearing off the sheet and handing it to Dianne, “but I think it will at least take the edge off things for you. We should probably schedule for you to see me the first of next week.” She got up and went over to her desk where she glanced at the date book. “I have an opening first thing Monday morning, at nine o’clock.”
Dianne nodded shakily. “That’ll be fine,” she said as she folded up the paper and slipped it into her purse before getting up and walking to the door. She still felt as though she was about to collapse with every step, but before leaving she turned to Dr. Murray and, forcing a smile, said, “Thanks for seeing me. I—I really do feel a lot better just getting to talk about it.”
She closed the door behind her and went down the flight of stairs to the sidewalk. Her car was parked across the street, but before she was halfway to it, she took the prescription out of her purse and looked at it. Then, glancing quickly over her shoulder to see if Dr. Murray was watching her from the window, she tore the sheet into tiny shreds and sprinkled them onto the road like confetti.
“There! That does it!” she said, her voice crackling with repressed fury as she dug into her purse for her car keys. “I know one thing—I don’t need any more goddamned medication! Maybe Edward does, but I sure as hell don’t!”
And again, as soon as she said Edward’s name out loud, a hot, red surge of fury filled her heart.
The house was empty when Dianne got back a little after three o’clock that afternoon. She sat down at the kitchen table, feeling curiously both energized and agitated by her frustration, and exhausted to the point of near-collapse from the weeks of almost constant worry and confusion.
What she probably needed right now, she told herself, was a nap, but she didn’t think she’d be able to settle down. A few times during the drive home she had regretted tearing up the prescription Dr. Murray had given her, but she was determined not to rely on drugs anymore to get her through the rest of this ordeal.
Besides, she told herself, the whole damned thing was all behind her.
If she could just get a few good nights’ sleep, everything would be just fine. Her face was healing “better than textbook-perfect,” according to Dr. Collett, and she felt confident that she and Edward could repair whatever injury their
relationship had sustained. Just like their fire-damaged house, their marriage was damaged but certainly not destroyed. She knew she was willing to work at putting it back together again, and she had no doubt that Edward was, too. The bottom line was, although it may have been obscured over the past several months, they still loved each other. They would have plenty of time to patch up everything, especially once Brian went back home to Arizona.
She got up, filled the kettle with water, and put it on the stove to heat up for tea, then sat back down at the table to wait. She folded her arms across her chest and leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes. She took a deep breath and listened … listened as the muffled silence of the house settled around her like cool water. She concentrated on breathing deeply and evenly, letting a soothing calm radiate outward from the center of her body to her hands, her feet, and her face. After a while, the water in the kettle began to hiss as it heated, and she focused on the sound, imagining it was a churning ocean tide, gently lapping over seaweed-clad rocks.
Deeper and deeper she went, letting her thoughts flit lightly over the events of the last few days. Whenever she felt a stirring of regret or anger, she nudged it aside, telling herself just to focus on the silence and calm.
But the sound of the heating water got steadily louder, sounding more and more agitated, drawing and holding Dianne’s attention in an iron grip. She listened as the sound wove up and down the scale, shifting sure when the sound changed or how it happened, but suddenly she realized that for quite some time she had been listening to a voice, soft and lilting, whispering just at the edge of hearing … whispering words she couldn’t quite distinguish but which somehow had made sense until she consciously thought about them.
“Ummm … yeah,” she said, only distantly aware that she had spoken aloud.
She quieted herself, letting her attention drift with the sound because she knew—somehow—that, if she could remain perfectly still, she would hear more clearly what the voice had to say to her. She was no longer aware of her surroundings or that she was waiting for the water to come to a boil. All she knew was the sound as she strained to make sense of the faint, crackling voice—
No … voices!
There were several of them, sputtering like the soft hiss of rain on the roof … like the crackle and snap of a fire. They rose and fell like a weak radio signal playing tricks in the atmosphere. Nodding her head, up and down, Dianne whispered in a dry, rattling voice, “Yes, I know … Yes … Someone has to do it.”
As the voices grew clearer, the sound of heating water got louder. Then, from far off, like the lonely wail of a midnight train, there came a shriek that went quickly up the scale until it was lost in the upper register.
Uttering a strangled cry, Dianne suddenly lurched forward. She banged her knees on the underside of the table and yelped as a bright bolt of pain zinged up her leg to her hips. Her eyes snapped open, and she looked around, momentarily confused as to where she was and what she was doing. When the shrill whistle of the tea kettle drew her attention to the stove, it all came back to her in a dizzying rush. Standing up shakily, she walked over to the stove and turned the heat off. The sound of the kettle died with an abrupt fade, but Dianne didn’t reach for it or get a cup and tea bag from the counter. Her eyes were wide open, and her gaze was riveted to the kitchen sink where, for some reason, she sensed that something was out of place … something was …
“Wrong …”
She shook her head as she sifted her memory for a trace of what the voices had been saying to her and realized she must have dozed off, but the voices had been too clear … too real to have been just a dream. Raking her fingers through her hair, she concentrated hard, trying to pull it back, but every time she was close to grasping even a fragment of the dream, it slipped away like water through her fingers.
What the hell was it? she wondered. A knot of frantic worry tightened in her stomach. What were they talking about?
But it wasn’t just the voices she had heard that bothered her; there was something about the sink that struck her as wrong. Had that been part of her dream? Had the voices said something about the sink? Nothing seemed to be out of place. There weren’t any dirty dishes in it, and the stainless steel gleamed just as brightly as when she’d left it this morning.
“Shit,” she said, snapping her fingers. “That’s it!”
That was the problem: there was no mess—no dirty dishes in the sink. The kitchen looked as though nobody had been here all day. She hadn’t expected Edward to be home for lunch, but she was positive Brian had still been in bed when she had left the house just after lunch. Could he still be sleeping? Was he okay up there?
Leaving the teakettle steaming on the stove, Dianne went into the hallway. The cold knot in her stomach got tighter as she started up the stairs. Her heels clicked like bone on the wood as she took each step slowly, one at a time. She was suddenly engulfed by confusion as the elusive feeling of the dream came back to her. There had been voices talking to her, and they had been making some kind of sense—at least while she had been dozing. It was maddeningly frustrating to feel as though it was almost in her grasp, but then the memory eluded her again.
It had something to do with Brian, she thought, as the deep worry wormed its way up from her stomach. Something’s wrong with him! Something’s happened to him!
Her panic was whining like a power drill by the time she had reached the top of the stairs. She hurried to Brian’s bedroom and knocked lightly on the closed door, having to resist the urge to throw the door open and call out to him. Suddenly she felt very foolish, wondering how she would explain what she was doing if he was still in there, sitting on his bed listening to music on headphones or whatever.
“Hey, Brian?” she called out, painfully aware of the tremor in her voice.
No answer—no sound came from inside the room.
She grasped the doorknob and twisted it, but the door stuck, and she had to give it a little kick before it swung open with a high-pitched squeak of hinges. The window shades were still drawn. The air was musty, stale. She could vaguely see him—nothing more than a slouched lump underneath the bed covers.
Still, seeing him there in bed didn’t allay her surging fear. She was convinced now that the voices had indeed been saying something about Brian … something either about what he had done or about what had happened to him.
“Brian?” she called out, a bit louder.
The shape on the bed didn’t move.
Dianne’s heart was racing in her chest as she moved quickly to the bedside, sensing that something was wrong—something was seriously wrong!
Holding her breath, she grasped the top of the bedspread and yanked it down. A surprised squeak escaped from her when she saw the two pillows and bundle of clothes that were rolled up and tucked under the sheet to look like a person.
“Oh, Jesus,” she muttered.
She tossed the bedspread onto the floor and kicked at it, then turned around, but a quick glance at the room revealed that Brian wasn’t there. Shivering wildly, she hugged herself and thought how odd the room looked and felt … deserted, almost as if it hadn’t been occupied in years.
Where the hell is he? she wondered.
Her worry quickly spiked as a vague doubt rose in her mind. Like an onrushing storm front, it started to gather strength, sending shockwaves rippling through her.
What if he was never here?
Her gaze darted frantically around the room, seeking something to anchor her, but the room had turned into a swirl of diffuse light and blurred shadows.
God, what if Brian doesn’t even exist?
What if I’m so far gone I’ve been imagining him all this time?
She recalled how tantalizing those dream voices had been, and she couldn’t push aside the thought that they had been ghosts, disembodied spirits, whispering to her—a warning or something concerning herself and Edward and Brian.
The pressure exploded inside her head. She covered her mouth wi
th both hands to keep from screaming out loud as the question reverberated in her mind—
Where the hell is Brian? … And how long has he been gone?
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Mill Again
Dianne had no idea what to do next.
It was fairly obvious Brian had been gone since sometime last night, but when had he left? Probably early in the evening. Why else would he stuff pillows under his covers to make it look like he was still sleeping? He had probably heard her and Edward arguing last night and had decided to leave … go somewhere.
But where?
He certainly wouldn’t be trying to get back home, would he?
Then again, he couldn’t just disappear, either. Where would he go? As far as she knew, he didn’t have any friends in town where he could go and spend the night.
Dianne had plenty of doubts and anxieties about a lot of things, including her own sanity, but she pushed aside the nagging thought that all along Brian had been nothing more than a figment of her imagination. That idea was ludicrous! She admitted that she might still be pretty screwed up from the accident, the surgery, and the medication, but she wasn’t that far gone! She hadn’t lost her mind.
“Not yet, by Jesus!” she muttered.
Nearly frantic with worry, she rushed back downstairs and started pacing back and forth across the kitchen floor. She kept glancing out the window and back door, hoping to pick up some indication or clue as to where Brian might have gone. The empty silence of the house seemed to mock her.
Was he in some kind of trouble?
Should she go looking for him, or should she go get Edward, first, and tell him what she had found?
Or was she overreacting? Was he off helping his father, and everything was just fine?
