Unthinkable (Night Fall ™)

by Shirley Duke

  Text copyright © 2010 by Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

  Darby Creek

  A division of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  241 First Avenue North

  Minneapolis, MN 55401 U.S.A.

  Website address: www.lernerbooks.com

  Duke, Shirley Smith.

  Unthinkable / by Shirley Duke.

  p. cm. — (Night fall)

  ISBN 978–0–7613–6142–8 (lib. bdg. : alk. paper)

  [1. Horror stories.] I. Title.

  PZ7.D88944Un 2010

  [Fic]—dc22 2010003062

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1—BP—7/15/10

  eISBN: 978-0-7613-6545-7 (pdf)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-2937-6 (ePub)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-2938-3 (mobi)

  Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

  Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before

  —Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven

  Omar Phillips

  “Dead in Red”

  Thursday, November 4, 2010, at 11:27 P.M.

  “Date from hell.” If I live through this night, that’s how I’ll remember it. If I don’t, it’s the end of my remembering forever.

  “I should have listened to you, Mom.” That’s what I’ll say, if I get the chance. I’ll apologize too. Anything to erase those last words to you tonight, that “I hate you.” You were right. Rick is a creep. More than a creep. A psychopath. I got dressed up in my flamered stiletto boots for a thirty-year-old serial killer I met on Facebook.

  Oh, God! I can’t quiet my breathing—and my heart. My body is like a loudspeaker, screaming, “Here I am. Come get me.” He’s stopped calling my name, but I can hear the branches snapping under his feet. It’s like that game we used to play when we were kids. Cold, cold, warmer, warmer . . .

  Hot! I can smell his cologne now, or maybe the sticky scent just won’t stop gagging me from before.

  “I didn’t want to get in that car, Mom.” That’s what I’ll tell you, if I ever get the chance. But his arm was squeezing my windpipe. I couldn’t even breathe, much less fight.

  But then I got away at the woods. Lunged for the car keys and went straight for the eyeballs. Felt the blood trickle onto my knuckles. Then I just ran like hell. And so here I am, in the shadow of a giant boulder. Here I am, scared out of my living mind, afraid to run cuz he’ll hear my footsteps. Afraid to stay, gasping for air like a half-dead fish.

  Hotter, hotter . . .

  “Help! Heeeeelp me!”

  I’m trying, Mom. Screaming my head off, kicking with my heels pointed out.

  “Help me, someone! HELP ME!”

  He’s got me by the hair. I’m swatting, but my arms can’t reach. Digging my heels into the ground.

  He’s dragging me now. Branches ripping my jeans and scratching my legs, my arms, stinging all over. Above, the moon a screaming white circle. Gnarled black branches reaching down for me.

  We’re stopping now. The ground feels soft. I can hear the water lapping on the shore. We’re at the beach—his killing place.

  It’s no use. He’s gonna kill me. Just like he killed the others. Untie my hair. Slice my neck. Tomorrow, you’ll see me out there in the lake, my hair pooling around my head, face down, my feet—my red boots—bobbing slightly in the ripples.

  This is it, Mom. He’s untying my hair. Oh God, his fingers are on my neck. I’m sorry—

  Omar read over his story. He’d written it so fast, fingers flying over the keys. He’d barely known what words he was putting down. All he knew was that the whole story had come over him like a nightmare, a waking nightmare. He’d been there, in the woods.

  He’d heard the branches snapping, seen the killer’s knife glinting in the moonlight. He’d smelled musky cologne and blood.

  In a panic, Omar had turned to the one thing that always made him feel better—writing. Writing had made the vision go away. It had stilled his shaking hands and queasy stomach. Writing had made Omar feel calm—but not safe. Something was wrong.

  The next morning, Omar dragged himself out of bed. It had been a rotten night’s sleep. It wasn’t just the vision, either. Gabriel’s screams had been especially piercing last night.

  Gabriel was Omar’s two-year-old brother. He suffered from what his mom called “night terrors.” Gabriel would be fast asleep. Then, in one instant, he’d be sitting up, screaming his brains out. Lately Omar wondered if he had acquired his own brand of the same affliction.

  Sometimes, when his mom was just too tired to deal, Omar would be the one to pick up Gabriel and hold him in a tight hug. It was terrifying to feel Gabriel’s heart pounding against his own chest.

  And the whole thing made Omar mad too. Gabriel had been a normal kid until their dad left. Gabriel’s night terrors were the result of his “generalized anxiety” about that particular family situation. At least that’s what the pediatrician had said. In Gabriel’s two-year-old view, their dad had just magically disappeared—and that wasn’t too far from the truth.

  When Omar had asked why his dad was gone, his mom had given him some explanation about how it wasn’t his fault and how much their dad still loved him and Gabriel. But on the night their dad left, Omar had heard him tell his mom that he felt “smothered.” He needed “fresh air.” That was ten months ago.

  Since then, Omar’s mom was either working or worrying about Gabriel. She spent her days getting cussed at or rolling her eyes about the customers at Lorraine’s Eatery, off Highway 41. She spent her nights up with Gabriel. As for Omar, he was on his own. He could be a serial killer and she wouldn’t notice.

  This morning, the house was silent. Finally. Gabriel usually quieted down right about dawn. Then he and their mom slept like rocks until eleven or so. This hour before school was Omar’s favorite time of day. Before the visions started, he used to spend this time writing or thinking up stories. He wanted to be a published horror writer someday, and he knew he was good enough. But for now, his postings on Facebook were earning Omar plenty of fame, at least at Bridgewater High.

  Omar poured himself a cup of black coffee and opened up his laptop. He wondered how many people had already commented on “Dead in Red.”

  “Eighteen comments,” Omar read aloud. He tried not to smile. He hated to admit it, but compliments from his readers meant a lot to him.

  Omar scrolled to the first comment. There was Jon with a smart-alec grin so big it just about broke his face in half. “You’re sick, you know that?” it said.

  “Thanks, Jon,” Omar said out loud, and he meant it. Omar could count on his best friend for many things, and being the first to comment on Omar’s stories was one of them.

  Omar scrolled down further. The comments were pretty typical: “Awesome story, Omar!” “I totally felt like I was there!”

  Omar had to admit, he didn’t know exactly who a lot of these people were. Many were probably freshmen. Most were female. Omar always accepted friend requests from his readers. He checked to see his latest tally—he had 1,145 friends.

  Omar kept scrolling to the bottom. Posted two minutes ago was a comment by Sophie Minax. He recognized her face. She was that Goth girl who was always watching him in the halls. Omar looked at her picture for a minute. She stared intently at the camera—though maybe it was just the effect of her thic
k black eyeliner. The right side of her face was covered by her purple-black hair. Her black lips curled into the slightest hint of a smile.

  Sophie’s comment was just a link. Omar clicked on it, and it took him to her profile.

  Under “Sophie’s pictures” was the heading, “For Omar.” Below it was a pen-and-ink drawing done in thousands of tiny black lines. Crosshatch, Omar remembered the word from art class. You could change the pattern of lines to show depth, texture, and light.

  Omar’s hands fell off the keyboard as he looked at Sophie’s drawing of the final scene from “Dead in Red.” There was the beach, the dazzling water, the contrasting dark boots. The images were so vivid. There was the victim’s hair—each strand really looked like it was floating away from her down-turned head.

  “Amazing,” Omar typed in his comment. For once, someone had really gotten one of his stories. Sophie had lived inside it. She’d understood it. It was like she’d seen what he’d seen in his vision.

  By the end of the school day, Omar’s coffee had worn off. He was a walking zombie. After school, he looked around for Jon, more out of habit than anything else. Maybe he’d skip hanging out this afternoon. Go on home. Get some sleep—if the visions would just stay away.

  “Hey, Omar. Wait up.” Jon fell into step beside Omar.

  “Jon.” Omar nodded at his friend, snapping out of his haze. “Sorry. Late night last night.” They left the school grounds and turned toward the marina, their afternoon ritual.

  “Little brother again?”

  “Yeah. Plus the story . . .” Omar wanted to tell Jon about his visions. It felt strange to keep something hidden from his best friend.

  “You can’t help being a tortured artist, man.”

  Omar smiled. “I guess you’re right.”

  After that, they walked in silence until they turned at the corner of Main Street and Marina.

  “Loser pays,” called Jon. He took off running. His feet slapped the pavement hard, but Omar passed him just before he reached the Chowder Hut.

  “Loser,” Omar taunted. “Your turn.” He stepped inside the tiny restaurant ahead of Jon and sat by the window overlooking the water.

  The marina was deserted this afternoon. The smell of fish drifted through the open window. Waves slapped the stony breakwater holding the pier. In minutes, a basket of fried clams and onion rings arrived at their table.

  “Hey, Jon,” Omar tried to make his voice sound casual. “Do you know that Goth girl, Sophie Minax? Probably a freshman?”

  “Purplish hair?” Jon stretched and leaned back in his chair.

  “Yeah.”

  “Total psycho.”

  “What? Come on, Jon. I’m serious.”

  “So am I. Did you know that she got sent home the other day for wearing some kind of dress made out of garbage bags?” Jon shook his head a little. Then he added, “Okay, not a psycho. A freak.”

  Omar laughed. “She’s an amazing artist.”

  “I hear she’s a Dumpster diver,” Jon continued. “Half her clothes come from the parking lot outside Lucky Pizza.”

  “Jon,” Omar began his retort. “You just can’t handle a creative, independent woman who—”

  The vision hit Omar with a physical shove. He slammed against the back of his chair and put his hands over his face.

  “Omar—are you okay?” Jon looked scared.

  Omar opened his eyes to see a boat exploding in flames.

  “Jon,” Omar managed to say. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to get out of here.”

  Omar heard his chair smack against the floor as he pushed away from the table. Then he just ran—out the door, past the water, down the street to his house. Bridgewater was a grey backdrop to the vision that made Omar’s heart feel like it was breaking through his ribs.

  The next thing Omar knew, he was typing at his laptop in his upstairs bedroom. As he wrote, the vision slowly drained from his body. His heart slowed. His hands stopped shaking. The light and the objects around him resolved back to normal color and shape.

  Omar Phillips

  “Ferry to Hell”

  Friday, November 5, 2010, at 4:36 P.M.

  That morning at the marina, the sky was especially hazy. The ferry commuters were too bleary-eyed to notice, though. At 7:00 A.M. everything feels hazy. But I noticed that the haze had a greenish tinge.

  I watched the stream of faces walking up the metal plank into the passengers’ area. Guys in suits. Families with kids in sweatpants. A few tourists left over from the summer season. A mom with a sleeping baby in a stroller.

  We all settled into our vinyl seats, respecting each other’s personal space. Out came the newspapers, the books, the snacks, the baby bottles. But I just wanted to look out the window and watch the waves crashing rhythmically against the edge of the boat.

  I guess that’s why I was the first to notice something strange off in the water. At first, all I noticed was that the waves looked different some distance from our boat. They were foamier, choppier—they were sloshing against the rhythm of the other waves. Then some of the waves started to rise. It was like the sky was pulling up the water. I looked up. A tall black cloud hovered above the area.

  All at once, a funnel-shaped arm dropped down from the cloud. It swayed above the water for a minute or two. Then the arm touched down, and everything came fast. The water started to spin. It rose up into a swirling column, making a huge dent in the surface below it. It rode that dent, swaying on top of it, like someone balancing on a skateboard.

  There was no time to warn the others. In a second, the thing was on top of us. Windows shattered, and the icy water rushed in. In an instant, it was up to my knees. Then, before the panic broke out—boom!—and the smell of gas. The next thing I knew, flames were sliding all over the surface of the water. One jumped up the sleeves of one of the businessmen. I smelled his burning hair. Shards of metal were flying through the air too. I ducked down as one came hurtling toward my neck. It passed me, but it made a clean slice through a nearby woman’s arm.

  That’s when people started jumping overboard, and I saw things a person should never have to see. The woman with the baby zipped him up in her jacket and just dropped off the boat’s edge. Others jumped in, crying and screaming. Some just went limp in the crowd and got shoved overboard. From where I was, they were just a bunch of flailing arms and bobbing heads. Then, one by one, the heads started disappearing.

  The next day was Saturday. That was the day everything changed for Omar.

  It started with his mom waking him up early.

  “Omar,” she whispered. “Omar, honey?” She was sitting on the edge of his bed, stroking his hair. Her eyes were red, though that was nothing new. But this morning she seemed even more slumped over than usual.

  Omar shot up. “Mom! Where’s Gabriel? What time is it?” Omar grabbed his glasses and squinted at the red numbers on the alarm clock. It was only seven o’clock. “What are you doing up, Mom?!”

  “It’s Natasha,” his mom said.

  Natasha. Omar tried not to think of that name too often. Natasha Monroe and her parents lived just a few houses down the block from Omar’s family. Melissa Monroe, Natasha’s mother, was probably the best friend Omar’s mom had. Melissa was the one who’d brought over casseroles every day after his dad left and his mom couldn’t get out of bed. She was the one he heard his mom whispering to on the phone in the middle of the night when she couldn’t sleep.

  Omar and Natasha had practically been brother and sister when they were little. Family photos all over Omar’s house showed the two of them together—in a backyard pool, wearing matching sweatshirts at the zoo, side by side on playground swings. Then, a few years ago, things started to get weird between them. He’d heard Melissa and his mom laughing about it.

  “It was bound to happen,” Melissa had said.

  “Teenage hormones,” his mom agreed, laughing.

  Then last year, he and Natasha had started dating after winter break. Maybe they knew too
much about each other. Maybe the whole family connection was too weird. After a few weeks, Natasha had broken it off. She said Omar was “too intense.” She “wasn’t ready.”

  Omar cringed as he remembered what had happened next. He’d taken the breakup hard. Then one night, a few weeks after Dad had left, Omar tried drinking for the first time in his life. Somehow he’d ended up standing on Natasha’s lawn, yelling things at her window that he couldn’t remember later. Natasha’s father, Bill Monroe, was an officer with the Bridgewater police. He’d taken Omar downtown and booked him, just to teach him a lesson.

  “Stay away from my daughter,” he’d said to Omar, shoving him into a holding cell and slamming the door shut. Omar sobered up fast in that cell while he waited for his mom to come pick him up. Ever since that night, Omar had heeded Officer Monroe’s words—as much out of fear of Natasha’s father as from his own shame.

  His mom didn’t say anything for a minute. She just sat there on the bed, looking at her hands. It was like she was so used to bad news—this most recent edition could easily wait just one more minute. When she looked up, her eyes were wet.

  “Omar,” she began again, “Natasha’s missing. . . . She went on a date last night with a new boy, a boy she met on Facebook.” Long pause. “Melissa begged her not to go. She ordered her not to go. But Natasha went anyway, and now she hasn’t come home.”

  Omar waited for his brain to make sense of what was happening.

  “Bill’s organizing a search party,” his mom continued. “The babysitter will be here any minute. I’m going to help, and you are too.”

  There were at least a dozen neighbors gathered outside the Monroe house. Officer Monroe thanked everyone for coming, for helping out during his family’s “hour of need.” You could tell he was all broken up in his own tough way. Then he got down to business. He collected cell-phone numbers and handed out maps showing everyone’s search areas. He nodded at Omar as he handed him his map, and for the first time in months, Omar looked Bill Monroe in the eyes.