by Sean Platt
“Of course not,” Scott said, irritated. “Nor do I.”
Sandra went to the table, opened her briefcase, scribbled two prescriptions for Scott, and an appointment for the same time the following week.
* * * *
ALASTAIR
Alastair had been wanting for Sandra to speak with the Dawsons forever, or at least since their arrival. But that would have been too difficult, unnecessary suspicion so soon. Far better to play his role as Carter and wait for the moment when Scott needed his help the most. Following Hazel’s incident in the attic, Scott was ready.
Sandra was finishing her turn with Hazel as Alastair made himself an avocado and cheese sandwich. Jacquelyn didn’t offer to make it for him. He could make his own damned sandwich.
Sandra entered the kitchen looking nervous then took a seat opposite him at the table.
“You okay?” Alastair looked her over.
“This is going to be difficult.”
“Difficult, but not impossible. Right?”
Alastair held a smile long enough for it to hurt his face.
“I’m not complaining, Mr. Galloway. I’m saying that it’s tough getting inside their heads. They’re both strong, even if they don’t yet know it. And there is a resistance, making it hard to see their thoughts.”
“But not impossible?”
“I don’t think you’re understanding me, Mr. Galloway, or else you wouldn’t be in here, pacing around, wondering what the hell is taking me so long. Instead, you would have finished your sandwich and gone for a walk, grateful for someone like me to help you through this.”
Alastair took a bite of his sandwich. “So, which one’s stronger?”
“I think they’re both on the cusp, but we need to tread carefully and give them time. Hudson is stubborn, and very, very angry. He’s holding it inside, quite well I’d add, but he’ll only be able to stuff it all down for so long. Eventually, his cork will pop. When it does, he could be vulnerable to their influence. Hazel is stronger. I felt her power while pulling up to the manor, but dismissed it as the mansion’s usual heartbeat. But when I was in the room with her, it was … so strong. But I also think she’s far more fragile.”
Alastair said nothing, though he wasn’t surprised. He felt the Dawsons passing through the front gate before Davenport announced them. He could feel Hazel like he had felt the power in her mother.
He took another bite, chewing without tasting. “Will she make a good custodian? How quickly can we get her ready?”
“Yes, I think she is the better choice, with the caveat that we take the proper time to prepare her. Why are you asking how quickly we can get her ready? We were supposed to have years, unless you know something I don’t. Is your condition worse?
“By the day.”
Her eyes widened as she surveyed Alastair. “But you still look so … good.”
He laughed, then the laugh turned to a cough. “You can’t see inside me. That’s where everything’s black.”
He took a drink, then pushed his plate with the unfinished sandwich away. “It was supposed to be years, but now I don’t know. I feel like we’re down to months, though a part of me feels weak enough to fear it’s only days.”
“Can I assume that this is you being overly dramatic?”
“You can, but that’s not why I’m paying you. I need a solution, assuming we only have days.”
“Be blunt, Mr. Galloway, because if I’m understanding you correctly, you’re saying that everything’s changed.”
He drew a deep breath then nodded.
Sandra stared at him for a bit, as if trying to determine how best to ask her next question.
“Spit it out,” he said.
“What happens if you die before the children are ready?”
“Then God help you all.”
Sandra swallowed, then blinked her eyes as if waking to a reality she wasn’t prepared to accept.
“Now, what can we do to speed things up?”
“If you’re really serious, you can try pushing one of them over the edge. I assume you’d want to trigger Hazel first; that would mean focusing attention on Hudson or her father.”
“Why?”
“Because Hazel won’t care about herself. If you do something to her, she’s far more likely to simply shut down.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“I really don’t want to suggest this, but given the nature of the threat, and our lack of time—”
“Just say it, Sandra.”
“You could have either Hudson or his father killed. That might — I think that will — be enough.”
Alastair barely waited for her to finish. “That’s absurd. Our family’s suffered enough losses. Bloodline or no, Scott Dawson is family, and I would as soon kill myself as one of the children. Besides, she could just as easily shut down if you kill her brother or father.”
“No, I think a perceived threat to someone she loves will draw her out. Again, I don’t suggest this. Hell, if Hazel is really seeing her mother’s ghost, maybe she’s close enough to only need a nudge. But, if you want to be certain she’s prepared, I think she will require something volcanic to bring her the rest of the way.”
Alastair cleared his throat. “Do you really think she’s seeing Holly?”
“I don’t know if it’s her mother, or one of them using Hazel’s memories against her, but honestly, Mr. Galloway, I don’t see how one is better or worse. Her channels are open. If you’re deteriorating as rapidly as you suggest, and we don’t have time to prepare the children, you might need to consider more drastic measures. Remember, I didn’t want to bring this up at all.”
“Do you think she can be turned against us?”
Sandra paused, then nodded. “Yes. It’s certainly possible. And if so, they could kill you all. Of course, you could—” Sandra chewed her bottom lip, hesitating.
“Just say it,” Alastair barked.
“I don’t know why I bother, but I feel compelled to suggest now what I have from the start … what I see as the only logical option.”
“No. We’re not telling them. The last thing I want to do is scare them away. We need the children here. If we spook Scott, we’ll lose them both.”
“But—”
“No. We must do this without telling Hazel, or bringing harm to her family.” Alastair pulled a watch from his pocket, looked at its face, then stood. “I’ll call you if I need anything.”
“But—”
“Thank you, Sandra.”
He smiled again, nodded, then left Sandra alone in the kitchen.
Alastair walked briskly through the house, past the dining room where Jacquelyn was serving the Dawsons, and into the long hallway toward the cellar.
At the bottom of the stairs he pulled the amulet from his inner coat pocket, went to the cellar door, inserted the amulet into the lock’s circular inset, then pressed his palm over the top so it sank into the smooth crater. He waited for the dim light and subtle hum that rumbled out from around the metal and filled his flesh with a tickle of warmth. There was a tremendous heaving, then the door seemed to settle, as if shrinking inward from its frame.
Alastair pushed it open, stepped inside, and crossed the cellar, a long narrow room with a cold stone floor and walls that hummed with an energy older than time. At the end of the room, smack in the middle of the otherwise featureless slab of wall, was the portal — the dark, shimmering blackness with a slight emerald tint bathing the room.
He tried not to stare into the Threshold’s abyss. Tried to bury the jumbled emotions that stirred inside him: hate, awe, wonder, terror, reverence, and lust.
Don’t stop. Don’t let them into your head.
Alastair went to the stone fountain in the room’s center and stared down into the basin at the always-bubbling blood, which ran from the bowl into the stone crow’s mouth, then back into the basin.
The basin was low. It needed to be replenished.
He could hear the usual gather
ing of scratches and shrieks braying from the other side. The portal grew brighter, green light threatening to swallow the darkness.
They knew he was in the room. And they wanted nothing more than for him to open the doorway.
Alastair felt a flutter to his right, then heard it. Her. He willed himself from turning, knowing what he’d see but not wanting to look.
Like always, he turned anyway.
“Please, Daddy,” Savannah begged. “Please don’t!”
“You’re not real.”
Alastair shook his head and squeezed his eyes tight.
“Please, just come through the Threshold, Daddy. You don’t understand. You don’t have to do this.”
Alastair grabbed a stone blade from a hollow in the fountain’s base. It was full of symbols that only he could read — some of them, anyway. He brought it to his palm, dragged the blade two inches across his flesh, then held his hand over the waiting basin, and fed the magic.
Blood bubbled in the fountain. The shrieks and clawing grew louder, coming from the other side of the Threshold, alongside Savannah’s soft and still-angelic voice, until everything faded — her whisper last to leave — and the portal started to darken again.
The manor is safe another day.
Alastair winced as he stepped away. He cleaned the blade without a sound, wiping it with a cloth. Then he placed it back into the fountain’s stone scabbard and held out his hand, still marveling after all these years as he watched his skin stitch itself beneath the Threshold’s dimming light.
He thought he heard Savannah’s voice — a far-off echo — and ignored it because he had to. It wasn’t her. It was a deception, the same sort they were probably using on Hazel.
Knowing it was a trick didn’t stop him from crying.
Alastair didn’t want to die, except every day he had to come down here to keep the doorway closed. Every day he had to face his daughter’s mockery. And during these moments, it felt easier to let go — allow the doorway to open, damn the world.
* * * *
HAZEL
Hazel swallowed her scream and shot straight up in bed.
She couldn’t remember the dream, only that it was awful, and felt like forever as she tried to escape. She was drenched in sweat, heart pounding, clueless to what time it was in her darkened bedroom. The nightstand clock was somehow unplugged, or maybe the power was out. She closed her eyes, sank back beneath the covers, then pulled them under her chin and tried not to be scared.
This was the worst: Waking up scared, unable to fall back asleep. It used to happen all the time in their old house, especially after her mother had vanished. It hadn’t happened yet in the manor, though that seemed to be about to change. She’d probably be up for hours, counting bulldogs and crows — she and Hudson thought that was so funny back when she was five — and making up stories in her head to kill the insomnia.
She should have kept Mom to herself. No one believed her in Las Orillas, so why would they believe her here? Galloway Manor was just one more place for Dad to worry that something was wrong with her, and for Hudson to think she was desperate for attention.
Sometimes she wondered if Dad was right. That she was making all of this up. She didn’t think she was, of course. But what if she was crazy? Hazel was pretty sure that most crazy people had no idea they were crazy. Maybe she was like that?
She wished she could be normal, even if it meant never seeing her mother’s ghost — or whatever it was — again.
She felt a flush of shame.
But what if I really am seeing Mom? And now I just wished I couldn’t. What if she’s trying to reach me right now and can’t because I wished to be normal?
“I’m sorry, Mom,” she said to the darkness.
The darkness answered back — the sound of something moving in her closet.
She sat up. “Mom?”
Nothing.
Wondering if she’d imagined the noise, she stared at the closet doors.
What if it’s Savannah, come to grab me and bring me up to the attic?
No, no, that didn’t happen.
It was your anxiety.
Yes, it had felt real. But feelings didn’t make something true.
She felt like the things in the attic had grabbed her tight and even scratched her, but she had nary an abrasion or blemish on her skin. And she bruised easily, so if something had tried to hurt her, there’d surely be proof.
And yet she had nothing.
Another bump in the closet.
“Mom?” she asked again, leaning forward in her bed.
No reply.
She got out of her bed, walked slowly toward the closet, heart in her throat.
Hazel was inches from the closet doors, and started to reach out to open it.
Something moved again.
And then it spoke.
“Hasssiiiil!”
She backed away, shaking her head.
No, this isn’t real.
This isn’t happening.
“Hasssiiiil!”
What if everyone’s right?
Maybe she was crazy.
It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real …
The door slowly slid open.
Hazel wanted to turn around and run back to her bed. But again she was frozen.
Run!
Run!
Run!
She heard a strange ticking as the door slid on its track. Despite the moonlight bathing her room, it was too dark to see inside the closet, at least past her hanging clothes.
This isn’t happening.
The door finished opening, stopping with a thud as door met frame.
She stared into the closet, heart pounding, waiting to see what pushed the door open.
The clothes began to move.
No, no, no. This isn’t real.
This isn’t happening!
Savannah’s half-corpse, half-flesh body floated out of the closet.
Hazel cried out, “No, please go away!”
Savannah’s rotten mouth opened. She hissed, “Why are you sssssstiiiill here?”
Hazel screamed, swatting at the apparition, expecting her hand to sail through its form. It struck a body instead.
She fell back on her butt with a shriek.
Savannah stared down at her with her one good eye, an empty black hole.
“Why are you sssssstiiiill here?”
Perhaps the fall did her some good, as Hazel’s frozen limbs finally decided to cooperate.
On hands and knees, she scrambled to her bedroom door, reached up, twisted the knob, and threw it open.
She tore from the room, screaming, then ran smack into Dad in the hallway.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
She looked back at her bedroom door. It was shut, though she’d been too busy trying to escape to close it.
Who, or what, closed it?
She shook her head, staring at the door, crying, “No, no, no” over and over.
“Hazel, Hazel, up here,” Dad said. “Hazel!”
She felt her father’s fingers under her chin in slow motion, but he was working a mannequin, and she was barely in her body.
Dazed, she couldn’t make words.
Her world was swimming.
“Hazel, say something … sweetie, can you hear me?” He took her hands in his.
She finally managed to make words. “I hear you.”
“What’s happening, honey? Where are you?”
Thoughts became easier to make. Hazel made two in a row. “I’m here, Dad. I can hear you.”
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
“Savannah. Savannah’s in my room.”
The look Hazel hated was all over his face. Again. Sad disbelief. Worse than pity.
“Okay, Hazel.” Dad dropped her hands.
He stood, marched into her room, flicked on the light, and was already snarling before she made it to the doorway.
“What’s going on?” Hudson asked from behind,
standing on the other side of his open door. “Did you schedule Crazy Time for tonight and forget to tell me?”
“Shut up!” Hazel snapped.
“I’d ask you to shut up, but you won’t.”
Hudson went back into his room and slammed the door.
Dad was standing with his hands on his hips, circles under his eyes, patience threadbare. “There’s nothing wrong with your bedroom, Hazel. You saw a shadow. Go back to bed. Goodnight.” Dad kissed her on the forehead and brushed past her, back out into the hallway — leaving Hazel all alone in her room.
“No!” she cried out. “Please, Dad. I can’t sleep in there tonight. Not now. I’ll never fall asleep. Please, Dad. Can I please sleep in your room?”
“I thought we agreed that you were going to sleep in your bed from now on?”
“Please,” she sobbed, tears rolling down her cheeks. She didn’t cry just to get him to say yes, but, at the same time, she didn’t try not to cry.
“Fine, Hazel.” Dad sighed, then turned and headed toward his room, leaving the door ajar.
Hazel stared at the door. Even though she’d won, she still felt like she’d lost because she made her dad angry, and he didn’t want her in his room.
He hates you, a voice said in the back of her mind as she slowly approached his door. The voice didn’t sound like her mom’s, or Savannah’s. This time the whisper belonged to her.
And the worst thing was she knew it wasn’t lying.
* * * *
HUDSON
Hazel was unbelievable.
Hudson had been asleep when her nonsense yanked him from a pleasant dream. He couldn’t remember much, except for the fact that he was with a girl. He wasn’t sure if it was Iris or some imaginary girl, but they’d been kissing, and about to move on to something more interesting.
Then Hazel ruined everything.
He returned to bed, closed his eyes, and thought hard, hoping to return to his dream to pick up where he left off. Then fragments filled in, and he remembered parts of the dream before he was with the girl.
