“What are you doing?” I ask her, looking around the kitchen.
“I was just straightening up some things.”
“There’s nothing that—Mom, let’s just sit down, okay?”
It’s crazy. Mom has come back a feeble old woman. I’m surprised her hair isn’t white. She doesn’t walk back to the couch with me. It’s more like a slow hobble.
“Mom—what’d they do to you?”
“Nothing.”
“But what—what’s wrong?”
She looks up at me and forces a smile. “I’m just really tired.”
Her eyes look puffy, the way they might after crying a lot. They’re also red with dark lines under them.
“Do you want anything? Want me to get you anything?”
But she only shakes her head. Very s-l-o-w-l-y.
“Mom, are you okay?”
“I’ve been on medication for a while.”
“Are you still?”
“I don’t think so.”
I can feel my heart knocking on my chest. I’m angry and elated at the same time. Angry about what they did to her and elated that she’s finally back home.
“Mom, who brought you back here?”
“A man.”
“Who? What’s his name?”
“J—,” she starts to say.
“Jared?”
“Yes.”
Ah, the dear long-lost cousin who turned out to be a lying snake.
I’ve wondered what happened to him.
I’ve been waiting to pay you back for what you did to Iris and the Crag’s Inn.
“Are you in pain anywhere? Physically?”
She only shakes her head.
Everything about her seems …
Gone.
She looks thinner than she was, and she had already been looking a little too thin.
Dad needs to know about this. Somehow. Some way.
For a few minutes I sit there beside her, not saying anything. I can see her eyelids closing.
“Do you want to take a nap?” I ask her.
“Yeah,” she says, about ready to do it sitting up.
“Here,” I say as I help her up and guide her to her bed.
When I tuck her in, I feel like this is my hundred-year-old grandmother lying before me.
She’s out, and I just study her.
In a strange way, she looks peaceful now that she’s sleeping.
I glance out the window and see the overcast sky.
God, please help her to be okay. Help her to be okay, and help us get out of here one day.
Mom is home. That’s good.
But the evil that infected her is right outside our door. Down the street, up the mountain, through the woods …
I think back to Marsh telling me about how I could control those creatures in the woods.
What if I could control the terror and fear going on around here?
What if I could make it all go away?
My destiny and fate and legacy and all those big-time words are suddenly starting to seem clear.
I know who I need to stop and why I need to stop them.
The only question is how.
52. Strong
Later that night, after staying up late to see if Mom is going to wake up and need anything, I check on her and see her still sleeping like a rock. I double-check to make sure the doors are locked, turn off the lights, then head upstairs.
It’s weird to feel this alone even though Mom is downstairs.
I brush my teeth and wash my face, and then I think of Uncle Robert living here by himself.
Fighting the demons all by himself.
Then just giving up and going into hiding.
Not telling anybody, just closing himself off and shutting down.
I don’t want to do that. I can’t do that.
I’m the kid and they’re the grown-ups, but I guess I have to do what brother and sister cannot do.
Be strong. And stay strong.
Then I think of someone else I need to stay strong for.
Someone I haven’t heard from in a while.
I forget about everything else, and I get my iPhone to send a text.
I type it as quickly as I can.
I just want you to know that I’m thinking about you. And that I’m not about to lose you. Especially for some stupid thing that I did or tried to do. You’re not going to get away so easily.
I turn off the lights and am climbing into bed when my phone buzzes.
I’m the one sorry for doing something stupid. For being so lame.
I read and reread her text and then I think I get it.
She’s been avoiding me because she feels stupid and silly.
I laugh out loud and start typing again.
You’re like the only person around here who stands for something and remains strong. You know that? Good for you. That makes me only realize even more that I’m supposed to be with you.
She doesn’t text me back so I ask if she’s still there.
Wow, she writes.
What?
Do you really mean that?
Of course I do.
Even with it being senior year—with college and all that down the road?
I’m staying by your side, I write to her. As long as you’ll let me.
It’s a deal.
Good night. Hope to see you in my dreams.
Me too.
53. Soon, My Friend
February seems to be a forgotten month, like a stepchild who nobody really talks to. Its cold and snow come in bits and pieces, but nothing big enough to get excited about. Everything is just cold and gray and endless.
It dawns on me soon after Mom’s arrival that the timing was no accident. Marsh wanted me to do something, and I did it. I went down underneath the dreary bridge and got the baby/doll and brought it to him. Without hesitation. Without telling anybody else.
Maybe he thinks that means I’ll do more for him and Staunch. And yeah, I’ll play along. I’ll go for the ride until we reach the end and I open my door and jump out.
Mom’s mood doesn’t really change. She seems shell-shocked, like someone who just got back from something terrifying.
Every night is the same—leading her to bed and tucking her in like a child. One night it gets me really down, and I go upstairs and cry like a big baby. I get it out of my system. That’s what I tell myself. Just get rid of the tears once and for all. And as I’m crying, I open my Bible up and find some psalms.
They really do the trick.
So the next night I ask Mom if I can read to her.
A year or even six months ago, my mom would have said “Yeah, right” and laughed. But she’s different now.
So am I.
I read one psalm to her at night. I guess if they made me feel better, they might make Mom feel better too.
This is sorta like being in the middle of the woods in the middle of the night stuck in the middle of a tent with only one little flashlight.
A light in the darkness.
This doesn’t feel normal to me. What feels normal is sitting in a room by myself listening to music and trying to forget about life outside that door. But that particular kind of thing isn’t working.
Not anymore.
And the guy who sat on that train in Chicago did something. Or maybe it’s more like God did something to that boy sitting on the train, the one asking for help and forgiveness and hope.
Hope.
These parts of the Bible I’m reading are the only kind of hope I know.
Kelsey remains the bright spot in my day.
I try and figure out where her happiness comes
from. Are her parents mixing it in with her cereal in the morning? Is it because she knows she’s getting out of here in a few months?
Or maybe it’s you, Chris.
But it’s not me. It’s something deeper, something more meaningful.
Even in the drab month of February, the promise of springtime is there every time I see her.
Things are back to normal, but the normal that was when Kelsey and I were just friends.
For some reason, it’s suddenly become less, well, intense.
Less hot and heavy.
Which is good. And safe.
I don’t want to blow things with her again.
Not with everything that’s coming up in my near future.
A future that doesn’t look as shiny and sweet as hers.
An outcome that will be here sooner than I think.
54. More to Say
One Saturday morning near the end of February, Sheriff Wells pays Mom and me a visit. Perhaps he’ll manage to get a little more out of her than I have. Any attempt of mine to ask how she’s doing or feeling or what exactly happened when she was gone goes nowhere.
I’m just thankful she’s alive. Maybe, hopefully, being able to move away from Solitary after school is over will finally make her be her old self again.
I’ve gone out on a couple more ghost hunts with Mounds. He’s paid me, and a little extra money is all I need.
I still have the wad of money Staunch gave me. Part of me wants to use it to buy Mom something, but I can’t get myself to do that.
I’m not taking anything from that guy. Never again.
The sheriff looks older, even though it’s only been a few months since I’ve seen him.
Maybe that’s what this town does to you. It turns you into an old person before your time.
He’s lost weight, and his goatee looks grayer and his hair looks thinner. He doesn’t have the swagger that he had when I first met him.
Maybe that’s what guilt does to you. Guilt over letting an innocent girl like Jocelyn die on his watch, then refusing to believe it until it’s way too late.
“You folks have a few minutes?” he asks before Mom invites him inside.
She asks if he’d like anything to drink and gets him to have a cup of tea. It takes a couple of minutes before he has his cup and he’s sitting on the couch across from us, holding it.
“I want to formally apologize to you folks,” Wells says as the wrinkles on his face seem to tighten up.
Mom still has her tired, slow-mo thing going, but it also seems like having a visitor has made her wake up a little.
“I don’t understand,” she says in a polite way.
“I’ve been, uh, relieved of my duties. Not that I’ve been doing even half of them. But it’s, well—it’s time to go.”
“You got fired?” I can’t help but ask.
“Not quite,” Wells says. “Doesn’t work that way. Officially I resigned. Unofficially, I got canned.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mom says.
“No … Ms. Buckley, I’m the one who’s sorry. I have not done right by you and especially not by Chris. When you were attacked in town and someone knocked you out, I should’ve done more. I just—I couldn’t. After the things that happened with Wade and Jocelyn, again, I could’ve done more. But I didn’t until it was too late.”
Mom doesn’t react, and I suddenly hope and pray that Wells doesn’t say more about Jocelyn. I never told Mom. And while I might sometime in the future, I don’t think she’s in much of a mood to hear about Jocelyn’s death.
“The stuff going on—stuff Chris came to me about—I didn’t do my part. I didn’t step up. And I’m sorry. Chris—I let you down. As a sheriff. And as a man.”
Mom glances at me and then looks back at Wells. “Thank you for saying that. But are we—is Chris in danger?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he slowly but surely says. “And he has been for some time.”
“I’m fine, Mom.”
“I’m not leaving yet,” Wells says. “And whatever I can do, I will do. It’s just—there’s been a development that recently came to a head. It’s one of the reasons I’m stepping down.”
I have no idea what he’s going to mention. Perhaps Wade’s death? Or Lily’s?
“An FBI agent has been around here asking questions. You met her, didn’t you?”
So she was legit?
I nod at Wells.
“That started the avalanche. And there are those who just don’t like any snow whatsoever, if you know what I mean.”
Mom doesn’t seem to get it, but she sips her tea and keeps listening.
“That’s still an area of concern,” Wells says.
“For us? For Chris?” Mom is the most alert she’s been since coming back, even though that alertness is more like worry.
“The concern is about secrets coming out, ma’am. And when that happens—if that happens—then the people who are keeping them will be very unhappy. And that means you two will be in danger.”
“I didn’t say anything to the FBI agent,” I say. “I didn’t think she was even real.”
“Of course not,” Wells says, rubbing his goatee. “How could you? I’m surprised you thought I was real. Really, I’ve just been a grown-up man dressed in this costume. It’s been Halloween for the last ten years around here.”
Wells is talking more to himself than to us. He refocuses and stares at me.
“I came here to tell you I’m sorry, and I’ve done that. You listen to me, Chris. You be careful. About everyone and everything. But know this—there’s some good around these parts. You wouldn’t know it if it suddenly showed up and slapped you across the face, but there are some good folks. I know that. I know that ’cause I’ve seen them. They have hope, and they believe in the power of good, Chris. They’re not going away. And neither am I. At least not for a while.”
He tells me this in a way that seems to say I’ve got your back.
I nod and then watch as Wells goes to the door.
He looks as if he could say more, but then again so could everyone else around this place.
There’s always more to say.
Always.
55. Messed Up
I’m walking in the freezing woods over dead leaves and past bare trees. It’s night, and I can barely see anything and the wind feels like it’s blowing right through me. I glance down to look at my feet, but I don’t see anything. Then I reach to touch my arms and don’t feel anything either.
I’m a ghost.
No, you’re not. You’re dreaming.
But this doesn’t feel like a dream.
This feels different somehow.
I see the outline of a small house. Some kind of glow flickering in the window. I check the door and it’s locked, but that doesn’t matter because doors don’t hold back wandering, dreaming visitors.
I see that it’s a cabin much like the one behind our house. Except this one isn’t abandoned with a gaping hole in the middle.
This one has a set of candles in a couple of places that eerily light up the room. The small, rustic kitchen looks like it’s been in use. There’s a table with bowls and plates on it. An old rocking chair. A bed in the corner.
With someone lying on it shaking and screaming and jerking to get out.
It’s a woman.
No, it’s a girl.
And one of her arms and legs are shackled to the wall.
You remember seeing those shackles, don’t you, Chris?
I want to close my eyes, but I can’t.
I want to get away from here, but I don’t.
The screams are suddenly louder and her jerking is suddenly more crazy.
Then I see why.
There’
s a round hole in the center of the room.
Sticking out of the hole is someone’s head.
A smiling, sick man who slips up out of the hole and moves toward the girl.
I try to scream. I try to do something. I try to do anything.
Please don’t please let her be please let me get out of here.
I tighten up every muscle I have in my body, and I force this picture and nightmare to go away.
I awaken in my own bed with my heart pounding and my face and neck sweaty as if I’ve been running.
I think about the scene that just unfolded in my mind.
That really happened.
I don’t know why, or when, or who that girl was. She was young, a lot younger than me.
The underground passages. The old mansion that belonged to the Solitaire family.
And what about that nightmarish boxcar full of dead people?
I feel sick to my stomach. I sit up and then put a hand on the window. It’s so cold outside. The room is chilled, but nothing like outside.
The more I seem to discover about this town, whether it’s from being told or from being shown or from whatever these visions seem to be, the more I realize the evil that’s been going on for some time around here.
And Kinner wants that evil to move on into other places.
It makes me sick to think I come from this.
It makes me want—no, it makes me vow to put an end to this messed-up bloodline.
Either I’ll do something about it or I’ll die trying.
56. Help
It’s a Tuesday after the last period of the day, and I’m about ready to head to driver’s ed when Mr. Meiners comes up to my locker.
“Hey Chris. Ready to go for a drive?”
“I thought Mr. Mason would be doing that,” I say.
“Sometimes I help out with the actual driving. I taught driver’s ed for ten years, so I know a little something about it.”
“Okay.”
I follow him outside to the parking lot, where we get into a Honda Civic that’s seen better days. I go through the motions of listening to his instructions.
We head down the main drag of Solitary, and then Mr. Meiners tells me to take a country road out of town. I’m driving more slowly than I normally would, nervous about doing something stupid, when we pass a deserted gas station and Mr. Meiners tells me to pull into the empty lot.
Hurt: A Novel (Solitary Tales Series) Page 16
