The image changed to show a pond in those woods, with swampy water bright green with algae. A jar full of freshly collected tadpoles held up to the sunlight. A sense of discovery and happiness.
But then it was like a storm cloud blocked out the sun. Everything changed. At the edge of the pond, under the cover of the trees, stood a tall man, his face hidden in shade. I could feel his eyes watching.
Fear shot through me, and an urge to run.
But the next flash showed him up close. And it was too late to escape. I could see him clearly now. He was bald and skeletally thin. His face was all sharp edges, like it had been carved with a hatchet. A beak of a nose, hollowed cheeks and a brow that jutted out above cold dark eyes.
A big black bird rode on his shoulder. A crow. They had the same eyes, deep and lifeless.
Panic spiked through me. I didn’t want to see any more. Wanted to get away. Escape!
The skeleton man was grinning, reaching out a bony hand. I knew his touch would mean something worse than death. But I was trapped. That hand grabbed hold, digging in with fingers like ice. I was lost, a prisoner to the memory. And I knew the real nightmare was just beginning. I begged for a voice so I could scream.
But then—
A world away, the doctors shocked my heart back to life.
The nightmare vision cut to black.
I felt the shadow trying to hold on and keep me in that midnight place. But I was torn from its grasp. Its scream ripped through the dark as I pulled free.
That scream followed me as I fell through an infinity of blackness. Returning to my body and my beating heart.
I hope it’s over now.
Whatever that thing was, I hope I finally lost it. Left it behind in the dark when I broke away.
Maybe I’m just fooling myself, but it keeps me sane to think that.
When I had to explain how I “accidentally” shot myself with the nail gun, I just told them I’d picked the thing up because I was curious. The gun was heavy and slipped in my hand. I must have hit the trigger somehow.
I’m not saying they totally bought it, not with my history. But there was a strange detail that supported my lie. The nail was fired through the left side of my skull. And as every good cop knows, when somebody tries to commit suicide by shooting themselves in the head, they always use their dominant hand to hold the gun. I’m right-handed, so I would have shot through the right side of my head. This made my lie believable enough. I’m not a lefty, but I guess my shadow was.
I hope it’s gone for good. Now it only haunts me in my nightmares.
It could still be waiting for me on the other side. I’ll worry about that when I’m old and gray. As long as it stays there.
Some things belong in the dark.
“Welcome to my dream,” says the girl on the screen.
I’m in computer class, where we’re working on graphics and Web design. Our big project for the term is to build our own Web pages about whatever we want. Right now we’re taking sneak peeks at each other’s works in progress.
Valerie is running us through her site on the big screen at the front. She calls it My Decadent Dream Closet. It opens with her welcoming us in, reaching for a door with golden light shining out around the edges. The buildup makes you think there’s magic on the other side, like it’s the wardrobe to Narnia or something.
Instead, the site is a tour of her huge walk-in closet, cataloging a massive collection of clothes, shoes and accessories. It’s a fashion fantasy museum that lets you click on items for detailed descriptions. As an extra feature you can build your own ensemble, putting together an outfit from her collection.
“I’m still working on that,” Valerie says. “I want to make it so you get graded on how good your taste is.”
“She makes me gag,” Lexi mumbles beside me.
I elbow her quiet.
Miss Jankowski says, “Well organized. A popular concept for our cultural craze of consumerism.”
After that we get a couple of gaming fan sites with lots of blood and gore. If only some of these mutant zombie aliens would invade Valerie’s closet for a bloody battle. She could add a feature where you build your own ensemble from the scattered body parts.
Then comes the moment I’ve been dreading. It’s Max’s turn. I think he took this class just to torture Lexi. His Max to the Max site is devoted to himself, of course, and his crap band. Basically it’s a photo gallery of moody shots of him with the other members in the background, a brief bio that makes him sound badass, and then there’s the video Lexi shot for him, along with extra footage of him competing in a Battle of the Bands in the city last year.
“It’s got some style,” Miss J says. “But the layout is a bit simple. Kind of a basic cookie-cutter site.”
“But who cares what the frame looks like when the painting’s a masterpiece, right?” Max grins.
“Well, when you get back from your ego trip, you should fix those dead links. And if you want to include a blog, it should be more than a list of celebrities you want to ‘bang.’ ”
“My turn to gag,” I tell Lexi, who’s nervously chipping the polish off her nails.
“Next we have Jane and Lexi. You’ve partnered up for your site? What’s the subject?”
“It’s for my mother’s store. A flower shop.”
“Let’s take a look.” Miss J clicks it up on the big screen.
Our Blushing Rose site opens with a video Lexi dreamed up. It’s like one of those perfume ads where you can’t tell what they’re selling till the end. It starts in black-and-white with Lexi on the beach in a long dark dress, looking sadly out at the gray waves under a gray sky. She glances down and sees a rose petal in the sand, glowing bright crimson, the only color in this monotone world. There’s a trail of petals leading up the beach. She follows them, like they’re bread crumbs in a fairy tale, onto the seawall and then into town. Rushing along the deserted streets, she tracks the petals on the pavement until they end. Then as she looks up from the ground we see where they came from. The Blushing Rose stands out from everything else in a burst of brilliant color. The image freezes on the storefront.
Then the home page for the shop comes up with contact and ordering info.
“Nice,” Miss J says. “You might want to shorten the ad up front. You can lose customers with long intros. Or you could run it as a banner ad on top so there’s no delay entering the site.”
I did most of the layout, as well as the camerawork, following Lexi through town in the early morning so we had the streets to ourselves. She did a lot of the graphics. My favorite part is the blushing effect I did on the two roses that bookend the shop’s name at the top. I took a pure white rose and made it blush deep red, running the change on a loop.
“You all have to start focusing on making these sites functional. Design is the fun part. Now you have to make them work. Looks will only get you so far.” Miss J aims that last bit at Max.
She makes the rounds of the class, fixing our glitches.
“I’m thinking of doing a sequel,” Lexi says. “The shop needs a whole campaign, to keep people coming back to see what’s next.”
“But none of your experimental stuff. My mom isn’t into the weirdness.”
Mom already vetoed a couple of Lexi’s edgier pieces. One had a rose bursting into flame, like a long-stemmed torch. The other showed the life cycle of a rose, sped up so it went from bud to full bloom to wilting in ten seconds, with the message Life is short. Stop and smell the roses. Mom said, “Too depressing. People don’t buy dead flowers, or flammable ones.”
“How about some kind of fairy-tale rip-off?” Lexi says.
I yawn for the hundredth time today.
“You listening, Jane?”
“Yeah, I’m just so wiped out.”
“I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we do Sleeping Beauty? You could star this time.”
I laugh. Sometimes it does feel like I’m stuck in my own dark fairy tale. But nothing the Brothers Grimm eve
r dreamed up. This one comes from the Creep Sisters.
Call it Sleepless Jane.
The rain’s coming down with a vengeance, drumming on the roof of the car and streaming off the windshield so it feels like we’re underwater, in a submarine.
Dad’s bringing me home from my weekly checkup.
“Dr. Simon says you’re a medical marvel. No problems. No impairment. No danger signs.”
My neurologist just took my brain out for a test drive, examining my sensory perception, memory and motor skills.
“I even passed the drunk test,” I say.
“What’s that?”
“You know, the same thing you give drivers when you pull them over to see if they’ve been drinking. Close your eyes and touch the tip of your nose with your index finger. Stand on one foot. Walk a straight line. Except Doc Simon didn’t give me a Breathalyzer.”
“But can you do this?” Dad sticks out his tongue and touches the tip of his nose with it.
I shake my head. “I did not inherit that amazing genetic ability.”
“Good thing you got your genes from our mother,” he says, turning to make his snarling bulldog face to me. “This is not a pretty picture.”
I snarl back. He texted Mom before we left the hospital to let her know how my checkup went. She’ll be closing up at the shop right about now. It’s getting dark out.
The steady rumble of the rain and the even beat of the wipers back and forth are making me drowsy. I yawn hugely.
“Rest up, Boo. We’ll be home soon.”
Turning off the coast highway, we pass over the ridge and head down into Edgewood. The trees tower above us on the hillsides. The flooded road looks like a flowing black river.
I lean back in the seat. So tired. Closing my eyes, I start to drift off.
But when I open them again, only a moment later, something feels wrong. It’s suddenly freezing in here. We’re still driving in the tunnel of trees, with the evergreens looming over us, but now it seems dark as midnight out there. A shudder runs through me, ice water in my veins.
I turn to ask Dad to put the heater on. And my heart seizes up.
He’s not there! My shadow is. Sitting behind the wheel. A faceless black body, gleaming wet.
No! I’m not seeing this. That’s not real. I’m still asleep. Dreaming.
It looks over at me, with eyes like bubbles of liquid tar.
Wake up! Wake up now.
The shadow raises its arm.
I try to scream, but the sound gets strangled in my throat. If the shadow touches me I’ll die. I know it.
I jump when my arm lifts up on its own, matching that thing’s movement, following its lead. The shadow leans forward to press a dark hand against the windshield. Helpless, I do the same a second after, my palm flattened on the cold glass.
But that black hand doesn’t stop there. It passes through the windshield, out into the night. Where I can’t follow. Still, I feel as if it’s dragging part of me along.
I watch that arm reaching ahead, like an inky tentacle in the shine of the headlights. Farther and farther. Taking me with it. My body stays stiff in the seat, but I feel like I’m being stretched—not my skin and bone, somewhere even deeper. Making me tremble.
Gotta wake up! I’m in the car with Dad. Safe.
I can sense that shadow arm, like some kind of phantom limb—the wind and rain passing through it. Extending as if it’s elastic.
But I’m not. I’m being pulled inside out. Like that time on the train tracks when I felt a snap and my shadow separated from me. It’s stretching me too far.
The tentacle reaches into the trees now.
Can’t take it. Breaking apart. I’m shaking wildly.
“Hang on!”
Dad’s voice breaks me out of it. Jerking me awake.
My head whips around to see him there behind the wheel.
I’m still shaking all over. But it’s not just me. The whole car is shuddering.
What is this?
“Dad?”
He stomps on the brakes. Everything’s a blur through the windshield. We’re swerving. He’s fighting with the wheel as the rear end fishtails. I brace myself on the dashboard.
The car skids to a bumpy stop. Breathless, I look over at Dad. Everything keeps shaking for a minute. Like an earthquake.
“Jane. You okay?”
I nod. “What’s going on? What was that?”
He points ahead, and in the headlights I see a mountain of mud, broken branches and fallen trees.
“Landslide. Barely missed driving right into it.”
I stare dazed at the chaos outside. What just happened? Am I still dreaming?
“Is it—is it over?” I ask, not sure if I’m talking about the dream or the slide.
“Seems like it. But both lanes are blocked.” Dad unbuckles his seat belt. “Wait in the car.”
“Why? Where are you going?”
“I have to set out road flares before someone else crashes into this mess.”
He’s always a cop. Never off duty.
Pulling up the hood of his slicker, he heads out into the downpour. I watch him pop the trunk and grab the flares. He jogs down the road and ignites them. Bright yellow fireworks lighting up the night.
Trembling, I hug myself against the cold.
Don’t lose it, Jane. It was just a nightmare. All over now.
But that’s no dream blocking the road.
When Dad passes by the car again he’s on his walkie-talkie, calling in to the station. He holds up his hand, telling me to stay put. I watch him in the glare of the headlights as he inspects the landslide.
After a couple of minutes, I’m feeling claustrophobic in here, like I’ve breathed all the air in the car and I’m starting to smother. Gotta get out!
So I grab my slicker from the backseat, pull it on and step into the gusting rain.
I notice two cars stopping near the flares back down the road.
The freezing wind helps clear my head. Deep breaths.
Dad’s checking out the damage with his flashlight. Half the hillside has fallen down, burying the road. Splintered branches, massive tree trunks, muck and boulders.
I walk around the edges. The drivers from the other cars have come up for a peek at the mess too. One guy has even got his cell phone out, taking pictures of it.
Dad steps through the debris, aiming his flashlight at something, bending down for a closer look. He said to wait here, but I find myself wandering over to see what he’s looking at.
He’s on his talkie. “I’m going to need more backup on this. I’ve got a ten-ninety-five out here.”
I try to remember what that’s police code for.
“Repeat last transmission,” says the voice on the other end.
I’m right behind him, close enough to glance over his shoulder. Following the beam of his flashlight, I see what he’s focused on.
I gasp, flinching.
“You heard me right. We’ve got a ten-ninety-five. Human remains.”
There’s a skull caught in the light.
The next twenty-four hours is a blur.
After the landslide and seeing that skull, I guess I was in shock, because my memory is patchy. I remember Mom coming to pick me up, and hugging me so tight I could barely breathe. She drove me home, while Dad stayed behind to secure the site of the remains.
I think me and Mom talked for a while in the kitchen, but I can’t recall any of it. I was running on autopilot, nodding when I was supposed to and mumbling one-word answers. Then I took a long hot shower to thaw out. Weak as a baby, I collapsed in bed wearing my bathrobe. I was dead to the world, and thankfully dreamless, till morning.
Dad came home around breakfast to change into his uniform and grab something to eat before heading out again. He gave us an update between bites.
They called in backup from the city, which sent a forensics team to process the scene. A road crew was waiting for them to finish, to clear the debris away. Dad sa
id it’s not uncommon to come across old bones in the forest along the coast. The Indians were here for a thousand years before us, laying their dead to rest in the woods.
“Gave us a scare, didn’t it, Boo? How you holding up?”
“I’m okay,” I told him.
Then he was gone again, with a thermos of coffee and a kiss from Mom.
Of course, I was far from okay. Mom said I should stay home from school, but I wanted to get out, needed the distraction. And just had to see Lexi so I could tell her everything.
But giving her the full story had to wait till we were alone, so she got the highlights as I stumbled through my classes.
It’s only now, sitting with Lexi in Shipwrecks Cafe, that the shock wears off. I replay everything for her, from the nightmare to the slide to the skull. By the end my head feels clear, and the world comes back into focus.
“You’re turning into a real spooky chick,” she tells me.
“Always was one.”
We’re tucked away in a cozy back corner away from the crowd, drinking hot chocolate.
“And now you’re famous,” she says, looking at the newspaper on the table.
I shake my head in dismay. The story made page two of the national paper. I’m amazed they got it out so fast, almost as quick as the online news sites Lexi showed me earlier.
The headline says Constable Makes Grisly Discovery. But it’s the photo that gives me the chills. It must have been taken by that driver with the cell phone who came up to view the landslide.
The picture freezes that terrible moment when I saw what Dad had spotted in the tangled mass of branches and mud. We’re caught in the headlights of our own parked car. Dad’s leaning forward, shining his flashlight on the skull, making it glow white against the black earth. And I’m behind him, the hood of my slicker blown back by the wind, face as pale as bone. My naturally wide-eyed, startled look is taken to the extreme. It’s like my eyes are bugging out, with my mouth hanging open in a gasp.
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