by Rick Hautala
Against her will, Abby turned and looked out across the bay toward Cushing’s Island, less than a mile away. At first, in the lessening sepia-toned daylight, she couldn’t make out what she was looking for. But then, as her eyes adjusted to this strange twilight world, she was finally able to discern the rotting black hulk of the Faire Childe. The ship was barely visible on the rocky point of land that jutted into the ocean south of the island. The ship’s broken masts and spars and tattered sails were scattered about on the jagged rocks. Its hull, black with age and rot, swayed slowly back and forth, creaking loudly with the rushing tide, and … were those bodies, floating face-down in the water?
Many times over the years following her death, Abby had asked some of the numerous departed souls she met if they could also see the shipwreck. Nearly all of them said they could not, so Abby had decided long ago that, here in the “Dead Lands,” people either saw, or didn’t see, whatever they wanted.
The tide was high. In the fading daylight, the ocean was a deep, royal blue that hinted at purple in its depths. Waves rushed onto the shore, breaking across the smooth stretch of sandy beach with a roar. Pebbles and rocks made faint clicking sounds as the water pulled them back with it. Higher up on the beach, the sand was finer, a blinding yellowish-white in the dusky amber glow of evening. As Abby stood there, observing the world, the sun set below the horizon, coloring the sky with wide slashes of deep purple and vivid, blood red.
The mockingbird’s song came again, so close behind Abby it startled her.
Turning, she saw the bird, perched on a branch of the gnarled apple tree that grew beside her grave. The tree’s branches had been mostly stripped of leaves by the cold, salty winds. The leaves, crisp and brown, lay in curled piles like a scarf around the exposed roots.
It’s autumn, Abby thought wistfully, recalling how clean and fresh the air smelled in the fall. She shivered inside even though the air—no matter if it was freezing cold or furnace hot—never really touched her. The wind made a soft tearing sound as it whisked across the tufted grass and swirled in the lee of the rough stone wall that surrounded the cemetery on three sides.
Still mildly disoriented, Abby listened to the mockingbird’s lilting song. The notes rose and fell as the bird whistled and chirped, running through a gamut of different birds’ songs. The sound reminded her of summer days long passed.
Suddenly, the bird cocked its head to one side as though looking straight at her with one beady, black eye. Abby stared at the bird for a long time, hypnotized by the sparkling dark gleam in its eye. It looked like a chip of wet, black marble that could peer straight through her.
But then, gradually, she became aware of another sound.
The small wooden gate leading into the cemetery was ajar and swinging back and forth, making a low, creaking noise with each gust of wind. But that wasn’t what had drawn her attention. There was something else … a strange sound that was so faint it nagged at the edge of her awareness.
She quickly scanned the cemetery, but there was no one else—living or dead—close by. She wondered if any Reapers might be somewhere nearby, watching her but keeping out of sight. She could almost feel their presence. She opened her mouth and was about to call out but stopped herself when that annoying sound became clearer.
Drifting toward the wooden rail fence that lined the edge of the bluff overlooking the ocean, she looked down at the beach.
The peculiar sound got even louder.
It was an odd combination of a high-pitched, rhythmic squeak and a low sobbing, as if someone were moaning … or crying.
Close to the shoreline, Abby finally discerned a track of wavering footprints in the sand. Following them outward, away from the cemetery, she could just barely make out far off in the distance the small, huddled figure of what looked like a little girl walking away from her.
She’s sad … and afraid, was Abby’s first thought as a wave of pity filled her.
And she’s alone, and she’s crying.
Sorrow filled Abby as much for herself as for that lonely figure. At such a distance, all she could tell for sure was that the girl was about Abby’s age, maybe a bit younger. The girl’s thin shoulders were hunched up as if she were cold, and they shook whenever she let out a sob. If the girl could have felt the chilly wind blowing in off the ocean, she might have been shivering from the cold, too, but only out of habit or memory. Whether that little girl knew it or not, she was dead.
Every other step she took made that odd squeaking in what Abby called the “singing sands” of the beach. The sand here was of such a fine consistency that it made strange sounds whenever people—living people, anyway—walked on it. At times, it sounded like someone was running a moist finger along the rim of a crystal glass. Abby had never heard a dead person’s feet make that sound before. She finally realized the girl was wearing only one shoe. Her left foot—the one making the noise in the singing sands—was bare.
Abby suspected that was somehow important to what had happened and why that girl was here.
Feeling compelled to go down to the beach and talk to the girl, if only to settle her mind, Abby held back. She could call out and ask the girl to stop and wait for her, but she didn’t want to scare her any further.
She might run away, and then what help could Abby be?
She’s dead and doesn’t even know it.
Moving swiftly, her feet skimming lightly over the sand, Abby started after her.
I have to help her, she thought, remembering clearly how lost and alone she had felt when she had first found herself in the Dead Lands all those years ago.
But how long had it really been?
Time moved differently in the Dead Lands. When she was “awake,” Abby was keenly aware of days and nights passing, but the flow of time was so distorted it was almost meaningless and quite disorienting. This girl, whoever she was, was stranded here, and right now, Abby was sure she needed a friend.
There was no way of knowing how long the girl would remain in the Dead Lands. At any moment, a Reaper might appear and whisk her away, even before Abby got to speak with her.
Over time, Abby had learned that figuring out why and how someone had gotten here was important in helping him or her accept what had happened and then move on to the next level, whatever it was.
Until that happened, this girl would need a friend—someone who could help her understand how she had gotten here and what she should—or had to—do.
As Abby closed the distance between them, she suddenly noticed two dark, hooded figures on the cliffs in the distance.
Reapers, she thought with a shiver.
How long have they been there?
Have they been there all along, just waiting for that girl to come to them?
The Reapers wore dark, flowing cloaks that swept the ground. Their peaked hoods shadowed their faces as they stood on the cliffs overlooking the ocean. The girl was walking straight toward them, and apparently she was entirely unaware that they were even there.
A bolt of fear shot through Abby.
These Reapers must be waiting for the girl, but Abby was suddenly determined to get to her first so those terrifying beings might not frighten her when she finally did notice them. Abby might once have been amused by the thought that there was anything worse than dying, but she knew all too well that there were things much worse than death in the Dead Lands.
For some of the newly dead—maybe for this girl—the horrors might just be beginning.
Abby
I suppose anyone who lingers in the Dead Lands is a ghost of one sort or another. Most people in the living world can’t see or hear me, no matter how hard I try to make my presence known. A few people do, though … every now and then … and when that happens, I try my best to communicate with them like I am with you now.
When someone’s time to die finally comes—and I don’t know who or what ultimately decides that—the spirit is escorted away by beings I call “Reapers.”
They are
n’t the Grim Reaper, that scary skeletal figure wearing a hooded cloak and carrying a scythe to harvest people’s souls. But Reapers aren’t entirely human, either. At least, I don’t think they are. I think of them as the Grim Reaper’s helpers. Some of these recently departed souls, they guide into the Light; others, they carry off, screaming and crying or begging for mercy, into shadows deeper than night. It all has to do with what kind of life they led.
There’s one Reaper in particular that I see quite often. He doesn’t act like any other Reapers I’ve met. I’ll tell you more about him later.
As I already mentioned, my mother and father died before I did. Their story is a real tragedy, but I don’t want to talk about it right now.
Maybe later.
Fortunately, I haven’t seen either of my parents here in the Dead Lands. I hope I never do. I pray they passed on into the Light long ago, but because my father was so violent, I’m afraid he may have been taken off into the shadows.
I’d go into the Light myself, if I could.
There’s nothing I would like better than to find eternal rest that isn’t interrupted from time to time by the mockingbird’s song.
Chapter 2
Meetings
—1—
Although the girl was moving swiftly away, Abby floated like smoke in the wind and caught up with her before she reached the cliffs at the far end of the beach. Here, rough surf was crashing against jagged black rocks, throwing threads of white foam high into the evening air. Closer to shore, the water swirled tangled clumps of seaweed beneath the churning froth.
High on the peaks overlooking the beach, the motionless figures of the Reapers stood out like two black holes ripped into the sky.
As Abby came up behind the girl, the squeaking sound the girl’s bare foot made in the sand got steadily louder. On her right foot, her only remaining shoe was white and low on her ankle with long, multicolored laces that were untied and dragged in the wet sand. Abby had learned some time ago that this kind of shoe was called a “sneaker.” She wondered why the girl was wearing only one, on her left foot, and was all the more convinced it had something to do with why and how the girl had died.
“Hello there,” Abby said, making her voice as soft and mild as possible.
All the while, she kept a wary eye on the two Reapers on the cliff, wondering if they were here for the girl, and if so, why they hadn’t started moving toward her yet. Maybe they weren’t here for her. The intentions of the Reapers were never clear to Abby, or anyone else, as far as she knew.
The girl stopped short in her tracks and cocked her head to one side as though she had heard a sound faint and far away, but she didn’t turn around.
Abby thought she might have spoken too softly. Her voice had been no louder than a faint sigh in the girl’s ear. She was close enough to reach out and touch the girl on the shoulder, but she held back, not wanting to startle her too badly.
“I’m right behind you,” Abby whispered.
At this, the girl reacted. Drawing her thin shoulders up protectively, she wheeled around, wide-eyed, and gaped at Abby. Her pale blue eyes glistened, and her expression was blank with confusion. Abby saw that she had guessed correctly; the girl was maybe a year or two younger than she.
For an instant, Abby wondered if the girl could see her at all, but then the girl’s lower lip drew tight and began to tremble. Her eyes brimmed with tears that Abby knew from painful personal experience would never be adequate to express or relieve the grief and terror inside her.
“Who … are … you?” she asked, her voice high-pitched and twisting up at the end. “Where am I?”
Abby could barely hear her above the roar of the breakers. She glanced at the Reapers once again.
It was obvious from her expression that the girl had no idea she was dead. Abby was concerned how she would react to the news when it finally hit her. Throughout her time in the Dead Lands, she had seen so many different reactions—from fear and denial to relief and joy—but this girl looked so frail and confused, Abby was afraid the instant she realized what had happened, she would start crying or else shriek with terror and maybe run off, never to be seen again.
Abby’s heart went out to her. She desperately wanted to help this girl and protect her from any and all horrors in the Dead Lands, but she couldn’t come right out and tell the girl everything that was happening.
Not yet.
She would have to ease into it.
“My name’s Abby,” she said as cheerfully as she could manage, given the circumstances. She bowed her head but refrained from giving a full curtsy. That would have been the polite thing to do back when she was alive, but Abby knew that times and customs had changed.
“What’s yours?”
Abby wanted to tell the girl that she understood her confusion. It was terrifying to realize you were dead. Abby couldn’t help but remember how she could never leave the Dead Lands, but she had been here so long now, she accepted the way things were, and she considered it her duty to help people like this lost and frightened girl adjust to what had happened.
“No, wait …” Abby said with a slight smile. “Let me guess. You look like a Sarah to me.”
The girl’s expression remained utterly blank for a moment longer; then she narrowed her eyes and shook her head slowly from side to side.
“No,” she said, her voice dragging and low. “It’s … umm …”
A look of fright swept across her face as if she had suddenly awakened from a bad dream and was now trying to remember it. Abby was ready for that. A lot of the newly dead suffered momentary amnesia about who they were.
After a moment, the girl shook her head and said softly, “Megan … My name’s Megan McGowan.” She shifted her gaze away from Abby and looked out across the ocean for a long time without saying anything more. Then she asked, “So where am I? Am I dreaming?”
“Nope. You’re not dreaming,” Abby said.
“I feel like I’m in a dream.”
“You’re definitely not dreaming.”
“Then where am I? How did I get here?”
“I’m not sure,” Abby replied. “We’ll have to find out, but I’ve been here a long time, and I know you don’t have to be afraid.”
“Afraid? I’m not afraid,” Megan said, squaring her shoulders, but her expression indicated otherwise. Her lower lip was pale and trembling. Tears brimmed in her eyes and ran in thin, silver streams down both of her cheeks.
“Why don’t you come with me?” Abby asked, holding her hand out to Megan. “We can walk and talk. I’ll tell you everything I know.”
Biting her lower lip while shying away from her, Megan hesitated to take Abby’s outstretched hand. She cast a furtive glance around the beach but still seemed not to have noticed the Reapers standing on the cliff.
“Who are you?” Megan asked even as she slid her hand into Abby’s tender grip. “And why are you wearing those funny clothes?”
“You mean my dress?” Abby said, flouncing the lacy white dress she’d been buried in over a hundred years ago. “It’s not supposed to be funny.”
“I’m sorry. I just mean it … It just looks kinda old-fashioned.”
“It’s all I have to wear,” Abby said with a simple shrug.
“It looks like something you found in your grandmother’s attic or something,” Megan said, and that seemed to satisfy her.
Hand in hand, the girls started back along the beach, moving away from the Reapers, who remained motionless on the cliff above the sea. The rhythmic sound of the surf was punctuated by the steady cadence of Megan’s bare foot, squeaking in the singing sands.
“Do you live around here?” Megan asked as they walked.
Abby was caught short by the girl’s use of the word “live.” Obviously, she didn’t understand that neither of them lived anywhere anymore.
“Not far from here,” Abby replied. “How about you?”
“I live—”
Megan stopped short, and once ag
ain a curious expression, a mixture of unnamed fear combined with confusion and genuine surprise passed across her face. She looked like she had just realized she had lost something very important but had no idea what it was, much less where it might be now. Her eyes widened in shock and gathering terror when she turned and looked down the length of the beach.
“How come the sky looks so … funny?” she asked in a high, quavering voice.
“Funny?”
Megan’s shoulders shook as if a chill had suddenly gripped her.
“And who are those people back there?”
“What people?”
Abby was hoping she wouldn’t have to acknowledge the presence of the Reapers just yet. Over the last hundred years, she had noticed that the Reapers never took anyone off into the light or the shadows until after the victim had acknowledged their presence. At times, it seemed as if they were amused or took mild pleasure in the fearful reactions they got from some of the departed souls they were about to carry away.
“Up there on the cliff?” Megan indicated the Reapers with a quick nod of her head.
Realizing that the moment of truth had arrived, Abby faced Megan squarely and held her by both arms just above the elbows. Her grip was light but firm. She carefully considered what she was about to say next.
“I … I’m not sure I know how to explain this to you, Megan, and I’m not sure you’ll even believe me.”
A powerful wave of emotion swept through Abby when she saw the worry and fear growing steadily stronger, like an approaching thunderstorm in Megan’s eyes. Only too well she remembered the stark terror she had experienced when she had first realized she was dead … and all alone.
At least she isn’t alone, Abby thought.
In many ways, the panic she had experienced that day over one hundred years ago was immediate and still surprisingly fresh.
Before she could say anything, though, from far off in the distance, there came the deep-throated sound of barking dogs. Their mournful howls and sharp yips filled the evening air, echoing from the rocks.
