by Rick Hautala
“Umm … I guess so,” Abby said.
Megan paused and looked around. “Do you think he’s really gone?” Her voice was as fragile as an eggshell. “You’re sure we’re safe?”
“For the time being, uh-huh,” Abby replied, “but there’s something I have to explain to you.”
She turned and faced the girl, gripping her by both elbows. But before she could begin to speak, in the corner of her eye, she caught a hint of motion at the far end of the cemetery.
It wasn’t much. Just a glimpse of what she was sure was a person moving quickly out of sight behind the dense stand of pine trees.
But it wasn’t a person at all. Abby was sure she had caught a glimpse of a swatch of black silk hanging down from inside the wide hat brim and covering the figure’s face.
She felt much better, knowing that the Reaper she considered her friend had been close by the whole time.
No wonder Reverend Wheeler had left in such a hurry.
—2—
Dawn comes in strange ways in the Dead Lands. The dead of night is so natural it seems like it might last forever, but—eventually—the eastern sky begins to glow with a thin haze of blue light. Sometimes the sky fills with a brilliant wash of red and pink; other times, it’s tinged with deep orange or an array of violet shades; other times, it’s milky white or is lit with a dull amber glow that casts no shadows even after the sun is riding high in the sky.
Dawn on the first day after Abby met Megan on the beach came with long streaks of dark purple clouds that reached up from the eastern horizon like cat scratches raked across the pewter gray.
As the land around them gradually grew brighter, the flashing red and blue Abby had seen far off in the distance, over in the direction of the Portland Head Light, weren’t as easy to distinguish. Although they never had such things back when she was alive, Abby knew what those flashes of color were.
They were the emergency lights of the police and ambulance.
She wondered if this had anything to do with Megan’s death.
She thought it must.
Abby and the girl had spent the night in the cemetery. While it was dark, Abby hadn’t left to investigate those flashing lights because she was afraid Reverend Wheeler might still be lurking nearby with his Hell Hounds, waiting to pounce on her and drag her away. She had waited for daylight so she at least could see more clearly. The Reaper she had seen outside the cemetery—the one who watched over her—couldn’t always be around to protect her.
“Now do you understand?” Abby asked Megan.
They were sitting side by side on the grassy bluff that overlooked the beach, leaning back against the stone wall and watching the sun rise from behind Cushing’s Island. Even in the first feeble glow of dawn, Abby could see the black hulk of the sailing ship that had washed up on the western tip of the island more than one hundred years ago. The black hull and spars clung to the seaweed-crusted rocks, still battered back and forth by the waves that had claimed her life and the lives of everyone on board.
“I … I think so,” Megan replied, her voice quavering as she looked around. “I mean, it—it’s just so … so freaky and … and sad that I’ll never be able to see my mom and dad or my brother and all of my friends ever again.”
“Oh, you’ll be able to see them … and you’ll be able to hear them. You just won’t be able to communicate with them, at least not very well.”
“What do you mean?”
Abby shrugged and said, “I mean that it’s hard for anyone who’s dead to let people who are still alive know they’re still here. It takes a special person to see and hear us.”
“Do they have any idea we’re here in, like, some other way?”
“What do you mean?” Abby asked.
Megan shrugged. “I mean, can they feel us or … or sense that we’re here?”
“Maybe. I don’t know,” Abby replied. She was glad the girl was taking the truth about what had happened to her as well as she was. A few times during the night, she had heard Megan crying softly to herself, but she had never lost control or reacted with anger or denial, as she might have.
“You can see your family again if you want to,” Abby said. “I just don’t think that is such a good idea.”
“How come?’”
Abby turned away from looking at the derelict ship and looked Megan straight in the eyes.
“I’ve met a lot of people like you—”
“You mean dead people?”
Abby nodded and said, “Uh-huh. Dead people. And they, or their spirits or souls or whatever you want to call them, linger here because they can’t let go. They try to hold on to at least a part of the life they had. Sometimes—a lot of times—when they see the people they loved when they were alive, it … it makes it all the harder for them to move on.”
“Into the light, you mean.”
Again, Abby nodded. She still hadn’t had the heart to tell her about people who got taken off into the shadows.
“So if you’ve been here, like, a hundred years or so. How come you haven’t moved on?” Megan asked.
Her question surprised Abby. Throughout the night, all of the talk had centered around Megan and what had happened to her. Abby wasn’t ready to discuss her own situation with someone she’d just met.
“I guess there’s still something I have to do,” she replied, lowering her gaze to where the waves at low tide were washing up across the beach. A lone seagull flew by, its lonely cry echoing in the emptiness of the dawn.
“Like what?” Megan leaned forward, the intensity of her gaze making Abby uncomfortable.
“I—I’m not sure. I think—I’m positive it has something to do with my uncle … and the rest of my family, but I—” She sighed and shook her head before turning back to Megan. “If you really want to see your family—”
“Don’t change the subject,” Megan said.
“We’re not here to figure out what I have to do. I want to help you, and if you really want to see your family again….”
“Can I?” Megan’s eyes lit up with such excitement Abby could tell that, for a moment, at least, she’d forgotten what they had talked about through the night, especially some of the many dangers in the Dead Lands.
“Sure, but remember—we have to be careful because of—”
“—the Reverend. We have to make sure he doesn’t get us.”
“He’s not after you. Only me. But he might try to use you to get to me. We have to be careful. There are other things we have to look out for, too.”
“Like what?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
The sun was lighting up the land more than usual this morning, casting a rich, warm glow across the beach. Abby couldn’t help but wonder if it was just her perception, that having Megan to help gave her a purpose and made her see the Dead Lands as just a little less gloomy.
“How can I find my parents?” Megan asked. “I mean, do we have to walk to my house, or is there some way I can go wherever I want, like, you know, transport myself?”
“What do you mean by ‘transport’?” Abby said. “All you have to do is think about a person or even a place, and you just sort of know where they are and can get there.”
“Do I, like, close my eyes, click my heels, and make a wish like Dorothy?”
Abby chuckled and said, “I don’t know anyone named Dorothy, but no. It’s nothing like that. We have to walk there, but it’s kind of different.”
“You mean we can fly?”
“No. Not that, either. Before we go, would you like to take your other shoe off?”
“You mean my sneaker?”
Abby shrugged. They both looked down at Megan’s feet. The right one was bare; the left one still had a sneaker on it.
“I’m just saying you might feel better if you were barefoot, unless we find your other one.”
Megan considered for a moment and then said, “Nope. I think I like it this way.”
Without another word, the t
wo of them stood up. After another look around to make sure Reverend Wheeler wasn’t anywhere nearby, at least for the time being, Abby led the way down the narrow path to the beach. Once they were at the ocean’s edge, they walked side by side toward the distant cliffs that ranged along the edge of the ocean where Portland Head Light stood sentinel over the gray Atlantic. They moved across the sand like wisps of faint mist blowing in from the ocean. Above the low rumble of the waves was the steady squeak-squeak-squeak of Megan’s bare foot.
— 3 —
“Gosh, it’s beautiful.”
“Isn’t it though?”
Julia Burke cupped the antique heart-shaped locket in the palm of her left hand and looked at it admiringly. Turning it over, she stared at the etched inscription. Written in such fancy script that it was difficult to read were the initials: R.H.C. Hanging from the locket, tied to it with a length of long, dark hair, was a small gold key.
“It’s worth twice the price just for the gold, if you had the heart to melt down something so beautiful,” said Edith Peregrine. She was the owner of Thynges Past, an antiques store on Route One, in Falmouth, a store Julia visited at least once a week.
“I would never have the heart to do that,” Julia said. “Someone, a long time ago, really treasured this item.”
“Yes, she did. Her picture’s on the inside.” Edith spoke softly, reverentially, as if she were in a church. She made a gesture as if to take the necklace from Julia, but Julia slid her fingernail into the crescent-shaped slot on the side of the heart and gently pulled up. The tiny hinge yielded slowly with age, and Julia’s hands were trembling as she opened the locket wide enough to see the small photograph nestled inside.
It was an old daguerreotype of a young girl who looked to be in her early to midteens when the picture was taken. She was pretty in a plain sort of way, with long, dark hair that flowed in tresses down to both shoulders. She was wearing a clean starched dress with a wide, lacy collar. It looked like it was white, but it could have been light blue or yellow or some other color. That was part of the fun for Julia. She loved to imagine what these people’s lives had been like. The girl was smiling for the photographer, but there was something in her eye, a distance … a dark, haunted look that Julia found fascinating.
“She’s beautiful. Don’t you think so, Jim?”
With that, she turned and showed the photograph to her sixteen-year-old son Jim, who was standing close to the door, looking like he was prepared to bolt in an instant. Jim barely glanced at the photograph and then shrugged.
“I guess so,” he said.
Julia knew how much he disliked shopping with her, especially when she was “antiquing,” but now that he had his learner’s permit, he took every opportunity to drive the car around town. He had only come into the store because he’d been getting bored waiting in the car while she dawdled around.
Turning back to Edith, Julia said, “I just love looking at old photographs. I mean, you can’t help but wonder who these people were. What kind of lives did they live? Were they happy or sad? And how did they die? It’s just so … so—” She shivered and hugged herself as though an unexpected cool breeze had wafted across her shoulders. “—so fascinating.”
“That’s why I deal in antiques,” Edith said. “I love the feeling I get when I touch people’s past lives.”
At that, Jim looked at Edith and his mother as if he was a bit creeped out by the whole thing. It was one thing to like old-fashioned trinkets, but it was quite another whenever his mother and Edith got going on about how jewelry and old photographs put them in touch with these people who had died long ago.
Julia snapped the locket shut and reluctantly handed it back to Edith, who clasped it lightly in her hand.
“I’d love to buy it,” Julia said, frowning and shaking her head, “but no, I just can’t justify it. Not today.”
Edith was silent for a long moment as she looked at Julia with a steady, unblinking stare. Then she smiled and said, “Don’t worry about it. It’s just as well, I guess. I feel as though there’s something special about this one. I’m not so sure I even want to sell it. It’s just so unique, I wanted you to see it, is all.”
“I appreciate it,” Julia said as she considered for a moment. “It is lovely.”
The asking price was quite a bit beyond what she was ready or willing to spend today, and as much as the locket intrigued her, it was, after all, just a locket. Like Edith said, it was probably worth more for the gold content than any sentimental reasons. Why would she feel sentimental about it, anyway?
“Well, champ?” Julia said, turning to Jim. “You ready to blast?”
Jim hated it when his mother used words and expressions he and his friends used. They never sounded quite right, coming from her; but without a word, he nodded and opened the door for her.
“Thanks for dropping by,” Edith said and she carefully replaced the locket into its display box and put it on the counter. “See you later.”
Julia nodded but found she couldn’t speak because for some reason, all she could think about was that antique locket. For whatever reason, the photograph of that girl and the key … the key to what? … were stuck in her mind.
On the drive home, she couldn’t stop wondering out loud about who that girl had been and what the key tied to a lock of hair might open. A small jewelry box? A diary? What?
She knew it probably drove Jim nuts to hear her go on and on like this, but she decided it was a small price for him to pay in order to get to drive the family car. Once he got his license, they wouldn’t have times like this together. It all went by so fast.
— 4 —
“Why are we even here?” Megan asked.
Abby was silent for a long moment as she stood in the corner of the shop and watched the door close and the two figures disappear into the daylight. She couldn’t begin to find the words to express how she had felt as she and Megan had watched that woman inspect the locket, her locket, with her picture in it, and her key tied to her hair.
“You remember how I told you if you think about someone you love, someone you really want to see, you’ll know exactly where they are and can go to them?”
Standing by one of the windows with a bar of sunlight beaming down—and through—her, Megan nodded slowly.
“Well, that’s how I feel about that locket.”
“You mean it used to be yours?”
Something choked Abby’s voice off, and all she could do was nod.
“And the hair that’s tied to the key? That’s your hair?”
Again, all Abby could do was nod. Moving like a puff of smoke, she drifted over to the display counter and looked at the locket. Her heart ached so much—even though she didn’t have a physical heart that could actually ache—she thought it would break from all the memories that locket evoked. She wished she could be alive and real just long enough so she could pick up that locket one last time and hold it with both hands while she remembered her mother and father and the life she used to have.
“So why not just take it?” Megan said.
Abby considered a moment, then said, “That’s not how things work here. Haven’t you realized that yet? We can’t touch anything … nothing … ever again!”
As if to prove it, Abby reached out for the locket. Her hand passed through it like a fine mist, but it was impossible to say which was less substantial—her hand or the locket.
Megan looked at her with amazement, gathering shock in her expression.
“So how come we can walk on the beach and stand on the floor here without falling through? Why do we even have clothes? And why does the wind blow our hair even though we can’t feel it on our faces?”
Abby shook her head sadly from side to side as she watched Edith Peregrine bustle around the shop, dusting and rearranging items on the shelves.
“I’m not sure,” she finally said. “It … it’s just the way things are. In some ways, it’s all just an illusion. Everything. We don’t fall throug
h the floor because we don’t expect to, but maybe we would if we stopped believing that people—even dead people—can stand on floors because floors are solid. Maybe even when we’re alive things aren’t really solid.”
Megan’s eyes widened as the idea gradually sank in.
“You mean because we’re dead, we just see things the way they are because that’s the way we expect them to be?”
“Maybe,” Abby said. “I don’t know.” She shrugged, fighting back the wash of sorrow that was welling up inside her. This conversation was making her feel entirely too sad. She had to forget about herself, put aside her past life and even her locket, and do whatever she could to help Megan. It was selfish of her even to bring Megan here in the first place. She never should have done that.
“Come on,” she said, moving next to Megan and holding out a hand to her. Their fingers interlocked even though neither one of them could feel it. “You said you wanted to see your family. Let’s go.”
Abby
I don’t feel comfortable saying this—I don’t like saying anything bad about anyone—but I have to admit to you, at least that I don’t like my uncle, the Reverend George Wheeler.
You might even say that I hate him.
Even when we were alive, I never liked or trusted him. He was always so stern and angry, forever talking about how vengeful and just his God is. His God was not the loving and forgiving God my mother taught me about. His God was—and is—an angry God.
In fact, I know my uncle doesn’t serve God at all, and he never did.
He serves Satan.
My uncle is too filled with hatred to serve God, and that’s why he’s after me. He wants to claim my soul for the Devil because of what he thinks I did. I’ll tell you about that later. It’s still too upsetting.
But even if my uncle wasn’t evil when he was alive, he definitely changed when he died. He’s never spoken to me about his experience of death. He never will. I can only guess, but I believe he’s angry because the instant he died, he wasn’t lifted up to Heaven by angels to join God.
