The Dead Lands

by Rick Hautala

  He’s convinced his Lord deserted him in his hour of need and left him stranded in the Dead Lands. He’s made it clear to me that he feels he has to get me to confess my sins, all of them, so he can harvest my soul before he’ll be able to get into Heaven.

  He thinks I’m his unfinished business.

  He can’t see, he could never see, how his anger, his self-righteousness are not the true message in the Bible. At least not the Bible as I understand it.

  Even though I have no idea why I’m trapped between life and death, I think my uncle is here because he can’t admit even to himself, much less to God, that the life he lived was evil because he was so cruel and unforgiving to the people he should have shown love and forgiveness.

  That’s the lesson I’m sure he has to learn before he can move on.

  But what lesson do I have to learn?

  I have no idea.

  Chapter 4

  Vigil

  —1—

  “How come we can hear them, but they can’t hear us?” Megan cast a worried glance at Abby, who was standing silently in the darkest corner of the living room.

  Megan was next to the piano in what had been—and still was, even without her—her family’s living room, watching her mother, who was lying facedown on the couch. Caroline’s shoulders shook violently with each racking sob that filled the darkening room. When she turned her head to one side, Abby saw tears, glowing like glycerin on her cheeks. Megan’s stepfather hovered close by, looking on helplessly. He kept pacing the floor, walking over to one of the windows and looking out as though he was expecting someone.

  “I’ve never been able to figure that out,” Abby said, her voice as soft as the brush of a butterfly’s wings. “Some people—not many, but some—have heard me, I’m pretty sure, but don’t forget. We’re dead. We’re not a part of their world anymore.”

  “Then why are we still in it?”

  Abby looked at her, feeling a remarkable mixture of sadness and confusion that she thought perfectly mirrored what Megan was feeling.

  “People usually linger in the Dead Lands because of unfinished business. You must have some unfinished business.”

  “I have no idea what that would be,” Megan said. “Only that I wish I was still alive. I wish I could have lived, and grown up, and had friends, and maybe even gone to college. And got married eventually and have children and … and now … now none of that will ever happen!”

  Tears glistened in her eyes and on her face the same way they did on her mother’s. Abby could feel Megan’s yearning to reach out and touch her mother, if only to let her know she was all right.

  But was she all right?

  How could she say she was “all right” when she had absolutely no clue as to why she was still here?

  “You said some people could hear you?”

  Abby considered for a moment, then nodded, not sure how much to reveal.

  “I’ve met a few in the time since I died, but even when I thought they could hear me, they didn’t always get what I was trying to tell them. I’ve helped people like you before—”

  “You mean people who are dead.”

  “Uh-huh. And once I figure out what the problem is, there’s usually someone who’s still alive who needs to know about them. But it’s difficult to communicate with the living. Sometimes they react like something’s going on or like they’re afraid they’re losing their minds, but … I don’t know. The majority of people have no inkling I’m around. It’s like, maybe they don’t want to think or believe there really are ghosts, so they deny I’m there. Lots of times some of them seem to misunderstand or misinterpret me on purpose.”

  “Why would they do something like that?”

  Abby shrugged. “I guess they have their own ideas about what’s happened to the person they loved who died.”

  It was breaking Abby’s heart to see the anguish Megan’s mother was expressing because it reminded her so much of how she had felt when her own mother and father had died. It struck her as odd that what Megan’s mother was going through didn’t seem to affect Megan very deeply. Maybe that was part of Megan’s unfinished business.

  As much as she tried to stop it, a tiny doubt entered Abby’s mind, and she was suddenly convinced that what had happened to Megan wasn’t as simple as it might appear at first. There was something about it that Abby had to figure out.

  Did Megan know something she wasn’t saying? Was there something she would have to admit before she was able to move on?

  Or, like with so many other people, was Megan going to be able to move only after she discovered the truth about how and why she had died?

  Abby was considering asking her about that when a sudden uneasiness that had nothing to do with what was happening with Megan passed through her.

  This strange feeling had everything to do with Abby but for a terrifying moment or two, Abby had no idea what it was. All she knew was that she felt a sudden urgent sense of threat. It wasn’t like when Reverend Wheeler and his Hell Hounds were coming after her. They usually only pursued her at dusk or at night when she was most vulnerable.

  No, this was something else, something that had to do with Abby. What made it so unnerving was that she couldn’t determine what the threat was or even where it was coming from. All she knew was that she felt a sudden urge to flee Megan’s house. She wanted to be alone, even if that meant leaving Megan behind for a while.

  “We—ah, we have to get going,” Abby said, trying to mask her rising nervousness as she moved close to Megan and placed one hand lightly on her shoulder.

  Even through her panic, it struck her as strange that Megan seemed more angry than sad about what was happening in what used to be her home. Whenever her stepfather started pacing the floor again, clenching and unclenching his fists as though helpless and unsure of what to do next, Abby noticed that Megan shied away from him.

  The single most powerful thought in her mind was how much she wanted to get back to the cemetery so she could be alone and try to figure out exactly what was gnawing at her.

  — 2 —

  The bell on a coiled spring above the shop door jingled when Jim opened the door and entered Thynges Past. He didn’t like the owner, Edith Peregrine, and he scowled at her when he saw her standing on a small stepladder with her back to the door. She was busily dusting some items on the top shelf, but she turned at the sound of the bell and glanced down at Jim as he closed the door behind him.

  “Well, well, well. Good afternoon, young man. Is your mother with you?” Edith glanced out the window as she climbed slowly down off the stepladder and walked over to her post behind the main counter. She leaned forward with her elbows resting on the glass case.

  A cold ball of tension formed in Jim’s stomach. He swallowed hard as he approached the counter. There was something about this woman, something in her demeanor, in the way she looked at people—or at least him—that was off. He especially didn’t like the way she bullshitted—there was no other word for it—her customers. Too many times, he’d heard her go on and on to his mother or another customer about how the items in her shop “spoke” to her and how they put her “in touch” with people’s past lives.

  Not just in touch.

  In “direct contact.”

  Jim suspected it was all an act she had perfected over the years to dupe people into buying her overpriced junk. And that’s all it was, overpriced junk.

  Maybe that’s why she looked at him so strangely whenever she saw him: She knew that he knew she was full of crap.

  He reminded himself he was here only because his mother had really liked that locket, and with her birthday coming up, it was the only thing he could think of to buy for her. Either that or another bottle of perfume.

  “No, she, umm. I was wondering about that locket she was looking at.”

  The palms of his hands were sticky with sweat, even though the day was cool. He wiped them on one pant leg as he took a step closer to the counter.

  “
It is a beauty, isn’t it?” Edith said as she reached into the glass counter and withdrew the locket from its resting place.

  “I was—” Jim cursed himself for stammering as he reached for his wallet in his hip pocket. “I wanted to—ah, to buy it for her … as a … as a present.”

  “Really?” Edith shot him a wolfish smile that chilled him.

  “Yeah. How, ah, how much is it again?”

  “Oh,” Edith said as she took the locket from its box and dangled it in front of her eyes, twirling it back and forth so the light caught it. Jim had the impression she was trying to hypnotize him, but he quickly dismissed it. Her talk about being in touch with past lives and all of that ESP stuff was pure crap. But then again, he didn’t want to take any chances. He glanced to one side, breaking the spell just in case she really was trying to cast one on him.

  “I know I told your mother I couldn’t sell it for less than two hundred dollars, but after she left, the more I thought about it, the more I thought I shouldn’t sell it at all. It is a very special piece, and I think I want to keep it.”

  “I’ve got two hundred dollars with me,” Jim said. “I took the money out of my savings.”

  “Oh, how sweet,” Edith said, her voice sounding pleasant enough, but she still had a hungry look in her eyes that reminded Jim of the way a wolf must look at its prey just before it devours it. “I don’t think I could let it go for anything less than three hundred.”

  Jim’s mouth dropped open. He started to protest, but no words came out. He was flustered and angry. He had no doubt she was jacking up the price simply to take advantage of him. He knew, and she knew.

  “Really? Three hundred?” was all he finally managed to say.

  He stood frozen, unable to decide whether to haggle with her or merely accept that he couldn’t afford it and leave.

  “What’s so special about this locket, do you think?” Edith said, her voice dropping to a low, almost conspiratorial tone. She cupped the locket in the palm of her hand and held it out so Jim could see it. Try as he might to resist, he stared at the locket and couldn’t deny that it did make him feel … odd, somehow. Maybe it was from listening to all that crap his mother and Edith talked about whenever they came here, but there was no denying there was something strange about it.

  “I … I don’t know,” Jim stammered.

  “Is it the picture of the girl inside, do you think? Or is it the key?”

  She brushed her fingertips across the strands of dark hair and once again began twirling the locket back and forth. The gold caught the light as it spun and flickered madly, leaving little tracers darting across Jim’s vision.

  “Maybe it’s the mystery of the key. Do you suppose that’s it?”

  “I just know my mother likes it, and I thought I’d—”

  “It must be the girl, don’t you think? I can’t help but wonder—who was she? What was her life like? Was she married? Did she have children? How did she die?” Edith heaved a heavy sigh as she continued to stare at the locket. “Sometimes, I feel almost as though she’s here with me, that she’s connected to her locket, and I can … I can almost see her and hear her.”

  She let her gaze drift past Jim, and it unnerved him so much he turned and looked behind him.

  “I guess we’ll never know,” Jim said.

  “Maybe that’s why we’re so attracted to things like this. Because they are clear symbols of the mystery of life and death, and they put us in touch with … things beyond.” She waved her fingers as though casting a spell.

  All Jim could think about was how much he wished he’d never come here in the first place. He wished he had the courage to say “Thank you, ma’am,” turn around, and walk right on out of here and forget all about it. He would have to think of something else to buy his mother for her birthday … maybe not perfume; maybe some CDs or DVDs, or some movie tickets.

  But he couldn’t leave.

  As much as he tried to deny it, something about that locket had captured his interest, too. He couldn’t begin to explain it.

  “So are you saying you’re not gonna sell it to me?” he asked, cringing at the nervous tremor in his voice.

  “No, no, not at all.” Edith was smiling broadly. “All I’m saying is, I’m not sure I have it priced at its true value. Think about it. For the person who used to own this, it was probably worth a fortune.”

  Jim withdrew his wallet and flipped it open. He withdrew a wad of bills and started counting them out.

  “There’s two hundred and twenty-five dollars,” he said, happy that he had regained control of his voice. “It’s all I got. Take it or leave it.”

  Edith looked at him and then at the money. A predatory glow lit her eyes. One corner of her mouth twitched into a smile that made her face look lopsided, and he knew she had gotten what she wanted from him—more than what she wanted. He was suddenly convinced the locket probably wasn’t even worth twenty bucks; he and his mother had been taken for suckers.

  But he couldn’t withdraw the offer now. His hand was trembling as he held the cash out for Edith to take.

  Besides, he thought, if Mom really wants it, why not?

  After a lengthening moment, Edith heaved a heavy sigh and nodded. She gingerly took the cash from him and placed it on the counter. The smile on her face widened.

  “You have a deal, young man,” she said.

  Jim didn’t know if he should be thrilled or angry about what had just happened. He felt like he’d been taken as he stared at the pile of cash and suddenly wished it was back inside his wallet.

  “Would you like me to gift wrap it for you?” Edith said. “I know your mother is going to be so surprised when she gets this.”

  Shaking his head, Jim bit his lower lip to keep himself from telling her exactly what he thought of her.

  “No. Thanks. I can wrap it myself.”

  He waited patiently as Edith wrote up a sales receipt and slipped the box containing the locket into a thin tissue bag before handing it to Jim. He was careful not to let their hands touch when he took the bag from her.

  “Thanks for stopping by,” Edith said as he turned and started for the exit.

  Jim knew he was forgetting his manners, but all he did was glance at her over his shoulder and nod before swinging the door open. The tinkling of the bell above the door startled him, and his face was slick with sweat when he stepped out into the cool October afternoon. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and, gripping the package tightly, used all his willpower not to run down the street as fast as he could away from Thynges Past and Edith Peregrine.

  — 3 —

  Sitting in the family’s living room, Detective Gray was having a tough time trying to get a fix on Bob and Caroline Ryder, the dead girl’s mother and stepfather. He wasn’t having any better luck with the young son, Michael—Megan’s half-brother. A peculiar tension permeated the house. That much was obvious. Something was wrong here, but what?

  Could it be that one or both of the parents were abusive, and they were trying to hide it?

  Or was there a problem with drugs and alcohol abuse?

  Granted, they were in shock over the death of their child or, in the case of Bob Ryder, his stepchild, but there was something off about the family’s overall demeanor—their “vibe”—that simply didn’t wash.

  The mother was obviously shattered, an emotional wreck. Throughout their interview, she hadn’t been able to stop crying. Every few minutes, she would break down and start wailing, leaning her face into her hands, her body shaking uncontrollably.

  Her husband did his best to console her, but he seemed to be all twisted up inside as well. His eyes reflected a strange, glassy distance, as if the only way he could cope with this situation was to keep it at arm’s length.

  The boy, Michael, was obviously as much frightened as he was saddened by what had happened to his sister. He looked like he was ready to jump out of his skin. Detective Gray couldn’t shake the feeling that he—or maybe all o
f them—might be hiding something or at least holding something back. Michael was almost totally uncommunicative, and whenever he did speak, he looked at his parents first as if silently asking them for permission.

  “I wish we had more to go on,” Detective Gray said to the family. “We’ll check her cell phone for the names of the people she might’ve talked to in the last few days, check any e-mails and Tweets, but I suspect what we’re looking for may be in her computer.”

  “We don’t know her password,” the girl’s father said, perhaps a bit abruptly. “We didn’t make a habit of checking out what she was up to on-line.”

  “Parents should be doing more of that, ‘specially these days,” Detective Gray said. “You can’t be too careful, what with all the creeps and predators out there on the internet looking for … whatever.”

  Caroline listened with a vacant expression. She looked lost, as though she could barely understand the words he was saying. Tears gleamed like quicksilver in her eyes and shone on her cheeks. The tip of her nose was bright red from blowing and rubbing it.

  “It was a … a privacy issue,” Bob said. “We felt … we had such a good relationship with her, with Megan, that we felt we could trust her.”

  Caroline’s expression abruptly shifted, and she looked at her husband with genuine shock in her eyes. Her mouth dropped open, and she started to say something, but then she stopped herself as another wave of grief swept through her, reducing her once again to tears.

  “I’m sure,” Detective Gray said, trying to keep them all focused, “if you let me take her computer down to the station, we have a guy there in IT who’ll be able to crack the password.”

  “Can you do that? I mean, is it legal?” Bob asked.

  Detective Gray had all he could do not to yell at him. Your daughter is dead, you damned fool! Don’t talk to me about what’s legal or not! but he restrained himself.

  “It, ah, might be a big help to see who she was communicating with and what the contents of those communications were. We’ll be discreet about any other, ah, personal information we might uncover.”