by Rick Hautala
Bob and Caroline exchanged glances, neither one saying a word, but Detective Gray had the distinct impression they were uncomfortable about what the police—and they—might learn about their daughter’s secret life. He had seen it so many times before. Parents or spouses who were in complete denial about what their children or spouses were really up to on-line and in their personal lives. More often than not, it wasn’t very pretty.
“We have an investigative team out at the cliffs right now, doing everything they can to find physical evidence of the perp or anyone else who might have seen what was going on. But what might really help would be access to your daughter’s computer.”
“Her computer?” Bob said.
“If you’re unwilling to let me take it now,” Detective Gray said, “I could always get a search warrant and come back for it.”
He hated playing hardball like this, but it didn’t make sense that they would be so reluctant. Maybe the dead girl’s private writings would uncover evidence of physical or sexual abuse … or perhaps something else?
“It could go a long way in helping us figure out where to look.”
Again, the mother and father exchanged looks, and then—without warning—Caroline lunged forward and shouted, “I’m telling you! I told you all along! I swear to God it was him again!”
Detective Gray was taken aback. He fought back his confusion as he looked intently at Caroline.
“Beg pardon, Ma’am?” he said. “Who’s ‘him’?”
Bob seemed embarrassed by his wife’s sudden outburst. He held her right hand and squeezed it until her fingers and knuckles went bone white. Caroline’s face got even paler, if that was possible. Her wide, wet eyes were practically bugging from their sockets as she stared at Detective Gray.
“I—we … we’re so ashamed about what happened.”
“Tell me about it,” Detective Gray said, speaking as mildly as he could.
“We, us parents, we don’t like to admit it when our children grow up. We’re in denial. They grow up too fast as it is, and in today’s world with all its … with everything that’s happening all around us … but you can’t stop it. You can’t protect your children the way you’d like to, your precious babies … no matter how hard you try, you can’t wrap them in the security blanket you wish you could.”
“I’m not quite getting what you mean here, Mrs. Ryder,” Detective Gray said, frowning.
“I mean the guy, the man who was e-mailing her … he was stalking her last year,” Caroline said.
“Come on, darling. Take it easy.” Bob shot a worried glance at Detective Gray and then turned his full attention back to his wife. “We resolved that. I seriously doubt that has anything to do with what happened.”
“Oh, yes it does! Yes, it does!”
“Someone killed your daughter,” Detective Gray said, keeping his voice almost at a whisper so he would hold their attention, “and we intend to find out who. Although the preliminary report indicates no sexual assault, we’re not ruling out that someone might have lured your daughter out there with that intent. If you know—”
“It was last year. Last summer.” Caroline’s voice hitched on practically every word. “Hon.” She turned to her husband and, grabbing his arm above the elbow, squeezed him hard enough to make him wince. “We have to tell him.”
But Bob didn’t say a word.
He just sat there, staring blankly at his wife, at a complete loss for words. Detective Gray had all but forgotten about Michael, who was sitting off to one side, until he spoke up.
“There was some creepazoid who kept sending her e-mails, saying how he’d seen her around town and how he wanted to meet up with her.”
“Is that true?” Detective Gray asked, turning back to the parents.
After a moment of silence, Bob sighed and slowly nodded.
“Yeah,” he said. “But that was over a year ago, and since then, we’re positive he hasn’t been in contact with her. Not after I put my foot down.”
Detective Gray wasn’t buying any of this. He wasn’t sure if they were simply ashamed a sexual predator had tried to lure their daughter, and they wanted to cover it up, or if something else was going on beneath the surface. Whatever it was, he was confident he would figure it out eventually.
“Then I believe all the more that having access to your daughter’s computer will answer that question once and for all. So will you let me take it down to the station for analysis?”
After another lingering glance at each other, Caroline nodded. She let her breath out and looked like a deflating balloon as she said, “Do whatever you have to, as long as you find the son of a bitch who … who—” Her voice choked off, and she wasn’t able to finish as more tears spilled down her cheeks.
— 4—
“What are those lights over there?” Megan asked.
It was the middle of the night, and she and Abby were safe in the cemetery, awaiting the dawn. While daytime had its dangers, it was extremely unsafe to move around in the Dead Lands after dark. Even after all these years, Abby only did it when she absolutely had to. Along with Reverend Wheeler and his Hell Hounds, there were too many other unspeakable horrors they might encounter.
Abby had been feeling off-balance ever since they visited Megan’s home earlier that day. She still couldn’t explain, much less understand, the sudden odd feelings that had come over her. Along with a sense of being threatened—but not like when the Reverend was closing in on her. There was something else, something she couldn’t quite define. It confused and frightened her, and filled her with old memories from when she was alive in Virginia. It reminded her of a hot and humid day with a thunderstorm brewing and dark clouds rapidly approaching.
“What lights? Where?” Abby asked, glancing up.
She wondered if Megan was talking about those tiny points of light she thought of as “ghost lights,” faint blue flames that appeared from time to time hovering above someone’s grave; but looking around, she didn’t see any nearby.
“Over there,” Megan said, pointing down and across the beach.
For a moment or two, Abby still didn’t see what she meant, but then her gaze shifted beyond the beach to the cliffs in the distance. Finally, she saw dozens, maybe hundreds, of small, flickering yellow dots of light.
“I … I don’t know,” Abby said, genuinely confused. After existing in the Dead Lands for over a hundred years, she thought she had seen everything, but this sight was new and perplexing.
“Let’s check it out,” Megan said excitedly. She was standing by the cemetery stonewall, bouncing on her toes like an excited ten-year-old.
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”
Abby could feel the darkness pressing in around them. She was reluctant to take even a few steps out of the safety of the cemetery.
“Can it wait until morning?”
“They might be gone by then.” Megan held her hand out to Abby, shaking it impatiently. “Come on. We won’t go far.”
“What if the Reverend—”
“If the Reverend shows up, we’ll run. I know the way back to the cemetery now.”
Abby kept shaking her head from side to side as her mind filled with unnerving images of what they might encounter, even during such a short walk as this.
“Well, if you don’t wanna come, I’m still going,” Megan said, her voice taking on a petulant note. She started toward the cemetery gate and was reaching out to open it, but then, as if remembering her newfound state and wanting to test it, rose like sea mist and floated over the knee-high stone wall. As soon as she came to the ground outside the perimeter of the cemetery, Abby expected something horrible to happen. For several tense seconds, she just stood there, waiting to see what would occur, but the night remained silent except for the chirping song of crickets in the grass and the low, steady rush of the tide.
Without another word, Megan started walking away, leaving Abby alone under the small apple tree that grew above her grave. She was
torn between staying where she was safe and going after Megan so she wouldn’t be alone in the Dead Lands after dark. Megan had no idea what dangers there were. Finally, Abby couldn’t take it any longer, and she called out for her to wait.
At first, Abby thought Megan didn’t hear her or perhaps was ignoring her, but as she rushed to catch up with Megan, she caught a glimpse of the dead girl’s face in the moonlight. Her skin was as smooth and white as polished ivory with a faint, blue glow, but her eyes sparkled with a light brighter than anything they could be reflecting in the night.
“Megan …?” Abby asked. “Are you all right …?”
She was tempted to reach out and touch the girl on the shoulder, to shake her, but she held back. She wasn’t sure what was happening. Megan walked like she was hypnotized. The glazed look in her eyes was unnerving. Her gaze was focused on the dark cliffs far across the beach and the lights that winked and danced there like fireflies.
“They’re candles,” Megan said as they got nearer. Her voice was low and dragging, like she was talking in her sleep.
Abby’s fear began to subside when she realized Megan was right. The lights weren’t anything supernatural, much less dangerous. A crowd of living people had gathered on the cliff overlooking the ocean. All of them, at least a hundred with more arriving every minute, were holding small, white candles. A faint breeze from the ocean made the flames gutter, but people cupped their hands around them to keep the candles burning.
As Megan and Abby drew closer, they watched the confused shadows cast by the hundreds of flickering flames, wavering crazily in the night.
“This is where—”
Megan stopped herself. She didn’t have to finish. Abby knew these people were gathering at the place where Megan had fallen.
“It’s so beautiful,” Megan whispered, her face aglow as she moved up the side of the cliff like a whiff of smoke and mingled among the people. Abby followed a short distance behind her, watching the curiously underlit faces of the people.
“Do you know any of them?” Abby asked once she caught up with Megan, and the two of them were weaving through the crowds. When they passed by, at least a few people seemed to be vaguely aware of their presence; some of them shivered, and the flames of their candles momentarily glowed brighter.
“Yeah, sure,” Megan said, her voice filled with wonder as she looked around at everyone. “I know some of ‘em … lots of ‘em. They … some of ‘em are from my school. Look! There’s Miss Carmody, my English teacher … and Mr. Ives, my history teacher. And … Oh, my God! Cheryl Doyle’s here!”
“Who’s she?” Abby looked at the girl Megan indicated. She was short and thin, with dark bangs that shadowed her eyes. Tears ran freely down Cheryl’s face, smearing her heavy black eyeliner.
“She was my best friend in the world,” Megan said. “We hung out together. And look! Look! There’s Reverend Kennedy.”
Abby started at the word “reverend,” but the man Megan was pointing at was a kindly-looking, elderly old man, balding with a fringe of gray hair above his ears. He had a serious, kindly expression and was standing next to Megan’s mother and father. Michael stood a ways behind them, hanging off to one side and looking like he would bolt if anyone noticed him.
“He’s the minister at the church I go to.” Megan paused and then corrected herself. “—went to.”
“It’s beautiful,” Abby said, deeply touched by this display of affection and grief. Many of the people were fighting back tears while others weren’t holding back at all. They sobbed or cried into handkerchiefs and tissues or let their tears run freely down their cheeks.
Megan was speechless. Her eyes glistened as she looked around at the crowd. It was obvious to Abby that she recognized many more people, but she wondered if it was really sinking in for Megan that this memorial service was for her … that it marked the end of her life. Megan’s mixed emotions were etched on her face, which glowed with a faint translucence in the candlelight.
“They’re all here because of you, you know,” Abby said.
Megan nodded but seemed to have barely heard her. The look of wistful longing and yearning in her eyes filled Abby with sadness. These people, gathered on the cliff where Megan had died, really did think this was the end of it all. But Abby, and now Megan knew differently. In some regards, the mystery of Megan’s life was just beginning, and it wouldn’t be over until Abby helped her complete whatever unfinished business she had.
“May we have a moment of silence please,” Reverend Kennedy’s deep tenor carried far. The crowd hushed and turned their attention to him. Many people folded their hands and bowed their head while others looked around in awe at the field and woods alit with candles.
Silence descended on the cliffs. The only sound was the crashing of waves on the rocks below. Megan’s eyes sparkled in the candlelight as she looked around at friends and neighbors and classmates and townspeople, some of whom she barely recognized. After a few seconds, Reverend Kennedy raised his head and scanned the crowd.
“We have gathered here tonight,” he said, his voice swelling, “not to mourn, but to celebrate the life and honor the memory of a wonderful person, Megan Louise McGowan.” He lowered his head. “Let us pray.”
Abby
I suppose I should tell you about what happened to my parents, but it’s difficult to talk about them, even after all this time.
I was born in 1867, shortly after the Civil War. That was a long time ago. We lived—my mother and father and I—in Waynesboro, Virginia. I never had any brothers or sisters, although I definitely wanted some. I was lonely, but certainly not as lonely as I am now.
My father was a soldier for the Confederacy. He was wounded at the battle of Second Manassas. Some people call it the Second Battle of Bull Run. After he got out of the army hospital, he went back home to farm as best he could, but for years the war raged up and down the Shenandoah Valley. A raiding party of Yankees burned his home to the ground during the last year of the war, but he rebuilt and said no one, not any damned Yankees or Rebels, was going to drive him off his property.
I know one person buried in the Old Settlers’ Cemetery served in the Civil War, too. I haven’t met him. He must have moved on before I got here. I assume he fought for the Union, but you never know. The way my father explained it to me, it was a confusing time, with brothers and cousins, friends and neighbors, fighting on both sides.
It was hard to make a living farming after the war, and my mother always said it was his war wounds—not just the wounds on his body, but the ones in his mind—that made my father so mean. When I got older, when I was in my teens, my mother used to confide in me and tell me how much the war changed him and how he had never touched a drop of alcohol until he came back from the fighting. It was the war that ruined him, she said.
But he did drink, and when he did, he was mean to my mother and me. I was just a little child. I didn’t know any better. For the few children I knew living close to us, it was the same. If they misbehaved, their parents would beat them. It was just the way people raised children back then, I suppose. I know things are a lot different now.
As the years passed, my father got even meaner to my mother, and after I turned ten or so, there were times when he’d get drunk and beat her up so bad she would have to stay inside the house for weeks on end just so the neighbors wouldn’t see how bruised and cut her face was. I was afraid he was going to break her bones and maybe even kill her, but thank God he stopped short of that.
It was only when my father drank that he got so mean. If he didn’t have a bottle around, he could be the sweetest person on earth. Once he started in with the rum or the whiskey, though, there was no stopping him. After he was in his cups, he would start in on my mother, blaming her for everything that was wrong in his life. What was worse, my mother’s sister had married a Yankee, and a preacher man, at that. They lived in Windham, Maine, a town, even a state, I’d never heard much about until after the fire.
That’s
how my mother died, in a house fire. Something in the kitchen caught fire, and our house burned down to the ground. My mother never got out.
I—I’m not sure I can talk about it right now. Maybe later. Even after all these years, it’s much too painful to talk about.
Chapter 5
Brief Candle
—1—
After the formal part of the memorial service was over, and Megan’s parents and brother went back home, many other people stayed behind. Some of them stood on the cliff, lost in thought while others walked the wide expanse of lawn that led down to Portland Head Light. The steady flashing from the lighthouse swept across the land and sea, lighting up the faces and casting long, swinging shadows across the grass. On the crest of the hill, several kids Megan knew from school gathered in a circle. One of them was strumming a guitar, and they were singing.
“So this is where you fell?” Abby asked, indicating the cliff edge with a quick nod of her head.
She and Megan were off to one side, avoiding the crowd. Numerous candles still flickered in the night, but the two dead girls were lost in the shadows under the rocks close to the cliff’s edge. They could have easily passed through the crowd without anyone noticing except for maybe a few, who might experience a brief chill, like a cool breeze blowing on the back of their necks.
“It’s just so … weird. I can’t believe I’m really dead.”
Abby had nothing to say to that, but she noticed the tightness in Megan’s voice. There was a vacancy in her expression and a strange tension in her stance when she looked at the people. Someone on the edge of the cliff edge with head bowed suddenly looked up and then threw the lighted candle out into the abyss. It glowed for only an instant as it fell end over end and then plunked into the churning sea below. After that, several others pitched their lighted candles into the ocean.
