The Dark One

by Jennifer Martucci

  Kiera’s are-you-kidding-me expression doesn’t surprise me yet still manages to disappoint me as I navigate the labyrinth of tables and people. When I give up on finding a table and am about to step through a pair of wooden doors, a voice calls out.

  “Hey Danny!” the voice says.

  Stopping, I turn and take a quick glance over my shoulder, certain the Danny being summoned isn’t me.

  “Hey Danny! Over here!” it calls out a second time.

  I turn and scan the room and see Tom waving a thick arm at me. He appears to be inviting me to join him and a few other guys he’s sitting with. Relieved, I make my way toward them. As soon as I get there and slip into a chair, Tom introduces me to his friends. “Danny, this is Mike, Steve and Pete.”

  “What’s up? I’m Danny,” I say to them. The peasantries aren’t drawn out and before long, a conversation about the Spanish teacher’s breath becomes the hot topic of discussion. But as soon as I realize Sarah is sitting at the table beside us, on the end and so close to me I can smell her perfume, bad breath and Spanish teachers fall to the wayside of my attention span. Heart racing so fast it makes me slightly lightheaded, I wonder why I’m feeling as I do. I’ve been around girls before, even went on a few dates here and there. But I never felt as I do now, queasy and breathless, nervous and as excited as a kid on Christmas morning. I wonder if this is yet another strange development that stems from my return from death.

  “So Danny, have you heard about what’s been happening here?” Tom’s voice is a slap to the back of my head that forces me to return my attention to the guys at my table.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  Mike looks at me incredulously before Tom continues. “The six suicides committed by students here at Patterson High.”

  A sorrow-filled hush befalls our small group. I wet my lips and say with regret, “Yeah, I saw something about it on the news.” My voice is low and respectful.

  Pete leans in conspiratorially. “Rumor has it those kids were tangled up in some sort of satanic cult and that more are joining. They think more suicides are coming.”

  I have no idea who the “they” is that he refers to but I assume that as is the case in most rumor-driven circumstances, “they” are unreliable at best and likely uninformed. Still, my mind instantly reverts to the woman who wore the boards and shouted at my mother, my sister and I as we pulled into town. “That must be what that lady on the street was yelling about,” I mumble and think no one heard. But when all heads swivel in my direction and Tom asks, “What woman?” I realize I mumbled a bit too loud. I quickly tell them what happened. Mike, Pete, Steve and Tom are rapt, eyes wide and mouths agape. When I finish, the word “dude” is expelled several times in varying degrees of surprise and distress.

  “Maybe she knows about the cult,” Mike suggests.

  “I bet she does,” Steve agrees.

  Their conviction is so complete, so sincere, I can’t help but wonder whether there’s any validity to the cult theory. After all, far stranger things have happened. I’m living proof of that.

  “I bet the news report didn’t say that four of the suicides were committed at the old Hanson Mansion, did it?” Pete leans in even farther and no further mention of the old woman is made.

  “The Hanson Mansion?” I quirk a brow and regard them curiously. After several beats and several furtive glances pass between them, I debate asking whether I’m supposed to just know what they’re talking about or whether they intend to tell me.

  Tom fills his lungs to the point of puffing out his barrel chest then exhales loudly. The act, though a bit theatrical, is laden with tension. “The Hanson Mansion is an old abandoned house that’s supposedly haunted. It’s been said that Satan worshippers hold meetings there, séances and animal sacrifices and all, and that they have started killing themselves in ritualistic suicides as some kind of offering.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head slowly. When he opens them, they are glazed and distant. He scratches his chin then refocuses. “It’s some seriously messed up stuff.” He interlaces his fingers behind his head, his generous biceps bulging and flexing. “We’re planning to break in there tonight and check things out, you know, have a look around and see what we find.”

  In my head, I’m screaming, “Uh, yeah that’s what the police are for! And they’ve done it already!” Of course, I don’t utter a word that my brain screams.

  “Wanna come?” Tom asks.

  “Umm, yeah, sure,” I reply against every cell in my body that shrieks in protest. Trouble has a way of finding me of late. Going and essentially seeking it out doesn’t strike me as a good idea in the least. In truth, it freaks me out to go where people are calling upon evil, worshipping it and hoping to be infused with it. An icy chill traces my spine like a spindly finger of Death. I try to ignore it, try to pretend I’m enthused about it.

  I’m busy bobbing my head in acknowledgement of what I’m supposed to wear and bring when a female voice so pleasant to my ears it makes my scalp shrink and feel two sizes too small interrupts the conversation.

  “Did you guys say you’re going to the Hanson Mansion?” Sarah’s bright eyes hold me in place, temporarily stealing the breath from my lungs.

  “Yes,” I barely manage and hope she doesn’t hear my breathlessness or the pounding of my heart.

  Gripping the sides of her green, plastic tray, she stands and walks toward us. She pulls out the chair beside me and sits. “I heard what you were saying before you know.” Her brows lower and there’s an edge to her voice. “Lisa wasn’t into that crap. She wasn’t a devil worshipper.” She picks up a carrot stick from her tray and chomps down on it, chewing furiously. But I see that her eyes shine with emotion. She is in pain, and her pain causes a pang in my chest so pronounced I nearly double over. I want to reach out to her, to wrap my arm around her shoulder and draw her near. I can’t explain it, can’t understand it even. I just met her. She’s one of many girls at my new school. It doesn’t make sense at all. I’ve met plenty of girls through the years and never felt as I feel when I’m around her.

  Swallowing hard, I resist the urge to hug her and listen as Tom apologizes.

  “Oh man, I’m sorry, Sarah. I know she was your friend.” He blushes deeply. “I’m just telling them what I heard.”

  “She was my best friend,” Sarah corrects, and the faint tremor in her voice causes a faint tremor in my heart. “I knew her better than anyone else.” She squeezes her eyes shut. “I knew she was excited about her date with Joe and then two nights later . . .” Her voice trails off. No one speaks. And I hold my breath. Her eyes open and a single teardrop slips down her porcelain cheek. “She was a happy person, so positive and excited about life, about everything. She’d never kill herself. I know it.”

  The air grows charged, laden with hurt that’s palpable. A minute passes before Tom says in a soft, almost apologetic tone, “Maybe Joe canceled. Maybe they had a fight and she got depressed.”

  An unnamed emotion flashes in Sarah’s eyes. I see rage. I see hurt. But I also see strength and compassion. “She was a happy person, and popular, and beautiful. A canceled date wouldn’t have cut her down enough to end her life.” The certainty in her voice tolls like a bell, rich and clear. “Besides, I talked to Joe. He was devastated about her death. He really liked her.”

  Tom holds up his hands in mock surrender, his cheeks turn pink and his demeanor sheepish. “We’re going to that mansion tonight and if what you’re saying is true—and I believe it is—you should come with us, look around for yourself,” he says.

  Four sets of eyes turn on me, Tom and the rest of the boys at the table with me are surprised but not nearly as shocked as I am.

  Sarah chews her lower lip and considers my offer. “I want to go,” she announces. “Maybe I’ll see something no one else saw or see something that only makes sense to me. I don’t know, but I’m going.”

  “Sarah, I’m sure the police have been over that place again and again and have taken
out anything that’s relevant to the case.” He cocks his head to one side, speaking to her with brotherly affection. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up is all I’m saying.”

  “Whatever.” She waves a hand in front of her. “I’m going no matter what. What time?”

  “We’re going after dark. We’ll meet there at nine,” Tom says.

  Sarah nods. “Okay. I’ll be there.”

  My heart flutters but I feel the press of eyes bearing down on me. I search the cafeteria for the culprit and am immediately met by a keen, pale-green gaze. Tattooed arms folded across his broad chest, Luke Carmichael watches me intently. And in the seconds that our gazes clash, I am certain in a way that resonates deep in my marrow that I’ve been drawn to Patterson, to this school, for a very specific reason, one I plan to unearth as soon as possible.

  Chapter 4

  Excitement trills through my body like a mini adrenaline rush. Smiling so hard my cheeks hurt, I race through the front door, dropping my backpack and stopping at the long narrow table positioned in the hallway. I drop my keys in the small ceramic dish that sits beside an arrangement of faded silk flowers and catch my breath before heading straight for the living room. I’m relieved to be home from a school day that lasted more than six hours but felt as if it flew by in ten blurry minutes. Flashes of classes and conversations whiz through my brain. So many were had, but only one stands out in my brain: my interaction with Sarah at lunch today. Belly feeling as if it’s filled with a hive of bees buzzing at once I picture her face, her pale skin and luminous eyes a shade of ice-blue so striking my breathing snags in my chest just thinking of them, and her lips, plump, pink lips parted as they smile at me. Though we didn’t talk long, I felt a connection to her, a sensation completely foreign to me. I can’t pinpoint what it was exactly, and I must be delusional or something because at one point I let myself believe she felt it too. I’m sure I imagined it, sure it was just me dusting off my highest hopes. After all, she’s the prettiest girl at school, and likely the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, which makes her way out of my league. The most popular boy in school is chasing her, for goodness’ sake. How can I compete with that? Everyone knows guys like Chris, popular and complete with his own group of devoted followers, are the kind of guys who end up with girls like Sarah, not guys like me. This realization sends my heart in a freefall from my chest to my feet. I’m nothing like Chris. Heck, I’ve never even kissed a girl. I’m certain he’s done more than kiss his fair share of girls. Not me. I’m of the more pathetic variety. Perpetually uncomfortable around girls, I’ve always been more of a bystander to the whole arena of relationships. This is a direct result of my general lack of ease around them and their general lack of interest in me. The two working in tandem explains my complete lack of experience with the opposite sex.

  Mulling all of this over does little to bolster my confidence as well as doing a number on what little self-confidence I possess. The ridiculous grin I wore all day falters. I try to bolster it with the fact that I made some new friends. That counts for something. That ought to ease the blow my negative self-talk dealt me. But any thoughts of Tom, Mike, Pete and Steve brings me right back to the lunch table and right back to Sarah. Closing my eyes for a split-second I inhale deeply. I recall the distinct scent of her perfume, the sweet and alluring vanilla and caramel notes, and my stomach flops like a fish on dry land.

  “Ugh, you’re such a freak!” Kiera’s voice cuts through the stillness of the house and is about as pleasant a sound as nails dragging across a chalkboard. She beat me home so I assume she received a ride home from a friend she made today.

  “Hello to you too, sis.” My eyes snap open and find her perched on the arm of the loveseat.

  She reaches for the remote and turns on the television, ignoring me for the time being in favor of channel surfing. When she settles on a talk show where guests are shouting while jabbing pointed fingers in one another’s faces, she looks over her shoulder at me. “I saw you sitting with that girl, Sarah.” She rolls her eyes.

  “Yeah. So?” I shrug and stuff both hands in the front pockets of my jeans. A rush of warmth steals up my neck and spreads across my cheeks.

  Narrowing her eyes, Kiera studies me briefly. Her features relax suddenly and she tosses her head back and laughs. “Oh my gosh.” Her words barely make it past her lips.

  “What?” I ask as a hot spark of anger burns through me. “What’s so funny, Kiera?”

  “You’ve got a thing for her, for Sarah.” She continues laughing at me.

  “No I don’t,” I say and attempt to overcompensate with false conviction in my voice.

  She sees right through it and laughs even harder. “Oh wow. That’s rich!” She wipes the corners of her eyes. “Keep dreaming if you think she’d ever give you a shot.”

  I grind my molars so hard the enamel threatens to splinter. A comeback eludes me. Especially one without four-letter words involved.

  Apparently, I’m not doing a very good job of concealing my anger because Kiera laughs even harder. “C’mon, you aren’t that dumb, are you?”

  I answer her with staunch silence. “She’s the most popular girl in your grade, probably the school. Even seniors want to date her. I’ve only been there one day and I know that. So please, little brother, take your head out of your butt and know you don’t have a chance.”

  Trembling with a mix of embarrassment and annoyance, I gnash out a few sentences. “I don’t have a thing for her. We talked a couple of times. She’s nice.”

  “That’s all well and good, but just know you have about as much of a chance of landing her as I do of landing Ryan Gosling.” Her laughter continues. “And even then I still have a better chance than you.” Each chuckle is like the peppering of automatic gunfire.

  “Get lost!” I fire back. “All of a sudden you can talk to me now, is that how it works?” The memory of her snubbing me in the cafeteria when I thought I’d be eating by myself in the parking lot flashes through my veins like bolts of lightning.

  “Yes! That’s exactly how it works!” she explodes in a shrill voice. “What, you think I’d be caught dead sitting with you, an underclassman and my younger brother, on the first day of school? You really are dumb.”

  No matter how mean I try to be, she’s always meaner. And for that reason, I’ll never win a fight with her. She stands, glares at me then stomps off to her room, punctuating her huffy departure with a slam of her door. I remain where I am for several moments, enjoying her absence and picking up the shreds of my self-esteem she left intact before I shuffle into the living room and plop on the couch. I heave a sigh and switch the channel to a game show, delighted that I can look at the screen without paying too much attention. My attention span is spotty today at best. Thoughts of long, wavy blonde hair and eyes so blue they resemble ice over water intercept all others. I find myself zoning out, staring at the television while my mind wanders and continually returns to Sarah.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been lost somewhere between a daydream and a new game show when the rattling of keys at the front door causes me to sit up and peek over the back of the couch.

  “Hey Danny.” My mom, dressed in lavender scrubs, tosses her keys into the bowl beside mine. “How was your first day?”

  “Good, actually. I made a couple of new friends.” I leave out the part about Sarah.

  “Really? Oh, I’m so glad!” My mother clasps her hands in front of her chest. “That’s terrific!” She disappears into the kitchen and returns with a bottle of water. “How’s Kiera? Where is she?”

  “In her room,” I reply and struggle to keep the disdain from my voice.

  My mother snorts and rolls her eyes. “Of course she is. Where else would she be?” She shakes her head as she walks to the couch. She sits down on the loveseat and faces me. “So tell me more about these new friends you made.”

  “Um, yeah, about them,” I start. “I wanted to ask you something.”

  Alarm flickers through her features
. “What? What is it?”

  “Um, I wanted to know if I can go out tonight.” I clear my throat. “I know it’s a school night but a few of the kids I met asked me to hang out and if I don’t go they’ll think I’m some kind of loser or ditching them or something.” I wait for her to launch into her hard and fast rant about her no-going-out-on-school-nights rule.

  She exhales loudly. “Danny, it’s a school night.”

  Here it comes, I think. I wait for the rest of a spiel I know by heart from hearing it recited to my sister regularly.

  “Please mom. It’s the first time I’ve made friends like ever.” I decide to appeal to her emotions, trying desperately to garner sympathy. Nothing I’ve said or am about to say is untrue. “I don’t want to blow it. I don’t want to be alone all the time like I was at my old school.”

  Her eyes lock on mine. “You were alone all the time?” she asks in a soft voice.

  “Yeah, pretty much.” I shrug and admit the hard truth to my mother, one I’m not thrilled about copping to.

  A small crease appears between her brows as her forehead rumples. “I had no idea.” Her voice is little more than a whisper. “I’m so busy, always working I guess.” Guilt tugs the corners of her mouth downward.

  “I never complained.” I bob one shoulder.