For some reason it also conjured past memories, specifically her years growing up in Bangor. All of it was rather general and detached, though, like looking back across someone else’s life rather than hers. But there remained an explicit and personal darkness to it she couldn’t shed.
She knew Perry was talking, babbling on per usual about something only he found interesting, but the past was calling and its voice was louder.
That day…the day her mother left…five years ago now. Just days after Lennox’s eighteenth birthday and less than a week from her high school graduation, she’d arrived home to find her mother packing a suitcase. She’d known for a long time her parents’ marriage was a façade. She hadn’t seen them as a genuine couple since she was a little girl, and only then it was because she didn’t know any better. But she’d always assumed that if a separation or divorce occurred, surely her mother would forewarn and take her along. Although Lennox had vague, obligatory affection for her father, their relationship was virtually nonexistent. He was an irritable man who seldom smiled and barely spoke unless it was to yell at Lennox or her mother. He worked as a mechanic and usually came home filthy and reeking of motor oil, gasoline, tobacco and alcohol. He stopped each night after work at a local watering hole and was normally drunk by the time he arrived home. For Lennox, a consistently widening desert had always existed between herself and her father. He had helped create her, and yet, she felt little kinship or connection to him. Since she’d been a little girl, her father was a disagreeable stranger, a man who lived with them and told her what to do. She had few warm memories of him, no touching stories to tell friends when it came to her father, and so, she had learned to invent fictional ones, to present her father as someone he was not to those who didn’t know him or had never met him. It was one reason Lennox had always dreaded bringing friends home, because the moment they met her father the illusion was shattered, and somehow a piece of her was lost along with it.
But she and her mother had always been allies, they’d always been close.
Until the day she left.
“What are you doing?” she asked as her mother quickly pulled clothes from her bedroom closet and dresser and jammed them into a large suitcase.
“I’m going,” her mother said without looking at her. A dangerously thin and nervous woman, she had aged tremendously over the last few years and looked considerably older than her forty years. “I have to go, Lennox, I—I have to go. I can’t stand another minute with that man. I’m sorry.”
“What about me?”
“You’re not a child anymore, you’re a woman now. You’re graduating high school in a few days and you’ve got your whole life ahead of you. Go live it.”
“But where are you going?”
“I’m going to stay with Aunt Hillary in Nevada.”
“Nevada? That’s on the other side of the country, Mom.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?”
“But…”
Her packing complete, she zipped shut the suitcase. It was a dreadfully final sound. “But what?”
“Can I go with you?”
“Right now I need some time to myself, Lennox. I’m sorry.”
“So you’re not just leaving Dad then. You’re leaving me, too.”
“What do you want me to say? My life with him has been hell. The only reason I stayed this long was because of you. But you’re eighteen now, it’s time for you to be on your own, and it’s time for me to get on with my life. I’ve been the best mother I could be, and now I want my own life back.”
“When am I going to see you?”
“At some point, I—I don’t know exactly, I can’t say.”
It all seemed impossibly cruel, a hateful joke everyone was in on but her. “Why would you want to leave me, too?”
“I’ve given up everything for you and your father. I’ve got nothing left.”
“I’m your daughter. Don’t you love me?”
“Yes, I—of course, but—I need to do this, I need to go.”
Lennox never forgot the look in her mother’s eyes that day. She’d wanted to be angry, to rage against her, to pummel her with her fists and damn her for cutting and running and leaving her behind to pick up the pieces. But in the end all she felt was crippling sorrow, and for the first time was able to truly see her mother as a fully realized human being. And that human being was devastated, exhausted and grasping desperately to retain a hold on sanity and some semblance of self. With Lennox’s awareness and realization of things as they really were, something broke deep inside her. The young girl died, the carcass lost amidst a harsh whirlwind of pain, confusion and disappointment.
What remained was not quite woman, but no longer child.
Lennox never spoke to her mother again. The next time she saw her, she was in a casket.
A few hours after she’d left, the bus her mother was riding on had flipped over on the interstate after being cut off by an SUV. Four passengers were killed in the crash, Lennox’s mother among them.
Rather than attend college as planned, Lennox had instead moved out and found an apartment with a girlfriend. She worked as a waitress and spent most of her free time partying and hoping to stumble upon some direction and sense of who she was. Within three years her long hair had been cut short and dyed from light brown to black. Gone was the subtle makeup, the girl-next-door look and all the wide-eyed optimism that had once flourished within her. Eyes painted black as tar and accompanied by a demeanor equally dark and cynical, her transformation was nearly complete. The final stroke was retreat and escape into a past she’d never been a part of, worshipping at the altar of yesterdays she’d never known but could safely dream of and look to as a savior. Old movies, books and magazines, celebrities, jewelry and fashion—anything or anyone that existed before she did—became a means of making sense of a world that no longer mattered to her, a world where those who loved you stopped loving you and died, a world where nothing was certain, permanent or quite real. And if all of that was true, then what in hell was the point?
A year before, Lennox had moved to Portland and gotten a job working the counter at a small bistro. There she’d met Perry, who had introduced himself as a director even then, though he worked as a clerk in a local hardware store. Though she liked him, she had no deep feelings for him or anyone else. But that was all right, as neither did he. One of the few things they had in common was the fact that little mattered to either of them. Life was fleeting and so were they. Though shamelessly ordinary most of the time, their relationship was convenient and undemanding. Good enough.
The plan had been to take a two week vacation together and hop into Lennox’s ancient Volkswagen Bug for a road trip to Canada. They’d nearly made it, stopping over in Tall Tree Junction, and now found themselves contemplating their futures entirely. Maybe they’d return to their jobs and tiny apartment in Portland, maybe not. Maybe they’d go on to Canada and find lives there. Maybe they’d turn around, go the other way across country and head for Hollywood like Perry wanted to do. Or maybe, Lennox thought, we’ll never leave this strange little town. Maybe we’ll live here forever, forgotten like the rest.
Maybe we’ll die here.
“Huh?” Perry asked, bringing her back to the rocks, the ocean and rain.
She blinked, found him huddled next to her under the umbrella. “What?”
He shut off the digital recorder and let it fall to his side, held in place with a strap around his neck. “Why would you say something like that?”
“Like what?”
“Maybe we’ll die here.”
Lennox hadn’t realized she’d said it aloud. “Because maybe we will. Right here, under these rainy skies. Maybe we were born to die in this place.”
“Come on,” he said, regaining his feet, careful not to slip on the wet rocks. “Let’s go back. You’re mad annoying today.”
Rather than accept the hand he offered, Lennox passed him the umbrella and stood on her own, hesitating a
moment long enough to brush rain from her eyes and gaze once more at the ocean.
She saw it almost immediately.
Motion on the water, something out of place in the otherwise ordered chaos of falling rain, breaking waves and rocking ocean surface. There, on a large and jagged piece of rock protruding from the water perhaps sixty or seventy yards in the distance…something was standing there…something large…a man?
No. Not quite a man. Not exactly a man and not exactly an animal, but…
“What is that?” she asked, pointing.
Perry looked too, squinting. “What?” He took hold of his recorder and shot the area she’d indicated, but still saw nothing.
The ocean moved and glided, rocking back and forth as it tumbled toward shore, the waves dark and choppy and crashing against the rock. Could it be a trick of the light, a mirage of shadow and motion? Or was there truly something else out there amidst those waves, balanced precariously—almost birdlike—on the protruding rock, its shadowy form piercing the rainfall.
Wait. It wasn’t moving at all. That was the trick. It—whatever it was—was stationary—the ocean was churning all about it and the waves moved past the rock it was perched upon, but it was still, crouched just above the surface of the water.
“What am I missing?” Perry asked irritably.
Lennox pawed more rain from her eyes, smearing her black eyeliner across her cheek in the process. Gone, it—it was gone. Had the waves concealed it or… “Nothing,” she mumbled. “I thought I saw something.”
“You’ve been off since last night.” Perry turned off the recorder and climbed higher up the rocks, toward the road. “You getting your period or something?”
“You’re so predictable, Perry.” She turned away from the ocean and what she could only hope had been false visions. “It’s fucking pathetic.”
“Jesus, nice mood. Try dropping that broom into neutral.”
They climbed the rocks and reached the edge of the road without speaking again.
Perry handed the umbrella back to her as a thunderclap exploded overhead, startling them. The rain picked up, falling violently as it smashed down in a steady torrent. Hand-in-hand, Lennox and Perry hurried back in the direction of their cottage.
As they crossed the otherwise empty road, a filthy SUV rumbled past. Neither saw the driver, but before the vehicle disappeared around the bend, Lennox could’ve sworn she saw someone in the rain-blurred passenger-side window, eyes mournful and hair matted against a pale face long dead.
A face that looked remarkably like her mother’s.
13
Rain poured from the sky as black clouds rolled over the ocean, shrouding Tall Tree Junction in the beginnings of premature darkness. Occasional spears of lightning spilled free, fracturing the sky and stabbing the ocean before vanishing amidst the steady growl of thunder. An already dying and desolate town grew even more lifeless. Residents hunkered down indoors, woodland animals slipped away to their hiding places, and beneath the steady rhythm of rain and thunder, the town fell still, as if escaping to sleep in midday, victim of its own defenselessness and fear, a slave to the nightmares of its inhabitants.
Dempsey’s truck rattled and shook as he jerked the wheel and turned off the main road. Uneven terrain bounced him up and down like someone on horseback, and though the windshield wipers worked feverishly, they managed only minimal relief from the raging downpour. But even with his aging eyes he could see well enough to get to where he was going. He knew these roads by heart, had seen them in his dreams almost as often as he had in everyday life. The night stories had lead him here, told him what had to be done next. That gypsy witch knows what’s happening. She always knows. The genuine article in a clan of con artists and hoaxers, generations of liars and thieves, this one truly possessed the gift. Funny how that happened, but then the supernatural always appeared when and where folks least expected it. Dempsey didn’t much care what others thought of her, he’d witnessed her ability firsthand. He’d felt it down to the bone every time her eyes were on him. She didn’t need to say a word, nor did he. It was understood, one to the other. And while she seemed able to detach herself from their hauntings, Dempsey could not. It crippled and chilled him to the core of his being and always had, which is why he normally stayed clear of her. But now he had no choice.
The truck came to a stop and Dempsey slammed the shifter into park. The wipers squealed, splitting sheets of rain sliding off the roof and gliding downward in blurry streams. He remained stationary, glimpsing the shack for a second or two with each pass of the wipers before it was again concealed behind veils of rain.
With a loud squeak, the truck door opened and Dempsey emerged from the cab, boots squishing mud as he dropped to the ground. Leaning against the open door for support, his lungs burned, his sore back tightened and his legs trembled in their attempts to hold him upright. The pain left him with a slight but perpetually hunched posture, and the rain made his bones ache and his joints throb even more than usual.
The shack sat silent and dark, but the front door was open. Rain fell through the surrounding trees, forming streams and puddles in the mud, slapping leaves, thudding against the shack’s roof and drumming the truck. Despite the noise, there was something oddly tranquil here, the shack and muddy yard like a dated photograph superimposed onto an otherwise living template, absorbing the rain, becoming one with it and all else.
She’s here, he thought. And she’s watching.
“Rae?” His voice cut the rain sounds, but the frailty of it made him shudder. He moved forward, struggling through the mud.
“That’s good right there.”
Rae Vadoma stood in the shack doorway, the rain running along the doorframe and dripping steadily from above, spattering the wooden steps just beyond the toes of her bare feet. A scarf was tied around her hair as usual, and a sleeveless dark blouse and knee-length denim skirt rounded out her wardrobe. In her hand she clutched a large dagger so ornate and adorned in faux jewels and intricate carvings that it appeared more like a theatrical prop than actual tool. A blade of such size looked odd in her diminutive hand, even held down at her side, but her demeanor left little question as to her willingness to use it if need be.
“I got to talk to you,” he said, managing to stifle the beginnings of a gurgling cough. “You know I wouldn’t come unless I had to.”
“You do your talking from there.”
Dempsey stopped; legs wobbly. His already decrepit frame seemed to shrink a bit. The brim of his tattered baseball cap did little to protect his face from the rain, so he ran the back of his wrist across his brow to wipe it clear. To his right, Rae and her children’s belongings lay piled in a heap, soaked and dirty, mostly ruined. He drew as deep a breath as he could manage. His lungs wheezed like a dog’s chew toy. “You leaving town?”
“One way or the other.”
“Where are the children?”
Rae’s face remained expressionless, but a slight twitch tickled her left eye. “You got no reason to concern yourself with my children, Abel Dempsey.”
“Why you got that knife?”
“It’s been in my family for generations, belonged to my grandfather.”
“I knew your grandfather.”
“And he knew you.”
He nodded. “What’s it for?”
“What are knives usually for?” Rae licked her lips. “The fake jewels and carvings were for the marks. Made them think it was more than it is. We’d use it during readings, made for a convincing prop. But the blade’s real, works just fine.”
“You plan to use it on me?”
She stared at him, expression flat, emotionless.
“What then?” he asked.
“Leave us alone, old man.”
“You got to help me, Rae.”
“Even if I could, why would I want to do that?”
“You’ve helped me before.”
“I never liked you. I always knew you were bad.”
Dempsey
winced, his body swaying slightly in the wind. “Guided me then, you guided me before, I—”
“I saw the darkness in you from the time I was a little girl.”
“Please, Rae. Please.”
“What do you want from me?”
“You know what’s happening, don’t you?”
“So do you.”
“This is different,” he said desperately. “Something’s here, Rae, something real…something alive.”
“It’s just the messenger. It appears before evil and destruction and it’s been doing it since the beginning of time, goes back even beyond the old Indian legends in these parts. When you see it, means the wall’s down.”
“The wall?”
“One that separates us.”
“From what?”
“The dead.”
“I can feel it, Rae. I can feel them like—like they’re clawing at my skin.”
“The evil’s loose,” she said. “And it’s here, you understand? It’s here.”
“How do I stop it? There’s got to be a way.”
The storm clouds had merged with the gray sky to form a solid hazy canopy. The humid heat had finally retreated, and the rain felt cool and refreshing against Dempsey’s flushed skin. A strange yellow hue settled in the air, formless, indistinct and interrupted only when flashes of lightning appeared. Thunder rolled overhead, sounding like it hadn’t yet reached its full potential. But the rain had. It was one of the hardest sustained rains Dempsey had ever seen.
“That’s the lie we tell ourselves, isn’t it?” she said. “That evil can be stopped, that we have the power to stop it. But you and me, we know different. Don’t we, old man? There’s no stopping evil. You either survive it or you don’t.”
“I’ve seen it in the night stories,” he said, pointing to his temple, “but never like this.”
“We’re damned…all of us…everybody.”
“Is it the storm, Rae? Did the storm bring it, wake it up—what?”
“Storm didn’t bring the evil,” she answered. “The evil brought the storm.”
The Living and the Dead Page 8
