“About the past. I’ve dreamt about the hurricane,” Vera admitted; the rush of that memory was so real she could practically feel the rain on her face. “And I’ve dreamt about things I couldn’t possibly know. I dreamt about the man who caused the gas explosion. I dreamt about him going down to the basement of the community center and messing with the meter. Aunt Tilda, I could see the gas gauge—it looked like a little clock or a speedometer, with a needle that moves. I’ve never seen one in real life, but in my dream, it was so clear. I could draw it for you now. How is that possible?”
Her aunt slowly began to move her spoon again. “That day is still in the news constantly. Maybe you saw it on TV or online?”
She wasn’t getting it.
“Maxwell and I were talking about the crash. The one earlier this year that killed my classmates?”
Her aunt nodded, not looking at her as she sprinkled various jars of dried seasoning into the pot. A warm basil mist swept through the room.
“That night I dreamt about the crash, like I was in it. I could see everything. The kids fighting, the driver laughing. In my dream, he let go of the wheel. On purpose.” Vera stared at the back of her aunt’s silver head. “And he had a statue of the Angel of Tears on the dashboard.”
Her aunt dropped her spoon. “It’s just a dream.”
“They keep happening! I dreamt about this patient I saw at the hospital who almost drowned. I dreamt about Mr. Gonzalez and his wife. They feel like memories, personal memories, things I shouldn’t know. And when I told Mom that I was sleepwalking, she acted like I was inviting in the demon. Like I’m weak or possessed, but I swear I’m not!”
Aunt Tilda sighed, her face growing worried with wrinkles. “You mom spends too much time with people who are afflicted. Sometimes her mind goes to the darkest place. But I’m here. I see you. You’re one of the brightest souls I’ve ever known.” She sat down next to Vera, reeking of steamed broth so strongly, Vera could taste garlic on her tongue. “Sometimes dreams are just dreams. Last night, I dreamt my podiatrist and I were in eighth-grade algebra and I was late for the final. That wasn’t real.”
“But that’s a normal dream.” Vera ran her hands through her hair. “When I dreamt about the gas explosion, I came this close”—she held her fingers close together—“to going down to the basement in my sleep.”
“But you didn’t.” Her aunt patted her arm. “I know what you’re thinking, but your mother’s gifts, she’s always had them, since birth. It didn’t start like this—there were never dreams…”
“I’m not saying that—” Though Vera was thinking it, or more like hoping it. Because if she was gifted, that meant she had a bond with her parents, and she wasn’t in the demon’s power, she wasn’t afflicted, and she wasn’t turning into Maxwell’s mother.
Aunt Tilda sighed, reading her panic. “You are being thrust into a situation you are too young to have to deal with. And you care about this boy, I can see it.” Vera started to object, but her aunt waved her off. “I want to help him too, him and his sister—and we will—but for now I think your fear is manifesting itself in your dreams.”
Vera tilted her head. Fear. Psychology. It was possible. But hearing it from her aunt made her second-guess all she thought she knew in the world. “You sound like a shrink.”
“No, I sound reasonable. I don’t want you scaring yourself any more than you already are. Everyone has dreams.” She stood, smoothed her apron, then returned to her pot. “I assure you, you’re not becoming possessed, and you’re not turning into your mother. You don’t have superpowers.”
She mocked Maxwell’s earlier choice of words, and Vera could see she was trying to lighten the mood. Maybe she thought she was comforting her niece, but for some reason, all Vera heard was, You’re not special, little girl. Wipe those silly thoughts from your head, because you’ll never be one of us.
* * *
In her dream, Maxwell’s mother is a stunning beauty. She’s wearing a yellow-and-white-striped sundress with spaghetti straps that cross at her upper back. It’s the first really scorching summer day, and she’s enjoying the sizzling rays on her skin. She strolls down Main Street to the local pharmacy with a shopping list that includes dish soap, mascara, and allergy medicine.
She drifts past a diner, smelling pancakes and gooey syrup so rich that Vera can taste the maple on her tongue. Max’s mother’s skirt catches a breeze, and she smooths it down. She saunters toward an art gallery, handmade jewelry displayed in the window. She lingers, trimmed nails tapping the glass in quick cascades as the smell of first kisses wanders in on a breeze—lilies.
It reminds her of him, the feel of his fuzzy beard against her cheek and a fresh bouquet clutched in his hand. Lilies are the gift of time travel, back to the days when they were young and happy and alive. Instinctively, she moves toward the florist’s shop. His birthday is approaching—another year, another milestone. Without him. An ache stabs at her chest, a physical pain so sharp Vera grabs her abdomen in her sleep.
Then the woman’s eyes move across the picture window, reading the name of the shop painted in hunter-green cursive letters. Durand Flowers. Durand? It must be his widow. Or maybe the son. She hadn’t realized they bought the flower shop. Seth Durand died along with others—along with her person—and his family now sold flowers. They moved on.
The wound in her chest rips deeper. Why couldn’t she?
Her eyes slip to the intimate staging in the window, two gold-trimmed chairs pushed into a round bistro table covered with bone linen. It’s romantic, plucked from her happiest memories. There are two plates of fine china with delicate gold accents, real silver place settings, and between them an arrangement of bushy cream hydrangeas with powder-blue edges nestled in an antique brass watering can. Beside the bouquet, as if it were meant to be there, as if—of course—it would be part of the luscious table setting, is a statue of the Grim Reaper, sobbing. It’s petite, only a couple inches high, with ivory wings reaching toward the heavens and an unlit torch resting on a yellow book. She’s seen the hardback before, the cheery hats, the eclipsed suns. What was the name of the group again?
Her eyes strain to read the title and it’s as if a burst of floral air crashes into her. She stumbles back, her vision cloudy, ears buzzing.
Whispers. She hears whispers.
Lilith. Lilith, I’m here….
It’s his voice. It’s him. Where is he? Her head whips back and forth, searching, pleading, then her chest pulls toward the glass door, toward the scent of him. Her body knows where it wants to be. She tugs open a portal to the day their picnic blanket lay on the grass and he slid a flower into her hair, her first lily.
This family has the answers. They beat the odds. They’ll help her find him.
“Vera! Vera, wake up!” a voice shouts.
Vera? Who’s Vera? Where is her husband?
“Come on, Vera, wake up!”
I know that voice. He is mine. He belongs to me.
Then she feels a sting on her hand, like she’s been slapped. All at once, she starts shaking.
Shaking, shaking, shaking.
“Wake! Up!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Max
Okay. I’m sleeping in Vera Martinez’s house. And there’s a bunch of demonic shit a few feet below me in the basement, and I’m supposed to act like that’s totally normal. Max stretched his long limbs on the flowered sofa, all dusty pink and baby blue.
It wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t even a pullout. But at least it was a sectional, so his feet sort of fit. Also, the room wasn’t smoking, or located down the hall from a demon, so it had its perks.
God, my mom…that was my mom.
He rolled onto his side, his arm hanging off the edge of the cushions, skimming the shag area rug. He was lying on top of what he assumed were Vera’s childhood sheets—pink polka d
ots—with a pink plush blanket. It was nearly July, and he sweated when he slept, so the fuzzy blanket was in a ball on the floor, but he appreciated the gesture. Aunt Tilda also bought Chloe a night-light and read her three books before bed. She was the first real parent Chloe had in a while.
I should get up. There’s no way I’m sleeping. He popped to his feet, shaggy beige fibers slipping between his toes. He should check on Chloe, or maybe sleep on her floor. If she woke up not knowing where she was, she’d be hysterical. He should call Alexis’s mother tomorrow and see if Chloe could sleep there again. That was probably safer, away from all of this. He could tell Mrs. Tenn that he’d caught the same virus as his mom, drop the whole “it takes a village” line that parents love so much. That might work.
He trudged toward the kitchen, adjusting the hem of the Florida Keys T-shirt he was wearing. It was Vera’s dad’s. They ran out of his house so fast, he obviously never stopped to pack a bag, so Aunt Tilda put his and Chloe’s clothes in the washer. Now he was creeptastically wearing the shirt of a man he’d never met, and Chloe was sleeping in Vera’s nightgown. That wasn’t awkward at all.
He padded to the fridge, not remotely hungry after Aunt Tilda’s beef stew, but needing something to do. He couldn’t lie on that couch anymore. He’d get a glass of water.
He opened the fridge, looking for a Brita, and let the cool gust of air wash over him. All of their fruits and vegetables were organized in little Tupperware containers and the orange juice was in a glass pitcher. Everything looked so cared for. He dug his fingers into a cardboard box holding fizzy lime water and pulled out a can, the sound of the crack like a shotgun blast in the silent house. He hated the quiet; it made his brain think too loudly.
He wandered into the dining room, taking a sip. He counted six photos of Vera and her aunt, all of varying sizes. Some were taken in the garden out back and others at the beach. Vera aged from a toddler in a floppy yellow sun hat to a teenager who towered over the gray-haired woman beside her. Her brown eyes glinted in the most recent picture, her smile wide and her legs long and toned in a short black skirt. She was photogenic.
Max took another gulp, turning toward the dining room table. He ran his fingers along the lace doily (he didn’t realize people still bought things like this). Then he crossed the room, spying a photo of Vera and her parents. It was near the window on a big wooden desk, one of those old-fashioned kinds with a rolling door on top. He picked up the silver frame, which was surprisingly heavy. Vera looked like she was ten years old in the picture, and she was wearing a red graduation-style gown with a white shawl and a golden cross. Her confirmation, probably? Her mother wore a long-sleeved flowery dress and her hair was short and curly. Her dad had a mustache and bow tie. They looked a lot older than Max’s parents.
So, one photo of them, six of the aunt. That was telling. Vera didn’t spend much time with her parents. He wondered if that bothered her. Actually, he wondered if all of this bothered her. How old was she when she figured out what her parents did? That must have been a nightmare—being a kid and knowing, with absolute certainty, that demons, and devils, and evil, and Hell existed. And it was all inside her house. Max was scared, and he was nearly an adult. Yet Vera’s voice never wavered.
Everything he thought he knew about her was wrong. Not just about what her parents did, but about who Vera was as a person. If it weren’t for her, Max wouldn’t be able to breathe through any of this.
He set down the photo and a creak sounded on the floorboards upstairs. His eyes shot toward the ceiling. Someone was awake. The hairs prickled on the back of his neck. It was probably Chloe. He should have slept in her room. He set down the can of water and moved toward the stairs.
A step groaned.
He paused, a wave of uneasiness coming over him.
Another creak.
“Chloe?” he stage-whispered, heartbeat accelerating.
A slender bare foot emerged, perfectly pointed, skin pale as milk and nails painted pink. That wasn’t Chloe. The moon shone through stained glass, sending bits of ruby, gold, and sapphire swirling onto the exposed calf.
Vera.
Max grinned all the way to his eyes.
She descended leisurely, a graceful hand lightly brushing the polished banister.
“You can’t sleep either?” he asked.
She didn’t respond. She reached the landing halfway down the staircase and pivoted toward the living room.
That was when he saw her eyes—they were closed, lashes fluttering.
“Vera?”
Her mouth was slack, full lips slightly parted. He leaned closer, pulse picking up pace.
She was sleepwalking. She never mentioned this might happen.
Her foot hit the first floor, and Max reached out his arm, his hand lightly tapping her shoulder. “Vera, wake up,” he said softly.
He pulled back. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed wake her. He thought the same thing when his mom was sleepwalking.
Only, she was never sleepwalking.
His gut double knotted.
Vera made a sharp left turn, her body knowing where it wanted to go. Even in sleep.
“Vera,” he whispered again.
Her black waves swung loosely, a tuft sticking up in the back from her pillow. She mumbled softly, the words unintelligible. He followed behind her perfect posture, shoulders back and neck long. Each step stretched lithely in front of her, moving with purpose. Where was she going?
They entered the kitchen. He’d heard stories of sleepwalkers pouring themselves drinks or fixing sandwiches, but the air was sizzling with tension, like this wasn’t about to be a funny anecdote. His muscles tightened.
Then he saw where her body was steering.
No! His hand shot out.
Vera moved toward the basement.
The barnwood door seemed to pulse, the Xs bulging and swelling with warning: Stay out…. Don’t get any closer….
“Vera! Vera, wake up!” he insisted.
She couldn’t hear him. Just like his mother.
“Vera, stop! Wake! Up!” he shouted.
She reached for the brass knob, fingers dripping delicately. Hell was behind that door, little pieces of Hell. She said to never open it, that they were safe as long as the door stayed shut.
He slapped her hand.
He didn’t want to hurt her, but he was not letting her open that door. Not with his sister in the house. Vera paused.
She felt him. Good.
“Come on, Vera, wake up! You’re sleepwalking.”
Her hand rose once more, determined to turn the knob. This time he stepped in front of her, blocking her path. A rush of static electricity (that was the closest he could describe it) emanated from the door, pushing against his back and lifting the hairs from his legs to his head. He could have stuck a balloon to his skull.
He grabbed her shoulders. I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you, but…
He shook her, fingers digging into her bare shoulders, her head rocking limply on her neck, soft waves fluttering.
“Vera, wake up! Wake! Up!” he shouted.
Finally, her eyes opened.
Her pupils were huge.
* * *
Max sat beside Vera on the couch. A rumpled pink polka-dot sheet was draped over their legs, and her warm body leaned against his shoulder. He liked the way her hair tickled his neck; she smelled of ginger.
“This is gonna sound weird,” she said, breaking the silence.
“I’m not sure things can get any weirder than they already are,” Max replied.
They hadn’t said much since she’d woken up, blinking with pupils dilated to the size of quarters. Within moments, her gaze returned to normal, but still, Max couldn’t help picturing his mother. She looked the same those first few nights.
Vera’s head fli
cked around, taking it in, seeming shocked to find herself standing outside the basement. Then Max asked if she wanted to sit. She did.
“Does your mom own a yellow-and-white-striped sundress?” she asked.
What? Max’s head wrenched back. That was unexpected. “Um, yeah. Why?”
“I dreamt of her, wearing that dress.”
“Seriously?”
She turned to him, her hand resting on his shoulder. He liked that. “She was walking down Main Street, before all of this happened, and she looked beautiful.”
Her words scooped the air right out from inside him. Max stared at the dormant TV, their reflections displayed in the black glass.
“What was she doing? In the dream?” he asked.
“She was on her way to buy allergy medicine, for you and your sister. I’m not sure how I know that, but I do. Then she smelled lilies in the air.”
Max’s chest slumped. More lilies…
“The smell, it made her upset. I could feel it.” Vera twirled a lock of hair around a finger. “She saw the name of the shop, Durand Flowers, and she made the connection. You know, with the explosion?”
Max gritted his teeth. It was hard to forget the name of the family responsible for your father’s death. They bought the florist shop a couple years ago, and since then, Max had avoided it at all costs. But his mother held no ill will against them. In fact, when she joined the son’s self-help group, she told Max it was because it was connected to that family. She was inspired by their ability to keep going. She said Seth Durand’s mistake may have destroyed the soul of this town, but now his son was trying to heal it. If there was anyone out there who understood her pain, she believed it was Anatole Durand.
Max disagreed. Or maybe he simply held grudges.
“She was about to walk away, but then she saw a tiny Angel of Tears statue. It was part of a window display, and it was sitting atop a yellow book. I don’t know how the statue even caught her eye, it was so small, but your mom was drawn to it.” Vera yanked her hair, her head jerked down a bit. Max reached for her hand and pulled her fingers free, lacing them with his own. He told himself he was showing her that she could say the hard things and he wouldn’t get upset, but really he needed to touch her.
Small Town Monsters Page 13
