Essence

by Mandi Lynn

  We are the only ones that live within a few miles—and for a good reason. I haven’t always lived here. My family used to have a home in Florida where my mom researched animals. When a job offer with more income popped up in New Hampshire, we couldn’t turn away. Strings were pulled to get a house built for us on the edge of the White Mountain National Forest. We’re all here now, living next to a national park.

  “What am I doing here?” I whisper, looking around at the scenery. It’s beautiful, really. The top of the mountains are covered with a slight mist, making them appear eerie yet breathtakingly so. I remember how, just this morning, I had seen a moose pass through, while I was eating breakfast. This place is stunning, sharing habitats within nature, but it’s not home.

  I’ve lived here for almost a week, and I have yet to feel like this isn’t just a long vacation. Part of me still feels as if we will pack up our bags and return back home where the beach welcomes us.

  Still bent over, I lean over to run my fingers through the wet grass beneath me, remembering that it was raining yesterday—it rains a lot here. I thought it was just bad luck at first, but then my parents told me about the weather in New England—if it looks like a storm is coming, it is. Their words held true; rain comes and goes so fast here. Wind pushes hair into my face, and I pull back the brown strands. I’m content in my spot. I’ve caught my breath since all the running, but I’m not ready to move yet.

  In my house the TV from the living room continues to light up, shining out the windows. It gives a glow to the otherwise darkening yard. I want to wait to see the stars come out but know I shouldn’t let my mom worry. Straightening up, still aware of the fading pain in my side, I brush myself off before heading to the front of the house.

  “Emma, you okay?” my mom asks, as I step through the door. Her long brown hair is tied back, like she always has it for work. She’s still in her uniform of brown khakis and hiking boots. Right here—in the middle of nature—is where she’s most at home. Sleeping under the stars is her haven.

  “Yeah, I just got a little lost,” I say. My mom scans me over, and I can feel her eyes rest on my sweatshirt. When I look down, half the cotton cloth is covered with mud, turning it from bright blue to a dusty brown. It’s no longer soaked like it had been but is still in great need of washing.

  “I slipped,” I tell her, holding out my sweatshirt as evidence. It isn’t a lie; I just wasn’t telling her the full truth. The part of me that felt petrified begged to tell my mom what happened—it was as if a force possessed me. Whatever happened wasn’t something as simple as falling and blacking out in the forest; it was something more.

  She scans me again, not trusting everything I say but dismisses whatever I refuse to speak. “Do you want anything to eat? I left dinner out.” She points to the table before turning to the sink to return to the chore of washing dishes.

  I look where the food rests: meatballs and pasta still on their serving platter, ready to be eaten. It looks like it had been sitting for a while. I shake my head no.

  “I’m actually a little tired. I’ll just eat in the morning.” I take off my shoes and throw them into the closet.

  “You feeling all right?” my mom asks, appraising me for any cuts, scrapes, or other injuries.

  “I’m fine,” I assure her, watching her face calm. “I just did a lot of walking today.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see my dad sitting in his chair watching TV, and listening to our conversation.

  “Okay,” my mom says, but studies me as I walk upstairs to head for my room.

  Once I’m there, I shower, then change into sweatpants and a T-shirt that substitute for pajamas and sit at the bay window. Opening the shades all the way, I let the night shine in. The moon in the sky is only a sliver of light, leaving the stars to illuminate the dim night. After a few minutes of gazing, I find my iPod by the side table and slide into bed. Turning down the volume to a quiet background noise, I drift off.

  _________________

  Has there ever been a night where you didn’t feel safe? Maybe you felt you were being watched? Or you couldn’t close your eyes for fear of the unknown? If, for only a moment, you let your guard down and hear a sound—unidentified and quiet—maybe it was all in your head.

  Never let your guard down.

  _________________

  I awake in the middle of the night. The bay window that lines the wall of my room leers at me. The moon is on the opposite end of the sky, and my family has gone to bed, leaving the house dark. I turn onto my side to have my back to the window, so there is less moonlight on my face. The earbuds of my iPod rest on my pillow. I put them back in my ears and skip through songs, until I find one that can soothe me back to sleep. Closing my eyes again, I drift, the music echoing within.

  A soft breeze brushes my face.

  I lift my head and turn back to the window and see it closed, just as I had left it. Pausing the music, I take out the earbuds to listen for the wind. I sit propped up with an elbow, leaving me in an uncomfortable position.

  Nothing.

  Lying down again, earbuds back in place, I turn up the volume of the music, telling myself to fall asleep. Don’t think. The music swallows me, stealing my sense of hearing anything in my room.

  A few minutes later another breeze pushes against the window, not coming from the outside, but wanting to go there—pushing the curtains even while the windows remain closed. I force myself to turn quickly, wanting to see what is there.

  The curtains lick the floor, swaying back and forth ever-so-slightly. Transfixed by the movement, my eyes linger there, until a crash of wood calls more of my attention. My bay window hangs open, air cultivating from somewhere within the room escaping into the dark night.

  Jerking away the earbuds, I jump from my bed, fear instilled in me, and my foot gets caught on something on my floor. There’s a pulsing behind my ear, as I turn my head to look at my feet. My vision blurs, like it had in the forest, infiltrating the sense of being vulnerable. My sight is only gone for a moment, but it leaves me scattered and confused.

  Maybe I hit my head when I fell.

  Turning my attention to the bay window, the curtains rest parallel to the wall. The windows are shut, exactly as I had left them.

  At that moment my breathing seems too loud. As much as I fight it, my lip quivers. The window had just been open—I was sure of it. Gathering myself in a fetal position, I curl into a ball on the floor. My eyes never close, but every now and then, they linger on the windows.

  The digital clock reads 4:18, brightening a small corner of the room. I drag myself from the floor and hide myself within the confines of the bedsheets.

  I’m engrossed by the window. I lay down facing the panes of glass, eyes open and music off, leaving me in the piercing silence of night. It seems like hours pass. I stare at the window, unchanging, challenging it to go against the laws of nature—to flash open or have a gust of wind rush through—but nothing ever comes of my watchful eye. I try to keep track of time with the moon, but I look at it so much, it’s hard to tell if it has moved across the sky.

  It’s not until the stars begin to fade with the coming of dawn that I realize just how scared I am. For some reason it is the morning’s rays of sun peeking through the bay window that finally allow the tears to stream down my face. The light rests over the seat made under the bay window, as if calling me with open arms to gather myself and cry, but I stay in place. I’m locked within my own world, never daring to leave the comforts of my sheets.

  A question is lingering within my consciousness. It’s filled with fear and anxiety and cowardice.

  What’s going on?

  Fear instills me. It’s fear of the unknown, the type of worry that ripples through your core whenever you’re home alone–and suddenly there is a creak in the floorboards as the house settles. You always tell yourself it’s nothing out of the ordinary, but it doesn’t stop the fact that, for that moment in time, there was fear. This fear now, it’s different. Uns
ettling.

  All night I wanted to close the blinds of the window, but I never dared to step forward. Instead I curl in on myself like a coward, blankets forever enveloping me, like they can act as a shield. I’m flashed backward to when I was a kid, afraid the bogeyman will get me if I step foot on the floor during the night. Except this is bigger than the bogeyman.

  Chapter 2

  Unreal

  I’m on the beach enjoying the sun. There are a lot of people on the sand just as any other day. The air is hot and muggy, leaving my forehead moist. The pier lines the right side of the beach, extending out over the water where the waves break. I abandon my beach chair and get up to go swimming in the ocean. When I step in the water, it feels ice-cold—not like the usual tropical water of Florida. I go to turn back, but the undertow catches me. Then I go numb. It isn’t from the cold water though. This is a different kind of numb. I have no control over my body; I feel limp. Then I hear someone calling me…

  “Amelia,” says a whispered tone.

  I step deeper into the water, following the voice that calls me by my birth name.

  “Emma!” says a scared voice, a different voice. It sounds so familiar, although I’m sure I have never heard the voice before. Maybe it just sounded familiar because the voice called me Emma—my mom and dad are the only ones who call me that.

  I look around to see where the voice is coming from but find nothing, just the crowded beach full of people. Then I hear the whispering voice again.

  “Amelia, come swim with me. I have something to show you.”

  I step farther into the water, until I’m up to my waist. The water feels so cold; it’s like pins against my skin, but I can’t stop walking forward. I look to the strangers swimming around me, but none of them even look in my general direction.

  “Emma, don’t move,” screams the familiar voice from a distance. It is different this time, farther away.

  I look back at the beach; everyone is gone, and so is the sun. The hot sand lays empty, no longer covered in the weekend beachgoers. There is no colorful sunset—just brightness…then darkness.

  The whispering voice suddenly turns into many voices, each one sounding exactly the same, like a haunting echo reverberating off the walls of an asylum.

  “Amelia, come join us.” The voice sounds excited, happy.

  “Yes, come, have fun,” says another whisper.

  “Come swimming with us, Amelia.” The voices grow harsher.

  My own will subsides. I follow the voices into the deep blue water, diving under a wave. When I come up for air, I’m not on the beach anymore. I’m in a forest pool. The water bites at my skin, clinging in droplets to my face and body, lingering like a lost ghost. Behind me there is a large rock wall, almost completely covered in a soft green moss. I look up only to see tall trees hanging over my head, blocking most of my view of the sky. Some sort of vague remembrance washes through me, and I’m frozen in place. I’m shocked when I realize the same thing is happening to me now as it had yesterday—this time stronger. The feeling in my core becomes more defined, and what had once been a loss of control grows to an unknown pull, calling me to deeper waters of the natural pool I now stand in.

  “Emma, please, don’t!” The familiar voice speaks, sounding as if it’s crying.

  I want so badly to obey the voice, but I can’t. I tell myself to walk out of the water, but my limbs don’t budge. It’s as if I’m no longer in control of my own body. When my vision fades to a blur, my eyes respond, filling with tears that slide down my cheek. I’m brought to another world for a moment, the smell of sterile linen becoming prominent. Bleach and alcohol mix together, stinging my nose and throat. At first I thought that was what brought the ache in my throat, but there is separate pain, like a dark bruise now decorates my neck.

  Coughing, tears blur my vision further, and when I blink them away, I’m back in the forest. Water soaks my pants, clinging to my thighs. I shiver in the cold, but the distinct smell of cleaners and the ache in my throat are gone as instantly as they had appeared.

  “Amelia, do you see those rocks?” the whispering voice asks.

  I look down into the pool and in it is something silver.

  “Emma, don’t! You have to fight! Don’t do it!” The last part is a plea—crying, begging me to stop. This is my mental battle, no one else’s, yet this unknown voice knows the struggle I endure.

  “Yes, Amelia, pick one up and look into it,” the whispering voice coaxes. It grows excited again, as my eyes linger over the rocks in the water. I’m mesmerized by their silver coating that is reflected through the pool. The voice that commands me is off and unnatural. The words are staggered and harsh, losing patience with me. Look into it. The words linger in my mind.

  I start to walk forward again, the magnetic pull getting harder to fight. My muscles strain, trying to fight the force that controls me, but I still inch forward. I’m standing over the silver rocks, their glimmering surfaces inviting me to pick one up. I slowly start to bend down to choose one—it feels like, if I don’t do what this magnetic pull wants, I will be split in half and topple over in pain.

  “Emma?” It is a familiar voice again. This time a voice I know—my mom. She sounds scared.

  “Emma? Emma, where are you? Honey? Where are you?” She sounds like she’s getting farther away. I pull all my attention to her, instantly forgetting the silver stones and looking up to locate my mom.

  Again, like in the forest, the thought of my mom is what stops me. But it’s too late. My mom’s voice is gone. I can’t locate myself in the unknown forest.

  _________________

  Dreams are not lands of happiness. It is miscomprehended that bad dreams are nightmares. In truth, the only dreams we have are nightmares. When you are asleep, your brain wanders, bringing up thoughts of hopes and fears. During the night, thoughts of fear are what haunt you. Dreams are nightmares. Hopeful dreams are your wishes that will most likely never come true, which are their own form of nightmares.

  _________________

  The sky is bright when I wake up. I’m on my stomach with my pillow tucked over my head, blocking out any sound. I must have done this in my sleep, because I don’t remember moving from the position facing the window. I rearrange myself and see my mom in the hallway, walking with boxes in her hands. I can hear her put them to the side, then she heads back down the stairs for another box.

  “Emma?” she asks, peeking into my room when she passes by again. “Could you help me unpack these?”

  I step out of bed and onto the hardwood floor of my room. Rubbing my eyes, the blue walls of my room come into focus. I look behind me to the window and see nothing out of the ordinary: curtains still parted open, window closed. I hear my mom coming by my room once more, so I put on a sweatshirt and head to the hallway to help.

  “Could you just put away the things in the boxes? It’s everything that needs to go in the bathroom, so there isn’t much.” She smiles at me, hair falling in waves just short of her shoulders. Even though it’s still early in the morning, she’s up and dressed, ready to take on the day.

  The first few days of moving in were spent unpacking my room, so I could get settled, but the rest of the house is still living out of boxes. There have been days that I’ve just sat at my bay window. Mesmerized by the view, I was sure the thick forest was only an illusion put there to confuse me. The mountains never seeming to change but always holding just the same amount of awe and attention they had the first time I set my gaze on them.

  Whenever my mom saw me looking out the window, she would comment, saying how beautiful the view was. I could see it—and I still do—I just don’t know how to live here. We are secluded, surrounded by forest on every side.

  Struggling to hold a heavy box that needs to be put away, my mom nods her head over to the three boxes on the floor and then keeps walking into her room to drop off another box. The first box I grab is marked Shampoo and Stuff. It’s small but heavy. I put the shampoo, condit
ioner, and other soaps on the side of the tub, and anything else in a cupboard under the sink. The other two boxes are towels, toothbrushes, deodorant, and anything else you will find in a bathroom or linen closet. After finding a place for everything, I head out to the hallway again and see my mom standing at the top of a ladder.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, watching her head reappear from a square hole in the ceiling. It’s small, not much larger than the boxes my mom seems to shove through the opening.

  “We have an attic,” my mom says, laughing to herself as she walks back down the ladder.

  “Can I see?” I ask, peering up at her.

  She steps down and ushers me to go, as I step into the dark storage above us. Every time I lift my foot from the ladder, the wood creaks and shifts. My mom waits at the bottom of the ladder, holding the base steady. As soon as I’m at the top, I look into the dark, empty room. A musky smell greets me, the air filled with dust and loose insulation. “It’s so hot,” I comment, rolling up my sweatshirt sleeves to my elbows.

  Below me, she hovers over a box, trying to organize the contents inside, finding what needs to stay downstairs and what can be put away for storage.

  I climb back down to the bottom, the rungs of the ladder shifting under my weight as I descend; my mom holds out another box to put away.

  “Put this up there.” She points back to the attic and holds onto the ladder for support.

  I look at the writing on the side of the box; it reads Baby Stuff. I go back up the ladder, holding the box above me and slide it into the room that’s nothing more than unfinished emptiness. “At least there’s a lot of storage space up here,” I say, heading down again.