by S W Vaughn
There’s a man standing in front of the trees, like he just stepped out from them.
Shocked panic drills into me and freezes my blood before I’m fully conscious of what I see. He’s perfectly still. Dirty black jeans, stained camouflage hunting vest over a dark thermal shirt, big boots, a shapeless cap jammed over dark, stringy hair. Smooth-shaven. Eyes like storm clouds, glaring thunderbolts at me.
His face. His face. Exactly as he looked twenty years ago. It’s impossible, I know that, but there’s no mistaking him. I’ve never been able to erase the face of death from my mind.
Someone is screaming. I barely realize it’s me, don’t understand that I’m falling until a sudden, explosive pain smacks my knees when they hit the pavement, and a gray blur rushes toward my face. The only sound in the whole world is an intense ringing in my ears, like a bomb went off right next to me.
All at once, there’s someone trying to pull me up.
I jerk back hard and lunge to my feet, flailing my arms like mad. The back of my hand whacks something cold and hard, making a hollow metallic boing, and I cry out and stumble blindly a few steps. Oh God, he’s back, he’s going to take me again. This is not happening. It can’t happen.
“Madeline!” The voice is definitely female — not him — laced with concern and fear. “What’s wrong? Paul, I think you should call 911.”
My jumbled senses clarify in an instant, and I force myself to breathe and turn toward the voice. “No, wait. I’m sorry,” I say, panting as I focus on the two older people standing by the cart return, watching me like I’m a wild bear who’s just torn loose from a steel jaw-trap. I know them. Paul and Diane Blanchard. Their granddaughter, Eve, is on Renata’s soccer team, and we’ve attended enough games together to be on a first-name basis, though we never exchange more than small talk.
Diane gives me a worried frown. “You nearly passed out, and … are you all right, dear? You look terrible.”
I am not all right. But instead of answering the question, I ask one of my own. “Did you see a man over there by the trees?” I wave in the general direction of where he came out, horrified but not surprised to see no sign of the man who couldn’t possibly have been Stewart Brooks. “Dark clothes, dark hair, hunting cap?”
Diane shakes her head and glances at her husband, who clears his throat awkwardly. “No, we didn’t see anyone,” he says. “Are you sure I can’t call someone for you?”
I’m cold all over, and for a moment I don’t know if I’ll be able to answer him. Finally I say, “Thank you, but I think I just need to sit down for a minute.” I’m already making my way back to the car, fumbling for my keys. “I skipped breakfast this morning,” I mumble as I press the unlock button and see the headlights flash.
There’s no way I can tell these people I barely know that I just saw a dead man.
Diane starts to say something else, but I get in the car and close the door on her words. I feel pretty bad about that. She was only trying to help, and I must’ve hit either her or Paul, whichever one of them had grabbed me when I collapsed. The back of my hand is throbbing where I whacked it into the cart return, and there’s a nasty red mark that’s already starting to bruise along the edges. At least one of my knees is skinned, too. I can feel blood trickling down my shin.
I sit in the car with the doors locked, all thoughts of grocery shopping gone. Somehow, I must’ve been hallucinating. The man who’d abducted me and killed all those girls was long dead.
But it was him. I know that face. It’s the only thing I remember. His face as he chased me, as he died.
As I killed him.
Not for the first time, I think I should’ve left Dayfield when I had the chance. I never should’ve come back home. I could be somewhere else right now, living with a fresh start. But I’d moved back in with the ghosts.
Still, I wouldn’t trade my family for anything. My husband, my daughter.
They’re worth it.
The slam of a car door somewhere in the parking lot pulls me away from my frantic, half-formed thoughts, and I grab for my phone to check the time. I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting here. Five minutes, maybe ten. If I can pull myself together, maybe I can still run into the store for a few things.
I’m stunned to find that it’s almost nine. I’ve been in the car for over forty minutes.
I start the engine and jab the power button for the driver’s side window, suddenly too aware of the heat and the stale air I’ve been breathing all this time. My appointment is going to be very hard today, because I’ll have to tell Dr. Bradshaw what I saw. Or thought I saw. I can already see her disappointment. According to her, I’d been making real progress.
Now that progress is gone, and I’m not sure I can face the idea of losing my mind again.
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