“Never comes inside because he can’t, or he doesn’t?” I asked.
A body struck the door with force. The door shuddered with the impact. Liam leapt to his feet, toppling his chair with a crash. Mrs. Popova gripped the crucifix that hung around her neck and muttered a prayer.
The Warden slammed into the door again. Wood cracked. Mikhail stayed in his seat, eyes fixed on the wall opposite. It took me a moment to recognize the look on his face. It was the grim acceptance of a man who has been waiting a very long time for the inevitable to arrive.
“Do you have your rifle?” Mikhail asked Mrs. Popova.
“Sure, I just tucked it down the back of my pants,” she said sourly. “It’s in the truck.”
Bang. Another impact, and then the slow scraping drag of a footstep. A voice, low and garbled, came through the door. “Soooophiiiaaaa,” the Warden said, and coughed wetly, a meaty hacking that cut off with a wheeze. “Ty k nam vernulas.”
“‘You came back to us,’” Mikhail translated. The tortured voice went on, and Mikhail murmured the translation. “‘We saw you in the boy’s memories. She tried to hide you from us, but we know you have returned. Come outside. Come with us.’”
The voice stopped. There was a long pause, an unbalanced kind of silence, made to break. And then the Warden slammed into the door once again.
Mikhail stood, pressing his palms flat against the table. “You must run,” he said.
Bang. The frame of the door splintered. One more good hit and it would give. There was no back door, no other way out. The windows were too small to fit through. The Warden roared.
“My truck’s out front,” Mrs. Popova said. Her voice was shaking, but she dug for her keys. “We just need a clear path out.”
“Where do we go?” I asked. “If they can get in here, is anywhere safe?”
“The LARC is built like a fortress,” Liam said.
“The LARC is a fortress. That’s why it’s built that way,” Mrs. Popova said.
“He will be inside in a moment,” Mikhail said. “I will fight. You run.”
“He’ll kill you,” I said.
Mikhail rumbled a laugh. “I am long past due to die, Sophia Novak. I thought for a long time the reason I lived so long was to save you, that day on the water, and I wondered why I persisted still. But now I know. I was not done saving you.” I could only stare helplessly, words a tangle in my throat. “But after this, you will have to save yourself.”
Then the door burst open, and the monster came in.
* * *
Sometimes when terrible things happen, time blurs. Sometimes it slows, every moment crystallized and indelible. This time it stuttered, chaotic smears of movement and panic interspersed with shards of clear memory:
The Warden in the doorway, eyes fixed on me. I had time to think that he looked nothing like Mikhail, and wonder how that could be, and then he charged me.
Mikhail, pushing me out of the way.
Liam’s hand in mine, both of us sprinting up the gravel path toward Mrs. Popova’s old truck, my laptop, still hot, in my hand.
The cabin framed in the rearview mirror as Mrs. Popova floored the gas pedal. A man stood in the doorway, backlit and obscured by mist. I could not tell which man it was.
The truck jolting over a pothole halfway up the hill, throwing me against the window, and a woman in a gray dress standing at the edge of the road, her eyes blackened sockets.
Time untangled itself at the top of the hill, as we threw ourselves free of the truck and pelted toward the LARC. We were hardly three steps from the truck when a large woman staggered out of the mist toward us. Her blonde hair stuck to her cheeks under a crust of salt, tears, or sea spray dried to scales. She reached for Mrs. Popova.
The rifle crack came before my alarmed shout could even leave my throat, and the echo toppled to the ground. Mrs. Popova’s face was a mask, but her hands shook.
“There’s more,” Liam said.
Shapes in the mist, moving with clear purpose. Mrs. Popova moved backward as we crossed to the entrance, sweeping the rifle left and right. Spectral shapes drew toward us through the mist. Liam fumbled with his keys, dropped them. He swore and bent down, his nails raking across the concrete as he scrabbled for them.
“Hurry up,” I said, grabbing his shoulder. “They’re coming.” The echoes moved in short bursts, violent grace interspersed with stumbling confusion. “Liam!”
“Got it,” Liam said. His eyes were wild and his breath thin between his teeth. My heart galloped in my chest. Liam flung the door open, and we piled inside, Mrs. Popova taking up the rear as the nearest of the echoes cleared the mist. A man this time, his face overgrown with fleshy mushrooms. He took a dragging step and then leapt forward, graceful as a dancer. Mrs. Popova slammed the door behind us, and Liam turned to me. My eyes were wide, my breath quick. “Sophia? Freakish calm would be useful right about now.”
Trying to keep control was like trying to keep my grip on an eel, but I didn’t want the calm. I didn’t want to be that person. “Promise me you’ll—”
He pressed a kiss against my lips, a rough, half-wild thing, and he leaned his brow against mine. “You’re you,” he said. “You’re real. And I’ll remind you every time you forget.”
It was like carving away a piece of myself—the fear was so deep, I had to cut to the core to get it out. And what remained was a cold knife between my ribs. Cold, and still, and calm. “I’m good,” I said. I blinked away the last haze of emotion and pulled away from Liam.
Mrs. Popova was staring at the door. She gave a sudden, jerky nod. “Right,” she said. “That will hold most of them off, but some of them can still think and reason. Especially the newer ones. They might find a way in.” She winced. “I hope Mikhail found his way to safety.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. I didn’t feel it beyond the surface level, but I knew it was true.
“None of this is your fault, dear,” Mrs. Popova replied with a sigh.
“I’m still sorry it’s happened,” I said. “I’m sorry this came to your island at all.”
Fists thumped against the door. It didn’t give, but we all drew away from it.
“They’ll hold. I’ll go check the rest,” Mrs. Popova said. “You two stay put.”
I almost protested, but then I saw Liam. He was pale. Exhausted and running out of adrenaline to keep him moving. He needed to sit down, and in my frigid clarity, I recognized the importance of rest. I didn’t have panic and desperation to convince me we needed to keep moving whatever the cost. I sank down onto one of the benches in the foyer as Mrs. Popova headed off, letting my own exhaustion be Liam’s excuse to rest. He sat beside me, shoulders slumped.
The thudding against the door stopped. They must have gone to find another entrance.
“We should . . .” Liam started, but I covered his hand with mine. I tried to think of the right thing to say, but that was the trouble with being empty. I knew what was practical to do, but without feeling anything myself, I couldn’t tell how to soothe his emotions.
Then my hand tightened over his. We weren’t alone.
My echo was standing down the hallway. Her hair was soaked, the golden strands darkened to brown. More water dripped from the hem of her skirt—one of Mikhail’s wife’s—and the cuffs of the LARC sweatshirt half-zipped over her thin frame. She smiled. It was a fragile smile, half-broken, tangled up in hope and in sadness. “Hello,” she said softly.
“Hi,” I replied, managing a small smile of my own. I tried to remember her, but every time I got close, my thoughts filled with dark water and my lungs began to burn.
“It knows you’re here now,” she said.
“Yeah, I’d say my cover’s been blown on all fronts,” I said.
“Sophia?” Liam asked, hesitant.
“It’s okay,” I assured him, standing up. And the
n I saw what she was holding. Abby’s camera. “Where did you get that?” I asked.
“She wanted me to bring it,” the other girl said. She held it out. “You have to see.”
I took it from her, shivering as my fingertips brushed against her skin. I opened it to check the data slot. There was an SD card inserted. Which meant . . .
“That’s it,” I said. “This is the data card we found at the LARC. Abby must have put it in her camera.” I turned on the camera. The screen might be cracked, but the innards were clearly still working, because I was able to pull up a list of video files.
Videos from 2003.
The files went on and on. Someone had started filming and stopped so many times, and the videos weren’t short. They’d filmed so much. What had happened? I needed to find the beginning of the thread.
I sat back down on the bench. Emotion boiled at the edge of my awareness, but I clung to the calm. Breathe steady. Don’t think, don’t feel. Because if I started to feel anything, I would feel it all, and I would truly drown.
Yet even with the hungry void, my hands were shaking. Liam reached over, resting his hand over my forearm to steady me. I tried to speak but my mouth was hopelessly dry. I swallowed down a sob, my control fracturing.
“This is it,” I said. “Whatever happened, it’s on this camera.”
“Play it,” Liam said.
“I can’t,” I said softly. As long as I didn’t know, anything could be true. She could be alive. Out there, waiting for me. As soon as I played those files, the possibilities would collapse into cruel truth.
“It’s okay,” Liam said. “I understand.” He took the camera from me gently and selected the first file.
We watched in silence as the tale unfolded in fragments, and my hope shattered piece by piece.
VIDEO EVIDENCE
Recorded by Joy Novak
AUGUST 14, 2003, TIME UNKNOWN
In the final file of the 2003 LARC excursion, the group retraces their path: out of the church doors, up the flank of the island. The ground seems to fold itself to shorten the way, and while the camera—held now by Kapoor—catches glimpses of shapes both human and otherwise, they seem frozen in place. Whatever Novak’s echo meant to do, it seems she is succeeding.
Hardcastle, apparently recovered, takes the lead. The wariness in his posture says that he is not only thinking of what beasts might lurk out of sight, but also of the other threat out here: his own echo.
They climb the stairs. None of them remark on how there are far fewer now than when they went down. They’ve moved past the expectation of a consistent reality.
Some things persist. Joy makes the girls turn away when they pass echo-Baker’s body.
They have almost reached the shore. The possibility of escape has nearly teetered into probability, fear giving way to the wild blossoming of hope. There is the empty shore, the gray water. There is the boat, their boat, not some twisted mimicry but a solid, certain thing. Novak lets out a sound of relief.
KAPOOR [echo]: This is where I leave you.
Kapoor nods, unsurprised. Her echo looks down at the gun.
KAPOOR [echo]: I don’t know if I can . . .
She swallows.
KAPOOR [echo]: Will. I know it’s a lot to ask.
HARDCASTLE: What do you—? Oh.
He looks sick.
KAPOOR [echo]: I’m still me, or very nearly. That’s the note I’d like to go out on, not babbling away with a mad song in my mind.
HARDCASTLE: Not here.
NOVAK: Don’t do this.
KAPOOR [echo]: My choice. And I don’t know how long I’ll be able to say that about anything, so let’s get it done before I hurt anyone.
She and Hardcastle walk together. Not far—Hardcastle stays at the edge of the mist. Vanya’s echo walks a little farther, behind a rocky outcropping and deep enough into the mist that they won’t be able to see. Still Joy looks away, whispering to the girls. Kapoor keeps the camera trained on Hardcastle, as if it can provide some extra barrier between herself and the act.
When it’s done, Hardcastle walks back slowly, his face set and hard.
KAPOOR: Will . . .
HARDCASTLE: Don’t. It’s done. Let’s not talk about it.
NOVAK: Let’s just get out of here.
She stands, holding the girls’ hands. Hardcastle steps between her and the boat. He looks at the ground, the gun in his hand, his jaw tense.
NOVAK: Will?
HARDCASTLE: We can’t bring them both back.
NOVAK: Of course we can.
HARDCASTLE: Those things are time bombs. Eventually, she’s going to go off.
NOVAK: She’s a toddler, Will.
HARDCASTLE: We don’t know what they’re capable of. You really want that in your house? They’ve gone after their doubles first, Joy. You want your little girl’s throat slit by a monster with her face?
NOVAK: Will!
HARDCASTLE: The double stays.
KAPOOR: Will, calm down. We can—
She steps toward him. He points the gun toward her.
HARDCASTLE: I’ve killed you once today, Vanya, and I really don’t want to do it again. But I am not bringing that monster back. I won’t be responsible for what it does.
Kapoor lets out an angry hiss of breath, but she doesn’t try to get closer. She grips the camera so tightly the whole view shakes, as if by witnessing she can somehow prevent what is happening.
NOVAK: We don’t even know which one of them is which.
HARDCASTLE: You do. You know. You’re her mother. You know.
He swings the gun around and lowers it. It points at one of the girls. Novak makes a startled noise and pushes both girls behind her.
HARDCASTLE: If you don’t tell us which one it is, I won’t have a choice.
Still she doesn’t move.
HARDCASTLE: Okay.
He steps to the side, getting an angle on the nearest girl, and his finger starts to tighten on the trigger. The girls shriek and quail.
NOVAK: No! Don’t. I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you, just don’t hurt them.
She crouches down. She makes soothing noises, holding each girl’s arm gently. They calm slowly, though one is still crying softly, tears running down her cheeks.
NOVAK: Listen, loves. We can’t stay together. I know it’s scary, but it’s going to be all right.
She pushes up their sleeves. Her fingers run over the bruises on one girl’s arm—the bruises from Baker’s attack. This is the girl who came home out of the mist, the one who traveled to the headland on the boat. If she was replaced the day she got lost, this is the echo.
NOVAK: The day you were lost and heard the song, you’re the one who came home.
The girl nods. She seems the far calmer of the two; the other girl is still whimpering.
NOVAK: She’s the echo.
She turns toward the other girl, cups her cheek.
NOVAK: Hush. Stop crying now, little bird. It’s going to be okay. Come here.
She hugs Sophia close, stroking her hair.
NOVAK: Auntie Vanya and Uncle William are going to take you home, okay?
KAPOOR: What?
Novak stands.
NOVAK: I’m not leaving my daughter here alone.
HARDCASTLE: She isn’t your daughter.
NOVAK: I can’t leave her here, Will. I can’t. Just . . . get Sophie home safe, okay? Now give me a minute. I need to say goodbye.
The scene that follows holds nothing supernatural, only a raw and terrible grief. A child taken, screaming, from her weeping mother, her cries pure terror and desolation. There is nothing unreal in it, and yet it is the most unnatural, the most horrifying thing the video log has captured.
Time does not run properl
y in the mist, and it is both seconds and an eternity later that those who are leaving are on board the boat. The motor is running, Hardcastle tending the rudder; Sophia huddles against the side, her tears spent, only the occasional whimper left. Vanya sits at the prow of the boat, the camera on her lap.
HARDCASTLE: Look.
Vanya’s coat rustles as she twists in her seat; a moment later she picks up the camera and trains it on the water ahead. There is an end to the mist. The rocky spit that connects the headland to the rest of the island pierces it, offering a guide, a path back to the world they came from. Not one curl of mist touches the mainland. If they can reach the shore to the other side of the yawning bay, they will be safe.
HARDCASTLE: That’s it. That’s the way out.
He cuts the motor.
KAPOOR: What are you doing?
HARDCASTLE: It’s good that Joy isn’t here. It’ll be easier.
KAPOOR: What will be easier, Will?
HARDCASTLE: We can’t be sure. She might have been switched weeks ago. Or it might have been while we were here. We just can’t know for certain.
KAPOOR: Joy was sure.
HARDCASTLE: Joy was guessing. This has to be done. Turn off the camera.
He moves forward. Hardcastle lunges forward, grabbing Sophia by the shoulder and hauling her back.
KAPOOR: Don’t you dare.
But Hardcastle still has the gun.
HARDCASTLE: Turn off that camera, Vanya. I don’t want to hurt you. But I will if I have to. Turn. It. Off.
Three seconds pass in perfect stillness.
Then the recording ends.
26
THE VIDEO WENT black. “I remember,” I said softly. “I remember him drowning me.”
“And my mum didn’t do anything to stop him,” Liam said.
“We don’t know that,” I replied. “She’s not one of them, at least. Not an echo.”
Complex emotions warring in his expression. Guilt and hope and love and fear—fear at what might lie beyond that blackness, beyond the end of the recording.
Our Last Echoes Page 22
