Comes the Night (12 page)

And with every step the old man took, Maryanne somehow shared his pain.

The peace was gone. Every shred of it now. And the grief was only heavier as it fully reconnected.

“Me-anne! Me-anne! Me-anne!” It was as if the very wind carried Jason’s heartbreaking cry, causing pain to bloom in her chest.

Suddenly, Maryanne more than wanted to cast out again. She
craved
it. No matter the unknown danger; no matter the cost! She would cast back into the night and find that reprieve. It was more than a foolish wish now, made at 11:11.

With tears in her eyes as she walked along, she swore to God, she would cast out again.

Alex

“
W
HAT A
...
PRICK
.”

Maryanne hooked the completed math assignments into her binder and snapped the rings shut, continuing to mutter about her math teacher.

Alex grinned as the usually polite Maryanne Hemlock colored the air with her opinion of Mr. McKenzie. Alex had had McKenzie for Math last year herself, and couldn’t agree more about his prick status. And so the extra math homework he sent home for Maryanne via Brooke didn’t surprise her. It hadn’t surprised Brooke either. But it was clearly a shock to Maryanne. Which was quite hilarious, really. Maryanne hadn’t been the least bit sick today, yet here she was getting all bent out of shape about a guy who sent extra homework to sick people.

“Are you sure he gave me
extra
, Brooke?” she asked again.

“Yep. Two pages for everyone else in class, four pages for you. Wrote them up special.” Brooke grinned devilishly. “You should feel honored to be so missed.”

“Honored isn’t the word I’m looking for here,” Maryanne grated.

“Okay, he’s a genuine, gold-plated tool,” Alex agreed. “But the homework is done, right? So let’s move on.”

“Right.” Maryanne inhaled a big, calming breath and exhaled it. “You’re so right.” Yet she still used more force than necessary when she shoved her binder into her book bag and dropped it onto the floor at the end of the bed. “Okay, ready to read, Alex?”

Ready to read? Ready to share Connie’s world with the others? Not really. Not by a long shot. But she didn’t exactly have any choice, did she? Her roommates were both deep in that world now, almost as deep as Alex herself. There were things they needed to know... Alex produced the diary from beneath her pillow. Maryanne’s mood seemed to lift instantly, and Brooke sat a little straighter when she caught sight of the little leather-bound book.

“Ah, so
that’s
where you keep it stashed.”

Alex didn’t respond to Brooke. She didn’t need to. The other girl knew damned well she didn’t keep it there. Yes, she’d tucked it under her pillow until tonight’s reading time, but that wasn’t its customary hiding place. She didn’t even keep it in the room with her. Not a freaking chance! Brooke had already snooped through her things once. And just about anyone could enter the room in the daytime, while the girls were at school. So when Connie’s little book wasn’t on Alex’s person, she kept it tucked away in a spot so well-hidden, the world would never find it.

“So what did Connie write?” Brooke sat cross-legged on the bed, her knees bouncing a bit with restrained excitement. “About the scream, I mean.”

Even though it had been Alex’s idea—okay, her absolute, desperate
need
—to postpone any discussion of last night’s events, it had been hard, even for her. And it had been absolute torture for the other two. Brooke especially had been excited about the events that had unfolded. She
loved
casting. And Alex could see it in Maryanne’s eyes too—that excitement. Joy. Abandon.

Her roommates had come back into their bodies on a high they could barely contain. And yes, probably with a touch of fear. Alex had come back with those feelings too, but also with something else. Something the other girls couldn’t possibly share. She’d come back with the vaguest of memories of the night of her rape. She’d needed to focus every ounce of her energy on trying to recover those memories. Which was why she’d postponed the post mortem. She was afraid she’d lose what few tendrils she’d managed to grasp if she allowed her attention to be diverted.

Not that she remembered everything. Just a shadow of... something. Someone. Hurting her. Oh, how he laughed, low and deep in his throat, and oh how she’d cried. She remembered that much.

The hammer just outside her memory had cracked a little into her mind. She was almost sure of it. And though she reached to remember more, reached to remember
concretely
, dear God, she was afraid to. So very afraid it would all come crashing down and around her.

If she recaptured the nightmare, would it recapture her?

“Hello? Earth to Alex! Come in, Alex.” With an extended thumb and pinkie, Maryanne mimicked shouting into a phone as she sought Alex’s attention.

Crap. Alex shook her head to clear it. “Sorry, my mind was wandering.”

“Nowhere nice,” Brooke observed.

Double crap. Brooke knew something was amiss in Alex’s world. Alex could see it in the other girl’s sharp, all-seeing, brown eyes. Damn her!

Alex shrugged casually, easily, belying the panic she had to fight down. “Whatever.” She opened Connie’s diary to the page she’d chosen earlier. “You guys ready to hear this?” Her gaze moved between Maryanne and Brooke as she asked.

“Absolutely,” Maryanne said.

Brooke straightened on the bed. “Bring it on.”

Alex pulled a deep breath. The last few nights they’d read in the attic. It had seemed important—it had been important—to read the words the way they’d been written. Where they’d been written, at least at the beginning. But now... she cast a glance at Maryanne and Brooke. Now these words—all of it—had gone well beyond the attic walls.

Alex began to read.

September 22, 1962

Something strange happened tonight. Well, more strange than usual. It was terrifying. Oh, but it felt wonderful too!

Something rose up from inside me tonight. I mean, from deep, deep inside. Maybe from a place I hadn’t even known existed until tonight.

Or accepted until tonight? Could that be it?

Everyone thinks I’m such a mouse. Everyone thinks I’m that quiet, passive, voiceless girl. And God help me, I am. That’s the way they want me. That’s how they’ve made me. Every last damned one of them. But I wasn’t quiet tonight. I was NOT passive. And I was far from voiceless.

Dear Diary, from the time I open my eyes in the morning now, I count the hours until night comes so I can soar out again.

I don’t have a clock or even a watch up here in my prison, so this is how I keep track of the hours: I know my first meal comes at noon. My mother sends it up on the dumbwaiter my stepfather and Billy built into this old house. That’s so I can’t see her for even a minute. That’s one of my stepfather’s rules. One of my punishments for being such a whore. And I know my supper comes at six. Again, by the lift, or with Billy if he’s home and inclined to unlock the door, climb the stairs and torment me some more.

After supper is when I really start counting down the time. Literally. I eat slowly. Then I start counting—one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, three-Mississippi, all the way to 725-Mississippi. That’s a little over 12 minutes. Then I do it again and again and again and again—and mark it off in lines, sets of five that I scratch inside the closet door. Every set of five is one hour. When I tire of that, I recite out loud the few poems I memorized from school, then lyrics from songs I heard on the radio, all to pass the time. I close my eyes tightly and keep them closed for as long as I can while I sit on the floor by the window, hoping that when I open them again, the sky will be a bit darker, and I will be that little bit closer to the only escape I know.

I did all of this tonight, as I always do. I set my pillow and blanket beside me to cushion my body when it hits the floor. And I tap, tap, tapped on the window as I stared up at the Madonna. Once I was out, I raced away from the house. Maybe it was the day’s loneliness that sent me soaring away so fast. Maybe it was Billy’s threatening words when he brought up my cold meal: “I’ll be back later on.” Or maybe it was because today I felt the baby kick for the very first time. The baby I know I will never get to keep. Whatever it was, I soared fast and far until I found myself further away than ever before.

Over at Walker’s farm
...

“Seth Walker’s family’s farm?” Brooke shook her head at the question as soon as she asked it. “Oh God, it would
have
to be! Seth bragged about that farm being in the family for generations.”

“But that’s not so far,” Maryanne said. “We went there the other night on our first cast out.”

“Yeah,
we
being the operative word,” Alex pointed out. “It would probably seem a lot further to Connie, out there on her own. Would you have gone that far alone? Without the courage of a group?”

“Omigod!” Brooke said. “Seth’s grandfather! The old man died last year, but Seth said that right up until he croaked, he used to ramble on about—” All at once, Brooke paled.

“About what?” Alex asked, hearing the sharpness in her own voice.

“About the Mansbridge Heller.” Brooke drew a breath. “Seth called his grandfather a crazy old coot for his obsession with something called the Mansbridge Heller. The old guy wanted to catch this dark ghost he always talked about. Claimed he’d seen it often. Of course, Seth and everyone else said the old bugger was senile. Well, almost everyone else.”

Alex felt her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. She’d heard of the Mansbridge Heller. Anyone who’d spent any length of time here knew about it. It was just another rural legend in this superstitious town—the local boogie man. A story to scare the new kids with during the annual hazing. An easy costume on Halloween. But some claimed to have actually seen the Heller—a black ghost, an empty shell, a shrieking she-devil that came up to steal your soul. And from what Connie had written... “Wait a minute!” Maryanne leapt to her feet. “Black ghost? Empty shell? Was that
Connie
?”

“It makes sense,” Alex said, having just come to the same conclusion. “If she were seen—”

“Yeah,” Maryanne interrupted. “But a shrieking she-devil that came to steal souls? Where the heck did
that
come from?”

Alex shrugged. “People need a way to explain the unexplainable. Their fears. Stories grow.”

“Yes,” agreed Brooke, almost too quietly to be heard. “And so do legends.”

“So our Connie is famous,” Maryanne said, sinking back onto her bed.

Alex bristled at the use of the phrase
our Connie
, but pushed her irritation down. “Look, do you want to hear more or what?”

“Sorry,” Brooke said. “Didn’t mean to sidetrack you. Read on.”

Alex turned to the diary again.

I wanted to see the Walker dogs. Well, one in particular.

Yes, I figured they would run away—that’s what every animal does when they see me. But Ira Walker had an ancient bloodhound, half-blind with cataracts and crippled with arthritis. Any other dog in that condition, Ira would have put down without even blinking, but this dog was his favorite. I thought maybe since she couldn’t see me, and if she couldn’t run, she couldn’t flee from me. And if she didn’t flee, maybe I could pet her. I wanted so badly to touch something warm and real. To know again a touch that wasn’t taking. Taking! Taking! A touch that wouldn’t hurt me. I didn’t know if I could do it. But I really wanted to try to pat the old dog.

I knew it wasn’t a good idea—someone could spot me! But I was willing to take the chance. I needed to do it.

“Poor Connie,” Maryanne said. “Can you imagine being that lonely?”

Alex opened her mouth to speak, but it was Brooke who answered the question. “Yeah, I can.” She shook her head. “But what a stupid risk she took!”

“More stupid than what you did last night?” Alex asked.

Brooke’s lips turned up in a grin. “That was just plain fun.”

Alex read on.

Her name was Sugar. I remembered her from years ago when my father used to take me with him to the Walker farm on grocery runs. That was before the bigger stores moved in and Dad’s little store went under, just months before his heart attack. I’d wait in the truck at most stops, but when we stopped in at the Walker farm, I always got out to pat Sugar. Ira is one of the best hunters around and his hunting dogs are known all over New Brunswick. Sugar was the best of them, in her day. And she was a good dog—so friendly. Whenever she saw me, she wagged her tail and I swear she grinned. I thought that maybe Sugar would remember me. Maybe she would know me, even this dark me.

The other dogs ran away as soon as they saw me. Well, most of them. There was one huge bloodhound chained up in the yard. He strained against his tether and gagged until his chain snapped and he raced away yelping. I headed to Sugar’s doghouse over by the horse barns. Even though they couldn’t see me, they knew I was there. The poor horses were frantic—I could hear their whinnies. The cows that had been left in the back pasture that night ran to the far end of the fence.

Sugar didn’t come out of her dog house. Sugar didn’t run. She couldn’t run. I could hear her whimpering. She was so frightened. But surely once she knew it was me—she’d be okay.

I crouched down at the front to her doghouse.

Sugar was pressed as tightly as she could be against the back wall of her house. She trembled and I could smell urine. I said, “There, there, Sugar,” as I reached, but I don’t think she could hear me.

So then I touched her!

Oh dear God in Heaven, I reached and touched that good dog! I’d thought my hand might go right through her as it did with other things. But I actually
touched
her graying fur, and I patted her back and I laughed and oh, I almost cried! It felt wonderful to connect with something good. So I crept closer until I could get my arms around her to hug her. I hugged Sugar close, sure she’d stop trembling then—that she’d realize somehow it was me. But instead, with an ungodly, frightened howl, she convulsed and died in my arms.