Mystify (7 page)

The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear.

—H.P. Lovecraft

This
has got to be the most boring field trip I’ve ever attended. And since it’s the first I’ve attended as a student/chaperone, it’s even worse.

Antoine is walking next to me, with Jake, Krystal and Franklin behind me. I know they’re wondering what’s going on with me and Antoine, but they don’t ask, so I don’t volunteer any info.

This trip is taking way too long. We were inside the Nature Center for the first half, about three hours. That was a little better because at least it was air-conditioned inside the redbrick building located just beyond the south end of the lake. Lunch was in the Nature Center’s eatery, if you could really call it that. Ten round tables with hard blue chairs on midnight blue linoleum with sparkles that made it look like the night sky. There was a snack bar with soft pretzels, cold cardboard pizza slices and watered-down fruit punch. But mostly everybody had bought their own lunch.

Antoine hadn’t. So I shared mine with him. He didn’t seem to mind the peach yogurt but refused to try any of the granola. My turkey on wheat with light mayo and lettuce was split in half, and both of us seemed to enjoy that most.

Now, we’re outside. And let me just say the shift in temperature is more than I think any of us were prepared for. The cool spring air from yesterday turned abruptly to sweltering
heat that made breathing difficult even if you didn’t have ailments like asthma, which, coincidentally, Jill Cooper does. Lucky for her—because of that, she was allowed to stay in the building while we continue to hike through the thin patch of trees down to the lake.

The purpose is to observe the wetland ecosystems by conducting net and water sampling. We’re supposed to test for temperature, dissolved oxygen and pH. But really, we’re just walking. Mr. Emory’s in the front of the group, talking about something. I can hear his voice, but I’m not really paying attention. I’m in the back, supposedly making sure we don’t have any stragglers. But since I’m so hot and so uncomfortable, I feel like straggling behind myself.

It’s nearing two o’clock, which is good because we have to be back at the Nature Center to board the bus at two-thirty. The trees break, and we’re in the clearing, just a few feet away from where the lake ripples and flows out into the Atlantic Ocean. The water’s dark and murky-looking, and for a minute I think I can see bubbles, like it’s boiling.

But that’s just silly.

Our group of twenty students and one teacher spread out along the bank, gathering in small groups of like three or four.

“We’d better at least act like we’re working,” Jake comes up beside me and says.

“Yeah, I guess so,” I agree, reaching into my pocket to pull out the plastic gloves Mr. Emory gave us all at the start of the trip.

Krystal has her gloves on and already has tweezers as she moves about looking on the ground.

“We should get closer to the water,” Antoine says.

“Why?” I ask.

“If you want to get good samples for the pH, they’re going to be closer to the water.”

For a minute I almost ask how he knows. Antoine isn’t in any of the gifted and talented classes. Actually, his classes are for below grade level students. Usually the ones where they just push kids through high school to get rid of them. But as I listen to him, I have to admit he sounds like he knows what he’s talking about. Maybe everything I thought was true about Antoine really isn’t.

“Okay, let’s go.”

Me and Antoine move closer to the water, and the bubbling I thought I saw before is now full-fledged splashing. I instantly look out towards where I hear the sounds. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Antoine asks from beside me.

“That. The splashing, like something’s out there.”

I don’t hear his response, but I assume he’s shaking his head negatively. I’m hearing and seeing things again. I’ve got to remember that Antoine isn’t one of us. He doesn’t have any supernatural powers and no radar for the freaky unnatural stuff that’s happening in this town.

But then Krystal’s right beside me. “Something’s out there,” she says.

“No way,” Franklin chimes in. “I mean, unless you mean some old bass and maybe some bottom-feeders. That’s all that’s in this old lake.”

I sense something else. I keep staring, and just when I think to turn away, the something I’ve sensed shoots up from the water, sprinkling all of us as it does.

Krystal and I jump back, the guys mumble a few curses, then we all stand speechless, watching as it floats toward us.

As dead bodies go, I think this is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen. It looks deformed, all fat in places and sopping wet in others. The skin on the face is purple and looks like the bottom of an old tennis shoe. And if that isn’t enough, the eyes, or should I say the sockets, are empty. And by empty I mean, where the eyes should have been, there are dug-out holes. Something crawls out of the left one, and I turn, ready to puke up my lunch.

Antoine is right there, his hands on my shoulders as I lean forward and turn. “Don’t look anymore.” I can hear him talking, but I’m studiously obeying his words and not looking. At anything.

After we saw the body floating, me and Krystal’s combined screams alerted the rest of the group. Mr. Emory ushered us all back a few feet while using his cell phone to call the police. The police arrived complete with news crews and the county coroner’s black van.

My eyes are closed while I try getting the picture of dead-no-eye-guy out of my mind. But that’s all everyone is talking about. Including Alyssa, who I’ve been trying to avoid on this trip.

“Really, Sasha. It’s not that bad,” she says in an exasperated voice.

I don’t even have the energy to rebut. It is that bad, but Alyssa wouldn’t know that. She wouldn’t know because I’m a hundred percent positive she didn’t see the dark shadow floating just above the water where the body emerged.

It was there as I looked at them removing the body. A long dark arm reaching out toward me, as if beckoning me to come closer. I didn’t, of course, but I need to find out if the other Mystyx saw it, if the dark shadow is calling all of us. Or if, for some insane reason, I’ve been singled out.

Antoine is still right on my heels when I start walking toward the spot beneath the trees where Jake stands, hands stuck in his pockets, eyes glued to the water. Lindsey isn’t there. This wasn’t her field trip, I remember while I’m moving toward Krystal, who’s looking around frantically.

“Have you seen Franklin?” is what she says the moment I walk up to her.

“No,” I answer immediately because it’s true. Ever since the first scream I think everybody’s attention became riveted on the water. “I thought he was with you.”

Krystal’s ponytail is swishing back and forth as she shakes her head. “He was. Then we heard the scream, he turned and I turned. And then he was gone.”

I lean a little closer to Krystal and lower my voice so Antoine can’t hear me over all the other noise around us. Most of the kids are on cell phones, probably telling their parents that instead of collecting foliage samples, we found a dead body.

“Did you see the shadow?”

At first she looks at me weirdly, then her eyes kind of dart around to make sure we won’t be heard. I don’t know why because she doesn’t speak her answer, just nods her head.

Whew. I feel better knowing I’m not alone in this. “Did Jake see it, too?”

“Think so,” Krystal says quickly. “I wonder where Franklin could have gone.”

She returns to her search for Franklin, which kind of rubs me the wrong way. I mean, really, where could he have gone? We have a serious problem making itself known. I think she needs to focus more on that. But then Jake startles us both with his next comment.

“Let him go. You can do better than him anyway.”

Both me and Krystal look at him strangely. Then I almost
strain my neck, turning to look at Antoine, who follows up Jake’s remark with, “I know that’s right.”

“What? Well, that’s just great. Thanks for your opinion,” Krystal says to Jake, then looks over my shoulder to Antoine. “And yours, too.”

She stalks off, and I give Jake a “what are you doing?” look, but he just shrugs. I don’t give Antoine any kind of look. I just go after Krystal.

“Hey, don’t take what they say seriously. They’re just guys.”

“Yeah, whatever,” she says, but she’s looking out at the water.

So I look out there, too.

“What are you thinking?” I ask when the silence between us is becoming just as nerve-wracking as the siren on the police car and all the other chatter going on around that dead body.

“I’m thinking something’s not right.”

“With the dead body?”

“The body. The shadow.” She grows quiet again, and I look at her. She looks like she sees something.

Krystal can see, hear and talk to ghosts. So it isn’t unusual for her to stare off like something’s there that nobody else sees. Only she hasn’t done that in a couple weeks, not that I know of.

“He was dragged here,” she starts saying, but she’s whispering.

I move a little closer to her, still trying to act like we’re doing nothing more but looking out to the water. “Who was?”

“The boy. His name’s David Sutherby. He was on that bus with the other kids, the ones that went on the retreat.”

“So somebody dragged him here and drowned him?”

Krystal shakes her head negatively. “
Something
dragged him here, gouged out his eyes, then tossed him in the river.”

The minute her last word is out, there’s a huge gust of air. I mean so huge that it knocks both of us flat on our butts. Antoine and Jake both come running.

“What are you doing down here?” Jake’s asking, grabbing Krystal under her arms and pulling her up.

Antoine comes up beside me doing the same. “Did you fall over each other?”

“No. It was the wind,” Krystal started saying, but from the look on Jake and Antoine’s faces, they hadn’t felt that little breeze.

So that means it’s supernatural. Which also means I have to get rid of Antoine or risk him asking way too many questions, or worse, finally realizing our differences go way beyond the black and white.

“Um, I think we saw something down here. Something the cops should see. Could you go and get them?” I ask, turning in his arms to face him.

He looks a little reluctant but then shrugs and says, “Sure.”

As soon as he’s out of earshot, I turn back to Jake and Krystal. “What the hell was that?”

“A warning, I think,” Krystal says, brushing off her clothes.

Jake’s still standing close to her, even though he’s no longer touching her. Krystal looks more than a little angry with Jake, but again, now is not the time to be going over trivial stuff such as Jake liking Krystal but being too afraid to tell her and Krystal being too wrapped up in Franklin to see it.

“What are you talking about? The dead body?”

“The dead body came from that busload of kids that went
missing. Something dragged him here, took his eyes and killed him.” I give Jake a quick version.

To his credit, he doesn’t look like he doubts my words. “How do we know for sure?”

Or maybe not.

“A spirit came to me,” Krystal says. “She’s really worried about things she’s seen happen along the waterfront lately.”

“Did she tell you who did this to him?”

Krystal shakes her head. “It wasn’t a ‘who.’ She said some ‘thing.’”

“You think it’s the Darkness?” I ask.

“I think it’s connected,” Krystal says.

Jake nods. “Definitely connected.”

He’s looking around now like he expects another body to pop up out of the water.

And that’s exactly what happens.

Only this body is alive, kicking and flailing like a drowning victim.

“Help!”

The word is quickly swallowed up by water as the person goes under again.

Krystal and I immediately run to the water’s edge, but Jake pushes us both aside. Before the cops or any of the other students or anyone from the news crew that have just arrived could come to our aid, Jake is wading through the shallow end of the water until he has no choice but to swim out.

Antoine, who I thought was still over there with the cops, surprises me by going in, too. He and Jake swim side by side until they reach the person who had popped back up through the surface like a wayward buoy.

It’s when they get him to the shore that Krystal gasps. “Franklin.”

Instantly falling to her knees, she looks down at Franklin’s
soaked clothes and color-drained face. “Ohmygod, what happened? How’d you get in the water?”

She’s talking to him, but Franklin is too busy spitting up the icky green-tinted water that filled his lungs.

“Just hold on, man,” Antoine says, looking around. “The medics are coming over this way.”

And he’s right. A few seconds later, medics swarm us, pushing all of us out of the way so they can work on Franklin.

Krystal stares down at the spot where he was, even though she can’t see him through the circle of people working on him. She looks worried and scared, so I put an arm around her.

“He’s going to be fine. He’s puking up everything he swallowed so he’ll be able to breathe just fine in a few minutes.”

“How did he get in there?” she asks quietly.

“I don’t know,” I answer, but then I hear this deep laughter. It echoes around me, starting slow, then building as if someone’s watching a scene from a movie that is just too hilarious to do anything else but laugh.

I’m instantly freaked because I know nobody but me hears this. I keep my eyes rooted to the ground just like Krystal because I know that if I look up, if I search for it, I’ll find it.

I’ll find what’s haunting us.

“We
should do something, Marvin. Why weren’t they chaperoned? Why wasn’t somebody else there to find that body?”

My mother is hysterical. If it weren’t for the fact that I’d never seen her look this on edge, her dark brown eyes wide with shock and repulsion, I could probably feel sorry for her. As it stands, I’m just tired of her dramatic performance. I’ve been home for a little over an hour, and already police officers have been here to inform my parents of what happened at the lake. Even though there was no need—I would have eventually gotten around to telling them. Maybe sometime next year.

This is exactly the scene I didn’t want to have to sit through. But here I am in the den, my back cushioned by the many decorative pillows on the Australian couch. My feet were propped on the corner of the cherrywood table until my mother had given me a stern glance—right between her tirade about the safety of her child and the inconsideration of the authorities to allow dead bodies to float around in public areas. Yep, she said
they
—the authorities—were inconsiderate. Could she be more shallow? Or more dense? I can’t figure out which one I’d rather blame it on.

“Calm down, Lidia. The police arrived as soon as they were dispatched. And I’ve already spoken to Chief Daniels.
He’s going to make sure we have extra patrolmen around Sea Point for the next week or so. We’re perfectly safe here.”

“I don’t know,” she says, wringing her hands and pacing like an addict who needs a fix.

“Can I go now?” I say because this is just too much for even me to take. It’s like some form of punishment for something I didn’t even do.

I mean, really, I didn’t kill that boy. I didn’t gouge his eyes out and toss him in the lake. I was just there when they pulled him out. When the Darkness decided to show him to us.

And then there was Franklin. How had he gotten into the water? And why did he look like someone or something had scared ten years off his young life when the paramedics finished pumping the water out of his lungs?

Too many questions. Not enough answers.

I sigh and stand. “I have homework.”

My father’s rubbing his smooth chin, looking at me as if he just met me ten minutes ago. “It’s Friday night,” he says like he thinks I don’t already know that.

I guess it is weird that a teenager would actually want to do homework on a Friday night. But when the homework actually consists of researching astral planes and wicked dark beings, that changes things significantly.

“Killer test on Monday,” I say, shrugging and heading toward the door.

My mother makes this panicked-like sound and slumps into the wingback chair that just happens to be right behind her. She’s fanning her own face, and it takes everything in me not to sigh and say, “give it up already.” Instead I just shake my head and keep walking.

“Sasha.”

I have no choice but to stop at the sound of my father’s authoritative voice.

When I turn back to face him, I can see he’s waiting expectantly. I swear, sometimes it’s like living with an alien family around here. “Yes, sir?” I answer in a tone that’s low and borderline exasperated.

“I have something for you to do tonight. You can do home work tomorrow.”

Oh no, this is not going to be good. How can I tell? Maybe it’s the bottom that feels like it’s just dropped out of my stomach. Or how about the way my mother sits up in the chair—fanning her face has ceased, and her eyes look a little brighter. Miraculous recovery or something up the parental sleeves? I’ll bet my trust fund on the latter.

“Stephen Whitman the Fourth owns several oil rigs and a huge company in Texas. For health reasons, he and his family had to relocate here to Lincoln about a year or so ago.”

Yes, I know Stephen Whitman IV. His parents ship him off to some private school in upstate New York all year long. I think there’s an older sister too, in college maybe. But what this has to do with me remains to be seen. So I keep quiet and wait. Not an easy task for me, so I’m shuffling from one foot to the other, anxious to have this over with so I can be gone.

“The young Stephen Whitman is home for spring break. I told his parents you would love to go out with him tonight, show him around town a bit.”

“You what?” The words just roll out. I don’t know who is more shocked, me or my mother. Certainly my father, by the rise of his eyebrows, was taken aback. “I mean, what does that mean?” I have a sinking feeling what it meant.

“I’ve made reservations at Solange for the two of you. Mr. Lycanian will drive you.”

My parents always call Mouse, “Mr. Lycanian.” But from
the first day I met him, he’d instructed me to call him Mouse. So that’s what I did.

“I don’t want to go to dinner with Stephen Whitman the Fourth,” I say in protest, knowing already that it’s pointless.

“Life is not about what we want, Sasha. It’s about what’s best for us, for our family, our legacy. Want rarely comes into play.”

What he really means is that want rarely comes into play where I’m concerned. My parents seem to have everything their chilly little hearts desire. Me, on the other hand, well, let’s just say I’m not like my parents. Some days I wake up and even consider requesting a DNA test.

My mother’s still jabbering. “He’s a handsome boy, Sasha. I think you two will really hit it off.”

“His father’s thinking of investing considerably in the new club,” my father adds, as if that should be enough to send me on my way.

“Then you go out with him!” I say again on impulse. It must be the adrenaline still rushing through my system. I mean, it’s not every day a girl watches a body being dragged from the lake. I had to have some excuse for mouthing off to my parents. Especially to my father.

Well clearly, Marvin Carrington is having none of that, regardless of my reasoning.

You will do as I tell you, young lady. You’re a part of this family and will act accordingly.” His normally cool green eyes grow just a tad darker as his voice rises.

I feel like I’ve been slapped, even though neither one of them have ever put their hands on me. Not even for a hug that I can remember. Then I bristle at his words.
Now
I’m a part of this family. What happened to consoling their teenage daughter who had just been through a horrific time? What
happened to wanting to keep her safe? Clearly there’s a killer on the loose.

While I’m standing here thinking all this and literally biting my tongue to keep from mouthing off some more, my mother stands and walks over to me. “You don’t go out with enough guys, dear. This will be fun.”

Was she kidding? What mother tells her fifteen-year-old daughter, “you don’t go out with enough guys?” Normally, it’s exactly the opposite. This place is like a freak show.

“I don’t feel like having fun.” And I really don’t. Not with some strange guy anyway. This just cannot be happening.

“Now, just go on upstairs. Casietta already has something picked out for you to wear. Stephen will be here in an hour. Take a nice long bath and do your hair. Oh, you’re going to have a fabulous time.”

She’s rubbing my back with one hand, the other is doing something weird to my hair, and her voice is like chalk scraping down a blackboard. I want to scream.

“And Sasha…”

I look over my shoulder to see my father not even looking up at me but shuffling some papers around in a folder he’s been holding on his lap. “Be sure to talk up the club. How you and your friends will be spending a lot of time there and such.”

Yeah, I think when I’m finally allowed to leave the room with the two psycho parents in it, I’ll talk up the club that I never plan to set foot in. Stomping up the steps seems juvenile, but I do it anyway, releasing only minute waves of frustration as I go.

I’m not their daughter. I’m a pawn in this game of their lives. They don’t care what I do or how I feel as long as everything works out for them.

I shouldn’t care about what they want or how they’ll feel if I do something they don’t like. I shouldn’t.

But I do.

It’s pathetic, but I do care. I do want their approval. So I take the shower and I get dressed and I wait for the date I don’t want to go on in the hopes that one day things between us will be different.

His pants are too high.

That’s the first thing I notice about Stephen Whitman IV. And that’s probably because I can see his argyle socks as he walks toward me. His khaki pants are hard creased and swing at his ankles like they’re boot cut. His shoes are leather, Italian probably. I keep looking at them because, of course, I’m a shoe-aholic.

“Hi, Sasha,” he says when he’s closer, his hand already extended for me to shake like we’re closing a business deal or something.

I sigh, then force a smile. My hand lifts and embraces his, but I swear it must be on autopilot because that’s not what I was thinking of doing. I’m actually considering turning and running back up the stairs. This night isn’t going to go off as planned. I can feel it deep down in my bones.

“Hi, Stephen.”

“You look beautiful.”

Do boys say
beautiful?
More importantly, do they really mean it when they say it? Probably not.

“Thanks,” is my automatic response.

“Shall we go?”

My parents already had the opportunity to talk to him, filling his mind with a bunch of crap about their precious club, I presume. But I’d stayed upstairs a little longer than necessary, especially since I’d seen when the Rolls Royce pulled around
to the front of the house and watched as the suited driver stepped out and opened the back door for Stephen.

I’d known he was here and still hid upstairs like a Chicken Little. But hey, I’m not even afraid to admit that. I don’t want to go on this date. And for some reason, the not wanting is a little more adamant than just not liking Stephen. I really feel like this is going to end badly.

Well, too late now.

My arm is already threaded through Stephen’s, and we’re stepping out the door into the cool night air. And I do mean cool, like it’s dropped about ten degrees since earlier this afternoon at the lake. But that’s the way the weather is here in Lincoln—strange.

Solange is located on the first floor of the Nokland Hotel. It’s a pretty jazzed-up place complete with huge chandeliers with dripping tiers of crystal lights, linen tablecloths and soft, high-backed chairs. Walking across the dark maroon carpeted floor, my feet slide a bit because these shoes are new. I bought them out of a catalog which I don’t do often, but I needed a new pair of patent leather shoes with the kitten heel, and these have a cute white bow on the side toe end. The skirt Casietta picked out for me is pleated black with a white cami and midriff sweater to match. I feel like I should be going to church instead of on a date. I know I wouldn’t have to dress like this to go out with Antoine.

“So how’s school?” Stephen asks after we’re seated.

For the first time since he picked me up I really look at his face. He’s not half bad looking, if you like the straitlaced, pretty-boy type. I mean, his hair is cut low, he has like a semi-tan. He probably goes to the beach over the long weekends. Either that or a tanning salon, but I don’t really see one of the Whitmans visiting Teri’s Tanning Tub every week. His eyes are blue and his hair is blond—clichéd, but true. There are
some highlights to his hair at the top that make it look a little darker than it is on the sides, might be from the sun. Still, his clothes are perfectly starched. His Rolex watch shines at his wrist, and what I think is a gold school ring twinkles on his left ring finger. He’s sitting with his back bone-straight in the chair and at this very moment unfolding his napkin and placing it, sort of daintily, in his lap.

Like I said, fine if you like the straitlaced, pretty-boy type.

I definitely do not.

“School is school,” I reply rather blandly. I never really know how to answer this question. Plus I think it’s one of the stupidest questions to ask a teenager. What’s really the expected response—“School is great!” or “School sucks!”? Some days I can say either one, but I kind of like the answer I just gave.

“You’re in the tenth grade, right?”

“Yes.”

He nods his head, then picks up the menu. “I remember those days.”

“What grade are you in?”

“Eleventh.”

Yeah, so he remembers the tenth-grade days like they were five or so years ago. Please, somebody, save me from this brutally boring evening!

And just like that my phone chimes in my purse. I’m receiving a text.