The Back Door of Midnight

The Back Door of Midnight

ALSO BY
ELIZABETH CHANDLER

Kissed by an Angel

KISSED BY AN ANGEL, THE POWER OF LOVE, and SOULMATES

Dark Secrets 1

LEGACY OF LIES AND DON’T TELL

Dark Secrets 2

NO TIME TO DIE AND THE DEEP END OF FEAR

For Brenda and Sharyn

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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First Simon Pulse paperback edition November 2010

Copyright © 2010 by Mary Claire Helldorfer

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The text of this book was set in Adobe Garamond Pro.

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Library of Congress Control Number 2010922979

ISBN 978-1-4424-0626-1

ISBN 978-1-4424-0628-5 (eBook)

IT BEGAN AFTER
midnight with a low hum, an electric buzz like that of a bass guitar string. The sound grew louder and I tried to cover my head with a pillow, but my arms, heavy with sleep, wouldn’t move.

I struggled to sit up; I was paralyzed. Frightened, I tried to call out, but my mouth wouldn’t move. An odd sensation began in my feet and traveled up my body, each nerve ending tingling with electric energy.
Stop!
I thought.
Please stop!

Anna. Let go.

It was a woman’s voice that spoke to me, a familiar voice, but I didn’t know where or when I had heard it.
Years ago,
I thought. Struggling to recall the person, I momentarily forgot my fear.

The vibrations stopped, and I stood up. I was surrounded by darkness. In the distance an orange light shone. As I moved toward it, I heard a confusion of voices, people
talking and laughing. The orange light flickered, and I heard crackling sounds. I could smell now—acrid smoke. I was at a fire.

An object whistled close to my ears and exploded, glass against metal. A siren wailed. I heard feet—heard, rather than saw clearly, people running, panicking. I panicked too. I didn’t know who these people were or which way to turn, but instinct told me to get away from there. Then I heard someone else calling my name, a man this time. My uncle was calling to me from the fire.

Anna, be careful.

There were more sirens, the wailing growing closer.

Anna, be careful.

Uncle Will?
I answered, moving in the direction of his voice.

The fire surrounded me. I could see the flames like clothing on me, yet I felt no pain, no burning. I reached out my hand, then pulled it back in horror. I had seen through it. I slowly put out my left hand, then my right: They were transparent. Was I dead? Was it possible to die and not know it?

Help!
I called out.
Help! Uncle Will! I want to go home.

I was plucked out of the ghostly fire, reeled in like a fish. Opening my eyes, I found myself in bed at home. The two beds next to mine were empty.

“Grace? Claire?”

Silence.

Then I saw my suitcase and remembered: The twins, Jack, and Mom had left early that morning. I was alone. Next to my suitcase was a plastic bag filled with summer clothes, enough for two months away. I had been dreaming—
obviously
—and yet I would have sworn that I had actually heard Uncle Will’s voice. A letter from him lay on top of my suitcase.

I knew the letter by heart, but I climbed out of bed and carried it to the window, pushing back the curtain, unfolding the paper to read by the orange light of a streetlamp.

My uncle’s invitation had come as a surprise. Eighteen years ago, he and his sister, Iris, both single, had taken in my birth mother, who was pregnant with me. Joanna died in a violent robbery when I was three, and I continued to live with my great-aunt and great-uncle for two more years, before I was adopted by Kathryn, the only person I think of as “Mom.”

Since then, Great-Uncle Will had stayed in touch with me by traveling to Baltimore once a year. He didn’t like cities, but liked communicating by telephone and computer even less. I loved him and he loved me; still our conversations were awkward.

I never heard from Great-Aunt Iris. When I was older it was explained to me that she was not the most stable person in the world—apparently she heard voices and claimed to be psychic. Until now I had never been asked back to the O’Neill home on Maryland’s Eastrn Shore—perhaps to protect me from bad memories of my birth mother’s death.

The truth was, I remembered Joanna only through her photos.
My
family was Jack, age seven; Grace and Claire, six; and our dog, Rose—all of us adopted by Mom, living in a skinny brick town house.

There were lots of days I had dreamed of escaping our crowded home; now, having achieved a college scholarship that
would allow me to do that, I was getting sentimental over sticky hugs, dog hair, even the sharp little Barbie shoes and Matchbox cars left in my bed. I wanted to spend the summer with my family, but I felt I owed it to Uncle Will, and maybe to Aunt Iris, to visit.

Besides, I was curious. With my brain crammed full of chemistry and calculus, world history and lit, maybe it was time to learn something never asked on the SATs: who I was.

THREE DAYS LATER
I drove the highway and then country routes with my windows up, AC blasting, and radio blaring, hoping to drown out the roar of a muffler going bad. In my junior year I had bought what I could afford: a ten-year-old Taurus, an old-man kind of car. Once maroon, now faded grape, it was covered with decals from two previous owners, guys with a taste for hard rock. Since the car couldn’t look any worse, I had allowed the twins and Jack to add their own stickers, meaning I traveled with SpongeBob, Batman, Rapunzel Barbie, and Sleeping Beauty. Otherwise, it was a car that any girl would be proud to drive.

Uncle Will had mailed directions to the O’Neill home, which was on the other side of the crek from the town of Wisteria. Missing the driveway on my first pass, I crossed Oyster Creek two more times, then yanked the steering wheel to the right when I saw what looked like “first driveway from
the bridge.” I was surprised at how nicely Uncle Will kept the entrance, then I came to the cars lining the landscaped driveway and knew I had to be in the wrong place. I cruised up to a manse. Pausing for a moment to gawk at it, I spotted a girl and a guy at the edge of its neat cobblestone circle. They could have been on a poster for a summer blockbuster: hot girl in gorgeous guy’s arms, their faces close together and turned toward the camera, her face streaked with tears. Like an actress using glycerin drops, this girl looked amazing in her distress. We stared at one another for what seemed like a full minute.

My passenger-side window didn’t work, so I leaned across the seats to push open the door. At the same time the guy circled behind the car, studying the decals and bumper stickers. Having given the kids permission to decorate, I could hardly ban my mother from displaying her political beliefs:
OBAMA FOR PRESIDENT, NO TO THE DEATH PENALTY, SAVE THE ORANGUTANS
. . . .

The blockbuster girl dried her tears with her long dark hair (a dramatic move, but, unfortunately, he missed it) and joined the guy at my window. I turned off the car so we could hear one another.

“Well,” said the girl, “
whose
car did you borrow?”

“It’s mine.”

The guy smiled a little. “Are you lost?”

“Looks that way.”

“Where are you trying to go?”

“The O’Neill house.”

The girl’s eyes widened, and she exchanged a glance with the guy.

He said, “Of course. I should have guessed. You’ve got the red hair.”

“Chestnut,” I replied a little too quickly.

Smiling, he studied it, not arguing, just looking. “And what color do you call your eyes?” His were a stormy blue with dark lashes—incredible eyes, and I figured he knew it. I also figured he knew the attention he was giving me would irk his girlfriend.

“Hazel, obviously.”

“Obviously.” He laughed.

“Can you give me directions?”

“It’s just next door,” he said. “At the top of our driveway, go left. The entrance to their property is halfway between here and the bridge, but it’s hard to find—overgrown, with no number or mailbox. When you do find it, go real slowly. Their driveway is mostly ruts and shells.”

“Yes, be careful,” the girl said. “You wouldn’t want to damage that car.”

“Thanks,” I replied, looking at the guy, not her, then starting up the car, its roar ending the possibility of further conversation.

He must have watched my car as I drove the cobblestone circle, for he suddenly ran out in front of me, waving his arms. I wasn’t turning off the car again—if he wanted to talk to me, he would have to shout.

“Do you know you’re dragging your muffler?”

“Sure sounds like it,” I hollered back, and drove on, not that I didn’t appreciate his thoughtfulness in telling me, but I saw no point in stopping for a closer look. His clothes were casual chic, laid-back rich-kid clothes, and I was pretty sure he wasn’t going to crawl under and take care of it. I could drag it another quarter mile or so.

Back on Scarborough Road, I found what looked like a pull-off rather than a driveway and, after a moment of indecision, left my car there, not wanting to lose a wheel as well as a muffler. The entrance to the rest of the driveway was hidden by a sharp turn and overgrown shrubs. Scrub pine, high grass, and weeds cooked in the late-afternoon heat. About thirty feet beyond was the dense green of trees, and somewhere beyond their leafy darkness lay a house I vaguely remembered. As I walked, the stillness of the Sunday afternoon was eroded by the sound of insects swarming up from the tall grasses. The
moment I entered the trees, the air changed, its temperature dropping, its dampness coating my skin.