There's Something Out There (8 page)

Jenna scrunched down under the covers and turned the page.

June 1, 1767

We have arrived at our new home! My eyes filled with tears of joy today as Papa planted the flag and announced in a most solemn voice: “I hereby proclaim these lands incorporated as the Town of Lewisville, and by the blessing of God may we prosper here as is only fitting for a people dedicated to hard work and
the Holy Word as it is writ in the Bible.” But I must be honest in this diary, if nowhere else, and confess that my tears were also for Mother and James and Mary and little Teddy. Never did I dream that they would not be standing with us on this day, and though Papa never speaks of them, never, I could tell he felt their absence as keenly as I did. When we first set out for

Jenna started flipping the pages. Not that she wasn't
interested
in the earliest days of Lewisville's founding … but a pressing sense of urgency forced her to skip ahead. In the middle of the diary, she came to several blank pages, and her heart sank.

Had Imogen stopped writing in her diary before the attack?

Some force compelled Jenna to keep turning the blank pages, and then, nearly three-quarters of the way through the journal, she found another entry, written in a shaky, unstable script.

August 30, 1767

With good reason I have abandoned my diary for more than a fortnight now, and I have left the
preceding pages blank so that I might, at some later date, record all that has happened in greater detail. For now, an abbreviated account must suffice. It pains me to commit these words to paper. I am unwell and advised not to exert myself. But if I do not write it, who will understand what has happened, when Papa has forbidden me to speak of it?

I erred grievously when I set off to pick wild blackberries in the woods. I thought I would make a pudding for Papa, as a surprise, but I should never have gone into the woods. I was warned. We all were. I should never have gone!

My ramblings took me off the path, through the thicket, and I was so preoccupied by the plump sweet berries that I—stupid!—did not realize how close I was to the forbidden Square, and I was not even quiet, but hummed to myself, and surely alerted the creature to my presence. I must have lost all track of the hour as I suddenly realized it was later than I expected, and night was fast approaching.

I heard the scratching first, and stopped, fearing a bear.

I wish it had just been a bear, for well-fed bears
are fat and lazy by the time the hottest days of August arrive, sated on all the bounty of the forest. A bear would not have troubled me so.

A chill of fear gripped my body and I stopped my humming, gathered my shawl around my shoulders, and made haste to return to the settlement. I know now that my fate was already sealed, and at that moment the creature was already watching me from the shadows.

The blow was so swift and so unexpected that I was knocked quite senseless and found myself sprawled on my back, most undignified, staring up through the gloomy pines at a darkening sky. My head was bleeding; I could feel the hot, sticky blood oozing over my left eye. Oh, WHY had I strayed from the path?

Then it appeared over me, the Beast, and so frightful that I cannot bear to write of it. It lifted one of its stumpy arms so that the claw, oh, the fearsome claws, glinted in the moonlight, sharp like knives, and one of them cut through my leg with such searing pain that I could not even cry out. I knew then that it would kill me and eat me.

I knew then that all hope was lost.

But I was wrong, thank God in Heaven, for the creature just sat back and stared at me as I writhed in pain. It lowered its horrible face and drank of the blood flowing from my wound. Then it stared into my eyes. Its own eyes glittered with a level of intelligence that I had never before seen in a beast.

To my surprise, it rose on its back legs and let out such a horrifying sound—a cry or a shriek or a growl or some combination of the three—that my heart nearly stopped from fear. Then it lumbered deeper into the woods, leaving me alone in the clearing.

Of course I tried to crawl back to the path, but I was too weak, and the pain in my leg was so great that I was sick, and I lay in the dirt and waited to die.

Some many hours later, when the August sun was beating down on me at the height of its brutality, I heard dear Papa's voice calling my name, and somehow found the strength to call back to him, and then his strong arms wrapped me up and lifted me into the air, and I must have passed out from the pain again, for when I awoke I was in my bed, safe,
and Mrs. Smythe was pressing a damp cloth to my fevered face.

I am too weak and tired to write more tonight.

September 19, 1767

I am not myself.

The wound festers despite the many poultices that Mrs. Smythe brings me each morning. I have packed it with a hot mash of mustard and chamomile and garlic—how it burns!—and still the wound does not cease throbbing, red streaks like fire racing down my leg. Papa doesn't say it, but I can see it in his eyes: He fears I shall lose my leg.

October 13, 1767

Papa does not know that I heard his argument with Chief Onongahkan tonight. Oh, I am gripped with fear. The chief said that I have been Marked! Marked for Death! That the wound will never heal. That my blood thickens with a poison secreted from the Monster's mouth. That the Monster hunts for months in silent stealth and will draw me to it, and if I resist its pull, it will come find me and
kill any who try to stand in its way.

Papa was so angry, but I could still hear the fear in his voice as he ordered the chief to leave us and never return. Oh, what shall I do?

What shall I do?

November 1, 1767

It waits for me.

I can hear it scratching, the scratching, the scratching. The scratching that never stops.

It calls for me in the darkest parts of the night when even the moon turns away from me, knowing that I cannot be saved. That I am not worth saving.

Oh, the Monster, out there in the night, waiting.

Its hunger grows, but it will wait. It will wait for me.

Oh God, can no one stop it?

Oh God, can no one save me?

November 9, 1767

This is no mere dream. This is no fevered hallucination. The creature calls me to him. The joy
of the kill is prolonged in this way: that I know how I will die, and how it will hurt, and where it will happen, but not when.

What choice do I have in this matter? It knows where to find me. The stink of my rotting leg will guide it to me. There is nowhere for me to hide. There is no escape for me. My fate was sealed the moment I strayed from the path. I am

Jenna's heart thudded in her chest as she turned the page, but the entry ended abruptly. After that, Imogen's diary chronicled a descent into madness—undated fragments of writing so shaky that they were hard to read. Jenna pieced together phrases:

I want my mother.

Papa, I am sorry. Please forgive me.

I can be a Monster, I can cut. I am the poison in the wound.

I bleed. I never stop bleeding. What can soak up so much blood?

It draws me forth.

It is time.

Tonight.

It is better not to say good-bye.

I am choked with sobs and such bitter terror, yet already I feel freer knowing that the end is near.

It will all be over soon.

And that was all. Imogen hadn't written another word.

Jenna's hands were shaking as she closed the diary and put it on her bedside table. Then she changed her mind and carried it over to the bottom drawer of her dresser. She hid it there, where she usually stashed top secret notes from her friends, right next to the claw she'd found in the woods.

She crawled back into bed but knew it would be a long time before she'd fall asleep. She had so many questions. Why had the diary been hidden and locked away in the desk? What had happened to Imogen? Did the Marked Monster really mark her? Was her wound filled with a poison that made her go insane?

And the biggest question of all—what had really
happened to Imogen Lewis on the night she disappeared? Did the monster come for her, ripping the door off its hinges?

Or had Imogen, of her own free will, gone to it, and sacrificed herself to the monster's appetite?

Or had Imogen just gone crazy?

Jenna wasn't sure which was worse—asking those questions or knowing that they could never be answered. Yet as scared as she was, at some point she fell into a fitful sleep, filled with the kind of dreams that evaporate the moment you wake up.

She blinked in the darkness.
Why
was she awake?

Of course. Her arm. She must have rolled over onto it while she slept, and now it was throbbing painfully.

Jenna stumbled into the bathroom and rolled up her sleeve. She made a face of disgust when she saw the cut.

It was
much
worse, with a thin sheen of pus glistening over it.
Seriously, seriously, seriously gross
, Jenna thought as she rummaged through the medicine cabinet. When she poured hydrogen peroxide over the cut, it frothed and foamed. She grimaced in pain as she dabbed at it with a wad of toilet paper. Then she squirted half a tube of antibiotic ointment over the wound and covered it with
a sterile bandage.
That ought to take care of it
, Jenna tried to reassure herself. The last thing she wanted to do was worry her parents. She was sure the cut would go away on its own, and her mother, the doctor was known to overreact.

But secretly, she wasn't so sure. Hadn't Imogen's diary chronicled the same thing—a wound from the Marked Monster that had not healed?

Well
, Jenna told herself grimly,
I'll just have to wait and see. I'm sure it will get better with all that cream and stuff I put on it. I mean, it's got to be better than that frontier medicine Imogen had. Garlic in a cut? That's crazy
.

She went back into her bedroom, completely unprepared for what she saw in her bed.

The tip of a claw, peeking out from under her pillow.

In the weak light coming from the hallway, the talon glinted ominously; winked, almost. Jenna immediately shut the door and turned on all the lights in her room. She had to be absolutely certain that she wasn't still asleep.

Wasn't still dreaming.

With a trembling hand, she reached out and forced herself to touch the claw. It was all too real, heavy and cold in her hand. She squeezed it, hard, trying to calm herself down.

There is a reasonable explanation for this
, Jenna told herself, only a little surprised by how still she could sit when every muscle of her body was rigid with tension.
There is a reasonable explanation for why this claw is in my bed
.

Now all she had to do was figure out what it was.

Obviously the Marked Monster is not in my house
, Jenna thought, starting with a statement of such undeniable fact that she was sure it would help her feel calmer.
Obviously that would be impossible. Obviously my entire family would wake up if there was a ten-foot monster stomping through my house, leaving its claw under my pillow
.

Still, just to make sure, she checked the bottom drawer of her dresser, and was immensely relieved to find Imogen's diary still there, but no claw. So the one in her hands was the same one she had found in the woods.

Jason
, Jenna thought suddenly.
Maybe he—while I was in the bathroom—

As swift and silent as a cat, she crept back into the hallway and paused right outside the door to her brother's bedroom. She held her breath as she creaked it open, half expecting Jason to jump out at her and scare her half to death. It wouldn't be the first time.

Her heart sank when she saw Jason sleeping peacefully in his bed. His chest rose and fell, rose and fell, keeping time with his deep, even breathing.

So it wasn't Jason
, Jenna was forced to admit.
Jason isn't pranking me
.

That left one option.

I was sleepwalking
, she thought.
Just sleepwalking, and whatever I was dreaming—or maybe from reading Imogen's diary—I got out of bed and got the claw. That's all
.

But the simplest, most practical explanation didn't make her feel any better. If anything, it made her feel worse.
What's wrong with me?
she wondered as she returned to her bedroom.
What's
wrong
with me? Why would I get up in the middle of the night and bring the claw into my bed?