by C J M Naylor
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Within Darkness
Within Darkness
C.J.M. NAYLOR
Copyright © 2019 by C.J.M. Naylor
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.
C.J.M. Naylor
[email protected]
Cover Design by Alexander von Ness
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
To Grandpa Roger.
Together again with Paula.
CHAPTER ONE
I repeated after the priest.
"I, Abigail Lu Jordan, take thee, Phillip Michael Hughes, as my lawful husband. To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.”
Phillip looked into my eyes. His were radiant, excited. This was the day we had long been planning for. This was the day we would start the rest of our lives. Together, with our families, at St. Patrick’s Cathedral.
The priest spoke. “I join you together in marriage, in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
The priest then did the blessing of the rings, and Phillip took mine. As he placed it on my finger, he said, “With this ring, I thee wed; this gold and silver I thee give; with my body I thee worship; and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”
But then Phillip withdrew the ring.
“But you let me die,” he said. “You killed me, Abigail.”
“You let us all die.”
I turned and saw my parents before me. They were wearing the same clothes from the day they had died. And as I looked at Phillip now, I realized he was wearing the same clothes too.
“Like you said,” Phillip said, leaning in to whisper into my ear, “till death do us part. The problem is it already has.”
“No,” I said softly.
“You are a killer,” a voice whispered in my ear.
I turned and saw Bessie’s decaying body next to me. Her head was cocked to the side, surveying me in a vulnerable state.
And then there was darkness.
August 1944 - Six Months Later
My screams filled the entire room. I was flinging around in my bed sheets. I felt like I was drowning in them. The room was dark. I couldn’t see.
“Abigail!”
I heard Bridget, but I couldn’t see her. Where was she? I continued to fling my arms in desperation. I had let Phillip die. I had let my parents die. I had let them all die.
Arms entangled me, but I continued to flail.
“Calm down,” Bridget spoke. “Abby, calm down.”
Her voice did the trick, as it had for months now. I began to cry. The tears came quickly, and I let myself fall into Bridget’s arms, and she comforted me.
“Shhh,” she spoke. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
That only made me cry harder. It reminded me of Phillip. The way he would speak to me, the way he would hold me when something wasn’t right. Why did he have to die? Why did I let him die?
Bridget laid me back on the bed after the tears had subsided. Slowly, I fell back to sleep.
The next morning, I sat out on our balcony of the Chambord Building, drinking the morning tea Ian had made for me after my rough night. The city of San Francisco was awake and lively. I could hear the everyday city traffic, the bell of the cable cars, and the voices of on-foot travelers. Bridget had already left for her classes that day, and Ian had gone to the American Headquarters. Bridget and I transferred to the University of San Francisco when we moved here six months ago. Along with my educational studies, I was supposed to be studying with the American Timekeeper. When Councilor Headrick come here with me, to help Bridget and I settle in, I told her I didn’t want to see the American Timekeeper. She had become angered by the situation, but she didn’t force me. She told me to contact her when I was ready. I wouldn’t be ready. I also have not been going to class. I dropped out shortly after we had arrived and haven’t left my apartment since. Needless to say, Bridget is concerned for me. But I think I’m fine.
I had no intentions of meeting the American Timekeeper. I wanted nothing to do with that life. As the boat that brought us to America had crossed over the ocean, the long ride brought my true feelings to the forefront. I decided I would ignore the premonitions—I wouldn’t encourage the voices as I had done my whole life. I would let them fall into my subconscious. The fact that I descended from an original Timekeeper made no difference to me. I wouldn’t indulge in the premonitions any longer. And I found that the more I continued to ignore them, the more they left me alone. But they had ways of getting through to me.
Dreams. The dreams I could not control. I had freedom for the first two months we had settled in. I was enjoying my classes. Now and then, Bridget and I would go out for a night on the town. I liked San Francisco, I did. It brought me peace that I had not known in London, in the war. There was no fear of waking up in the middle of the night to an air raid. There weren’t signs plastered everywhere to wear your gas mask. Sure, things were rationed here too, and people still talked about the war, but it felt safe. I missed London, but I felt safe.
Until the dreams started.
Two months after we arrived, I experienced a painful re-imagining in my dream of the night Phillip died. At first, it was just a repeat of the events that had happened to me. It was me, having the premonition. Me, running to save him. Me, realizing I could not. But then, it was me watching him in the library. Me, watching the library collapse around him. It was that, over and over and over again. It frightened me. It caused me to wake up screaming. It caused Bridget to run into my room and wonder what was going on. She was used to it now, though. It had become an almost nightly ritual. Was this my punishment for trying to live a normal life? I knew it was because I was grieving, but every night? There was already the daytime, where thoughts of Phillip and my parents would plague my mind. But at night? Dreams were supposed to be peaceful. Welcoming. Not horrific.
The dream that I had had last night was a new dream altogether. It was the first time I had dreamed about Bessie in months. But then, seeing Phillip. Seeing him asking why I let him die. That had not happened before. I know Phillip wouldn’t have said that in reality, if he were still here. I knew he would never say that, not even think it. I realized that my subconscious must blame me for Phillip’s death. I had to forgive myself. But I was afraid to. I wanted Phillip in my life—I needed him. But I couldn’t have him. He was dead. I needed my mother and father—my mother who would talk to me about these things—my father who would comfort me and call
me his Abigail Lu. Even Mrs. Baxter, who would say something comical and make it all better. But they were gone. They were all gone. It was just Bridget, Ian, and I. We had each other. For now, that was enough. But I worried about what would come.
I rested my head against the back of the chair and closed my eyes. I let the sounds of the city speak to me.
Killer.
My eyes flashed open, and it felt like ice went through my body. I turned my head back toward the open doorway to the living room. The room beyond was dark. It was a voice in my head. It had to be. But why did it sound like it had come from in there? I set the cup of tea I had been drinking down and stood up. My mind was playing tricks on me. That was all.
The darkness of the living room engulfed me as I entered it. I reached over for the light switch and flicked it. Nothing happened. Why was it so dark in here? Why was the power off? The light emanating into the room from the balcony stopped just a few feet from the door. Bridget had all the windows closed and shaded. I made my way to the kitchen to open up a window when I heard it again.
Killer.
The voice sent shivers down my spine. It was not a voice I had heard before. The voice was a voice that I would prefer not to hear. It sounded dark, sinister, and cold. This time it had come from my bedroom. Was it in my head? Or was there someone in my apartment?
I opened the drawer where we kept our cutlery and took out a long kitchen knife. The knife began to shake, and I realized how nervous my body was. Quietly, I made my way into my bedroom. Once again, darkness. I reached over and flipped the switch. Once again, nothing.
Killer.
The voice came from my bathroom this time. I made my way through the doorway and reached over to flip the switch. It still didn’t work. The bathroom door slammed shut. I dropped the knife in fear and turned the knob on the door. It was locked. I unlocked the door and turned the knob. It was still locked.
Abigail.
The voice was right behind me. The temperature in the bathroom began to drop. I turned around slowly. Bessie appeared in the mirror above the sink. Her skin was half peeling from her body. She was smiling at me—a horribly evil smile. She then began to climb out of the mirror and with her came water. Water poured forth from the mirror. It was the water from the River Thames.
You killed me, Abigail, she said. You let me go. You could have saved me.
Everything suddenly stopped and I was myself again. I was standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, simply looking at my reflection. But while Bessie was not in the mirror, preparing to climb out toward me, there was a note taped to it.
Killer.
It was written in my handwriting.
CHAPTER TWO
Bridget and I were sitting on her bed. She held the note in her hand, as she had while she listened to my story that afternoon.
“I think we should go see someone,” Bridget said softly.
“No.”
She gave me the look.
“Bridget, I’m not going to see anyone. I am perfectly capable of diagnosing myself. My parents died. My fiancé died. I let Bessie go. My subconscious blames me for Phillip’s death. Naturally, I’m sleepwalking and left a note for myself.”
Bridget still gave me the look.
“Abby,” she said, “I’m not saying we don’t know what the problem is. But there are people who can help make these dreams go away. It’s not getting better if you are starting to sleepwalk.”
“I know,” I said, bowing my head. “I’m afraid though. It isn’t something I’m interested in.”
“Needing help,” Bridget responded, “doesn’t mean you are insane. It just means you’re lost and you need a guide. But it doesn’t have to be a doctor that you go and see.”
I looked up at her.
“Then who?”
“Who do you think?” Bridget asked. “The Timekeepers. I think you should send a letter to your father and maybe consider going to see the American Timekeeper, for once. Did your father leave you an address to write to?”
I nodded. He had given it to me just before the funeral—a place where he would go and receive any written communication between him and me. I felt guilty for not writing him. I had sent him something when we had arrived, but that had been it. I supposed it had all been part of my means to escape the Timekeeping world, leaving him behind too. And I knew he didn’t deserve that. Oddly enough though, he never responded.
A knock sounded at the door to Bridget’s bedroom.
“That’s Ian!”
“Why doesn’t he just come in?” I asked. “He does live here.”
“Because he’s a gentleman,” Bridget responded. “He was waiting for me to get dressed, of course.”
Bridget jumped up and flattened the end of the white dress she was wearing. I had almost forgotten about Ian; I could talk to him about these things too. But he and Bridget were going out tonight, so it would have to wait. The two of them had recently begun dating. I had been thrilled when Bridget told me. She needed someone like that in her life, but she hadn’t seemed particularly excited about it.
“Come in,” Bridget announced.
The door of the bedroom opened with a little squeak, and Ian stepped in. He wore a gray button-down shirt and tie, with black slacks. He looked quite handsome indeed; dressed up and ready to take Bridget out.
“Abigail.”
I had been staring out the window of my bedroom, but I turned my gaze toward Ian’s voice.
“Hello, Ian,” I said softly.
Ian smiled and took Bridget’s hand.
“I made you a cup of tea,” he said. “It’s on the kitchen table.”
I smiled at that. He was always thinking of me. “Thank you.”
The two of them said goodnight and left the apartment, talking about where they were going. I stood there, watching them go, letting the silence envelop me.
Dear Mathias.
My eyes pored over the empty piece of paper; the tip of my pen touched the page but no words came. What could I possibly say to him after so much time had passed? Should I tell him about the dreams and the sleepwalking? I put the pen down and placed my head in my hands. Why couldn’t I come up with something to say for a simple letter to my father? I picked up the pen and stopped again. I had to be careful about what I would say because of the postal censorship in the States. In the years before the war, someone talking about Timekeeping in a letter may have simply been referred to as crazy, but now they might think me an enemy of the United States. I decided to refer to Timekeeping as “family studies” and the American Timekeeper as our “American cousin.”
Dear Mathias,
I have been having some nightmares lately. I keep seeing Phillip’s death repeated over and over again. I can’t keep it out of my thoughts during the day either. The thoughts consume me—it is terrible. Please help me.
I stared at what I had written, but I realized I could not send that to him. The last thing I wanted to do was worry him or make him feel as if I needed him then and there. I took a sip of the tea Ian had made for me, and then, without thinking any more of it, crumpled the paper and picked up a clean sheet.
Dear Mathias,
How have you been? Everything is going well in San Francisco. I have still been undecided about whether to continue my family history studies and have yet to meet with our American cousin. I understand that this is frustrating for you, but well, you’ll just have to endure it.
But I want to know about you. How have you been? Are you going out? I hope that you find the courage to leave the family estate and venture out into London. There is so much life that can be sought in the city and staying cooped up in the estate will do nothing good for you. Now that you have me in your life, however far away I am, I hope that you know you have someone. You are not alone anymore.
Please write to me and tell me how you are doing. I am eager to hear from you. I wrote to you once before, when we arrived, but never received a response. Perhaps my letter was lost in the mail
? It wouldn’t be surprising given the state of things.
I hesitated before I decided to lie. I didn’t want to sound depressed and alone by saying I had dropped out of university.
I have been busy taking classes at the University of San Francisco, as well as tending to the apartment with Bridget. I hope to hear from you soon.
Truly,
Abby
Lying is a sin.
My entire body froze. The voice, it was Bessie’s voice. Slowly, I turned around, my heart pounding against my chest. But there was no one there. I was alone. Was I losing my mind this time?
I turned back to the letter and quickly folded it up and placed it inside an envelope. The letter would have to do. Sure, I fibbed a little bit, but I couldn’t make him worry. He was finally getting back to enjoying life, at least I hoped. It was more than I could say for myself.
I left the letter for Ian to mail out when he went to the Headquarters, because of the fact that I did not go outside anymore, except for the balcony, ever. If there was a fire, I guess I would die, because I was no longer a part of the world outside these walls or the world of Timekeeping.
CHAPTER THREE
What happened yesterday had not left my thoughts. It was consuming me. I wondered if it was possible to be haunted by ghosts, if they even existed. I laughed at myself—of course, it was possible. Look at the world I had found myself in.
I looked at my reflection in the mirror across from my bed, where I was lying. It’s my favorite place. My hair was down around my shoulders, but it stuck up in various places. There were dark patches under my eyes. It was hard to sleep, when as soon as I did, I were awarded with nightmares. It was also evident I had lost weight. I hadn’t been eating as much—my appetite never having been quite the same since Phillip died.
This was the girl I had become: a lifeless corpse that continued living. It was as if I was numb in the weeks after my parent’s deaths. But Phillip’s death was the icing on the cake. Was this what war did to a person? Was this how every other person who had lost someone in the war felt? Would it have been better if my parents and Phillip had died naturally, and not tragically?