“I shouldn’t have waited so long to do this,” Dougie told me, and then, before I could form any sort of reply, he was kissing me. Mouth hot on mine, hands on my waist, sliding up my arms, cupping my jaw.
Kissing me.
His lips were soft, his tongue probing. Everywhere there was heat. The air around me seemed to shimmer with it.
My brain was screaming at me that this was wrong. Our friends were missing. Something was lurking in the dark, something evil. But I needed to kiss Dougie like I needed to breathe.
It was the stress. It was the tension. I needed something to release the pressure. We both did.
Several long moments later, Dougie pulled back, his hands still soft on either side of my face, and said something. I saw his mouth move, but couldn’t hear the words.
“What?” I asked. Then realized he wouldn’t have heard me, either. Not over the wind.
The wind.
“Dougie! It’s coming!” I glanced down at the fire. It was low again, the flames not even climbing their way out of the shallow pit we’d built to hold them. “Quick, we’ve got to build the fire up!”
Dougie was slow to react. He blinked, his expression cloudy, and I noticed his features were waxy, his eyes sunken. I hadn’t noticed, but the fever was beginning to grip him once more. Lack of sleep, lack of food, stress; it was taking over his body again.
He let go of me though, and weaving only slightly, bent to the pile of burnable objects we’d grabbed from the tent. There wasn’t much left, just a couple of pairs of rolled-up socks.
“That’s it,” he said, dropping them into the fire. They didn’t catch at once. Mindful of the ever-growing breeze, I squeezed some of the lighter fluid in the heart of the fire. That worked a little. Looking up at Dougie, I could clearly see his face. The mouth I’d been kissing just a minute ago.
I didn’t have time to linger on it though, because behind Dougie, something was descending through the sky faster than a swooping crow. A black mass, half-hidden by the camouflaging clouds. The creature. The stinging wind whipped at my eyes as they widened in terror. How fast was it moving? A hundred miles an hour? Two hundred? Faster than I could follow it.
Much, much faster than we could move.
Dougie’s mouth pursed as he read my face, but he didn’t have time to form the question on his lips. Before my eyes, large talons dug into his shoulders and hooked tight. I saw it in his face: pain, shock, and fear.
“No, no, no!” I would not lose Dougie. I wrapped my arms around his neck, clinging fiercely. His hands clutched my waist, fingers digging painfully into my hips. Something was scratching and pulling at my face and hair, but I twisted my head away, hiding in Dougie’s shoulder. I tightened my grip, grabbing handfuls of his T-shirt. I would not let go.
I would not lose him like I had Emma.
I felt the upward pressure as we were lifted. My feet kicked for the ground but found nothing. The only thing supporting me was air. That, and my grip on Dougie. My arms were so tight around his neck, I knew I must be choking him.
“Heather!” he shouted, right in my ear.
I couldn’t answer him. All of my concentration was focused on hanging on. I was so heavy; gravity seemed to be magnified by a million, calling me back to the ground. With every foot we lifted higher, it was harder and harder to keep my grip.
But I would not let go.
That thought flashed in my brain at the exact second the wraith took a firm hold of my hair and hauled backward with enough strength to snap my neck. I couldn’t help it. My brain, seeking to save my life, took control of my muscles and loosened my fingers one by one.
I fell to the ground even as I fought the urge, reaching again for Dougie. Too late, my hands closed on empty air.
I landed on my feet. The impact forced me to drop into a crouch, hands sinking into the sand. I looked up, poised like a cat, and saw Dougie’s flailing legs disappearing upward. Up and away as the creature hauled him out toward the sea.
No. No, no, no!
What should I do? I searched around frantically. Every second, Dougie was being pulled farther away. Leaving me here alone. My chest constricted with fear.
“What do you want?” I screamed at the sky.
What could it want? What could it possibly want? Sacrifice? Our lives taken to slake its thirst? Offerings to an evil spirit? Offerings. That’s what I had. An offering. Cursing my own stupidity, I dug into my pockets. My hand was shaking so badly that I struggled to grasp what I was after, but finally I pulled it out.
“Here!” I screamed, brandishing the brooch. “Here! Is this what you want? Come and get it! Come and get it!”
It worked. The creature howled, and Dougie’s body dropped. There was a sickening crunch as he crumpled onto the rocks nearby, missing the relative softness of the sand by my feet. He lay unmoving, half in, half out of the water.
There wasn’t time to go to him, to check if he was okay. My heroic action had done what I hoped: it had saved Dougie. It had also put the spotlight firmly on me.
I tripped backward, unable to tear my eyes away from the creature as it swooped toward me. The brooch was still clutched in my hand, half raised, clearly visible. I snatched it away, hiding it behind my back. I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t know how to destroy the brooch, or if that would help. The only thing I could think of was to get rid of it.
Taking one panicked breath, I turned and began to run. I bolted past the glowing embers of the fire, expecting every second to feel claws hook into my back and wrench me skyward. Air rushed around me as the winds that announced the coming of the creature whipped up in warning. My eyes hunted through the darkness, looking for a weapon, an escape route. I found neither.
The wind was picking up. The back of my neck prickled as though it sensed the presence of danger. Too terrified to think clearly, I did the only thing left to me: I hurled the brooch away with all the strength I could muster. Though it was pitch-black, the dark even more suffocating than usual, the brooch seemed to glow, emitting its own light. I watched it arc away from me, then drop back toward the ground. My throw was pitiful; I hadn’t even cleared the sand. Instead, the spinning disk flew neatly in through the semicircular doorway to Dougie’s tent. I lost sight of it as it nestled among the sleeping bags. Now what? The brooch was still here, still far too close.
But so far away that I couldn’t retrieve it. If I went into that tent, I wouldn’t come back out. Not with the creature so close behind. I stared helplessly ahead of myself, hoping desperately that the brooch would magically reappear, fly far away, and take the creature with it.
Though my eyes were fixed, my feet kept running. I didn’t see the hole, the hole I’d dug with my own foot, sitting waiting by the fire. My ankle twisted awkwardly beneath me, and my leg buckled under my weight. I fell, landing on the sand with a thud.
My heart stopped. I took one quick breath, hunched my shoulders, closed my eyes. Waited for it.
The whispering screeches of the wraith grew nearer, so close it seemed they were hissing in my left ear. But they passed me by. A shadow blocked out the light of the world for a heartbeat and then continued on. Toward the tent. Toward the brooch.
I didn’t pause to wonder. I threw myself to my feet, using the chair to scramble my way up. The soft wool of Dougie’s sweater still covered the arm of the chair, and it came away in my hand. I stared at it, stared at the fire. At the lighter fluid sitting neatly beside. Click, click, click. A plan formed in my brain.
Swinging my arm, I slapped the garment into the fire, clinging to it by the sleeve. There wasn’t much heat left, but I snatched up the lighter fluid and squirted it wildly. It landed on the beach, my clothes, my hand, but enough sputtered onto the smoldering ashes, and the sweater quickly caught fire.
“Yes!”
I turned and bolted for the tent. The wind was even stronger, send
ing blizzards of sand up into my face, blinding me. I ran on, trailing the burning bundle of cloth behind me. In one smooth movement, I zipped up the tent flap, sloshing the rest of the lighter fluid over the rain fly.
I had no idea if the creature was inside. Couldn’t see it; couldn’t hear it. But the brooch was, and I had to hope that meant the monster would be somewhere nearby. I swung the sweater around, slapped the flaming end against the side of the tent.
As soon as the burning embers touched the shining fabric, flames erupted out of nowhere. The blaze was blinding, engulfing the tent, reaching up into the sky like a dozen writhing snakes. An agonized hissing rose above the roar of the fire. The sound escalated to a snarl, then a scream. It peaked in waves, deafening me. It sounded like dying.
The creature.
Good. Die. That was what I wanted.
I stepped back, away from the sound, away from the intense heat prickling at my skin. The noise diminished as I put one yard, then another, between me and the fire. But not the warmth. If anything, it grew worse. My face was hot, but the source of the heat was lower, spreading across my abdomen. Burning, blistering. Excruciating.
I was on fire. My sweater, where I’d spilled just a few drops of the lighter fluid, was wreathed in flames. The brilliant light of the tent had dimmed the smaller fire, but I was aware of it now. Shrieking and dancing on the spot, I beat at it with my hand. The flames fought back, forcing me to slap at my scorched clothes again and again. Each second that passed, I could feel the heat cooking my flesh. A nauseating smell wafted up, burning plastic from the nylon in my clothes mixed with something almost like food. Me. I gagged, pounding my stomach harder with my bare hand.
Finally I won. The ragged material hung smoking, gaping holes revealing my T-shirt underneath. It was blackened too, but I ignored that. My every attention was focused on my hand. Or what was supposed to be my hand. I lifted it up, illuminating it in the glare of the raging fire still surrounding the tent. In silhouette, it was skeletal. Skin and muscle had been scorched away, revealing raw sinew and bloody bones. My arm shook as I tried to flex my fingers. I could feel nothing. Nothing but agony. Scalding, burning agony. It ran up my arm, straight to the center of my brain where it pulsed like a siren. My vision shimmered, blurred to black at the edges. Then my whole body went into shutdown.
Twenty-Three
Now
I’m crying. There’s no way to hide it, and I don’t even try. Let Dr. Petersen see. Let Dr. Petersen see, and let him think he’s won. I don’t care.
I thought I’d forgotten the fear, the panic, the sense of helplessness. I thought I’d buried it deep down where it could no longer hurt me. I haven’t. The flood of icy blood in my veins, the pounding of my pulse, the adrenaline spiking my system, my hairs standing on end. I feel it. Feel it just as strongly as I did back then.
I let out a choked gasp and realize I’ve been holding my breath. My hands are clutching each other, and my ravaged right is screaming in protest. I can’t seem to unglue them, though.
I look up, those tears Petersen has been working so hard for sparkling in my eyes. What now?
He’s gazing at me strangely, and I wonder if I’m seeing a glimpse of the real him. He looks…confused. As if for the first time he might be considering that I’m telling the truth. I feel the first flicker of hope in more than a year.
But the moment passes. We’re back to who we always are: him, skeptical and superior; me, crazy.
“You did it, Heather,” he says softly, his eyes focused very intently on me.
I don’t respond, but the question is clear in the furrow of my brow.
“You did it,” he repeats. “You killed your friends.”
Don’t react. Don’t. I close my face down just in time to stop the pain and outrage from showing.
I knew he thought it; of course I knew. I could see it in his eyes, in the curl of his lip. But it hurts to hear him say it. Every time.
But Dr. Petersen isn’t finished. He continues in the same quiet, monotonous voice, as if he’s trying to lull me into a trance, as though he’s a hypnotist trying to burn this fact, this deceitful “fact,” into my brain.
“You killed them. Martin and Darren and Emma. You murdered them. Strangled Martin and Emma, drowned Darren.” He raises a hand to stop me before I get halfway through shaking my head. “They found the bodies, Heather. They found them, half buried in the cairn. Not broken like they’d been dropped from a great height, or clawed at by giant talons. The autopsy report found bruising round the necks of all three, identified asphyxiation as the cause of death.” Petersen pauses, making sure he has my complete and utter attention. “If you hadn’t passed out from your burns, would you have succeeded in killing Dougie too?”
Burns.
I flinch at the word. Burning. Sizzling, blistering, melting. Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night and believe for a few terrifying moments that I’m still on fire. I scream then. Scream until pounding feet thunder up the corridor and my door swings open with a series of clicks and the orderlies pile in.
But I am saved from the heat of my memories by the mention of Dougie. Anger takes the sting out of my scalding thoughts. I would never hurt Dougie. Never. I gaze at Dr. Petersen steadily. He looks back, letting the silence go on and on…
And on.
And on.
Finally he sighs, leans forward. One hand reaches out as if he’s going to touch me, but he thinks better of it and rests his palm flat against the satiny wood of the desk. Good. If he lays a finger on me, I will do my best to rip it off before my escort manages to restrain me.
“You killed them, Heather. Your friends. Somewhere, deep down, you know the truth. Admitting and accepting it is part of the healing process.”
He takes a slow breath. I resist the urge to spit at him.
“I want you to tell me what you did. I want you to tell me that you took the lives of three of your friends, attempted to take four. That you did it on purpose. And that you tried to hide the bodies. Admit it, Heather, and we can start to move on.”
No.
The first time I heard this version of events, I was in a hospital. A normal one. I was strapped to a bed—to keep me still and prevent me from aggravating my injuries, I thought—and there were tubes under my nose, sticking into my arm. My right hand was coated in bandages up to my elbow, and I was so tired it was like trying to see through a fog. I did notice a policeman standing just outside my room. I noticed, but I didn’t wonder why he was there. Not then.
It was days before I could stay awake long enough to talk to anyone. Then a man in a suit visited me. He asked me what had happened, and I told him. He went away, and another man came. I didn’t know his face then, though I’ve been looking at it at least once a week ever since. Dr. Petersen asked me what happened, and I told him too. He didn’t frown like the other man had; he smiled. All the way through, right to the end. I remember thinking how odd that was.
Then he told me a story of his own, one where I had a starring role.
In Petersen’s version of events, I lured Martin away from the campsite, up toward the cairn where it was quiet. Private. Then I plied him with alcohol until he passed out, and once he was unconscious, I put my hands around his throat and squeezed. Hard.
And stuffed the body inside the cairn.
Back at the beach, I explained Martin’s disappearance away, hid his stuff. And congratulated myself on a job well done. But Darren and Emma had seen me leave with Martin, and they became suspicious. And so, I had to silence them.
One murder turned into three.
Afterward, I panicked. I doused the tent in gasoline and set fire to it. I spilled some on my hand too, and it caught fire along with the tent. That was the only part I recognized; I could feel the burning pain even if I couldn’t see the damage under the pristine, white bandages. Dougie—who’d been ill and p
assed out in the other tent while I’d apparently done away with three of his friends—tried to stop me, and I hit him with a rock. Hit him so hard I fractured his skull and put him into a coma. Then I passed out from the pain in my hand before I could finish the job.
A story. A story that was told to my parents, repeated in court. A story that became the truth. To everyone except me. “Why would I do that?” I ask, accidentally speaking my thoughts aloud. “Why would I kill my friends?”
Dr. Petersen starts. I’ve never even entertained this story before. He scribbles a quick note to hide his glee, then considers me.
“You know why, Heather. Curiosity.” I stare at him, appalled. “Death. You’re obsessed with it. You wanted to watch, to witness life drain away. You wanted to feel the power of playing God.”
I don’t know what to say, how to respond. Dr. Petersen has shocked me to my very core.
I say nothing.
Ticktock. Ticktock.
This conversation is over. I stare at the clock until Petersen has no choice but to acknowledge what I’m looking at. His face crumples. Out of time.
“We’ll continue this next time, Heather. But I want you to think about what I have said. You know the truth. It’s there, right in front of you. Grasp it. Help yourself.”
I do help myself: out of the chair. Then I turn my back on Petersen and his stories. My escort opens the door for me, and I am gripped by a sudden desire to run. I won’t get anywhere—I know that—but I can’t bear to stay in this room another second. Not another millisecond.
I am practiced at swallowing back foolish urges. I walk sedately through the door, past Helen who’s still tip-tap-typing. She doesn’t look up to acknowledge me as I pass.
There’s a headache throbbing at my temples. Tension has kept my head gripped in a vise for the last two hours. It’s always the same. I know that the ache will take all night to dissipate—longer if I let myself dwell on the session, vindictively snarling snide responses at the imaginary Dr. Petersen in my head. Usually I try to forget about it as quickly as possible, but I know that’s not going to happen today.
The Last Witness Page 18