After Obsession

by Carrie Jones

  She pulls a book out of her bag. There’s a bookmark stuck in it, and she opens to that page. “Read this.”

  I look around. “In the middle of the hall?”

  “Please, Aimee.”

  She sort of hustles me over toward the wall. Leaning against it, I start to read. It’s an article written by Roslyn Strong that talks about dragon imagery in North America.

  “Skip ahead to the story,” Mrs. Hessler urges.

  I do. The story is about a Wabanaki hero named Glooskap killing a dragon in Maine, or what would later be called Maine, right around here. The dragon dies.

  “What are you trying to tell me, Mrs. Hessler?” I ask, handing her back the book.

  “What if the dragon died in our river? What if Glooskap bound a European demon or dragon to our river after taking it out of a possessed settler? The Wabanaki knew of the continuing dangers, but the settlers, being arrogant, stayed, even though they were warned that the evil from the river ebbs and flows like the tide, affecting the entire town while the demon tries to take over a body.”

  “Like it’s doing with Courtney,” I whisper.

  “And like it did with your mother. She was my best friend, you know, just like Courtney’s yours.” She was? How did I not remember that? Cloudy memories come back to me of Mrs. Hessler bringing over Christmas cookies, and she and my mother going out to dinner all dressed up. Mrs. Hessler wipes at her eyes, which have filled up with tears, and I pat her arm as she continues, “I found another story that says the demon is destined to remain here until it finds a vessel or is sent back to the darkness by a lion from the west.”

  Could that be Alan? “But why?” I ask.

  “Why what?”

  “What’s this—demon—trying to accomplish? What makes him evil in the first place?” I watch people scurry to class.

  “Native American legends rarely give a reason for their monsters acting the way they do. It’s our culture, our modern culture actually, that tries to understand them.” She clears her throat. “And my best guess is that a total possession of Courtney would allow him to transport himself out of the river, and he would be free to roam wherever he wants again, like he did before Glooskap bound him to the water.”

  A sadness grows inside me. “He tried to do this to my mom, too, and nobody saved her.”

  “She died trying to save all of us, Aimee. When she went to the river with that ax and drowned, she was trying to fight the demon, the River Man—or at least prevent him from fully possessing her.”

  “That was brave,” I manage to say, even though my insides are clenching up with sorrow. I miss my mom. I miss her so much. Someone coughs down the hall.

  “Yes, it was.” Mrs. Hessler coughs, too, a tiny bark.

  “Why didn’t he move on then? Why not just go after another victim to possess?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe he only has enough power to focus on one at a time. It seems like his evil comes in spurts, separated by at least a decade.”

  I push away from the wall, give Mrs. Hessler back her book, and hug her in the process. She smells like vanilla, just like my mom. “Thank you.”

  I say that and then take off into the bathroom, back to my original mission, armed, finally, with a tiny bit of knowledge.

  I pretend that I’ve thrown up. I’m pale enough that I look sick. I convince Ms. Murillo that Dad and Gramps are both unreachable this morning. It works. I am free to leave school. I triple lie and say I have a car outside, and I’ll drive myself home.

  If you cut through the woods it doesn’t take long to get to the hospital. The cross-country trail in back of the school takes you half the distance, and then if you go across a blueberry barren you can hook into the Starbald Road and walk the rest of the way. So that’s what I do. The trees are almost naked of leaves. Their branches are eerie, like bare, reaching fingers, gnarled and hungry. They remind me of the man in the river reaching, grabbing, pulling down. I stop for a second and listen. The wind rattles the trees.

  Hauling out my cell, I debate whether to text Alan. I decide to.

  HOPE U R OKAY.

  I press SEND and pocket the cell, listening again. Everything scares me today. I know Alan’s probably still getting chewed out in Everson’s office. I know he probably won’t even see the text. I also know that I didn’t tell him what I’m doing. And I know he’ll be mad.

  Sometimes, though, you have to do it alone.

  I race ahead a few yards and then think about it again. Court might have her cell. I text her: OK IF I COME SEE YOU NOW?

  I walk forward and hope for a reply. My cell beeps, telling me I have a message. I open it and read: YES!!!! COME QUICK.

  That’s all it takes. I run.

  The woods surround me for a mile. The path is full of tread marks and rocks. Roots stick out from trees, but I’ve seen them all before. We run here for soccer about twice a week. Our coach calls them conditioning runs, and I’ve never been so happy about them as I am right now, because with every footstep the sky gets darker above me and the woods groan a little more with the wind, but hey, I’m conditioned, despite the bruises on my leg.

  I bullet ahead. One foot. Another foot. Over and over again.

  Just when I enter the rolling, treeless barrens, an eagle screeches above me. I look up and trip over a rock, but don’t fall. I can’t figure out what the eagle is trying to tell me, but I figure it’s some kind of warning. He battles the wind with his massive wings, struggling to remain in the updrafts. He’s trying to stay near me but can’t quite do it.

  The wind pushes against me, suddenly hard and deliberate. Some hair escapes my ponytail, thrashing into my face. A blueberry bush rips away from the dirt and crosses the tiny, narrow dirt trail in front of me. I avoid it, but just barely. Another one rips up and almost chases me down the trail. Dirt and twigs whisk around me, making it hard to see.

  Suddenly this doesn’t seem like such a good idea.

  “Man!” For some reason, I don’t swear. Swearing seems like it would give everything bad even more power.

  I’m halfway between the high school and the hospital, almost to the road, when a rock hits me square in the spine, right below my backpack. I tumble forward. My backpack slops into my body. Pain ricochets through me. Another rock hits my calf. I scramble up as fast as I can, lurching onward.

  I am almost to the road, but there’s even less cover on the road than there is here. Turning back into the woods seems crazy, though.

  “You won’t stop me!” I yell.

  There’s no noise, nothing except for the sound of the wind—but I can feel him laughing at me. Every single bone feels it. Every single neuron trembles with it. Fear builds up inside my stomach and tries to slow me down, dragging like the flu, getting dumped, failing a test, and having the ugliest zit on your nose all combined into one dense lump.

  Courtney is more important than that.

  I scramble forward. A bush sideswipes me. I fall, roll sideways, and hit the dirt road. My hands, scraped and bloody, push me up off the dirt. I sprint. There’s a rumble in the distance, deep and loud. It reminds me of the tree house attack.

  I stop and quickly search for shelter. There is none, just rolling blueberry barrens and the naked road. My heart staggers in my chest. My feet stagger on the road.

  The debris storm is on the barrens. It’s a mini-tornado of bushes, rocks, and branches from the forest. I think there’s even a squirrel caught up in it, the poor thing. A wooden NO TRESPASSING sign swirls around. I run harder. There’s no way I’m going to make it. It’s three times as fast as I am. My bruised leg aches, but I run hard.

  My breath comes out in sharp pants as I sprint forward. I glance behind me. That’s when I realize that what I’ve been dealing with isn’t even the real storm—that’s about a hundred feet back. The sign swirls to the front. The screeching noise hurts my ears. It’s fifty feet away now. There are nails in the sign. Thirty feet. I turn. I stand. I face it. Fifteen feet. I dive forwa
rd, wrapping my hands over my head. I curl into a ball, my backpack sticking up.

  It hits.

  A nail rips into my pack, tearing a hole in the side. My whole body jerks. Dirt smashes into me. Something hard hits my arm. I can’t open my eyes to see what it is. The sound of the storm roars through me. My whole body trembles. I scream. I know I scream. Dirt goes into my mouth. I clamp it closed. I start praying … I start praying to God and begging for my mother, for Alan, for anyone. Something barrels into my side. I roll and I’m face up now, on top of my backpack. Pebbles and rocks pelt me.

  “God!” I scream it. “God help me! Mom! Mommy!”

  Something scratches my face. I close my mouth again, trying to keep the dirt out. I manage to get on my side again, underneath most of the force of the wind and debris. The prayer my mom taught me when I was little soars through my head.

  O God, who made the heav’n and earth,

  From dreams this night protect me.

  Destroy each succubus at birth,

  No incubus infect me.

  It doesn’t seem appropriate, but I don’t care. I turn back over so my face is to the ground.

  No incubus infect me. No incubus infect me. No incubus infect me.

  While I’m chanting this, my heart is screaming one name with every double beat it takes: Al-an. Al-an. Al-an.

  There’s some kind of noise, loud and bleating.

  Through shielded eyes, I see movement that’s not the wind. I can just make out a dump truck stopped beside me, right in the storm. I scramble toward it. The tires are massive and smell like horse poop, but I don’t care. I yank myself up to the cab. Some paper flies out of my backpack and joins the whirl of wind. The door opens. A man shouts, “Hurry! Hurry!” He pulls me inside. While I’m sprawled on the seat he reaches right over me and yanks the door shut. The truck shudders from the smack of the wind. It reeks of Polo cologne and chew and right now I think those are the best smells in the entire universe.

  The guy’s voice shakes. “Holy crap, what is this?”

  I sit up and stare out the windshield. Bushes and trees are flying by. Branches are smacking into us. Rocks are pelting the side of the truck. “Drive!” I shout.

  He hesitates for just a second, then shifts into gear. I pull off my pack and inspect the damage. It’s not too bad. My hands shake so badly that I can’t fix my hair. I don’t know why I try.

  “What is this? A tornado?” the driver asks.

  “I don’t think so. We don’t get tornados in Maine, do we?”

  “I don’t know …” He starts stuttering and loses whatever he was going to say. He’s in his early twenties, with a short blond crew cut and a lot of stubble. His eyes are wide and scared. Both hands clutch the wheel. He’s sweating and peeking over at me.

  Something big and hard slams into the side of the truck. It shakes. We keep going.

  He swears under his breath. “You okay? You’re a mess. Holy … Holy …”

  The truck swerves a bit from the force of the wind.

  “We’re almost through it,” I say. I point ahead. “It’s lighter up there.”

  “Hold on. I’m going to floor it.” He does. We rush forward. We break through the swirling debris. He doesn’t slow down. “I think I should take you to the hospital.”

  “Great. Good.”

  He swallows hard. I realize I’m clutching my pack. The sunlight seems so bright. It’s crazy to be able to see clearly again. I touch my face. I’m bleeding. My leg aches. My back kills. I’m a total mess. I start, instinctively I guess, to work on my ponytail again. We’re almost at the hospital.

  “I don’t know how you survived that,” he says almost reverently.

  “I stayed low.” We bump off the dirt road and onto the pavement. “Wait.” I suddenly think of it. “How did you see me? Why did you stop right there?”

  We’re in sight of the hospital. He pulls into the emergency room turnaround.

  “No, seriously, why did you stop?” I ask. I touch his arm. He’s still shaking. “You saved me.”

  “Do you think that storm’s still out there?” he asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  He rolls the truck to a standstill and sets the brake. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”

  “Please. I won’t. I promise. What just happened was completely crazy.”

  He closes his eyes for a second, like he’s remembering. “There was a woman standing there. She was glowing gold, almost.” He glances over, to see if I think he’s crazy, I guess. I motion for him to go on. A muscle by his eyes twitches. “And I just knew that I had to stop, you know? I knew that someone needed help.”

  “Me.” I swallow hard. “I needed help.”

  He nods. “So I stopped and I yelled. You didn’t answer. I honked the horn. I couldn’t go out there. I hope you don’t—don’t think I’m a coward, but I didn’t know how I could—stuff was flying all around.” He wipes at his face with his hands. “I’m not making sense.”

  “You are.” I touch his arm quickly. “Thank you.”

  He turns his head to look at me. “You’re a mess. Let me help you in.”

  “No,” I try to object. “I’m okay, really.”

  He’s already out of the truck and opens the door. He reaches for my hand.

  “Thanks.” I hop down. Everything aches and throbs. My mouth tastes like dirt. “I’m okay.”

  “You’re not steady. I’ll bring you inside,” he says.

  “No. I can do it,” I insist. “Thank you, though. Thank you for finding me.”

  He nods vigorously and hands me my backpack, holding it so things don’t fall out of the rip. “Glad I could help. You better go inside.”

  I hobble into the emergency room entrance, but don’t go to Intake. Instead, I turn left and go up the corridor toward the elevator. There’s only one hall for kids, on the top floor. I stagger into the elevator, which is happily empty, and press the CLOSE DOOR button, then the number 3.

  I’m scared, but not horrible scared. I think Alan is right. I think every time the River Man does something big like this he gets tired. I think all magic (good or evil) depletes your energy, so he’s weaker right now. So now is the perfect time for me to try to heal Courtney. He quickly recharges, though; my theory on that is he feeds on fear, on Courtney, on pain.

  The elevator grinds to the third floor and stops. The doors open and Mary Harmon, a tall, red-haired nurse, is walking down the corridor in front of me. I slide out of the elevator and to the side just as she turns around to see who’s coming. I’m hidden from view, which is what I want, because I know that if anyone sees me like this there’ll be a lot of questions, and they will shove me back into the ER and call my dad. That can happen later. Right now I need to get to Court. I need to get there while the River Man is still weak.

  The elevator doors slide closed. Mary’s footsteps flip-flop away down the hall. I count to five and slip out behind her. She turns the corner in the hallway and I hurry, looking at the charts outside the doors, reading names, searching.

  Finally, halfway down the hall—TUCKER, COURTNEY.

  I slip through the doorway, grab the metal handle, and shut the door behind me.

  Courtney is sitting up in the bed. She’s not restrained, which is a super-good sign. She turns her head when the door shuts. “Aim?”

  I smile at her. It’s hard to do. Her face is still a mess. Her eyes are weak and tired, cloudy even. She looks so tiny beneath the thin white hospital blanket. “Courtney?”

  Her eyebrows lift up a little bit. There’s an IV line attached to her, but it looks pretty mild. I hope it’s just fluids to keep her hydrated. She lifts up the hand without the IV line, but doesn’t get it up very far.

  I go to the bed. “How you doing, honey?”

  She squints a little. “You called me ‘honey.’ ”

  I shrug. “I know. It’s weird.”

  “My cousin must be wearing off on you.” She forms the words slowly, like it’s an effort.


  “Probably.” I drop my backpack on the floor. It makes a hard clanking noise. Court startles and then focuses on me.

  “What happened to you?” she asks.

  “A little mishap.”

  “Mishap?”

  I take her free hand in mine. It’s cold and still has sores. Mine’s not much better: all cut up and dirty. We are not two glamour queens at the prom right now. For a second I wonder what Blake would say; then I ask, “How are you?”

  “Amazing,” she says, and softly laughs.

  Tears peek out of the corners of her eyes and start to roll down her cheeks. I use my free hand to wipe them away.

  “Alan and I are working on something, okay?” I tell her. “We won’t let this keep happening to you, Courtney, I swear it.”

  “Very melodramatic, Aim.”

  “I mean it.”

  “I know you do.” She closes her eyes, like it’s all too much.

  “Where’s your mom?”

  “Working.”

  I make sure nobody’s lurking and whisper, “Do you know how sometimes when you or Benji get scratched up, how I focus really hard and try to make you feel better?”

  Her eyes open. “Yeah. Your dad said it was just the power of suggestion.”

  “I love my dad, but sometimes, he’s a putz. It’s like he’s so afraid of what happened with my mom that he denies anything that even hints at the supernatural,” I say. “Can I try it?”

  She closes her eyes again, weak.

  I panic for a second. “Court?”

  Her hand tightens around mine. “Yeah. You can try.”

  The light above her bed flickers. In the dark, for just a second, I think I see the shape of a man. The light steadies out. There’s nothing there. I loosen my grip on her hand and take some deep breaths.

  “Does Alan know you’re doing this?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I lie. “He’s just stuck at school.”

  “You’re not?”

  “Got an excuse.” This time I close my eyes, spreading my fingers out just a little bit, and put one hand on top of Courtney’s freezing forehead. I put the other over my own heart. I breathe in; I breathe out. The centers of my palms start to tingle in perfect circles. Power twirls there, I know it does. It’s not freak power—it’s my power. Mine. My fingers separate a little. I imagine white light, good white healing light enveloping Courtney.