by Sara Clancy
When the nightmares had begun, Benton had been excited to go to therapy. His childish understanding was that it was someone who was paid to listen to you. That idea had called to him like a siren’s song. To be heard. Back then, he had been so sure that if he could just get someone alone for an hour and explain everything that was happening to him, he would be able to make them believe him. Believe that something was wrong, that his nightmares were true. That he was predicting the real deaths of real people. But reality had fallen very far from his ideals. He discovered the vast wasteland that existed between being heard and being listened to.
Their main focus was always to discover the roots of his anxiety, and when the insomnia had started, they had prescribed sleeping pills. They didn’t stop the dreams, though. All they did was make it harder for him to wake up and prevented him from screaming. At first, his parents had listened to him enough to pressure the doctor to keep looking for a different cocktail. But time had changed their minds. About a year back, they had subtly brought up the pills again. Would it really be so bad? Would it hurt to take one every so often? Wouldn’t it be worth it for a good night’s sleep? After today, he was sure that they weren’t going to be taking the time to work it into a conversation anymore. It would no longer be an option for them – merely a plan B in his back pocket if he got desperate enough.
They were desperate enough.
He rubbed a hand through his hair. His carefully arranged spikes were destroyed anyway, and the sensation of fingers carding through the fluffy tufts was always comforting. For all the effort he put into it, Benton wasn’t a huge fan of his hair. Like he didn’t have enough problems without going gray in his teens. Right now, it was just a hue, a twinge of silver that distorted the dirty blonde in the right light. But the writing was on the wall. At this rate, he would probably be as gray as a storm cloud before he was through his twenties.
He dug his nails into his scalp and enjoyed the tingling trail they left behind. The stress that had clenched his shoulders began to seep away and his eyelids fluttered closed. The memories of his dreams flooded his head. Suddenly, all he could think about was how his scalp would split wide under those fingernails. He snapped his hand away, but the sensation of blood oozing through his hair didn’t fade until he opened his eyes.
A solid mass passed through the corner of his eyes, close enough to touch, devouring his sight. He threw himself back with a choked cry. The flimsy chair skidded out from underneath him and he dropped to the floor. He pushed himself back, shuffling a few feet before his brain caught up with the fact that there was nothing looming over him. A half second later, he caught sight of the dark shape again. The center was a solid slap of ebony, but the edges coiled and rolled like drifting smoke. He watched as it disappeared around the corner at the far end of the hall.
Don’t follow it, something whispered in the back of his head. But even as he resolved not to, a foreign pull twisted around his stomach. He couldn’t argue with the sensation. He was impaled on a hook and the attached cord was pulled taut. When there was no slack left, there was nothing for him to do but stand up or be gutted. Getting to his feet, he ignored the strange looks that were cast in his direction and hurried to catch up. The rubber soles of his shoes released a high squeak as he skidded to a stop. Despite its massive head start, he was still able to spot the towering mass. It had waited for him. They stared at each other, and a point of chalky white emerged where a face should be. Silently, it drifted around the next corner, never quite touching the floor.
Don’t go. Dread turned his stomach into a pit of twisting snakes. Fire blazed out from his bones but was unable to burn off the ice that encrusted his skin. Even out of sight, the image of the shape lingered in his mind. He desperately looked around but couldn’t find a single person that seemed to have seen it too. Don’t follow. The voice echoed in his mind as if everything else had been hollowed out. He wanted to listen. He longed to keep his feet rooted in place. But the unseen cord jerked. A pained groan broke from his chest as a dozen more unseen hooks dug into his flesh. Together, they wrenched forward. He staggered to keep his balance before breaking into a jog.
Slowing at the corner, Benton tilted his head to glance down the new hallway. The shadow loomed in a doorway at the very end of the hall, darker than the shadows behind it. It was facing him. Waiting for him. He reeled back and plastered himself against the solid wall. A few people walked by and he struggled to hold onto at least a pretense of normalcy. Once more, his acting left a lot to be desired, and they passed him with strange glances and shared whispers.
Watching other people casually walk along the halls made it easier to peel himself off the wall. Benton had never seen things in real life before. Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought. The notion was dismissed as quickly as it had formed. It was real. It felt real. Steeling himself, he glanced around the corner. The doorway was empty but his need, the hooks, were still pulling at him with a rising ache. He had only meant to take a tentative step. Go slow. Be cautious. But his body overruled his mind and he found himself sprinting down the narrow hallway. The overhead speaker system crackled as it paged a doctor, the words heard but insignificant. The sound seemed less real than the mist he was pursuing. Reaching the door, he slowed his pace and peered into a dark room.
A single light illuminated the single bed. It was narrow and small, but the woman who lay on it made it look enormous. Her tiny, pale frame was dwarfed by the space. Each breath wracked her chest, the sound rattling within her lungs, melding with the buzz and whirl of the machines that surrounded her like sentinels. Despite the brittleness of her body, and her struggle to keep her eyelids up, her gaze was sharp, her green eyes as piercing as daggers.
“You’re younger than I thought.” The effort of speaking made the woman cough.
Benton staggered forward a step, sure that the sudden bursts would snap her in two.
“Though I guess you’re older than you seem.”
His brow furrowed. “Sorry?”
She reached for him. There was no meat to her hands. Merely skin draped over bone. Benton’s gaze shifted over the room as he edged closer. The first step was the hardest.
“I think you’ve mixed me up with someone else.”
Whatever she was going to say was lost under another coughing fit. Blood spurted over her lips as she wheezed each breath. She’s dying. The words drifted into his mind like a beast rising up from the depths of the ocean. He reached across her, hand finding the nurse alarm button without having to look. From somewhere far away, he could hear a warning siren begin to chime. She gasped and turned her eyes onto him. They were weaker now, their strength dulling, as if the color was seeping from her, her life escaping from a thousand points.
He didn’t know what to say, so he mumbled a few words about them arriving soon and how everything was going to be okay. There was no way to tell how much of it she actually heard. Though he doubted that she believed any of it. She held his gaze with all of her remaining strength.
“I’m dying, aren’t I?”
“Yes,” he whispered as he reached her bedside.
Another coughing fit made the woman curl in on herself. A fine mist of blood washed over her sheets but Benton didn’t attempt to move. She struggled to breathe. To hold his gaze.
“I don’t understand,” she finally managed to force out.
“Don’t understand what?”
She still reached for his hand, but her eyes were focused on something beyond his shoulder.
“If you’re death, who’s that?”
Benton spun around. The mass loomed in the corner, a blurred collection of light and darkness that expanded out to cover every inch of the wall. It lunged towards him. Benton staggered back but had nowhere to go. The shape crashed down over him like an icy wave, robbing him of his breath and weakening his knees. He slumped against the bed, shivering and unable to tear his eyes from the now vacant corner before him.
Vaguely, he became aware of the peop
le running into the room. They didn’t seem real. Nothing did. Except the woman’s hand in his and the droning sound of the heart monitor flat lining.
***
Benton couldn’t keep still. Adrenaline coursed through him, making his foot twitch and his hands shake. There had been questions. Of course there had been questions. And he had spotted a familiar expression on more than one face; one that said they expected he had something to do with the woman’s death. He hadn’t even lasted a day in Fort Wayward without arousing suspicion.
“We can talk about it.”
Benton jolted. He had actually forgotten that he was in his new doctor’s office. Aspen De Champ was stoic and reserved, but still managed to maintain a calming presence. If first impressions were actually worth anything, Benton might have liked him.
“Nothing to talk about,” Benton dismissed.
He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to go through yet another dance with a partner that was trying to trip him up.
Aspen kept his voice light, conversational. “There is the woman.”
“Chelsey.” Benton said.
“Pardon?”
Benton got to his feet and began to pace the room. “Her name was Chelsey Williams.”
“Well, you obviously care about her enough to learn her name.”
“I didn’t learn it.”
“Benton,” Aspen smiled. “You just told me her name.”
“Just because I know something doesn’t mean that I learned it.”
His eyes fell on the small, colorful box by the door, filled to the brim with numerous toys. The baseball on top got his attention, and he scooped it up on his next pass.
“Is this one of those things you just know?”
Benton huffed a laugh as he tossed the ball into the air. “Which quack sent over my files?”
“Does it matter?”
“Duh. How else will I know what diagnosis to live up to? Am I delusional? A compulsive liar? A sociopath? Suffering from some deeply suppressed traumatic experience? Help me out here, doc.”
“Why don’t we come to our own conclusions?”
Benton tossed the ball again, waiting to feel the solid weight back in his palms before he turned to look at the older man.
“You get paid either way right? Whether I talk to you or not?”
“Yes.”
“So, why bother?”
“I’m inclined to help people,” Aspen smiled as he spread his arms out. “It’s kind of why I got into this business.”
Benton couldn’t help but smirk. “You think you can help me?”
“I’d like to try.” At Benton’s silence, he ventured again, “Would it hurt to give me a shot?”
Benton turned the ball over in his hands as he sunk back down into his overstuffed chair, his adrenaline finally subsiding. He couldn’t help the thin traces of hope that bloomed and swirled within his mind. It was that little voice in the back of his head that whispered over and over that life could be different. It was a stupid voice that he wished he could smother.
“Death follows me.” The words slipped out before he could stop himself.
“You’ve had a string of bad luck, admittedly.”
“Bad luck? Is that what they chalked it up to?”
“What other explanation is there?”
“What I just said.” His tone turned sharp. “What’s the point in talking if you’re not listening?”
“I am listening. But I’m going to have to ask a few clarifying questions every now and then.”
Benton shrugged and hunched forward, resting his forearms onto his knees. For the first time, he met Aspen’s eyes.
“Death follows me.” He said each word with force.
Aspen smiled. “Death isn’t a person.”
“Well, not one person. That would be some Santa Clause level bullshit. How could he get around to everyone at once? Maybe that’s what I am. A helper, a reaper, or a minion. Pick a name, any name.”
“You think you bring death?”
“I touched that woman’s hand and her heart stopped. What does that tell you?”
“Bad timing?” Aspen offered.
Benton closed his hands around the ball, tightening his grip until his knuckles were white peaks under his skin. Aspen noticed the shift in him and leaned forward to mirror Benton’s posture. It was supposed to make people feel better, more at ease, understood. All it did for Benton was highlight that Aspen was trying to manipulate him.
“I don’t want sleeping pills,” Benton snapped.
“I never suggested them.”
“My parents did.” Before Aspen could say anything, he rushed on, “They don’t work. I still dream, but I can’t wake up. It’s torture, and I won’t take them.”
“Then I won’t prescribe them.”
Benton didn’t know the doctor enough to tell if he was lying or not. But at least it was out there. At least, he knew that it would be a pointless exercise.
“What do you think I am?” Benton asked.
Aspen tilted his head. “Confused.”
“Oh, come on,” Benton groaned. “You have the files. You have to see that things aren’t normal. I know things I couldn’t possibly know. I see things I shouldn’t be able to see. Something is off. You have to see that. I just want you to tell me, honestly, what you think is going on.”
“I think you’re very confused.”
He felt that small flickering bit of hope die. It hurt. Stupid, he hissed at himself. Stupid. Leaning back in his seat, he pulled his phone from his pocket and opened up his email. He was two paragraphs into writing up his dream when Aspen tried to regain his attention.
“I told you,” Benton said without looking up. “There is no point in talking if you’re not listening.”
“And I told you I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
Aspen tried again and again to get his attention. One more look. One more word. Benton gave him nothing and was gone the second his time was up.
Chapter 3
The slight twists of the road did little to keep Nicole’s attention. The sun gave a few last gasps before surrendering the sky to the night. The road was almost completely lost in darkness when she remembered to turn on her headlights. Her mind was still with Victor. The arms. She had hoped the Bertrand family would serve as a distraction, but all they had provided so far was tension. They all sat in loaded silence. It had been odd when both parents had decided to sit in the back and she had begun to wonder if she had done something wrong. But then Benton had climbed into the passenger seat without ever acknowledging his parent’s presence and she realized it wasn’t about her. They had almost completed the long drive to their house and the situation still hadn’t improved.
Of all the properties that lined the outskirts of Fort Wayward, the new Bertrand home was by far the finest. And the most isolated. The property was separated from the paved highway by a long gravel road, barely wide enough for one car to use. There were no other houses nearby. Nothing close enough to even be a pinprick of light on the horizon. Without competition, the starry sky curled over them, coming all the way down to reach the earth. Benton sat up straight as the silhouette of the house and barn came into view. It was a tall structure, three stories and sprawling. It was quite impressive during the day. The barn was set a few yards to the side and was remarkable all on its own.
She tried to watch Benton from the corner of her eyes as she pulled her jeep up in front of the property. He looked annoyed. And worried. In the glow of the dashboard console, she watched him lick his lips, a nervous twitch that he didn’t seem aware of. She was a little too transfixed on him and almost shot through the front door. Overcompensating, she stomped on the breaks and brought them to a sudden stop.
“Sorry,” she said to the people startled from their own thoughts. “Welcome home!”
Benton leaned forward and looked up at the property with hesitation. “This is it?”
“It looks a lot nicer with the li
ghts on,” she promised.
“You know who lived here before?” Cheyanne asked from the backseat.
“Yes, ma’am. But then, everyone knows everyone here. It’s one of the great things about living in Fort Wayward.”
She let her eyes wander back to Benton. He had stopped looking at the house and had now fixed his attention squarely on the barn a few yards away. The growing dark rose to hide the structure, leaving only the faint moonlight to trace its edges. Benton stared at it, his body completely rigid.
“What’s that?” he mumbled.
“That must be the barn,” Theodore smiled. He nudged Cheyanne with a smile. “We have a barn.”
“I never thought I’d see the day,” she chuckled.
The joke was lost on Nicole. All farmland properties had barns. It wasn’t that uncommon, and not that humorous either. So, as she often did when in doubt, she held onto her smile and didn’t say anything. The overhead light clicked on as Benton’s parents opened the back door, the dim glow blinding her. Benton’s parents slipped out of the car. He didn’t move. Unconsciously, he balled his hands into fists on his knees, his eyes never leaving the barn.
She couldn’t fathom why it would hold his attention. It was a renovated barn. He would have seen hundreds just like it before he had even gotten near the town. For a moment, she considered shaking him out of it, but it didn’t seem right to break his concentration. So she just waited. Watching him as he stared at the barn while his parents began to unpack the truck.
Benton took a sudden, sharp breath. It expanded his lithe frame and brought him back to life. He blinked rapidly and looked around, surprised to see that his parents had gotten out of the jeep.
“Where are they?”
The house lights clicked on and negated any reason for her to answer. He winced at the addition of light and sunk back into his seat.
“Sorry.” He sounded meek and confused as he began to fumble with the seatbelt.