by Sara Clancy
Benton’s file was equally full of possibly useless information. Her first instinct was that he was psychic or maybe a medium, although she was a little shaky on the difference. But, judging by his comments in his therapy sessions, this wasn’t an idea that Benton himself subscribed to. Actually, he seemed to get annoyed every time someone threw out the word. She put the research in anyway but continued looking for other possibilities. His newest idea, that he was a grim reaper, or at least stalked by death, was researched next. She couldn’t find much to back it up. Although there wasn’t a reputable site of people claiming the same. The few that she had found were scary and she read things she wished she could scrub from her brain.
She had also looked into the idea that it wasn’t really him. It was something else that was forcing the ideas into him as he slept. There were a staggering amount of creatures that, historically, liked to torture sleeping people. The Russian Nocnitsa would get into bed with people, filling them with nightmares as it smothered them. Maybe one of them had decided to keep its torments grounded in reality, just to add an extra layer of twisted to the whole ordeal.
Then there was the Welsh Gwrach-Y-Rhibyn. It would invisibly stalk people until they crossed somewhere it couldn’t follow, which she figured he was sort of doing with his dreams, if you took ‘following’ in more of an astral projection kind of way. When a Gwrach-Y-Rhibyn could no longer keep up, it would scream as an omen of death, and Benton’s files did say that he woke from his night terrors making the most horrific noises. But, more than its method, all of the stories were insistent that the Gwrach-Y-Rhibyn was hideous to a terrifying degree. Frail and crooked but strong, with disgusting matted hair and manic eyes. Benton didn’t look in any way intimidating. Still, it was research, and needed to be filed in all the same.
The one that caught her eye the most was again from Irish legend. The Banshee. Everything she found on them said that they were female, but the Gwrach-Y-Rhibyn was instant on that too. And, since those same legends couldn’t decide if a banshee was a ghost, fairy, or simply born a banshee, she wasn’t about to dismiss a theory because of a gender technicality. Besides, the older legends noted that a banshee was rarely ever seen. Normally, it was just the disembodied shriek that warned people someone was about to die. So who’s to say, by otherworldly voice alone, what gender the supernatural creature was. And, Nicole decided, an email or text message could pass as a modern version of a scream in the dark.
It also fit that, according to what she could find, no one knew where a banshee got its information from. They just seem to know. It was possible something unseen was telling him. According to Aspen’s notes, Benton had eluded to seeing something the night Miss Williams passed. The nurses had said he moved like he was in pursuit. And Nicole had seen that behavior herself. The night in the barn when he had found the hidden symbol. She had seen his eyes glaze over, the way he had moved without thought. What they had found might have thrown him but he had been certain that there was something to find. Not to mention poor Mr. Ackerman. After studying the police photographs again, she was certain Benton had been standing right on top of him that night. And he had come back to find him later. And all of that had happened after he had been so reluctant to be anywhere near the barn.
There was no doubt in her head that somehow, in some way, Benton was right. He and death were linked. And that was a relationship that would make a lot more sense if Benton was a banshee. Her last bit of evidence was that a lot of the banshee legends were far more forgiving in their descriptions. There were some that spoke of an ugly hag, but a few depicted otherworldly beauty with long pale hair. Again, he wasn’t a woman, and she wouldn’t exactly describe him as ‘otherworldly,’ but there was nothing about him that was haggish or scary or even a hardship to look at.
Nicole had just clipped the latest pile of printouts into the ‘Benton’ binder when her mobile rang. She jumped and whipped around to the sudden sound. It took sending almost every sheet airborne to find which one had covered the device and she answered it without checking the caller ID. Her gut lurched when Victor’s voice roared down the line. The words jumbled into an unintelligible mess that was almost lost by the rush of blood through her ears.
“Victor?”
“Have you been listening to me?” he snarled.
“You’re talking too fast, I can’t understand what you’re saying,” she continued before he could say anything. “Vic, you have to turn yourself in.”
“What?” His laughter was sharp and bitter. “Why should I do anything?”
“You tried to kill us, Vic. Don’t you remember that?”
“Of course, I do. I’m not deranged.”
She didn’t argue but her eyes shifted to her bedroom door. A part of her brain screamed at her to go get her mother but it wasn’t enough for her to stand up.
“The police are looking for you.”
“You sent the police after me?”
Her jaw dropped at the raw betrayal that rang in his voice.
“You tried to kill us,” she spat out each word.
“You keep saying ‘us.’ I was only after him.”
“That’s not any better.”
Victor snorted. “Of course you defend him.”
“Benton hasn’t tried to kill you.”
“Didn’t he tell you? So, what then, he just asked for my email and you gave it to him?”
Nicole braced herself against the side of her bed as her insides disappeared, replaced only by a gaping hole of dread.
“Benton sent you a message?”
“A long story about how he’s going to kill me. This is why I have to take him out, Nicole. I can’t let an unstable guy like that around my girl.”
“Victor, I need you to listen to me carefully. Benton wasn’t threatening you. He can predict death. You need to turn yourself in. Now.”
“He can what?”
“He’s psychic or a banshee, maybe a Gwrach-Y-Rhibyn. I’m still figuring it all out.”
Victor’s confusion was quickly transforming into anger. “A what?”
“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he dreams about people dying and then they do. The message he sent you was a warning. You’re in danger.”
Nicole pushed up onto her feet and began a frantic search for her jeep keys.
“From who?”
“Your girlfriend.” It was the first thing that popped into her head but there was no doubt in her mind that she was right.
“She loves me!”
“She’s not human,” Nicole shot out the words with venom that matched his own.
Victor laughed.
“Vic, look at yourself. You’re malnourished. You’re sick. You’re trying to kill people because you believe they flirted with your girlfriend who no one else has seen.”
“He did! He was even with her tonight.”
“No, he wasn’t. Because it was busy stalking me tonight. I know it must be tricking you somehow. It sounded like my dad when it came after me.”
“Stop calling her ‘it.’”
“Vic, I’m you’re oldest friend and I’m asking you, begging you, please tell me where you are. I’ll come and get you right now.” She finally found the keys in her discarded school bag and raced for the door.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Please, Vic. It will kill you.”
“You don’t believe me,” Victor snarled. “I can’t believe you’re taking his side.”
She barreled down the stairs, her feet missing more than they found, rushing to the front door. “Vic, I love you. I’m on your side. We can talk everything else out after you’re safe.”
“I’m going to send it through to you. You can see how sick he is, yourself.”
“Where are you?” She struggled to open the door, forgetting in her panic that the deadbolt lock had been used for the first time tonight. Engaged for the sole reason to keep Victor out. “I’m coming to get you. Just tell me where you are.”
&
nbsp; “Leave us alone, Nicole.”
“Victor. Please.”
She flipped the bolt. It opened with a sharp clack, a mocking imitation of the sound the phone gave as it died.
Chapter 10
Benton wrapped his arms around his legs, compressing himself in until his thighs crushed his lungs. The pain had faded but the carnage it had created still lingered. The jagged, splintered edges of his own being. The parts of him that had broken when everything else had been shoved inside. It would take days for that ache to fade. He sat with his back plastered against the smooth metal side of the fireplace. It was the only spot in the room where he could get a sliver of privacy.
He had written down his dream of Victor, the violent tremble in his hand reduced the letters into childish scribbles. Through some kind of miracle, the photographs he had taken of the pages had turned out to be legible enough. Hours had passed since he had sent the file to Victor but the need to do something still sparked under his skin. It burned like searing barbed wire coiled within the joints that connected his neck to his skull.
It’s because you know him, Benton reasoned. It was always worse when he knew them outside of his dreams. Seeing someone walking around when he knew how warm their blood was, the exact sound of their last breaths, made it impossible to dismiss it all as a nightmare. An email just didn’t seem like enough.
Burying his head against his knees, his brain struggled with the aftershocks of the killer’s emotions rippling through him. Within the throes of the dream, there was no way to separate his mind from the dream persona. He inhabited them. Became them. Two souls bleeding together, different but inseparable. The boundaries were more defined when he was awake. Although sometimes, things still got muddled. Especially after numerous dreams in one night.
This morning he had spent twenty minutes looking for a jacket he didn’t own. He could remember it perfectly. The way it fit just a little too tight across his shoulders, the missed stitch in the left pocket that always swallowed up his keys, the way it smelled like coconuts from his perfume. Then he recalled that both the perfume and jacket belonged to the killer in his forth dream.
Later, he had panicked after eating some of the muffin left over from yesterday, convinced that he was a celiac. Only after emptying the entire contents of his stomach did he remember that he, Benton Bertrand, didn’t have any food allergies. That was when he curled up in his hiding place, determined to remain still until his mind had time to splinter away from the lingering remains. Music helped. But he had to make sure that he had an eclectic mix, just in case their tastes overrode his own.
The problem was, the more he came back to himself, the guiltier he felt. Victor tried to kill you, his mind snapped. But it was a weak argument. Benton had lived as Victor’s killer. He knew that the teen wasn’t the one in control. I took everything from him, Benton thought with a quick, satisfied smile. He caught himself a second later, and pressed his forehead hard against his arms, his eyes squeezed shut, nails digging into his palms as he balled his hands tight. It wasn’t me. He repeated it until it felt true.
The pages of his notebook crinkled under his clutching fingers. Victor won’t read it, he knew. Even if he did, he won’t believe it. A new wave of despair hit him. Benton had seen what grief could do to a large city. He couldn’t imagine the damage it would wreak upon such a small town. It would be like a plague, spewed forth from his diseased mind, destroying all that it found. But even if he did try to help, his past failures had proven that he couldn’t change the outcome. The person would still die and he would be left under a cloud of suspicion, fear, and parental rage.
His hollow stomach twisted at the thought of his parents as anger struck him like lightning. They had drugged him. Even if they were truly oblivious to what they had just put him through, Benton couldn’t let it go. He had lost out to their need to preserve the good opinion of people they didn’t even know. It was enough to provoke his petty nature; they had hurt him and he wanted to hurt them back, which was all the flimsy excuse he needed to go against their wishes.
Resolving to warn Victor was easy. Coming up with a way to do it that wouldn’t lead to the complete implosion of his life, again, was harder. His fingers twitched around the mobile phone he refused to let go of. For a while, he stared at the screen, watching the little bar move as the song played. He searched every inch of his brain, trying to think of someone, anyone, he could call to ask for advice. Or help. Or just to listen to him. He couldn’t come up with a single name. Contemplating just how pathetic he felt was a momentary distraction.
The paper crinkled and slid under his fingertips, drawing his attention. He really had done a horrible job. It didn’t even look like his handwriting. Benton sat up a little straighter. Just because he couldn’t place the surroundings he had glimpsed in the dream, didn’t mean that no one else could. Constable Rider, his mind supplied. Nothing about her struck him as someone prone to wild explanations. But she was exactly the type who would follow up on every lead.
How do I do this with the least potential for blow back?
He pondered the thought as he got to his feet. The best he could come up with was to leave it on her doorstep. It was still ridiculously early, everyone would be asleep, and he doubted that she would have security cameras. With a new energy, Benton crammed a change of clothes into his backpack. He needed to leave before his parents checked on him, and the school’s locker room should be open. He’d have time to shower before class.
This time he remembered to grab his wallet, which would take care of breakfast. He shoved his feet into his sneakers, brushed his teeth, and pulled a comb through his hair at the same time. Luckily, for all of his faults, Benton had great coordination and managed to do all three jobs to some degree of success. As an afterthought, he shoved a towel and a bottle of hair gel into the last remained area of his bag. He yanked off his sweat-drenched top and didn’t bother to replace it. Instead, just shoving on a red hooded sweater as he neared his door.
Benton leaned out to check if the hallway was clear. As he glanced over the closed doors that lined the L-shaped hallway, he realized that he didn’t know which one was his parent’s bedroom. He couldn’t judge which one he needed to tip toe past. The carpet absorbed the sound of his footsteps as he crept forward, carefully testing for any creaking floorboards. His process was slow, but effective. He breathed a sigh of relief when he closed the front door behind him.
“You’re up early.”
Benton whirled around. A police officer whom he had never seen before was sitting against the hood of her patrol car, both hands shooting up in a placating manner.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“I’m a little on edge,” Benton mumbled.
He pulled the strap of his backpack onto his shoulder, not sure what to do next. The woman relaxed her arms and offered him a wide, pearly grin.
“I guess you’ve got reason to be,” she said. “I’m Abby.”
“Benton.”
“Everyone knows,” she dismissed.
“Abby?”
“Yeah. That’s right.”
“Don’t you want me to use your rank or last name?”
She laughed, loud and nasal, until she realized that he wasn’t joking. “You’ve never lived in a small town, have ya?”
“No.”
Amusement laced her words “It shows.”
Nodding once, Benton jogged down the porch steps, and started towards the property gate.
“Where are you going, then?”
Benton glanced back at her as he jammed a thumb over his shoulder, indicating his intended direction. “School.”
“A little early, ain’t it?”
“I have to run an errand first.”
“Do you know how far a walk that is?”
Benton’s feet froze. He did know, he had just completely forgotten. Just like he had forgotten that he had no idea where Constable Rider lived. He might be able to get to town before everyone wa
s awake and moving, but if the Riders lived on another distant property, he was screwed. How do you fit this much stupidity into such a simple plan? A voice in his head snickered. Abby must have seen him deflate because she stood up.
“What do you have to do, love?”
The sudden endearment caught him off guard. “I’ve got to drop something off.”
“Can it wait until your parents are up? You probably shouldn’t be out and about on your own.”
“No.”
“What’s so important?” Abby pressed, her smile wide and eyes hidden behind her sunglasses.
“Just a text book I borrowed from Nicole.” Stupid, his mind snapped. But he was committed now. “I was supposed to give it back last night.”
Abby’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “Nicole Rider?”
“Yeah.”
The word tilted up at the end, as if it were a question, and he winced at hearing it. He was so busy berating himself that he didn’t notice Abby leaping towards the driver’s side door.
“Trust me, love. If you told Nicole that it would be there, you want it there. That girl never forgets a mess up. She still goes on about that one time I forgot to pick up the ice for the police officer’s ball. She was eight when it happened. I love her but that girl is a special level of irritating.”
Benton didn’t move.
“Well, come on. If we hurry, we can get there before she wakes up.”
She slipped into the cruiser and Benton rushed to follow.
It was after he clicked his seatbelt into place that she added, “Don’t worry, love. You can pop it on the doorstep and I’ll back you up that you put it there last night.”
Chapter 11
Benton turned off the shower and cast the empty locker room back into silence. He popped his headphones in the second he was dressed. Clean and fully awake, he was finally feeling like himself again. At least enough that he could put on some of his own music. He smiled slightly as a fast, dance-worthy beat pumped into his ears. The trumpet kicked in and there was no other choice but to dance along. His sneakers squeaked across the tiles as he scooted and spun his way to the mirror. It was a small victory, to simply be alone in his own skin, but it was definitely one worth celebrating.