Secrets of Redemption Box Set

by Michele Pariza Wacek

  Suddenly, I burst through the trees into a clearing. I collapsed onto wet earth, breathing heavily, my nostrils full of the scent of decaying leaves. Mosquitoes buzzed around my head and I swatted them, feeling the sting of their bites, seeing the blood, my blood, splashed on my arms and legs. It dripped onto the ground, soaking it, turning it red.

  Then I saw Oscar’s lifeless body, his throat slashed, lying in another pool of blood.

  I screamed as I reached for him, tears filling my vision. His body was stiff and cold. He had been dead a long time.

  I tried to pick him up but then he was Bear, the golden retriever, his beautiful coat matted with blood. Oh no. Not Bear, too.

  I tried to hoist him over my shoulder—maybe I could bring him back to his family. But he was too heavy. I looked down and saw I was trying to pick up a gravestone. My hands were slick with blood and I couldn’t grasp the smooth marble.

  I tried to read the stone but the inscription was covered with blood. The more I tried to wipe it off, the bloodier it became.

  The ground rolled and bubbled underneath my feet, and I started backing away. Someone or something was digging its way out of the grave. The smell of decay was even stronger—it coated my lips and throat, and I found myself gagging.

  One rotted hand burst out from the ground, and then another. Slowly, a corpse dragged its way out, its skin black and curling. Maggots and beetles crawled and wiggled over its rotting flesh.

  I tried to scream again, but nothing came out except a terrible retching sound. The smell was so awful. I backed away, trying to move faster, but everything seemed to be in slow motion, dragging me down.

  The corpse drew itself up to its full height. Patches of long blonde hair were still attached to a cracked skull. It turned toward me, and I instantly knew who it was, even under the rot and decay.

  Jessica.

  She licked her cracked and black lips. “You know.” A beetle squirmed out of her mouth and ran down her neck.

  I licked my own very dry lips and tried to swallow, my mouth like sandpaper. “Know what?” My voice was a raspy whisper.

  “Who killed me.”

  I shook my head. “No. You disappeared. You didn’t die.”

  Jessica shambled toward me. “You really think I just left? In the middle of the night? Without saying goodbye to anyone? Not Mia? Not my mom?” Her voice rose higher and higher, ending in nearly a scream.

  “I ... I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t remember!”

  Jessica lurched forward another step. “How many more are going to die because you refuse to remember?” she hissed.

  I kept shaking my head. “No! I don’t remember! There’s nothing to remember! I didn’t see anything!”

  Jessica was so close, I could hear her bones rattle and the wet, sucking noise of her skin sliding off her bones every time she took a step. “You lie. You know. You know the evil that has been done.”

  My whole body froze. I dropped to my knees, my legs suddenly unable to hold me. Chrissy’s blank, empty eyes staring at me. You know. The evil that has been done.

  Jessica opened her mouth, but instead of talking, it opened wider and wider. I braced myself, for what I wasn’t sure, but just as suddenly, her mouth snapped shut. A dark shape fell over us, both terrible and vaguely familiar.

  Her milky eyes widened and I could see the fear. “He found us.”

  I snapped my head around but didn’t see anything. I turned back to Jessica, who was backing away, her horror palpable. “Who?”

  She sucked in her breath. “The devil.”

  The shadow fell over her then, shaped like a man but with horns. Big horns. Horns that grew and stretched, covering the ground like a bloody, black stain.

  Jessica threw her arms over her face, like she was shielding herself from whatever was coming. But that didn’t stop her shriek. “You know! You know the evil that has been done!”

  I awoke with a gasp, sticky with sweat, my throat sore from repressed screams. My heart was pounding so hard, I thought it might beat right out of my chest.

  Holy crap. What the hell was happening?

  What sort of nightmare hell was buried in my subconscious?

  Did I honestly even want to remember it?

  I sucked air in greedily, trying to push away the images of dead Jessica, a horned devil and ...

  Dead Oscar!

  Oh God. Frantically, I whipped my head around only to see Oscar staring at me from the pillow next to mine, his dark green eyes watching me quietly.

  Relief flooded through me and I slumped against the headboard, simultaneously exhausted and wired. I knew there would be no more sleep for me.

  I unwound myself from my sticky sheets and headed to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. What I really wanted was a cup of tea, but that meant going downstairs, and who knew what I might run into there? Aunt Charlie puttering around in the kitchen, or the ghost of Mad Martha fluttering about in the living room?

  No thanks.

  I stared at myself in the mirror as I dried my face. My hazel eyes often changed colors, shifting from green to gold, but right now in the moonlight, they looked so dark they could have been black. Against my pale face, I looked like some sort of ghost myself.

  Or maybe a vampire.

  Where the hell did that come from?

  Why would I compare myself to a vampire?

  You know. You know the evil that’s been done.

  I shut my eyes tightly, trying to squeeze that voice out of my head. No, no, no! Aunt Charlie was wrong. I want to remember. I do!

  Click.

  I froze. In the stillness of the house, the distinctive sound of a door gently closing was as loud as a bomb.

  I dropped the towel and dashed to the hallway. All the doors stood wide open except for one—the door to the master bedroom, which I hadn’t opened since arriving in Redemption.

  So which door had closed?

  Was someone in the house?

  I took a quick peek into each room to make sure they really were empty before creeping to the landing, straining my ears to listen over the sound of my harsh breathing and pounding heart. The house was silent except for the muted ticking of the grandfather clock.

  Maybe I didn’t really hear the sound of a door closing after all. Maybe all I had heard was the normal creaks and groans of an old house settling.

  But I didn’t believe my own thoughts. I knew what I heard.

  What I didn’t know was if it meant someone was in the house or had just left.

  Or maybe it wasn’t a person. Maybe one of my resident ghosts, either Aunt Charlie or Mad Martha, had finally learned how to materialize and close doors.

  That thought didn’t make me feel any better.

  I carefully leaned forward, trying to peer into the darkness. Was there someone down there? I couldn’t tell.

  The house certainly felt empty. Other than the grandfather clock ticking, there was no other noise.

  I had to investigate. There was no way I was going back to my bedroom without knowing if there was someone lurking around downstairs. Just the thought of cowering in my room, convinced every creak was someone wandering through the house, was enough to snap me out of my paralysis.

  I quietly eased forward and started down the steps, but didn’t get far before hurrying back up to find a weapon. I headed to the Magic Room and poked around, locating a baseball bat in the closet. When I had first found it a few weeks ago, I didn’t think too much of it. Aunt Charlie was eccentric, after all. Now, I wondered if she kept it there for precisely this purpose.

  Gripping the bat tightly, I started back down the stairs. The house was quiet. Maybe too quiet. I clutched the bat like I was drowning.

  Once downstairs, I did a slow circle of all the rooms, leaving the kitchen for last, checking behind c
orners, doors, and pieces of furniture. No sign that anyone other than myself had been in any of the rooms. The front door was locked.

  All that was left was the kitchen. Silently, I stood at the doorway, trying to peer into the darkness. Was anyone in there waiting for me? Aunt Charlie? Someone, or something, else?

  Skulking around in the darkness wasn’t going to help. If anyone was here, he or she was in the kitchen. Wouldn’t it be better to just confront him now?

  Before I could lose my nerve, my hand snaked out and flipped the switch on the wall.

  The kitchen burst into light so suddenly, I had to temporarily shield my eyes.

  It looked exactly as I had left it the night before, from the pot on the drying rack to the empty wine bottle next to the full recyclables I didn’t feel like taking out last night.

  Laughter bubbled up in my chest. I had scared myself silly over nothing but a bad dream. Sweet relief sang in my veins as I dropped the bat to walk through the kitchen.

  Continuing to giggle, I headed over to the stove to start boiling water for tea. I didn’t particularly like how I was sounding—practically on the verge of hysterics. I needed to get myself under control.

  As I reached for a tea mug I noticed a trail of dirt on the floor leading into the back hallway.

  I froze, my hand still clutching the tea mug. Had that been there before I went to bed? When I was eating dinner? I couldn’t remember. But that dirt must have come from me. Right?

  Suddenly, I was back in my dream, running through the woods as tree branches reached out to claw me, tearing at my clothes, my voice hoarse from screaming for Oscar.

  I blinked, pressing my hand to my heart, trying to force myself to breathe. I wasn’t just outside. That was a dream. I must have tracked dirt in from the garden earlier and just hadn’t noticed until now.

  Behind me, I could hear the tea kettle start to rattle as it always did before it started boiling but I ignored it. Instead, I moved forward following the trail of dirt.

  The clumps of dirt led me past the basement door, the washer and dryer, the sink and Oscar’s litter box before ending in front of the back door.

  I could have tracked that dirt in anytime, I tried to tell myself. My house isn’t spotless. Not like Pat’s.

  An image of Pat in her kitchen, looking like death herself. The devil got him.

  I put my hand on the knob. If the door was locked, then I would know. No one had been in the house.

  I turned the knob. The door opened.

  A moist, cool breeze blew against my face as I stood there, frozen.

  Had I locked the door before I went to bed?

  Just because the door wasn’t locked didn’t mean someone had been in my house. I could have forgotten …

  But had someone been in the house?

  Was someone out there, watching me, even now?

  I squinted, trying to determine if one of the dark shapes was actually a person instead of a tree or bush. Was that a footprint? How did that branch get broken?

  A scream from behind me shattered my paralysis. I jumped, banging my head against the doorframe before realizing it was the tea kettle.

  I slammed the door shut and locked it, double-checking the lock before hurrying to the kitchen.

  Numbly, I made myself a cup of tea before sitting down at the table, carefully positioning myself with my back against the wall while still being able to see both outside the window and the entrance to the kitchen.

  I watched the darkness slowly lighten as the sun rose, my thoughts a chaotic blur. My tea sat in front of me, barely touched, as I tried to make some sense of everything that had happened the past few days.

  Pat. Bear. My mother.

  I don’t think being in that house is healthy for you.

  Jessica.

  You know the evil that has been done.

  Could there be a common link?

  The rotting Jessica in my dream certainly seemed to think so.

  How many more are going to die because you refuse to remember?

  I shivered. I could still smell the putrid scent of decay from when her corpse hissed in my face.

  A part of me automatically protested. There’s nothing to remember. I was so drunk I ended up in the hospital. How could I have had anything to do with Jessica’s disappearance? And besides, it probably wasn’t even possible for me to remember anything anymore. It had been so long.

  Right?

  I scrubbed my face as the kitchen slowly filled with light. In a moment, I would make coffee and maybe call someone, Daphne perhaps, although I still hadn’t talked to her since finding out she may have lied to me. But hearing a friendly voice would reassure me.

  A part of me knew I was being silly. The noise I heard had clearly come from the main floor, and I searched the main floor. No, I hadn’t gone in the basement yet, but I had already blocked that door with a chair. IF I heard what I thought I heard, it was likely someone leaving, not coming in.

  Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling I wasn’t alone in the house. That someone was watching me, waiting to strike ...

  Okay, that was enough of that line of thought. At this rate, I would terrify myself to the point of not being able to leave the kitchen.

  A much better focus for my energy would be on Jessica. Specifically, what I needed to do to get my memory back.

  I had no idea if remembering would even reveal the missing pieces or if it would just create more questions, but at this point, that was secondary. I was done hiding from whatever was locked in my memory, no matter what it revealed. I was ready to do the right thing. Everyone in this town deserved closure, regardless of whether or not I chose to stay or sell the house and go back to New York.

  Including me.

  It was time to finally remember.

  Chapter 11

  I wiped the sweat from my palms and stared at Pat’s house. Other than the yellow police tape stretched across the front door, the ends fluttering in the light breeze, it looked pretty much exactly as it had when I was here a week ago.

  Was it really only a week ago? It felt like it had been at least a month or even longer.

  What precisely was I doing here anyway? What did I think I could accomplish? As far as I could tell, no one was here. The police would have already searched the house and the yard. What did I think I would find that they hadn’t?

  And, how could anything I did find help me remember what happened the night Jessica disappeared? Did I really believe that Bear, Pat and Jessica were all linked somehow?

  I didn’t have any idea anymore. All I knew was that I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the place to start.

  So now what? I was here—what next?

  I didn’t have a clue.

  The house, with its shuttered windows and yellow police tape, seemed to be mocking me.

  I felt like an idiot.

  Leaning against my car, I pulled a little notebook out of my pocket and flipped through it. It would serve as my official record keeper as I investigated Jessica’s disappearance, my lack of memory and whatever happened to Pat. So far, I had jotted down everything I could remember from my conversations with Mia, Daphne and Pat. I also mapped out a rough plan of what I was going to do next.

  Coming here was top of the list.

  I sucked in a deep breath. I’d start with a walk around the house—simple. I didn’t see how anyone could actually be in the house nor was I sure if I could get into it myself with the yellow police tape glaring at me.

  As I strolled across the yard, I noticed the once carefully tended gardens already showing signs of neglect. Weeds sprouted between mounds of colorful petunias and marigolds. I wondered how long Pat had been trapped inside her house, held there by the demons in her mind, only able to watch helplessly as the weeds slowly claimed her beautiful garden.

 
I could also see clear areas of muddy footprints and trampled flowers, most likely from the police and not the ‘devil’ but that would be impossible to sort out now.

  A bit of movement in one of the upstairs windows caught my eye. Was it a curtain fluttering? Was someone in there? Was that even allowed with the yellow police tape? I stood there for a few minutes, studying the window but nothing moved again.

  I must have imagined it but I still found myself hurrying to the front yard. Maybe I would try knocking on the front door after all, just to see what would happen.

  I didn’t get the chance. A middle-aged woman was standing by my car. “Who are you? Are you a journalist?” she barked, holding up a cell phone and advancing toward me. “You better not try anything. I already called the police.”

  She looked middle-aged, but her puffy, red-rimmed eyes and greasy, salt-and-pepper hair made her appear significantly older. She also seemed to be overdressed, considering how humid the day was: pink sweat pants and a long-sleeved, white tee shirt stained with what looked like coffee.

  I held my hands up. “I’m not a journalist or anything like that. I just ... are you Barbara?”

  Her eyes, so much like her mother’s, narrowed at me from behind her black-framed glasses. “How do you know who I am? Who ARE you?”

  I swallowed hard. “My name is Becca …” I hesitated, now that I was divorcing Stefan, I wasn’t sure what name to use, as my maiden name also didn’t feel right. I skipped over it. “And apparently, I’m one of the last people to see your mother alive.”

  She lowered her phone. “You’re the one?”

  I nodded, feeling ashamed and guilty, like I could have, or should have, somehow prevented what happened.

  Her face crumpled into a strange combination of grief and suspicion. “How did you know I was here?”

  “I ...” I paused, feeling silly and unsure. “I actually didn’t. Do you want to sit down?”

  She studied me, and for a moment I was sure she was going to refuse, but instead she nodded. She led me over to the porch steps and plopped down heavily in a heap.

  “You don’t want to go inside?” I asked as I sat down next to her, wondering if she was going to be able to get up again.