“She used exactly the same phrase as Grace. ‘Two and two and two.’ And I think Grace heard her, too. That’s what she was yelling about at the end, wasn’t it?”
“It’s not Lucy’s fault that Grace was psychotic,” I argue.
“Why are you pushing so hard on this?” Mel asks, sounding bewildered, and I’m suddenly not sure I know. Except that I trust Lucy. I like her. It feels like coming home to an old friend, finding her here, and I want more than anything to help her.
Becca saves me from needing an answer. “Because it’s the only way we all escape.”
“Five of us,” Kyle says. I’ve almost forgotten he’s there, he’s so withdrawn. “And I’m guessing that even if it would last long enough, they’re not going to just give us that candle. But we shouldn’t trust her.”
I want to tell him that he’s wrong. I look at Becca, and I’m surprised to see anger flickering in her expression—anger at the others, the same as what is brewing in me. Why is she angry? Why am I so certain?
I still don’t remember.
We talk awhile longer. Argue, maybe. In the end, the only thing that matters is what we’ve already said: this is our only option. And then . . .
The more I try to remember, the more it frays. I remember we decide to leave at daybreak. The sky is already turning gray. I search it horizon to horizon. There are no crows, and this means something.
You want the rest of the story? Here it is. We walk off the road, each of us with one hand in our partner’s, the other clutching a key. We walk to the gates of Ys. We walk through the dark. We walk out again, into woods whose name we know.
Not all of us. But you knew that already.
What is it you don’t know? What is it you’re looking for, in all of this? We walked out of the dark. Isn’t that what matters? Some of us made it out.
You want to know who.
Is that it? You want to know who made it out, and who didn’t.
And I don’t know why I’d think that. And I don’t know why I don’t know the answer.
There’s something wrong with me, isn’t there?
* * *
—
What happened in the dark?
INTERVIEW
SARA DONOGHUE
May 9, 2017
ASHFORD: What happened in the dark?
Sara doesn’t answer. She hunches her shoulders, sitting almost sideways in the chair to point her body away from him.
ASHFORD: That’s what you wrote, at the end of your statement. “What happened in the dark?” But you were there, Sara. You’re the only one who was there for all of it. You’re the only one who knows for certain.
SARA: But I don’t. I can’t remember.
ASHFORD: I understand, Sara.
SARA: You do? Because I don’t. Why can’t I remember? I can’t remember what happened, and I can’t remember Nick, and I—there was something I forgot, and then I remembered, and now it’s gone again, but I told you, didn’t I? I told you?
Her voice is pleading.
ASHFORD: You mean Miranda.
She lets out a sigh, shuts her eyes.
SARA: Yes. Miranda. I—there’s something important. Something she told me.
Her fingers tap on the table.
ASHFORD: When did you write those words on your arm, Sara?
She looks down at her arm, pushes the sleeve up a few inches, frowns at the writing on her flesh.
SARA: I don’t remember.
ASHFORD: Do you remember why you did it?
SARA: I was trying. To remember.
ASHFORD: But you don’t remember what you were trying to remember.
Sara lets out a hysterical giggle and rakes her fingernails over her scalp.
ASHFORD: There’s no need for that, Sara. I want you to look at me a moment.
She lifts her eyes to his reluctantly.
ASHFORD: You’ve been tapping out a pattern. You repeated it verbally earlier, when you said you wanted to tell me about Miranda. And you’ve written it on your arms.
Sara is stock-still, breathing thinly between her teeth.
ASHFORD: I’ve been going through your testimony, Sara. I noticed what you said to Mel in the lighthouse. “Count the crows.” I think I may know what it means. What that pattern you keep tapping means.
SARA: Don’t.
ASHFORD: I want you to think about school, Sara. I want you to think about sitting on the back steps, the day the message arrived. I want you to think about what you saw.
SARA: I saw Vanessa.
ASHFORD: Before that.
SARA: Trees. And—
ASHFORD: Yes?
SARA: I don’t know. A crow.
ASHFORD: Yes. Try to fix that image in your mind, Sara. Now I want you to think about your dream. The dream you had of Miranda. What did you see in the sky?
SARA: Birds.
ASHFORD: Crows. How many of them?
SARA: Five.
Her fingertip taps out the number against the tabletop. Ashford nods encouragingly.
ASHFORD: Good. And then—
SARA: After the gate. After the dark. There was a crow screaming. And then—and then in the town. The crow that attacked that man.
ASHFORD: One and five and one. One and four and three. What were the four and the three, Sara?
SARA: There were so many, after the flood of dark. But—but then they flew away, and there were four left. And the crows flew up from the trees in the lake and there were too many to count, but then there were three on the gate, waiting. I’m sure. There were three on the gate.
Her knuckles rap three times, sharp and steady against the table, and she locks eyes with Ashford.
SARA: One and five and one. One and four and three. And two crows in the eaves of the house. And five crows when I ran to save Kyle. And two—and two crows—
ASHFORD: Where did you see two crows, Sara? Think. Remember. Please.
SARA: The gate before the beach. After Jeremy and Trina. I went down to the gate by the beach, and I sat down. The sun was setting. The light was red over the water. I remember thinking it looked nothing at all like blood. Jeremy’s blood was darker. It was thicker. And two crows landed on the gate. And then—and then—
Her fingertips twitch. Ashford slides a pen and paper toward her.
ASHFORD: One and five and one. One and four and three. Two and five and two. You can do it, Sara. You can remember.
She begins to write.
26
AND THEN I’M not alone. Someone is sitting with me, a presence more sensed than seen. I turn my head—just enough to make out her shape, shot through with the dying light like sun through murky water. I can count the bones of her hands.
“Hello, Sara,” Miranda says.
“You can’t be here,” I say. I can’t turn my head all the way to look at her; fear claws through the numb shell I’ve built around me. “You were lost. In the dark.”
“It wasn’t the dark,” she says. “It was the sunrise. It’s harder to exist in the light. I’m less real.”
She stretches out her hand. It shifts, becomes more solid, then the bones and muscles and veins glimmer below her skin again. She pulls it back.
“What are you?” I ask in a hushed whisper.
“Dead,” she says, with a harsh laugh. “Which I suppose doesn’t clarify things much here.”
“You’re a—ghost?”
“Yes. I died a long way from here.” I turn to face her now. She smiles a little, sad. “I’m sorry I stayed away so long. It’s harder, here. It’s not just the daylight. It’s the road. I don’t belong, and it knows it. It’s easier to hide from it at night. I think I’m safe for a little while, though. And we needed to talk.�
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“Why?” I ask. “Why are you here? Why are you—are you helping us? Or—”
“I died—I was killed—and then I woke up,” she says. “And I didn’t know where I was or what I was supposed to be doing, but I found the road. Or it found me. It catches things. Lost things. Like me.”
“Like the creatures in the house?” I ask.
“A bit like that. Though I’m not as lost as they are. I’ve got a good hold on who I am. So far, at least. It might last. Might not. The point is, while I was wandering the road in those first few days after I died, I found your sister.”
“Becca. She didn’t say anything.”
“I didn’t show myself. I didn’t know how to hide from the road, not yet, and for someone—something—like me, if you draw its notice—well. Once the road notices you, you start to become part of it. You lose the ability to leave. So I only watched.
“Becca talked to herself sometimes. She talked to you, too. And I knew that you would come, eventually, because you’re her sister and that’s what sisters do. I brought you the notebook.” I frown, thinking of Isaac. She left you a map. I thought he’d been talking about Becca. He must have gotten them confused, his mind too addled by the road to distinguish the living girl and the dead one. Miranda continues. “I helped, what little I could without the road noticing me. Without her noticing me.”
“Without Becca noticing you?” I ask, confused.
She shakes her head. “Think, Sara. You’re getting so close to her now. This might be the last chance you have to remember.”
“Remember? I . . .” I look away. There’s something at the back of my mind. A dream I had, maybe. The memory of a voice whispering in my ear. Find me. Not Becca. “Lucy,” I say. “I didn’t—I didn’t come here for Becca, did I?”
“Of course you did,” she says. “You would carve through a hundred worlds to find your sister. She used that love, Sara, but it was real.”
“I was having dreams about Lucy,” I say. “I could hear her calling me. Telling me to find her. I can still hear her. But I can’t—” I shudder. Find me, a soft voice whispers, and I feel the sensation of fingertips dragging over the backs of my hands. “Why can’t I remember?”
“Places like this do strange things to memory. Make it malleable. There are things that take advantage. The echoes took Nick from you.” The name means nothing to me; it slides away. “They’re hungry, bitter things, but their motives are simple, at least. What she’s doing is more complex.”
“And what is that?”
“She’s altering your memories, but she’s also making you . . . open,” Miranda says. “Vulnerable. She needs you, you see. To escape this place. She’s greedy for life. She’ll take yours if she can.”
“Take mine? How . . . What . . .”
“Listen. I will tell you as plainly as I can,” Miranda says. “Since you first started having the dreams, she’s been shaping your mind and your memory. Because if you know what she is and what she wants, you’ll try to stop her. She’ll hide every memory you might use against her. She’ll hide this one, too, because I’ve told you what she’s doing. And if you can’t remember, you can’t fight her.”
“Help me, then,” I say, desperate. I can feel fingernails of fear against my throat; I know Miranda is right.
“We don’t have much time. The eyes of the road are on me,” Miranda says. “And once you cross the water, I won’t be able to follow.”
“Then how do I stop her?” I ask, the only question that seems to matter.
“I don’t know,” Miranda says sadly. “I don’t even know if you can. But if you can remember, maybe you have a chance. I can’t give you your memories back, but I can help you make a map back to this moment. And if you can remember this, remember what she is and what she’s doing, maybe you can find the rest of the memories she’s hiding. Find the truth.”
“A map?”
“A trick,” she says. “A trail of memories so inconsequential she won’t think to erase them. If you can tie those memories to this conversation, it might be enough to uncover it.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“Something small, but concrete. A pattern you can remember,” Miranda says. “It could be anything. A color. A phrase you’ve heard along the way. It can be anything, as long as you remember it. And as long as she won’t think to destroy it.”
My eyes flick to the gate, to the two crows crouched there. They’ve been here the whole time—there was a crow in the tree when I talked to Vanessa, that day in school. And more on the road since, alone and in groups.
Miranda follows my gaze. She doesn’t need me to say anything at all; it’s like she knows what I’m thinking. She nods. “Count the crows, Sara. All of the crows you’ve seen along the way. Remember them. Follow them back to this moment, and remember me.”
She stands. The light carves through her. Voices tumble behind us, coming toward the crest of the hill. The others will be here soon.
“And Sara? I have a sister, too. Find her, if you can. She works for a man named Andrew Ashford. They can help you. Tell Abby—tell her I’m sorry. Tell her to stop looking for me.”
And then Miranda is gone.
One of the crows on the gate croaks, shaking his wings. “Two,” I whisper, my finger tapping twice, slowly, against my thigh.
INTERVIEW
SARA DONOGHUE
May 9, 2017
Sara stares down at the page she’s written. Slowly, deliberately, she sets the pen to the side. And then she begins to tear the page in two.
ASHFORD: Sara, don’t—
He reaches for her. She slaps his hand away.
SARA: Don’t! Don’t touch it. You can’t—
They grapple with the pad of paper. He wins, pulling it free of her as she shrieks.
SARA: It isn’t true! None of that is true. I lied. I lied to you. Nothing happened. I sat alone. I sat alone until they came to find me. None of that is true.
With every word, the frantic strain in her voice settles. Her hands go flat against the table. She looks levelly at Ashford. He skims the page, glancing quickly between the words and the girl.
SARA: It’s nonsense.
ASHFORD: Is that so.
SARA: I don’t know why I wrote it. None of that happened.
Ashford remains silent.
SARA: You don’t believe me.
ASHFORD: I believe that you are telling me the truth, as you understand it. Some memories are hard to hold on to. But I think this one is important. I want you to think about the crows, Sara. I want you to count them. They’re bread crumbs, leading you to the memories you’ve lost. Miranda gave you a tool. Hold that in your mind as long as you can. I’ll be back in a moment.
SARA: Where are you going?
ASHFORD: I think it’s time that you spoke to your sister.
PART V
THE TRUTH
EXHIBIT N
Excerpts from interviews conducted in 1963
“I’ve never stopped waiting for her to come home. Like nothing ever happened. It would be so like her. She was such an imp. That’s why we thought for such a long time that it must be a prank she was playing, because she was upset that her sister was getting all the attention.”
—Irene Callow, mother of Lucy Callow
“She was a little shit. She’d always been a little shit. She ran off into the woods because she couldn’t stand not being the center of attention for once.”
—William Callow, brother of Lucy Callow (unpublished)
“The girl’s dead. No ghost story changes that she went into the woods and died. If you ask me, her brother did it. That cockamamie story about a disappearing road. He was hiding something. And pissed at her for running off. Always thought so. But without a body, what could we do?”
—Jack Brechin
, Mass. State Police (unpublished)
Note from Mark Watts, reporter at the Briar Glen Beacon, to his editor:*
I’ve been working on this too long. I’m starting to dream about her. I’m turning in what I’ve got along with the rest of my notes. If you need more, you can get someone else to finish it.
INTERVIEW
SARA DONOGHUE
May 9, 2017
The door opens slowly. Rebecca Donoghue enters, followed by Andrew Ashford. A bruise mottles Rebecca’s cheek, and her left eye is slightly swollen. Bandages cover her arms at random intervals. Sara sits placidly, staring down at her hands, which are folded on the tabletop. Abigail Ryder is the last to enter, and at Ashford’s nod she takes up a position in the corner, her hand on the syringe in her pocket.
BECCA: Hello, Sara.
Sara mutters something but doesn’t look up.
BECCA: Dr. Ashford said that you might be ready to talk. About what happened.
SARA: What about what happened?
BECCA: He says that you need to remember on your own.
Sara lets out a sound between a whine and a moan, like an animal in pain.
SARA: I don’t want to.
BECCA: Sara, you need help.
SARA: I don’t need help. I’m fine. Except that I’m locked up in here.
BECCA: You aren’t fine. You haven’t been fine since we left the road, and you know it. You’re the one who—you told me to call them. You begged me.
SARA: She’s lying.
She looks at Ashford. Her eyes are dark and glinting with intensity.
SARA: Don’t you see? What we pulled off that road wasn’t her. And she’s trying to confuse you. She’s been messing with my memory. Making me remember things that aren’t there.
BECCA: That’s not true.
ASHFORD: This isn’t productive. Sara, all we want is the truth. All we want is to know what happened when you left the road.
SARA: She turned on us.
Rules for Vanishing Page 22