Hidden Worlds

by Kristie Cook

  “They’ve been gone an awful long time," I murmured.

  Clicking the light back on, she left it that way, lying flat and still as we stared up at the cotton sheet above our heads.

  “I know,” Amber whispered. There was silence, a sigh, and then, “Why don’t you tell a story, Day? It’ll pass the time.”

  My head rolled to the side, and our eyes met. Worry marred her gaze.

  “Maybe the one about the girl and the mountain?” she asked.

  My eyes slid once more to the blanket. I liked making up stories, and Amber and I spent a lot of nights this way—flashlight on and a sheet over our heads. The thin coverlet was a blank canvas, the stories were the paint, and my mind was the paint brush. It was like painting with words rather than color.

  The T.V. downstairs echoed, the sound of some misfortune caught on tape, and Mrs. Cavendish’s laugh filtered up the stairs.

  “There was a little girl who couldn’t sleep no matter how hard she tried,” I whispered. “Even counting sheep failed to work. The child was discouraged. One morning while eating breakfast, she saw her mother rub irritably at the corners of her eyes. ’The Sand Man has been busy,’ her mother complained.”

  “This intrigued the girl,” Amber interrupted.

  I grinned. I had told this story often simply because it was Amber’s favorite.

  Amber guided the flashlight beam over the sheet, and I followed it with my finger, my voice rising to join the shadows. “When the girl asked the mother who the Sand Man was, she described a magical being with a bag full of sand that had the power to make people sleep. This confused the girl. Why had he not come to see her? ’What happens if the Sand Man doesn’t come?’ she asked her mother.”

  Amber cut in again, “You have to go find him in a place far away called Sleepy Mountain.”

  “That’s right,” I agreed. “If sleep was not to come and the Sand Man failed to show, then the girl would have to seek him out by traveling to his home on Sleepy Mountain. This had to be accomplished before the sun rose over the horizon or the Sand Man would not part with his sand. The girl thought about this. That night, when sleep once again eluded her, she decided to go in search of the Sand Man. She followed her mother’s instructions and, before you know it, she found herself at the bottom of the mountain. But when she looked up, the mountain she found before her was so high, she could not see the top. This scared her. How could anyone climb such a mountain before morning? She wouldn’t give up! She had come this far and refused to turn back. Mustering up her courage, she began to climb.”

  “Whoa!” Amber cried out, her finger jabbing me in the ribs.

  I jumped. “Hey!”

  She didn’t look the least bit guilty. “Didn’t the girl have to close her eyes and count backward from three while chanting some silly little chant first in order to even get to the mountain?”

  I frowned at her.

  “You forgot that part,” she added sheepishly.

  I rubbed the sore spot she’d left behind before poking her back in retaliation.

  She grunted. “Oomph! I didn’t poke you that hard!”

  “So you say.”

  I retold the chanting part of the story before describing the mountain and the huge feat ahead.

  “The girl began to climb. Slowly, so slowly, she propelled herself upward until her legs and arms burned. And still, she climbed. The sky around her turned purple, and she climbed faster. The top was visible.”

  “I can do it! I can!” Amber and I cried out together.

  We giggled. It was our favorite part of the story.

  “The girl made it to the top of the mountain just as the sun began to move along the horizon,” I continued. “She was almost out of time, and she made a run for the Sand Man’s throne.”

  “Help me, help me!” Amber hissed desperately as if she was the girl in the story.

  I kept going. “The old man looked up from his throne, startled. What was this? ’I need sleep,’ the little girl begged. The Sand Man’s expression softened instantly. It had been many years since anyone attempted to scale his mountain and no one had ever been able to do it before dawn. The little girl had prevailed where stronger men and women had failed. The old man took out his black, star covered bag, closed her eyes gently, and blessed the girl with sleep.”

  “And he promised her a restful night of slumber forevermore for her success,” Amber murmured, “That’s a good story, Day.”

  Rolling onto her side groggily, Amber placed the flashlight between us and tucked her hands beneath her head. Her eyelashes fell heavily against her cheeks. There was more to the tale, but I was too tired to go on.

  Reaching out, I placed a hand over Amber’s, a feeling of comfort stealing over me as I watched her chest rise and fall gently. My own lids fell closed.

  ***

  A loud banging woke us. Amber’s flashlight had dulled, and I pulled the sheet down to look at the clock. 2:00 a.m.

  “What was that?” I whispered.

  Fear washed over me, my body tensing. The banging grew louder.

  Amber scooted in close. “Someone’s at the door.”

  The sound came again, and I realized she was right.

  Mrs. Cavendish’s yells filtered up the stairs. “What in God’s name!”

  I held my breath, my ears straining as our sitter banged her way to the front door. The sounds downstairs quieted.

  Grabbing Amber’s arm, I hissed, “What’s going on?”

  She glanced at me. “I don’t know.”

  There were sudden footsteps on the stairs and we froze. Amber wasn’t supposed to be in my room, and neither one of us wanted to get into trouble.

  A glow flooded the space as the bedroom light clicked on, and we blinked hard.

  “Girls?”

  It was Mrs. Cavendish. Her tone sounded odd to me. Hesitant but gentle. She didn’t yell or lecture. I squinted as she moved toward the bed, her curlers bouncing in her grey hair. She was frowning.

  “There are some people downstairs …” Her voice bothered me.

  Amber climbed out of the bed and reached for my hand. Her fingers trembled.

  “Your parents ... they were in an accident,” Mrs. Cavendish said.

  I glanced at Amber, at her round, horrified eyes.

  Clinging hard to her hand, I scooted off of the mattress. “Are they okay?” I whispered.

  Amber moved so close, I could see the tears glistening on her cheeks. Mine were dry.

  Mrs. Cavendish shook her head, her eyes sliding to the floor.

  “They’re hurt then?” I asked. “Are they in the hospital?”

  Mrs. Cavendish shook her head again. “Dayton,” she looked away, “they didn’t make it, sweetheart.”

  Amber’s sobs shook her.

  I stared. Didn’t make it? That couldn’t mean what I thought it meant. It just couldn’t! Not my parents. No ... no, that wasn’t right! She had to be wrong! This was just a bad dream. That’s all. I pinched myself hard.

  “Girls, you need to come downstairs. I’ll grab you some clothes. There are some people here ... social services. They’ll find you a place to go,” Mrs. Cavendish continued gently, her wrinkled hand swiping at a tear. I’d never seen Mrs. Cavendish cry. It was disturbing.

  “But we don’t need to go anywhere! We are at home,” I argued.

  Mrs. Cavendish tried hugging me, but I pulled away. It separated Amber and me.

  “Dayton—"

  “No!” I said.

  Over and over I said it. Kneeling down, I brought my knees into my chest. No! There I stayed, repeating it again over and over. No! No! No! No! No! They weren’t gone! They weren’t!

  At some point, someone must have moved me. I was outside, and then inside somewhere. People stirred around me. Vaguely, I felt Amber scoot in close. I didn’t know where we were. I didn’t care. Someone gave us food, but I pushed it away. I wanted my parents. The hurt was all consuming. My heart was broken but the pain wasn’t limited to my ch
est. It ate away at my insides too, like tiny insects gnawing away at my gut. I had to fight the urge to punch myself in the stomach. I refused to cry.

  “We need to go,” someone whispered.

  I finally registered where we were. It was a bright office, lights fluorescent and blinding. I think there had been a house before this but my memory was dim. Ugly, green plastic chairs were pushed up against a shabby linoleum floor. It shined with a coat of wax, but it was obvious the place needed remodeling. Amber and I were in two of the puke green chairs and it was cold. Amber’s hand slid into mine. I looked at her and tried to smile. It wouldn’t come. Her eyes looked as cold as my heart felt.

  “Girls,” a kind female voice said.

  A small woman with mousy brown hair and a long nose knelt in front of us. “Your mother’s sister, Kyra, has been designated your guardian. This means you’ll be going to live with her. Do you understand that?” she asked.

  We didn’t respond. The only memory I had of my aunt was the faint, disturbing image of a scowling woman dressed all in black. She was younger than my mother. That much I knew. I didn’t care to know more.

  Frowning, the woman glanced over her shoulder at an older man leaning against a scarred desk. He nodded.

  “We’ll be taking you to her soon,” she explained.

  Amber’s hand tightened in mine. I shut my mind down quickly. The woman moved away from us and started filling out paperwork. My mind wandered. It seemed easier to move through each minute using only vague images, never fully concentrating on each individual moment. The hurt had eaten a hole through my stomach. I wondered why no one else could see the wound.

  “Time to go,” a distant voice said.

  There were images again—a car, a brief drive, a sign that read: Blackstone Abbey. A long driveway stretched before us, the avenue lined with wellmanicured trees lining the avenue. Each one was spaced precisely. Sun dappled the road. Amber leaned against me.

  “There it is,” a voice said.

  My gaze moved up and up and up again. The grey stone building that came into view was huge. The front was circular and looked eerily like a church. The rest of the building stretched forever outward on both sides. It was three stories high. The face of the structure appeared new, gardens lining the building in sporadic well designed plots along the front. The closer we got; however, the more visible the age became. The structure was old. Any renovations done couldn’t hide the building’s maturity. It was like botox. It only held the attention briefly.

  “What is this?” Amber asked.

  I couldn’t look away from the building.

  “This is your new home,” the woman from earlier chirped. Her enthusiasm was forced. A numbing chill crept up my spine. “Your aunt is the Abbess of Blackstone Abbey. She resides here with her Order. She’s a lovely woman.”

  “We’ll be living in a church?” I surprised myself by asking.

  Everyone froze. It was the first time I’d spoken since receiving the news of our parents’ death. I couldn’t avoid it any longer. Our parents were gone. The gnawing intensified.

  “You’ll be a part of the Abbey community, yes,” the woman answered. I think she realized my reluctance. Who grew up in a church?

  The car pulled to a stop. It was then I noticed the woman.

  Amber gasped from beside me. “Aunt Kyra.”

  She looked just like our mother, only younger. I stared. It was hard not to. She was a tall blonde-haired beauty with piercing blue eyes. Her presence demanded attention. Her body was enfolded in a billowing black robe that made her shape mostly indistinguishable. She was frowning. I frowned back. She may look a lot like our mother but the similarities ended there. Her eyes were too cold.

  “Mr. Adams, Ms. Smith,” my aunt greeted as we climbed out of the car.

  She shook the social workers’ hands then turned toward Amber and me. We clutched each other tightly.

  “Amber, Dayton ...”

  She studied us, her eyes raking over our disheveled clothes and weary faces. I caught a glimpse of disdain in her gaze, and I scowled. Our parents were dead. We’d not been concerned with our appearance.

  Aunt Kyra’s continued scrutiny made me self-conscious, and I looked down at my shoes. I knew what she saw. Amber’s hair and eyes matched Aunt Kyra’s. I was different. With auburn curls and green eyes, I resembled my father. Both of us had the dark circles and red eyes brought on by grief. My eyes were dry from unshed tears. Amber’s was swollen.

  “Welcome to Blackstone,” Kyra finally said. “I’ve hired a local woman to help with your care.”

  She turned toward the Abbey. Our eyes followed hers. A merry, rotund woman bustled forward with a smile. She wore big round glasses, and was fighting the wind for control of a disheveled mousy brown bun.

  “This is Diane. You’ll go with her for now."

  The ordered command was meant for Amber and me but was directed at the smiling woman. I bit my tongue to keep my expression neutral. Aunt Kyra’s indifference hurt.

  Diane took us each by the hand, separating Amber and me.

  Emptiness filled me, and my lungs burned with unshed tears. I thought of the Sand Man’s mountain, and I lifted my chin stubbornly. I can do it. I can, I thought. We were pushed gently toward the Abbey as our Aunt turned back toward the two social workers. We never heard what was said.

  ***

  The sun was bright the afternoon we buried our parents. The cemetery was a pretty one, small and well-tended. It seemed appropriately quaint. People surrounded us, whispering sympathetic words as they moved to stand before the two open graves. The caskets hovered above them, gleaming as sunlight bounced off of the wood, and I found it hard to look away. They were in boxes. My parents were packaged away in polished mahogany boxes. It seemed wrong. I wanted to set them free.

  As if summoned by my thoughts, a bird alighted on a nearby tombstone, its wings fluttering as it pruned its light greyish-brown feathers. A mourning dove. Its black eyes met mine, and I stilled as it cocked its head. The comfort of those eyes drew me in. Someone passed between me and the grave and the connection broke. I fought to see around the large woman blocking my view, but was met only with emptiness when the woman finally shifted. The bird had disappeared.

  A hand slipped into mine, but when I looked up, it wasn’t Amber’s eyes that met my own. It was Monroe’s. I gripped her hand, our eyes meeting briefly. She was attired as always in a vintage child’s dress meant more for the 1950’s, her blonde hair flipped and held back by a dark headband. Born Ellie Elizabeth Jacobs, she had declared at the ripe old age of nine that she was to forthwith be referred to as Monroe after her new idol, Marilyn Monroe. Her mother was addicted to old black and white films. It had rubbed off on her daughter. We’d been best friends since preschool when I’d offered to beat up a three-year-old boy for stealing her cookie. I’d un-regretfully kicked him in the nuts.

  “Dayton,” Monroe’s mother murmured from behind her.

  Moving away from my aunt, I stuffed my face into Mrs. Jacobs’ middle, never letting go of Monroe’s hand as I did. Mrs. Jacobs palm cupped the back of my head. She didn’t tell me she was sorry, that she understood, or that my parents were in a better place. She just held me. Monroe hugged my back.

  “Dayton!” my aunt hissed.

  Flinching, I started to pull away, but Mrs. Jacobs held on.

  “You call me if you need anything,” she whispered before letting go.

  Nodding, I moved back to my aunt. Aunt Kyra didn’t touch me.

  People began departing as the funeral came to a close. I recognized a small number of faces, mainly close friends of my mother. A few of their children were my age, and I eyed them as they moved past—Conor, Lita, and Jacin. Out of all three, only Conor attempted to approach me the same way Monroe had. My aunt moved between us.

  Conor’s head hung, and he turned away. I stood frozen. The sight of the caskets being lowered into the ground had me entranced, oblivious to anything but the pain. Dirt fell
into the holes, thumping as it hit the wood below.

  Amber left the graves and went to the waiting cars. I didn’t follow.

  “Will I get to see you now that you live at the Abbey?” Monroe asked.

  My answer was fierce. “Yes!”

  Nothing could keep us apart.

  “Time to go.” My aunt held out her hand, her eyes raking Monroe with disgust. Despite Kyra’s glare, I hugged Monroe hard and moved toward the waiting vehicles.

  I was in the car, the engine purring, when I noticed the man. He stood in the trees to the side of the grave. To most, he would be hidden by the gloom. His hair was black, his clothes the same shade. His face was shadowed, but I could swear his eyes glowed red. I shivered.

  That night the dream began. It was always the same dream, like a movie looped to replay over and over in my head. It cut me, wounded me beyond belief. It scarred my soul. There was no relief from it.

  “You have to close your eyes, Day,” my father whispered, his hands closing over my face gently but near enough my lashes brushed up against his palms. Butterfly kisses. I had to fight the urge to giggle.

  “What am I looking for?” I asked him, not for the first time.

  He leaned in closer from behind me, his breath fanning along my neck as he bent even more to accommodate my height.

  “The light, Day. Always look for the light."

  I squinted against his hands. I wanted so very badly to get this right, to hear approval in his tone as a conclusion to whatever lesson I was supposed to be learning, but my mind was blank. I did not understand him, in so many ways.

  “I can’t see anything. There’s only darkness!” I cried. This was ridiculous.

  Dad didn’t move, just grew very still in that way of his, the one that reminded me in vivid detail of a marble statue I’d seen in a museum once. It was a little scary.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered as the seconds ticked by.

  He didn’t remove his hands. The silence stretched.

  “There is always light in the darkness, Day,” Dad said suddenly.

  I almost jumped as his voice boomed around me. He wasn’t yelling. He just wasn’t whispering anymore. Dad had what I liked to call a large voice. He spoke. You listened.