Hidden Worlds

by Kristie Cook

  “You need to learn to look past the dark. If you don’t, it can consume you."

  I opened my eyes to look at the back of his hands. I didn’t understand that word consumed. I said it to myself as I stared at the lines etched into his palms. They almost seemed to glow. His hands dropped, but he still held me away. The sun was setting behind us, and our shadows loomed large against the ground, his monstrous one looming over my smaller one. I felt like I was going to cry, and I hunched in on myself as I watched his broad shoulders lift in a sigh.

  “Don’t worry, Day. It’s not your time yet,” Dad said.

  His shadow hand came to land gently on my small shoulder. His skin was warm. I wanted to lean into it, but I was too hurt by my own sense of failure. I would never understand him.

  “I never get it right!”

  Stomping my foot, I pouted. He stood and moved around me then, his face stone-like and solemn.

  “Day—”

  I stomped again anyway. I knew I was throwing a fit, but I didn’t care.

  “Amber always gets everything right. Always!” I whined.

  Dad studied me a moment before kneeling down in front of me.

  “Amber is . . . different,” he said slowly, as if carefully weighing his words, “And it’s good that you two aren’t alike. You are special, Day. There’s a fire in you no one else can see. Not yet, but it’s there."

  I squinted up at him. I didn’t understand this stuff about fire, but dad looked so sure, so confident that it made me feel a little better. It didn’t stop me from stomping my foot again though just for good measure. Dad smiled.

  And then the darkness came.

  Confusion engulfed me. The scene changed. It was like someone pulled a rope and the backdrop was different.

  It was sudden, the rain, but I felt it pelting my body unmercifully as the clouds came tumbling one over another across the sky—thick, black, and ominous. I wanted to scream but nothing came out. Lightning flashed in jagged lines across the sky and mud started to slide in large avalanche-like chunks as water piled on top of water. The rain hurt, digging sharply into my skin, and I cried.

  “Run, Day. Look for the light,” I heard him whisper in my ear, but when I started turning to look for him, the space behind me was empty. The rain was coming harder, more brutal, like fingers trying to peel away the skin.

  “Run. . .” I heard again.

  This time I listened, slipping and sliding as I tried to get my feet into the sucking mud. I kept falling, my knees gripped by the punishing ground. I cried harder. Blood was dripping from my face, and I worried skin had indeed been peeled away. I tried running again. I had to run. Had to!

  “Dad!” I screamed as I fell again, the earth trembling beneath my knees, bucking and rolling till fissures began to open up along the ground, widening until a large hole had materialized in front of me. There was nowhere I could run, no one to turn to.

  “Daddy!” I sobbed as the earth gave way beneath me, and I fell. It was dark. So very dark, and I held my breath waiting for the end.

  “Look for the light, Day,” I heard my dad whisper, but as the air rushed in around me I welcomed the darkness. The thought of light now, scared me. I didn’t want to see the end.

  “Day. . .”

  It was an echo this time. My name moved around me and through me, and I finally found the voice to scream.

  7 Years Later . . .

  Chapter 1

  The Time has come when He will come looking. She is ready. I have faith in her. She is her father’s daughter. She carries my blood. And I will never forgive myself for feeding her to the wolves.

  ~Bezaliel~

  The cotton fibers of my pillowcase rubbed my cheeks as I stuffed my face into the sham. “Remind me again why we’re watching this?” I asked, my voice muffled.

  A popcorn kernel hit me on the side of the head. My stomach heaved. I didn’t see how she could eat.

  “You have to ask me that?” Monroe replied.

  I looked up just in time to see the girl on the portable DVD player yell profanities at the priest next to her bed.

  My face hit the pillow again. “Oh!”

  Monroe laughed and plopped down beside me. “How many people can say they’ve watched the Exorcist while inside a church?”

  I saw her point. My stomach didn’t.

  “I’m so glad you’re so easily amused,” I complained.

  Reaching over, Monroe hit the pause button.

  I refused to glance at the screen. I had never liked horror movies. I wasn’t starting now. I was your typical cry during a Gerber commercial, chick flick, over-sensitive kind of gal. If that made me a romantic, then so be it.

  Monroe grinned. “We’ve got to work on hardening you up.”

  I threw my pillow at her. “Speak for yourself. Let’s watch a tamer classic. Maybe a little Gone with the Wind?”

  I leafed through Monroe’s overnight bag. She always brought her entire house in one piece of luggage. It was like being best friends with Mary Poppins. I kept expecting her to pull out a coat rack, coffee table, and lamp. Monroe claimed being prepared was an essential part of living. I was convinced being under-prepared led to adventure. We tended to debate the issue.

  I found the Margaret Mitchell-based film and held it up. “Hell, for that matter, let’s just fast forward it to the end so we can watch Rhett walk out the door.”

  Monroe gasped in delight, jumping up to lift my hand theatrically before feigning a faint on the bed. I sprawled out next to her, one of my hands reaching for the ceiling, the other resting forlornly against my heart.

  “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn!” we cried in unison, our gaudy southern accents sorely overdone as we collapsed into a fit of giggles.

  We were, admittedly, cheesy "closet" performing artists who loved to dramatize things for fun, and I was definitely seeking laughter over goose bumps. No more Exorcist for me. I had to live in this dank, stone fortress my aunt called home. And while Aunt Kyra coveted the Abbey, I didn’t share her love for the place. It was simply a place to sleep. The only way I could handle its monotonous gloom was to constantly re-imagine it in my head. Even now, I saw the stone walls transform in front of my eyes, becoming a foreboding dungeon protected by a fire-breathing dragon. Only I wasn’t a damsel in distress and I wasn’t holding my breath for my knight in shining Armani.

  “Stop it, Dayton,” I murmured.

  My gaze settled on Monroe. She got to go home, a real home with real family and real routines, ones that didn’t involve robes and lectures. I envied her that. A familiar sense of depression and foreboding filled me, and I let myself sink into the mattress, our giggles echoing around us.

  Rolling onto her side, Monroe propped her head up on her fist. “There you go again,” she sighed. “Where do you go when you do that?”

  I turned my face away. “What do you mean?”

  Our moments together came fewer and further between the older we became, and I didn’t want to ruin that.

  Monroe snorted. “You know exactly what I mean.”

  My lips quirked. “I’m being Rapunzel, my tower a lifeless dungeon of doom,” I teased, waving my hands the same way I’d seen Marshall Duncan do when he narrated a school production of Romeo and Juliet the year before.

  Monroe gave me the look.

  Rolling my eyes, I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m just having a blah moment. Sometimes, I get this feeling … Really, let’s just let it go."

  Monroe sat up and tucked a pillow beneath her chin, hugging it. I knew she expected a better response, but sometimes it’s easier to feel rather than broadcast an emotion and I met her expectant stare with one just as stubborn. It wasn’t long before she broke eye contact.

  Grumbling profanities, something about stubborn-ass red heads, she reached out and picked at a piece of fuzz on my comforter. Monroe was funny about things like that. Obsessive compulsive even.

  “You know, since the funeral—”

  I cut he
r off. “It’s not about my parents.”

  Monroe shrugged, her gaze on her hands. I hadn’t meant to snap at her and guilt swamped me.

  Reaching over, I patted her leg. “I’m sorry … it’s just not about them.”

  My mind wandered as I glanced around the small bedroom. It was a drafty room constructed entirely of stone, mostly bare with the exception of a small wooden desk and a cheap plywood dresser. The bed was the main focal point. It was twin size with purple satin sheets and a deep violet comforter. Beside it, there was a small wooden table with a stack of composition books. Crumpled paper littered the floor. Each piece held a discarded thought or idea. One sheet was turned up and I read the line I’d scrawled on it in my head. Ludicrous is He, a tyrant that rules the past you see. The past. A tyrant. My tyrant

  “It’s the Abbey."

  Monroe looked up, startled. “The Abbey?”

  The Abbey was my dungeon, my own personal hell. It was filled with nothing but grieving memories and little affection. I’d never shared that thought before but speaking an emotion made it real. I hadn’t wanted that. Reality reeked.

  I watched Monroe, imagining her as a fussy psychiatrist with tiny, wire rimmed glasses perched on the tip of her nose. The image was missing the legal pad and pen, but it still made the whole spilling of mental deficiencies easier. My bed became an office corner lounge.

  “It scares me,” I admitted. “Something about it … It’s like the walls are waiting for something. Watching.”

  Monroe’s eyes widened. “Waiting for what?”

  I frowned. “I don’t know. It’s just a feeling.”

  “Are you trying to scare me?” she asked.

  My gaze flew to hers. I never lied to Monroe. She knew that.

  She glanced around the room, her eyes troubled. We’d gone from watching a scary movie to me creating the plot for one. I regretted it.

  “Waiting for what you think?” she repeated.

  There was no doubt she felt it too.

  I shrugged. It was, like I said, just a feeling. It was suffocating. It had me counting down the days until I graduated, mentally marking the stone walls of the Abbey the same way Edmond Dantes recorded his time of imprisonment in The Count of Monte Cristo. If only I had my own island of treasure to discover minus the need for vengeance.

  “And then there’s my aunt,” I murmured.

  The walls listened, their heavy presence closing in on me.

  Monroe found another piece of fuzz. “Lady Ky is intimidating.”

  She made quotes in the air with her fingers, enunciating the regal nickname we’d given Kyra years ago.

  I didn’t disagree. “And disappointed in me.”

  It surprised me to admit that. The psychiatrist image was working too well.

  Monroe removed the pillow and leaned forward, her expression thoughtful. “What makes you think that?”

  I pointed out another piece of lint. She scowled but didn’t reach for it.

  “There’s always some reason to feel not good enough,” I said. “She has high expectations. And I’m not what she wants me to be. Amber is, I think.”

  Monroe scooted off the bed and walked over to my desk. She knew I was right. She’d seen the way things were at the Abbey, but she didn’t seem to know what to say. And I was more than ready to let go of the whole conversation. The Abbey was a world of its own, a society ruled by little affection but iron clad rules. The halls were always full of black robed, short-haired sober women who seemed intent on a purpose no one else knew about. It was eerie, and it tended to make most people uncomfortable. Even Monroe seemed tense when she stayed. I didn’t blame her.

  “We need to do something to your room,” she said, changing the subject.

  Reaching into the back of my desk drawer, she pulled out a dumdum lollipop and a piece of gum. The gum, she popped into her mouth, the dumdum, she handed to me. I took it gratefully. Mmm ... pineapple.

  Monroe watched my face. “Tastes like the tropics, right?”

  I rolled the sucker around on my tongue. “Tahiti.”

  We did this often, pretending we were somewhere other than Lodeston, Mississippi. Monroe loved this game.

  “There’s sand the color of pearls and water like turquoise. And coconut scented suntan lotion—” she continued.

  I picked up where she left off. “We have Bahama-mama size cold, fruity drinks with those little toothpick umbrellas and huge padded lounge chairs—”

  Monroe fanned herself desperately. “And Paul Walker is rubbing lotion into my back.”

  She sighed heavily. I laughed. Monroe was obsessed with Paul. He reminded her of those sexy surf dudes in the old Gidget films. Only Monroe. There weren’t many sixteen year-olds who’d even know what those films were. Paul was ooookay, but I, personally, found the dude from Clash of the Titans more appealing. Sam Worthington. He had sex appeal. Or maybe it was Perseus I found alluring. I had the uncanny ability of falling in love with book and film characters. Who wouldn’t want to rub up against a sexy, tortured demi-god?

  “You’re impossible,” I said.

  She grinned. “TouchÉ.”

  I stuck out my tongue. She danced around the room, pretending to waltz with her invisible "Paul." She was tall enough and elegant enough to make it look like a ballroom demonstration.

  I lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling as Monroe sang softly under her breath. We stayed that way awhile until my dumdum had melted and I’d thrown the stick on my bedside table. That was the great thing about our friendship. We didn’t have to talk or stay busy to enjoy each other’s company.

  I closed my eyes, letting myself drift off into my own daydreams. The bed was comfortable beneath me, the satin sheets warm, and my body slackened.

  A blood curdling scream woke me.

  I flew upward, my heart a heavy drum in my chest, to find Monroe pushed up against my bedroom wall, a hand clamped over her mouth. Her face was bone white, her eyes glued to my bedroom window.

  Climbing off the bed, I moved toward her. “Monroe?”

  My gaze followed hers, my heart beating twice for each step I took. Sweat made my neck feel cool. The curtains were pulled back and dusk was beginning to fall outside. Purple and pink weaved through a semi-dark cloud strewn sky pierced by a rising crescent moon. Nothing seemed out of place.

  “Th-there was a man at your window,” Monroe stuttered.

  My eyes widened, my heart skipping a beat before resuming its too quick staccato. “What?”

  Monroe came unfrozen, her hands flailing in agitation. “A man, Dayton. A fucking man!”

  She moved to my curtains, hiding in the fabric as she searched the yard beyond. I moved behind her, and she jumped.

  A man? Really? It wasn’t possible. My bedroom was on the second floor.

  Monroe began to shake, goose bumps rising on her shoulders.

  I stiffened, the prickly sensation of being watched gripping me. “What did he look like?”

  Monroe let go of the curtain and slid to the floor, her breathing fast. “It was just his face. I saw it briefly. Dark hair, dark eyes—”

  My bedroom door flew open.

  “What in God’s name!”

  Monroe and I looked up, startled, our eyes meeting my sister’s pale face.

  I glanced at Monroe, and an unspoken conversation passed between us. "Are you going to tell her?" my eyes asked. "Don’t say anything!" Monroe’s eyes begged. Mine narrowed. "Why not?"

  Amber stepped toward the window. “What’s wrong?” Her gaze flicked between us frantically before settling on Monroe’s pale visage. “Monroe?”

  Monroe pushed to her feet. “I thought I saw a mouse.”

  Though plausible, it was a lame excuse, and Amber’s eyes narrowed. I wasn’t good at lying, so I peered at the floor. Silence reigned, untruths hanging heavy between us.

  “What are you doing in here?” Amber asked, her gaze falling to my bed and Monroe’s portable DVD player.

  I cringed. T
he screaming girl was still plainly paused in mid-action. Very few electronics, unless approved, were allowed at the Abbey. It corrupted the soul.

  Amber stared at the image on the screen. “Put it away before anyone finds it. Please. You know the rules, Dayton. The Order is already pushed to its limits with you,” Amber whispered. “And after last year …”

  Pushing away from Monroe, I stomped to the bedroom door. It was already open, but I held it wider, my knuckles white with the desire to shove Amber through it. Logic stopped me. I wasn’t mad at her. I was angry at the memory.

  “I know, Amber."

  I was weary of being reminded of my flaws. Last year had been a mistake. Monroe and I had gone with a group of friends to Everett’s bar on the edge of Lodeston to celebrate our friend, Lita’s, birthday. We’d used fake I.D.’s, put back more than the legal amount of alcohol, and managed to wreck Lita’s brand new car on our way home. At the scene of the accident, marijuana had been discovered stuffed inside the glove compartment of her candy-red Sentra. All five of us involved tested positive for THC, spent a few days in Juvenile Detention, had our licenses temporarily suspended, and came out of the incident with tainted records and months spent on parole doing community service. Not to mention our friend, Conor Reinhardt, had to spend six months in physical therapy for a leg injury. He still limped occasionally.

  I motioned for her to leave my room. “Everything’s fine. We just had a scare.”

  Amber’s wary gaze moved between us.

  The reminder of last year’s incident had brought the color back into Monroe’s cheeks, and her voice joined mine in the still room. “We’re fine,” she echoed.

  Amber took the hint. “I’m just down the hall, Dayton,” she reminded me.

  She left, and I slammed the door behind her. My irritation with Amber was evident. I knew she loved me, but I wished she’d find a new un-pushy way to show me she cared. The older we became, the more she sounded like my aunt.

  Monroe approached me.

  “Why didn’t you tell Amber about the face in the window?” I asked.