by Simon Holt
The entire head disintegrated into a pile of ash before Reggie’s eyes.
Instantly, the corpses were again upon her. Grabbing at her ankles, begging her to feed as the entire roof became engulfed in angry, voracious flames.
Reggie turned the knob on the door, and it opened effortlessly.
“Feed us…”
“Starving…”
Reggie kicked the skeletal hands from her ankles and lunged through the door into blessedly cold, fresh air, then collapsed on a cobblestone patio.
She lay there a few minutes, hacking the smoke from her lungs. When her breath started to come more easily, she sat up. A mummy’s hand still clung to her wrist like a gruesome bracelet. Disgusted, Reggie pried the fingers open and tossed the hand away. It shattered upon hitting the stony ground and left a puff of smoke in its wake.
When the smoke cleared, Reggie saw a dusty golden ring lying on the stone. She picked it up and pocketed it—many times she found tokens like these that victims had dropped as they were pushed deeper into the fearscape. These objects helped guide Reggie through, and, in turn, helped the victims remember who they were when she found them.
She had solved the first layer of Dominique’s fearscape.
Now it was on to the next circle of hell.
2
There had been only five or six actual witnesses the day two orderlies had dragged a struggling Reggie Halloway from her house and strapped her into the back of a Thornwood Psychiatric Hospital van. Her father had been one of them, as well as a passing jogger, some homeless guy, and a few neighbors who had wondered what all the fuss was, marring such a lovely June evening. Still, not more than twelve pairs of eyes had actually seen the disturbing event: Reggie screaming for help as she flailed in vain against the strong-armed orderlies, half her hair shaved off her head and her face and arms covered in cuts and burns. But by opening business hours the following morning, the entirety of Cutter’s Wedge knew about it.
“Did you hear about the Halloway girl?” seemed to be the most commonly asked question of the morning. Most people had. And most of them remembered how “the Halloway girl’s” mother had skipped town almost two years ago, and how her father always seemed ready to slit his wrists any minute, and, worst of all, how her little brother had flipped out at school mere weeks before and nearly stabbed another boy in the neck with scissors.
Some said, “That poor family” and shook their heads. Others thanked the heavens that Reggie had been taken away before she put someone else’s child in danger like her brother had. All in all, it had been the biggest news to hit sleepy Cutter’s Wedge since high school quarterback Quinn Waters had disappeared last December. That is, until midday, when the story broke that Quinn had been found.
At first no one believed it—there had been false reports before. But bit by bit the truth spread: Quinn had shown up at a homeless shelter in Boston, out of it and with some minor injuries, but alive. His frantic parents were on their way to collect him. The local news carried the story on their afternoon broadcast, with a chirpy correspondent standing outside the shelter and announcing that the Waterses were inside and had just been reunited with their son. An hour later cameras caught the family leaving, Mrs. Waters sobbing and gripping Quinn around the waist like she thought if she let go he would simply vanish, Mr. Waters on Quinn’s other side with a hand on his shoulder, trying to shoo away the swarming cameramen. And Quinn. He looked emaciated, and his face was crisscrossed with scars. His green eyes, known for their twinkle, were vacant, and he stumbled forward, relying on his parents for support. His right hand was bulkily bandaged where two of his fingers had been cut off above the knuckles. It was hard to believe this was the same kid who had, not even a year ago, been an all-state athlete with college recruiters at every game.
Still, wounds could heal. He was alive. He was found. He was coming home. And Reggie Halloway was forgotten.
Aaron Cole had not forgotten her, however. He was Reggie’s best friend, and he had been with her the night Henry had been possessed. Together they had stumbled upon the existence of Vours and learned how to defeat them. He had been by her side through everything, except, it turned out, when she had needed him most. In a wicked twist of irony, he had been driving back from Boston when she was taken, having just dropped Quinn Waters off at the homeless shelter.
It wasn’t Quinn’s fault, not in the strictest sense, but that didn’t stop Aaron from blaming him. It had been one of the biggest shocks to discover the previous winter that Quinn Waters, town golden boy, was actually a Vour—and it was one of the first lessons that anyone could be one. He had nearly killed them both before drowning in Cutter Lake; or, at least, that’s what Reggie and Aaron had thought. Against all odds, Quinn had managed to survive, and he resurfaced that summer, weakened and deformed, seeking Reggie’s help. He claimed that the Vours had turned against him and that he could help Reggie destroy them, but of course it had all been a lie.
Aaron still rued Reggie’s decision not to tell him straight away about Quinn’s return. How things could have been different! If only he had known, he could have convinced her of how stupid it was to team up with Quinn. But Reggie had, inexplicably, kept him in the dark, and trusted the Vour over him.
Well, not entirely inexplicably. Reggie had always had a thing for Quinn, and apparently finding out he was a homicidal monster hadn’t completely obliterated the attraction. That part Aaron really couldn’t understand.
In the end, though, Reggie had saved the real Quinn and brought him back from his fearscape, destroying the Vour in the process. It was what she did, the credo she lived by: Save the soul, kill the monster.
But it hadn’t been as simple as just taking Quinn back home to Cutter’s Wedge and throwing a ticker tape parade. He had been missing for months, and at one point Aaron had even been under investigation for his murder (another notch against Quinn, in Aaron’s book). No, Quinn’s reappearance couldn’t be tied to Reggie and Aaron, so Aaron had staged the homeless shelter affair. But if it hadn’t been for Quinn, if he hadn’t had to go through so much trouble for a guy he didn’t even like, maybe he would have been there when the Vours showed up. But he hadn’t been. He had failed Reggie.
Aaron had devoted the rest of the summer and that fall to trying to track down where Dr. Unger and the Vours had taken his best friend. Their old headquarters, Thornwood Psychiatric Hospital, had been exposed—and half of it blown up—after the events of the summer solstice. The story fed to the authorities was that a gas leak had caused the fire, but rather than rebuild, Unger had relocated his patients. Reggie’s father, who thought his daughter was mentally disturbed and blamed Aaron for it, refused to give up her location, so Aaron spent his days trolling the Internet, newspapers, library, and any other reference source that could point him in the direction of the Vours. He had also collected as many files as he could from the house of his old mentor, Eben Bloch.
Aaron also couldn’t help but think that things might have turned out differently if Eben had revealed his secrets earlier. Aaron and Reggie hadn’t learned of his very personal connection to the Vours until June, when he admitted that he had once been a member of the Tracers, a league of assassins bent on destroying the monsters. Eben had known as much or more about the Vours than anyone, but he had specifically kept this information from Reggie to protect her. Aaron had to wonder, though, if his silence hadn’t had the opposite effect. Reggie had been determined to involve herself in the fight against the Vours despite Eben’s warnings, and maybe his knowledge could have kept her safer.
It was moot now. Eben had finally succumbed to the injuries wreaked on him from decades of killing Vours, but he had left behind stores of information on the monsters. Unfortunately, none of it had been particularly useful yet, and it was already nearing November.
What Aaron really hadn’t expected were the frequent phone calls he’d begun to get from Quinn at the end of the summer. The guy claimed just to want to talk, but Aaron didn’t have t
ime for chitchat or hand-holding. Besides, the golden boy had about eight hundred friends he could turn to.
Aaron’s fellow classmates had always categorized him as the weirdo genius type, but he had returned to school that fall a different kid. He sat in the backs of the classrooms these days, rarely participating in class discussions unless specifically asked by the teacher, and the notes he scribbled in his notebooks had nothing to do with the subject matter he was supposed to be studying.
Now, deep into October, he stared at an ever-evolving list with the header Possible Vour Hideouts/Fronts. Some of the entries were circled or starred, but most had been crossed out and replaced with new ones. His search was not yielding much fruit.
When the bell rang and he returned to his locker, Aaron didn’t bother to load up his backpack with books—he had other plans for the evening besides homework. He just grabbed his bike helmet and headed to the southeast exit of the school. He was already running late, so he was none too pleased to see Quinn Waters leaning against the bike stand, blocking his way. In a previous life this would have been a threatening scenario for Aaron—the nerd versus the jock—but Aaron knew there were much worse things to fear than meatheads now, and he had vowed to stop fearing Quinn a long time ago.
It was hard for Aaron to look at Quinn. There it was before him, the same face as the Vour, the same features handsomely assembled, the mask that had deceived so many. Vours liked to insert themselves into powerful places in society, and the attractive, athletic, charming Quinn had been a powerful Vour indeed, known and idolized throughout the community. But Aaron had come to see that face as abject evil—the face of the monster that was responsible for Reggie’s predicament now.
And yet, it was a different face, too. It wasn’t just that the scars had mostly healed, though there was still a faint mark along his cheek—there was just something that was off. Like Quinn was a shattered mirror that had been put back together, but not all the shards had been glued in the right places. If he were being charitable, Aaron could have pitied Quinn—the kid had, after all, spent a decade in a fearscape, where he’d been skinned alive by a gym teacher, chased by a demonic scarecrow, and forced to relive his best friend’s tragic death over and over again. Of course he’d be a little off now. Still, Aaron could never bring himself to be charitable when it came to Quinn.
“Don’t you have a dead pig to toss around right about now?” Aaron asked.
“Not anymore,” said Quinn. “I quit the team.”
Aaron’s eyebrow rose involuntarily. He hadn’t expected that. Even with missing fingers, Quinn had been welcomed back on the team—it wasn’t his throwing arm, after all. Quinn’s parents, his coaches, his teachers, practically the whole town had placed him right back up on that Big Man on Campus pedestal the moment he’d resurfaced, and part of that role included quarterbacking the team to at least a division title.
“What do you want?” asked Aaron.
“I want you to tell me what happened to me,” Quinn answered.
“What makes you think I know?”
Quinn took a step forward.
“Because I remember you being there.”
Aaron contemplated Quinn. Part of him had known that this moment would come, that Quinn would start to remember things. It’s why he’d been avoiding him and ignoring his calls.
“Then your memory is playing tricks on you.”
“I don’t think so. I know you were both there—you and Reggie.” Aaron winced when Quinn said her name, but Quinn didn’t notice and continued, his words coming faster now. “Bits and pieces—they just appear in my head, horrible nightmares, but they’re—they’re memories, and you and Reggie are in them.”
Quinn’s eyes burned intently. Aaron had become accustomed to certain of Quinn’s more dominant expressions over the years: the arrogance of a star athlete and, later, the cold hatred and sadism of a Vour, a desire to inflict pain and an enjoyment in witnessing endless misery. But Aaron had never seen this—desperation, maybe even fear.
Quinn reached out and grabbed Aaron’s arm. His grip was fierce.
“I need to know what I am,” he said urgently.
Anger shot through Aaron as he was reminded of the bully of old, and he shoved Quinn backward against the bike rack. The metal clanged, and Quinn reached out to stop his fall, nicking his hand on Aaron’s bike chain. Blood spurted up from his skin.
“You don’t have the right to ask me for anything,” Aaron spat at him. “You’re human, that’s what you are. A living, breathing human being, though you have no right to be.”
The two boys glared at each other, but Aaron thought he could see Quinn’s intensity give way to confusion, then worry. But no, he was not going to feel sorry for this prick. He and Reggie had sacrificed enough for him.
A sporty VW pulled up next to them. Nina Snow was at the wheel, and she leaned across the seat, giving both Quinn and Aaron an impressive view of her cleavage.
“Quinn, there you are,” she purred. Her eyes fell disdainfully on Aaron for a moment, then snapped back to Quinn. “What are you doing here, baby? I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Quinn didn’t answer her, but continued to stare at Aaron. He seemed to be looking through him, though, as if his thoughts were someplace else. He absentmindedly sucked the blood from the cut on his hand.
“I guess your ride’s here,” Aaron said.
Finally Quinn glanced at Nina, who was now impatiently clicking her nails against the steering wheel.
“Yeah, can we go already?” she huffed.
Quinn sighed, and with the utmost reluctance he turned and got into the car. Again Aaron was a bit surprised—not many adolescent boys would look so put out at the thought of joyriding with Nina and her low-cut tops.
“Seriously, Quinn, what is going on with you?” Nina asked as Quinn slammed the car door shut. “First you quit the football team and now you’re hanging out with that loser?” Nina didn’t bother to keep her voice down, but Aaron missed the rest of the conversation as the car peeled away. He rolled his eyes as he unlocked his bike, then took off in the opposite direction.
3
A few hours later, Aaron flipped the microfiche machine off and rubbed his eyes. Even with them closed he could still see the black-and-white text imprinted on the backs of his eyelids. He’d been staring at newspaper clippings for too long.
The Cutter’s Wedge Progress—Aaron couldn’t help but appreciate the irony of the newspaper’s name—had not yet digitally archived their old editions dating back before 1990; hence the archaic method of search. He hated not being able to type in a few keywords and have all the information he needed appear at his fingertips. Microfiche was so slow and inefficient: Aaron had to use a special machine to scan through filmstrips that were photographs of articles and painstakingly read each one to see if it contained anything useful. It was such dark-ages technology that the library had moved all the files and equipment to a dingy corner in the basement. Obviously the advent of personal computing had changed the world, but Aaron really did wonder how people had accomplished anything before the Internet.
It hadn’t been a wasted day, though. He’d found a few promising stories of murder, assault, and suicide that could be Vour related. He was trying to establish a pattern of Vour activity over the past century that could suggest what they were up to now, and what they might want with Reggie. He packed up his notes and headed back upstairs to the land of the twenty-first century.
As he was returning the film to the librarian at the research desk, he happened to glance at the kids’ section a few aisles over. Henry Halloway was standing on his tiptoes, straining to reach a book on a shelf just above his fingertips. It was remarkable, really, how well adjusted he seemed after the literal hell he’d been through. Sure, he had had a couple violent outbursts the previous spring when memories of being in the fearscape had returned, but those had mostly passed. And now, with his sister missing and likely in some kind of unspeakable hell herself—we
ll, it was a lot for a nine-year-old kid to handle.
Aaron hadn’t seen Henry for many weeks—over the summer he had tried to stop by to see how he was doing, but Mr. Halloway had made it clear that Aaron was no longer welcome in their house. Henry had been trying to persuade his father that the Vours were real, and Mr. Halloway blamed Aaron for the influence. Before he had left for the last time, Aaron had whispered to Henry to stop talking about the Vours, to pretend like he didn’t think they existed. He’d been afraid Mr. Halloway would ship his son off to Dr. Unger if he thought Henry was headed down the same path as Reggie.
Now Aaron turned away, but not quickly enough. Henry had spotted him, and a smile lit up his face. He waved. Aaron waved back and walked over to him, peering surreptitiously about for signs of Thom Halloway.
“Don’t worry,” said Henry. “Dad’s at the hardware store. I just came over to get some books.”
Aaron eyed the shelf Henry had been reaching for.
“Hardy Boys, huh? Good stuff.”
“I like that they always solve the mysteries,” Henry said. Aaron nodded, not quite knowing how to respond.
“We’re working on it, Henry,” he said finally. “We’re going to get your sister back.”
“How?”
The question wasn’t ill-tempered or challenging, but Aaron still felt a stab of guilt. He didn’t know how. There weren’t always tidy solutions to real life’s mysteries, not that he had to explain that to Henry. Aaron’s hesitation gave the boy all the answers he needed.
“You don’t know yet, do you?”
Aaron shook his head.
“Not yet.”
“I’ve been trying to figure out where she is,” Henry continued. “Dad is so secretive about it. I’ve been asking him if we can go see her, but he always says no. Dr. Unger says visitors will be bad for Reggie’s ‘recovery.’ Aaron, what do you think they’re doing to her? Do you think she’s…” He hesitated, and Aaron guessed he was going to say “dead.” Fortunately, he didn’t have to answer the question.