by Terri Garey
“Am I…” She looked at me through her fingers, barely able to speak through her tears. “Am I…?”
I don’t think either of us could manage the word “dead.”
“Yes,” I said, as gently as I could.
The look of horror in her eyes would stick with me for a long time.
Before she got all panicky again, I added, “I’m really sorry this happened to you. I know what it feels like.” Well, not exactly, because I didn’t have kids when I died, but close enough. “Maybe I can help.”
“How?” she choked through her sobs, “How can you help me?”
“There’s a Light,” I said, knowing the only thing that could comfort her. “There’s a Light, and you’ll see it if you just look. Your son will be with you there one day. It will be all right.” Hard to explain how I was so sure of that, but I was confident it was true. “If…” I hesitated, wimp that I was. “…if you want me to tell him anything for you, I can get him a message.” I wasn’t sure how, but I was sure I could figure it out—a nice sympathy card with a note, maybe.
Thoughts of sympathy cards dissolved, however, as a coiling, shifting mass of black shadows began oozing its way into the hallway, directly behind the woman.
Dumbstruck, I couldn’t believe my eyes.
Spirits were one thing, but this…this was something entirely different. I stepped back, ready to bolt.
Blackness. Fluid shadows, alive in their relentless, greedy spread; boiling and bubbling as they made themselves into something deeper, something bigger.
Cold. It was cold.
And suddenly, I knew beyond a doubt what I was staring at.
The Dark. The total opposite of the Light, the very antithesis of the incredible brilliance and warmth that could draw lost souls like a lodestone. The Dark was manifesting, right in front of me, and it was cold.
The look on my face made the woman turn. She gave a low moan and grabbed for my hand. Her fingers slipped through mine like the tickle of spiderwebs. “It’s come for me, hasn’t it?” she whispered, terrified.
The black mass of shadowy evil expanded to fill the corridor in front of us, shifting and boiling to a height of eight to ten feet.
“I knew it was a sin…I knew it and I did it anyway. I thought it was a way to fix things, but I’ve made it so much worse.” She was staring into the Dark, babbling in fear, more to herself than me.
I’d never been so scared in my life. There was an actual horror-flick-made-real moment going on, right before my eyes.
“Don’t look at it,” I said, trying hard not to look at it myself, and failing. It was horrible, hypnotic in its horribleness, and somehow alive. No longer advancing, it became darker and darker until its blackness was absolute, a tunnel of inky depths I couldn’t begin to fathom. It was as if it had its own consciousness, and worse, it was waiting.
“I tried, really I did.” The woman started talking, choking back sobs. She seemed mesmerized by the Dark, compelled to speak her confession, I suppose, with no one to hear it but me. “It was fine the first few years, after David and I got married. But when Josh became a teenager, everything changed.” Her eyes were haunted, and desperately sad. “Father Donovan said suicide was a sin, but there was no other way out! Josh kept getting into trouble, and I didn’t have the patience or the energy for it. The counselor said I needed to take my medicine and ‘rise to the occasion,’ but I couldn’t. David was disappointed in me.”
I was having a hard time following her since I didn’t know these people, but it didn’t matter. Her gaze was inward, despite—or perhaps because of—the cold blackness that boiled in front of her eyes. She looked at me, and my heart clenched at her pain.
“I was a terrible mother, a terrible wife. Josh hated his stepdad, and I…I just hated myself.” Her voice trailed away as she looked again toward the Darkness. “I took the coward’s way out, and now I have to pay the price.”
My knees were shaking. I was petrified of the twisting, roiling mass, but I refused to accept that suicide—as awful as it was, especially to those who are left behind—was a valid reason to condemn someone to Hell.
For surely this was the gateway to Hell. No flames, no screams of the dead and dying, just cold nothingness waiting to absorb desperate, guilty souls and smother them into oblivion.
While the Dark waited, moving no closer, my mind was racing. I couldn’t help but think of Crystal Cowart, who’d killed herself, too, although she’d let anorexia do the work. I was convinced, in the end, that poor Crystal had gone into the Light despite her bad choices, and somehow that made me think that this woman could, too.
“You don’t have to go,” I blurted. “You made a mistake, but that doesn’t mean you have to suffer for it forever.”
She stared fixedly into the Dark.
“Hey.” I snapped my fingers, trying to get her attention. “Look at me. I’m trying to help you.”
She tore her eyes from the blackness with an effort. “I deserve it.” Her face was tight with fear.
“No, you don’t.” I took heart from the fact that the Dark was moving no closer. “You don’t have to go.” I held my breath, but nothing reached out to grab her (or me, thank God), no lightning or thunder, or scaly-armed demons from Hell. Just that constant, steady, inexorable sense of waiting…
“What can I do?” she whispered hopelessly.
I glanced one final time at the inky evil that loomed over us both. It completely blocked one end of the corridor, but the way behind me was clear. “Run,” I said grimly, eager to take my own advice. “Now!”
CHAPTER 3
She bolted, and I was right behind her.
One second we were both running down the corridor, and the next second I was by myself. Alone. With a big, black cloud of evil at my back.
I didn’t know where she’d gone, and quite frankly, I didn’t care.
I reached the door that led to the parking lot and wrenched it open, not daring to look behind me. Outside, I darted around an old couple shuffling toward the parking lot. Ignoring their curious looks, I just ran, wanting to put as much distance between me and what I’d seen as possible.
It wasn’t until I reached my car that I risked a backward glance, fumbling with my keys with shaking hands. Nothing. Once inside the car, I locked the door and sat there, trembling, wondering what the hell kind of trouble I’d gotten myself into this time.
Why hadn’t I stayed out of it? I could’ve just kept my mouth shut and kept walking and…crap.
I buckled my seat belt and turned the ignition key. A series of wimpy sounding clicks made my heart sink. “No, no, no…” I tried again, and only got one or two clicks this time. Letting my head fall to the steering wheel, I thought about my options.
Go back inside. Out of the question.
Call Joe. Busy. Very busy.
Call Evan. Manning the store alone.
Call a tow truck. Would require going back inside to find a telephone number. See option #1.
I needed a minute. Sitting up, I kept an eye out in the direction of the hospital, but there was no sign of pursuit, no sign of the woman in a pink bathrobe. My heart was racing, which was not good for the wimpy valve that had gotten me into this mess to begin with. My hands were shaking. I waited until I had both heart and hands somewhat under control and then, with a sigh, dug in my purse for my cell phone and called Evan at the store.
“Handbags and Gladrags.” He sounded distracted.
I’d made up my mind to be calm. I’d long ago learned that it wasn’t always a good idea to tell him every scary thing that happened to me, at least not right away. He spooked so easily, poor thing. “Evan, my car won’t start.”
“Oh no! Where are you?”
“In the hospital parking garage. Can you come get me?”
“I’ve got a Buckhead mom and three teenage girls in here, Nick—two of them are in the dressing room.” Buckhead was Atlanta’s most upscale neighborhood, and a sharp store owner like Evan could spot a
“Buckhead mom” a mile away. He lowered his voice so the customers couldn’t hear. “I’m pretty sure we’re about to sell the Bonwit Teller.”
The Bonwit Teller was a gorgeous Parisian “flapper” style dress from the 1920s—very hard to come by, and very expensive. I’d priced it over eight hundred dollars, figuring the beadwork alone would eventually sell it. It was jet black, sassy, and in all honesty, I would’ve loved to keep it for myself, but the store’s bottom line came first.
“These girls need new jeans, new jackets, and a new way of looking at fashion, and I’m just the man to give it to them!” He was speaking low into the phone, but I could hear the genuine enthusiasm in his voice. Nothing made the man happier than decking someone out in fashionable vintage, which is why he was so good at it.
“Okay,” I said, reluctantly conceding. “Can you call me back when they’re gone?”
“It may be a while…can’t you call a tow truck, Nick?”
I could picture him, blond head bobbing as he kept an eye on the dressing rooms.
“Can you look me up a number?” I asked hopefully.
“I’ll be right there,” Evan sang out to someone, and I knew my shot at immediate help was over. “Nicki, I’ve got to go. Even if I came to get you, we’d still have to call a tow truck. Just go back inside and look in the phone book, okay?”
I couldn’t blame him. I wasn’t even mad, just…scared.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be in soon.”
“Good,” he answered, with relief. “I haven’t had a potty break in over an hour.” And then he hung up.
“Get a grip, Styx,” I muttered to myself. “It didn’t hurt you. It can’t hurt you.”
Liar.
“You’re not dead, you idiot. It came for her.”
Great…not only was I talking to myself, I was arguing with myself.
“It didn’t follow you. It wasn’t there for you.”
What if I’d made it mad? What if it was still there, in the corridor, waiting?
I shuddered, feeling cold again at the very thought.
It took me a good five minutes, but I finally got my nerve up to get out of the car. There was a steady stream of visitors coming and going through the parking lot, which made me feel somewhat safe, though I had no idea why.
Human beings would be of no use against the thing I’d seen.
Walking slowly, I made my way back to the door I’d come out of, encouraged to see a nurse and an old man go in and out ahead of me. If there was something there, it wasn’t bothering them, so maybe it wouldn’t bother me.
When I reached the door, I almost turned back, but I didn’t. Taking a deep breath, I opened it and went in.
The corridor was empty. To the left was the door that led to the E.R. waiting room, and far down at the other end of the hall was the door that led to the main hospital—nothing in between.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I turned to the left and went into the waiting room, knowing there would be a phone book in there.
The place was full, as usual. Columbia Memorial was always busy. A woman with a whiny two-year-old sat closest to the pay phone. I gave her a little smile as I picked up the book and started riffling through it, but she didn’t smile back. She looked tired and wan, a wad of tissues in one hand and a sippy cup in the other. I’m sure having to take care of a kid when you weren’t feeling well wasn’t very fun.
Ten seconds later I was dialing the number for Tony’s Towing Service. Doing my best to ignore the increasing loud screeches from the toddler near my feet, I gave them directions on where to find me.
I was putting my phone back in my purse when the main door to the Emergency Room whooshed open, and a teenage boy ran in, followed by a plump, older woman. She looked worried and he looked agitated.
The boy was wearing all black, down to his tennis shoes. His hair was black, too, so dark a shade I knew it was dyed. He had at least one eyebrow piercing and looked far too thin for his age—a baby goth if I’d ever seen one. He rushed up to the nurses’ station and rapped loudly on the glass, which was closed. “Hey!” he shouted, uncaring that a room full of strangers was watching, “Hey! I need to see my mom!”
The woman with him said nothing, merely looking worried as she came up to stand behind him.
The glass opened, and a nurse spoke. “Can I help you?”
“I need to see my mom,” the boy repeated loudly. “My stepdad called and said she was here.” He couldn’t hold still, peering past the nurse as if his mom were behind the counter or something.
“Angie Rayburn.” The woman stepped out from behind the boy, finally speaking up. She had a fairly pronounced Hispanic accent. “Her name is Angie Rayburn.”
By then I knew who the boy was looking for.
The nurse gave a telling glance toward someone else behind the glass, another nurse probably, then turned back to the boy. “You’ll need to have a seat, son. Someone will be right out.”
“No!” he shouted. “I’m not going to have a seat. Where’s my mom? Take me to her right now.”
The Hispanic woman touched the boy’s arm tentatively. “Josh,” she murmured, but he shook her off. Given her accent, I doubted they were related; she could be the housekeeper, the next-door neighbor.
“I want to see my mother right now!” he shouted at the nurse, completely uncaring of the attention he was drawing to himself.
The nurse, a black woman who easily outweighed him by at least sixty pounds, stood up, looking him in the eye.
“Son,” she said quietly, “I know you’re upset, and I know you’re worried about your mama, but you need to take yourself a seat until the doctor can speak with you.”
The boy was breathing hard, and opened his mouth to argue.
“Don’t make me call security, now.” Her voice was firm, but kind. “Sit yourself down. It won’t be long.”
Maybe it was the kindness in her voice that did it.
Joshua slapped his hands down on the counter, hard, but did as she said, throwing himself into the nearest available seat. The woman with him could’ve been invisible as far as he was concerned, though I noticed the continued worried looks she gave him as she found a seat next to him.
I felt sick to my stomach at the news this poor kid was about to get.
Without a word, I turned and left, not needing—or wanting—to see or hear any more.
“Dead battery.” The guy from Tony’s Towing was fat and balding, with grease stains under his fingernails. His breath smelled like cigarettes, and he wore an old jacket that probably hadn’t been cleaned since he bought it back in the eighties. “I can probably jump it. That’ll get you to an auto parts store where you can buy a new one.”
“What good will that do me?” I’d been waiting for almost a half hour for the guy to get there, torn between nerves and boredom as I paced the parking lot. “I don’t know anything about car batteries. Will they put it in for me?”
The guy gave me a look. “Ain’t you got a boyfriend that can do it for ya? Pretty girl like you?”
“My boyfriend needs his hands for other things.”
He sniggered, obviously thinking I was making some kind of dirty joke.
I didn’t bother to enlighten him. “Can’t you do it?”
“I don’t carry batteries with me in the truck,” he said, like I was an idiot. “I can jump it, or I can tow it. Your choice. If I was you, I’d take the jump and drive it to an auto parts store.” He looked me up and down, real quick-like. “I’m not supposed to do this, but I could slide a new battery in for you—you could pay me under the table. We could work out a deal.”
“No, thanks.” I could just imagine what that deal might entail. “Go ahead and jump it. Just get it started. I’ll take it from there.” No way was I gonna do any “sliding” with this guy, literally or figuratively.
Tow Truck Driver Guy shrugged, heading for his truck. “Suit yourself.”
I waited while he dragged out a pair of jumper cables, taking
his sweet time about it. All the while I tried not to think about Angie Rayburn, her family, or the big black mass of evil I’d seen in the corridor.
Ten minutes and ninety dollars later I finally pulled out of the hospital parking lot. Tow Truck Driver Guy said to go straight to the auto parts store without turning off the ignition, but I drove instead to Ernie’s Engine Repair.
Ernie’s was a podunk little station on the edge of Little Five, a throwback to the sixties, the days when family-run stations were common. My dad had always taken our cars there, and I couldn’t help but think of him as I pulled in. He’d made a big deal about bringing me to Ernie’s when I was a teenager, showing me how to check my own oil and put air in the tires. I’d continued to come here as an adult to get my gas, even though they only had one pump.
Don’t ever buy that old “running out of gas” routine, Dad would say. Oldest horny teenage boy trick in the book. I smiled, remembering how I’d cringed at that one. Anytime you’re in a bind on the road, you call me, you hear? I’ll come get you, wherever you are.
I’d have given anything to be able to call him to come get me today. My dad knew his way around cars, though it hadn’t saved him in the end. He and my mom had died in a car accident on a rainy night nine years earlier.
I made a mental note to take flowers to their grave; I hadn’t been out to the cemetery in a while.
Just to be on the safe side about the battery, I left the engine running while I got out and went inside.
Ernie himself was behind the counter. Well into his eighties, he left the repair work to his son and grandson now while he manned the air-conditioned office, which mainly meant he read the newspaper and watched the tiny little TV that was always tuned to CNN news.
“Hoo-ee,” he said, when I came in. The corners of his mahogany-colored eyes were seamed with wrinkles, and his smile was missing a tooth on the lower right side. He looked as old as Methuselah and twice as feisty. “If it ain’t a purty little pink-haired angel, come to pay me a visit. How you doin’, chile?”