Salem's Sight
By Lyn Stanzione
Copyright 2011 Lyn Stanzione
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
About the Author
Sneak Peak from Book Two
Chapter One
I was normal until we moved into Grandma’s old house. Or maybe it started before then. It’s hard to tell. Life has changed so much in the past few months, and in case you haven’t guessed, not for the better.
See, it all began six months ago.
I was sort of pissed at Dad because I wanted him to teach me to drive. Nothing big, just once or twice around the parking lot at school after hours. But no. He said I’d have to wait until I actually got my permit. How lame was that?
Anyway, being in an anti-dad mood, I yanked the car door open, and plopped down in the back seat pretending I wanted to watch a DVD. Stupid, because we didn’t have far to go and Dad could see right through me.
While I watched the latest horror flick for the hundredth time and brooded over how unfair life could be, Dad, who always watched what he said in front of me, dropped the F bomb.
I looked up and saw a car coming right at us, head on. Since Dad wasn’t exactly into road rage, I figured the crazy in the other car was the one who had the urge to play chicken. I opened my mouth to scream. Air stopped moving through my lungs, and in that instant, I knew without question I was about to get my first real taste of unfair.
Luckily, that split second is all I remember. A crunching sound, movie-theater loud, echoed in my ears. The seatbelt cut into my stomach like the waistline of jeans two sizes to small. Then, nothing.
Dad was gone before the ambulance arrived.
And me? Except for the large gash on my head, I barely had a scratch. Or at least that’s what everyone thought at the time. Just a stupid concussion that caused these blasting headaches.
I didn’t realize then the headaches were going to take me from normal - to out where the buses don’t run.
Strange thing is, it was only like the third time in my entire life that I got mad at my father. If I hadn’t been mad … if I’d been in the front seat like I usually was … well, I don’t like to think about it.
Since the accident I try to think as little as possible. Translation, keep busy. Which brings me to the project at hand. Redecorating.
I glared at the pink-flowered wallpaper and wondered what my mother had been thinking all those years ago, when she selected the hideous garden that resided on the walls of her childhood bedroom. It looked like someone puked Pepto-Bismol, coated with chunks of corn and string beans.
No wonder I couldn’t adjust. It just sucked.
Having to live here sucked.
I missed my big room with my big closets in our big house. But with Dad gone and Mom going back to the workforce, we had to downsize. This meant selling our home in North Carolina and moving to Rhode Island where my mom inherited her parents’ house near the ocean. Their little house.
The light above me flickered and threatened to go off. No sign of a storm. Probably just faulty wiring. The light wavered again as if taunting me, and I shivered. I reached for my sweatshirt, but as my fingertips touched the material, I realized the chill wasn’t from the temperature in the room. I can’t really explain it because there was nothing to back it up, but you know when the hair on the back of your neck prickles like a cat? Or it feels like someone is behind you and you turn around and no one is there? That’s the way I felt, like I’d just entered Spooksville.
If I’d known how close to the truth I was, I would have gone back to North Carolina, even if I’d had to walk to get there.
I looked around the room and then back at the light fixture, not sure what I was expecting to find. The stupid bulb stayed steady for a moment then flickered again.
Why’d my mom even keep this house after Grandma died? “Extra money and a vacation home,” she’d claimed. I think she just didn’t want to let go of her childhood memories and her parents’ house held them all. She’d rented the cottage out to college kids during the school year, and we enjoyed seaside family vacations in the ‘beach house’ two weeks every summer.
I never minded it then. To be honest, not much bothered me in those days. But now that I had to live here, I totally objected to this butt-ugly shack. Since it had been a rental, my parents never did much in terms of renovations. My old tree house ranked higher on the style meter.
Now I know I’m being whiny, and that’s usually so not me, but with all that’s happened lately, I figure no one will hold it against me. Hey, everyone’s entitled once in a while.
Taking the aged wallpaper off was as easy as peeling a banana. Unfortunately, the ugly tan-colored backing stayed attached to the wall, like a reminder that change was never easy.
Sighing, I dipped the sponge in the large bowl of vinegar until it was saturated then crinkled my nose at the offensive scent. Taking wallpaper off the wall stunk in more ways than one. I lifted the sponge gingerly and began sliding it over the wall like an eraser.
My hand had only managed three or so swipes when I saw her name appear. The hair on my arms stood up straight and as the vinegar seeped through to the wall, Grandma’s name became darker.
For a second my body froze, and my breath lodged midway in my throat. Then, well, let’s face it; I had to breathe.
My hand shook but I dunked the sponge again in the pungent vinegar. Still shaking, I wiped the wall beneath her signature.
Nothing.
Gritting my teeth, I sponged above her name. I held my breath as little by little the words appeared like on the Maurader’s Map in Harry Potter. Bold as anything like an omen were the words, “I’m watching over you.”
That’s when I freaked.
It didn’t take two seconds to drop the sponge and run like hell. I hate to admit it, but I was screaming, “Mom!” at the top of my lungs like I was some sort of two-year-old.
A ghost nipping at my heels couldn’t have moved me any faster. I bounded down the stairs and collided with my mother who’d just come around the corner from the kitchen in response to my blood-curdling shrieks.
“Mom, you’ve got to come upstairs. Now!” Once the words spilled out I couldn’t replenish the air in my lungs. Gasping for breath and unable to speak, I grabbed her arm and pulled her in the direction of the stairs.
After two steps her feet planted firmly on the floor. “Salem, what’s wrong? You’re so pale, honey.” She placed her hand on my forehead as if checking my temperature. Yeah, like okay, that’d make no sense if I looked pale.
But since Dad died, she uses any excuse to come into physical contact with me. I mean, she was always a “huggy” mom, but now she seems to keep touching me to make sure I’m there, and not some figment of her imagination.
She does this all the time. I mean, can you say annoying? And the closer she tries to get, the more I back away. Except for times like this, when it worked to my benefit.
“Mom, please.” My voice, raspy and foreign, begged. Not my usual confident tone. I clutched her hand and tugged her toward the stairs.
“What’s wrong?” she asked again, evidently recognizing that if I took her hand by choice then there had to be a real problem.
I just shook my head and practically yanked her arm out of its socket to
make her follow. When we reached my room, I pushed her in first and then slid in behind her. My hand shook as I pointed at the writing on the wall.
Instead of bolting, her face went all soft. It was the same expression she used to get when Dad would bring home flowers for no reason.
Then she looked at me and started to laugh. All-out belly laughs straight from her toes. The more she looked at me the more she laughed. I scowled feeling like a little kid who’d overheard a joke but didn’t get the punch line. “You find this funny?”
Mom cleared her throat and smoothed out her blouse in an attempt to compose herself. “It’s just, well, you look so scared.”
I stood tall and made my tone haughty and indignant. “I’m not scared. And why would it be funny if I were?”
“It wouldn’t,” Mom said trying to dig her way out of the hole she’d dug. “It’s just, I understand why you spazzed.”
“I so did not,” I jumped in before she could continue. I hate it when she tries to talk like she’s my age. I mean, please. Spazzed? Plus, I couldn’t let her think I was scared … especially when she wasn’t.
It didn’t make sense. Inside my stomach flipped like a competitor at a gymnastic meet, yet Mom, who can’t even keep her eyes open during a scary movie, found this real life spook fest amusing. I mean, really, she had to sleep with the light on after watching The Exorcism of Emily Rose. I didn’t get it.
“Don’t you find this weird? I mean, why is Grandma hanging out in my new room writing on my walls? It’s a little strange don’t you think? You know, given that she’s dead.”
Mom choked on another laugh. “That’s the point, Salem. Grandma actually wrote those words years ago when I was just a kid.”
I tightened my lips and knit my brows in my best thundercloud scowl expression, the one I saved for when I was really ticked. I wanted her to know I so didn’t believe her. Since Dad died, Mom just wasn’t as trustworthy as she’d been before, which pissed me off even more.
“Explain.” I dropped the one word like it was a bomb and waited.
Mom ignored my tone and pointed to where the words hung like an accusation. “You might not have even noticed this if the backing hadn’t stayed on the wall. It’s the vinegar that’s causing the words to come through.”
I just folded my arms across my chest and stared at her exactly the way she always did when it was taking me way too long to get to the point.
It took a moment, but she caught on and speeded things up.
“When I was little I used to have nightmares. Grandpa would get mad when I’d wake Grandma in the middle of the night. I always begged and begged to sleep in their bed, which they weren’t about to allow. So, before I chose this wallpaper, she wrote that on the wall for me.”
I stared her down, but she didn’t avert her eyes. “I’m watching over you? She wrote that on the wall?” I asked as if both Grandma and Mom were a few cards short of the proverbial deck.
Mom traced her fingers along the writing and shut her eyes. “She told me that I’d have nothing to fear because her words were always there. Even if I couldn’t see them through the wallpaper, I’d know they were there and that she was watching over me.” A lone tear escaped and Mom brushed her fingers across her bottom lashes.
I felt her pain flood through me, as if we were linked by something more, something even stronger than genetics. My body held her blood, her DNA, but at the moment it also held a piece of her soul and I winced at her suffering.
She sure could have used some watching over these last few months. We both could have.
For some strange reason, I looked up toward the light fixture. Instead of the flicker of corroboration I half expected, the light beamed bright and steady. Soft raindrops pattered against the window. Finally, I relaxed. Just a storm after all. Nothing weird going on in this room.
I glanced at the wall, then quickly away. Nothing weird going on in this room. Yeah, maybe if I kept telling myself that I’d believe it.
I sat down on the bed causing the mattress to squeak in protest while a coil from the old box spring jumped up and bit me in the butt. It was enough to clear my head. “Okay, so why did she sign her name? Why not just write ‘Mom’?”
Mom sighed, clearly exasperated. “Salem, you put your full name on important documents to make them official, don’t you?”
I nodded.
“She was doing the same thing, making a point.”
Okay, from everything she told me about my grandmother, it sounded legit.
I scooted further back on the bed and another coil shot up like a missile. Direct hit.
I stood to avoid any more attacks from revenge of the old mattress, and decided to change the subject. Sort of. “When is our furniture going to get here? This bed isn’t exactly comfortable.”
The truth is it wasn’t just about uncomfortable furniture. It was this room. This house. The whole uncomfortable place. And this niggling feeling of unease I couldn’t shake.
“A few more days and all our things will be here. It’ll seem more like home then.”
I assessed the furnishings that had suffered abuse at the hands of college renters. “What will we do with all this stuff?”
“Salvation Army? Whatever they won’t take, we can put out as trash.”
I nodded. Truth was, I didn’t care where the old junky furniture went as long as it went fast. My greatest fear was Mom would say we were never getting our things; that we’d have to get used to this bizarre alternate reality at Grandma’s.
She put her hands on my shoulders. “Things will get better, Salem.”
Yeah, right. There was as much of a chance of that happening as there was of a television star jumping out of my closet to tell me I’d just been punked.
If I were a good kid, I would have stood still while she put her arms around me and bent her head toward my forehead. But I wasn’t, so I tugged away and left her hanging in mid-kiss.
Almost immediately I felt guilty, so I turned away to hide my face. I mean, allowing a mother to see guilt is like letting a Doberman smell fear. Once you do, it’s over.
It actually hurt to back away though. It hurt to watch her suffer. “Your fault” my conscience screamed. A lot of her pain was my fault.
The light flickered again, this time accompanied by a loud clap of thunder. I jumped.
“It’s just a storm,” Mom said. I saw her hand reach out toward me, then pull back. Without another word, she turned and left the room.
Late that night, while the thunder boomed and the lightning flashed, I thought about her again. Why am I directing all my anger toward my mother?
I couldn’t answer that question and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get to sleep. As if anyone could in that room.
Seriously? You try to sleep alone in a room where the walls are scraped clean, and big bold handwriting shouts, “I’m watching over you.”
Yeah. That’s what I thought.
I mean, it’s no wonder I weirded out.
Chapter Two
Okay, so maybe my mind had started working overtime. Call me strange, but it actually felt like I could hear my grandmother’s whisper.
Yeah, I know, great. Hearing things. Let’s just add that to the list. But that sound … No, impossible. She died when I was too young to be able to remember her voice.
Yet I heard the words and the sound of a voice that reverberated with familiarity.
Yeah, whack job. They have institutions for people who hear things. Knock it off, or end up a rubber room, which I have to admit, style wise would only have been a lateral move.
Maybe I was just spending too much time alone.
I clenched my eyes tight, determined to shut out everything. Just focus on sleep, your eyelids are getting heavy, just focus on sleep.
Yeah, whatever.
I pictured the counting sheep, cute and fluffy. But as they jumped over the bed, they pursed their lips like babies and gave me the raspberries. Wait ‘til my
Serta arrived. Then I’d banish those sheep and their attitudes. I turned over, and turned back, tossing around the bed like a ship flung about in a storm.
I’m not sure when it began to get hot. It might have been gradual, like the coming of spring. Or maybe it ignited quickly, like a barbeque grill. But the heat was definitely increasing steadily.
My skin burned and I was semi-conscious when I kicked off the blankets. I felt like I was in the center of a large orange blaze, thrashing to get out, yet not getting anywhere.
If I didn’t get out, I’d die.
Somewhere deep inside a sound started around my toes and climbed higher and higher toward my throat.
The scream erupted from my mouth, sending what was left of my slumber viciously away like hot lava. Reverberations shook my soul and were loud enough to wake souls on the other side.
I sat up trembling and gasping for breath. Beads of sweat popped out on my forehead.
Then I heard the thunderous sound of the cavalry.
Mom stormed into the room making more noise than a herd of buffalo stampeding. Her arms enveloped me like a soft feather boa, smooth and comforting. “Are you okay?” she choked out. “Were you having a nightmare?”
I’ll never know why she always asks the obvious. Normally it makes me mad, but not tonight. “It didn’t seem like a dream.”
Relieved I was no longer alone I let myself relax a little, and answered her. “I mean, I guess it was. But … it seemed so real.” I tried to focus and bring it back now that my mother had made me feel pseudo safe. “I can’t believe it wasn’t real.”
I put my head on her shoulder the way I did when I was a kid and breathed in her mom scent. It helped and my breathing began to slow, but it wasn’t as reassuring as it had been when I was little. Then again, I knew she couldn’t protect me from everything. Adults couldn’t always protect themselves.
She rubbed her hand over my hair in a caress. “Tell me about the dream. What frightened you?”
Not exactly an easy question to answer, since the images jumbled in my head like tossed pieces of a puzzle. I gave it a shot. “I felt like the center of a fire.”
“You dreamed you were in a burning building?” she asked.
“No, no building. There wasn’t anything but the fire. Nothing. Just a giant flame in space … and I was in it.”
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