After watching them for several moments, it was clear that Lauren was upset about something, and he was quietly telling my father all the details of his sudden anxiety. I watched my father look around in the church hesitantly. There were still some people talking amongst themselves, not noticing my father or the man standing beside him as they were too engulfed in their own conversation. My father held up one finger to Lauren motioning for him to wait. He walked over and took his coat from the coat hanger a few feet away and then quickly exited the church with Lauren Anderson.
I stood from the pew I had been ducking behind, staring at the open, empty doorway. Without even thinking about what I was doing, I was practically running out to the parking lot toward my car. I had driven myself and Matthew to church separately today from my parents as they had had an early meeting to attend. I quickly scanned the almost deserted lot as I shielded my eyes from the brightness of the sun with my hand. There was no movement anywhere. Had my father and Lauren already gone? I jerked open my car door and hurried to start the engine. I found myself driving down the road headed toward Mrs. Anderson’s house.
I felt the same familiar obsession I had once had for Emry Logan come roaring back full force within me as if it had never really gone away. The sick, stalker-like fixation engulfed me, making my foot press down harder on the accelerator. Adrenaline rushed through me, and I suddenly felt as if I had come alive once again.
I pressed the brake. My tires squealed as the vehicle lurched to a stop in the middle of the road. What was I doing? This sudden impulse I had had was absurd. Why on earth was I trying to figure out where my father and Lauren Anderson had gone? Why should I even care? Emry Logan didn’t love me, and I didn’t love him. I had thought this whole foolish thing was over and done with. I had found my old, true self and had promised myself that I wasn’t going to behave in that manner ever again. I felt my body sink down a little in my seat so that I could no longer see the road in front of me. After Buck had told me all of those terrible things contained in Emry’s police record, I had felt very weak and frail. Even so, even on my worst days, deep down I knew that I was growing stronger little by little. Even in the depths of the pit I had dug myself into as I lay in my bedroom sulking and refusing to eat, even through all the emotional turmoil, I had somehow convinced myself to believe that that experience had been formed purely to serve as a lesson and from that, I had grown as a person. Hours ago I had felt strong, strong enough to go on living my life as a normal human being, as the Anna James that everyone in Seneca had familiarized themselves with. But now what? Now I felt even stronger with this surge running through my veins, with a sense of adventure and passion that drove me to even get in my car and attempt to follow my father. What was happening to me here? I couldn’t allow this to start all over again. But then, I felt the sudden epiphany become clearer still. I had convinced everyone, including myself, that I was over him. I had convinced myself that the calm, kind-natured Anna James was the real me, but that person was merely an illusion. Being her had helped me to overcome the emotional grief that felt like it had been swallowing me whole. I had brought the numbness back to life by being her.
I became startled as a horn from a truck blasted my eardrums as I had been blocking the road. I sighed and sat straight up quickly to get the car off of the road. I let the truck behind me pass and then started driving again, only slower this time. I tried to clear my mind and push Emry out of my thoughts. I tried to think of anything except those luscious lips and the way they had briefly touched mine in that single kiss of passion, his gentle blue eyes and the way I loved his dusty brown hair and the way it fell into them. My heart thumped in my chest, feeling heavy and sad at the same time. The sensation of loneliness lurked up from behind me, followed by the familiar longing, a desire to be near Emry Logan in any way I could, even if it meant not literally being with him but even by being consumed with something as small as following Lauren Anderson to try to unveil something to grasp onto. Just by doing that, I would be able to feel a little piece of Emry, and that would suffice the yearning. For now.
I wasn’t sure where I was headed, and when I did finally focus my attention to actually just driving again, I realized where I was. I was in front of Mrs. Anderson’s driveway. After deciding that it was probably safer to pull my car into the next lane down from her driveway where I had parked the same night as that infamous field ritual I had stumbled upon this past winter, I stepped out into the warmth of the early afternoon sunlight and reached back in my car for a pair of sunglasses before heading through the patch of woods that would run right into the side of the driveway. I was very careful with each step that I took. I was wearing a long dress and shoes that had a medium-sized heel on them which sunk into the soft clay beneath my feet. The grass was just beginning to turn green which helped to make this area not seem as depressing or frightening as it once had to me before.
Mrs. Anderson’s house came into full view in the clearing past the woods. I tromped down the slight curve of the driveway and squinted my eyes through the sunglasses to see if anyone was around. The house looked still and peaceful. There were no cars parked out front. I walked freely in front of the house and went around the corner to see if anyone had parked out back. Empty. No one was here.
I took a few steps back and peered upwards at the house before me. What was I going to do now without anyone to follow? I went around to the backside of the house and again just stared at it. It seemed like the house was calling to me, wanting me to go in and check things out. It had to be somewhat interesting with someone like the witchy Mrs. Anderson living there. I was curious, too curious perhaps. The motion of a swaying white curtain caught my eye as the warm breeze blew in through an open window. A smile crossed my lips as soon as I saw it. Before I even gave myself a chance to think things through, I was already standing right before the open window, peering in at the contents of the house. I had to do this. I had nothing of Emry to hold onto.
The window was slightly above my head. I had to use what upper strength I had to pull upwards and then brace myself to hold steady for a moment while I looked in to see if there were any signs of movement or life inside the house. I listened for a moment. All was quiet and peaceful from within. There was a little wooden chest sitting directly in front of the window with a few porcelain birds placed on top of it. I tried to slide my body in through the window very gracefully and carefully so as not to break anything. When I finally stood up in Mrs. Anderson’s house, my feet on the worn circular rug in the middle of the floor, I put my hands on my hips in satisfaction that I had accomplished getting in here so easily and without breaking anything as well.
I looked around. I stood in the middle of a living area. There were old paintings and photos hanging from the walls, two long couches with beautiful handmade throws on the backs of them and a bookshelf covered in thick hardbacks. It looked like a typical farmhouse would look. It wasn’t sparkling clean, but it wasn’t filthy either. It was a little cluttered for my taste. Furniture seemed to be shoved together, more or less. I listened again for any sounds. Hearing nothing, I decided to snoop around the rest of the place.
A large kitchen extended to the front of the house. There were dishes stacked up in the sink, and the smell of maple syrup lingered as if she had had a few guests over for breakfast this morning. I reached above my head and opened up one of the kitchen cupboards. There were just the normal every day bowls, plates and cups stacked inside. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that would render any hints of what was going on with Emry.
I walked into another room which was obviously a dining area with a large table in the center. It seemed as if this room was barely used though. The chairs were covered in dust and the table was covered in mail, opened envelopes and newspapers. I sifted through them for a few moments and again came up empty handed. I wasn’t sure exactly what it was that I was searching for anyway, I reminded myself when the disappointment started to settle in.
I turned ar
ound another corner and ran my hand over the gray-speckled wallpaper in the hallway. There was a large, gaping, dark hole at the end of the hallway, and I quickly realized what it was, a staircase leading to the second floor. My stomach fluttered in both anticipation along with anxiety. Should I attempt it, or should I just go? I should probably go, I told myself. The darkness of the stairs themselves should’ve been enough to make me feel unwelcome up there. What if I found dead, rotting bodies or worse, became one of them myself as Mrs. Anderson could cast an evil spell, forbidding me from ever leaving. An image of remembering Mrs. Anderson in the middle of the snowy field holding up what was supposed to represent Emry as a piece of wood as she tossed it into the bonfire, spread itself out across my mind. I took a deep breath. I would only go up for one minute, take a quick glance around and then come back downstairs and out the window again. I glanced down at my watch. Every minute more that I lingered in this house was putting me at even greater risk of getting caught. And then what? I didn’t think I wanted to find out.
The stairs creaked one by one as I took slow strides toward the top. Why was it so dark in here? Were there no windows, or did she just have them all drawn shut? The lack of sunlight after the conclusion of a gloomy winter annoyed me. My hand brushed over the banister at the top of the stairs as my eyes struggled to focus in the shadowy light. There weren’t any windows up in the open area. I headed down another hallway. This house was larger than it appeared from the outside. I guess that’s how these old farmhouses went though. A bedroom on the left, another one on the right, a bathroom. It was a lot of space for just one person to be living here. Then again, her children did visit often, I assumed, and could stay here if they wanted. Maybe she even had grandchildren for all I knew.
There were two more rooms at the very end of the hallway. One of them was another bedroom, and the other was filled with junk from wall to wall. Maybe there wasn’t an attic in this house, and this room served the purpose for storage. There was a window in the room, and I reached across a pile of papers stacked up from the floor to grab onto the string of the blind to pull it up so I could get an even better look at what was in here. Particles of dust spread out in the air as the sunlight touched them. There were a lot of older pieces of furniture in here, antiques for sure that could easily fit into my mother’s collection at the store. One lamp caught my interest as I studied it momentarily. Farmhouse memorabilia corroborated with statues of strange animals and pictures of shapes in a multitude of colors all shoved into anywhere they would fit in this small square room. I blew the dust off another strange statue of an animal that resembled a monkey, its face twisted in a menacing expression. If these things belonged to me, not that they really represented my taste or anything, I would want to display them, not hide them away up here letting them collect all this dust. It seemed like a waste. But what did I know about Mrs. Anderson? I thought she was odd, and if anything, this just went along with the strangeness that seemed to coincide with my opinion of her.
In the midst of all the clutter sat a desk that was in desperate need of restoration. It looked as if it had been left out to weather for years by the color of the wood. I ran my hand over the jagged surface on top of it. There was a single drawer with an open area underneath it piled full of papers. I opened the drawer. There was a navy blue metal box inside. It had a place to insert a key on the outside. But to my surprise when I attempted to open the box, it willingly flung open. There were stacks of envelopes inside banded together by rubber bands. I picked up one of the stacks and took off the rubber band. I glanced through them. They appeared to all be old electric bills, farm supply receipts, etc. I went through the next few stacks of envelopes that were composed of the same things. I shoved them all back together as I had found them and put them back in the metal box, closing the drawer. My eyes moved downwards to the papers in the open area below the drawer. They were thrown together wildly, making it difficult for me to hold onto them as some were sideways in the stack. The papers themselves were simply more paid bills. They were mixed with old newspaper clippings of obituaries and some weddings that had occurred decades ago. I recognized the town immediately on one of the headlines of the newspaper. The article was about Elverson, Pennsylvania. Still seeing nothing of any real value, I threw the papers back in the space just as recklessly as I found them.
I folded my arms across my chest. Now what? There was nothing here. Mrs. Anderson was a packrat of strange antique memorabilia unlike anything I had ever come across in my mother’s store. That didn’t prove anything other than the woman had an odd taste of collections, collections that she didn’t like to share with anyone else. I quickly pinched my nose as I felt a sneeze coming on. I winced as my eyes burned while I forced myself to hold it in. I must have been kicking up too must dust.
I walked back over, stood in front of the desk and stared at it, the sunlight still dancing with the particles of dust. I frowned. There had to be something in here, but there was nowhere else to look. I opened up the drawer again and peered down at the metal box. I lifted the whole thing up and set it down on top of the desk. The drawer was entirely empty now. I pushed my hand down on the bottom of the drawer and felt the bottom piece of wood move loosely within it. I squinted my eyes to try to get a better look inside the dark compartment. That wasn’t the bottom of the drawer. Someone had put another piece of wood in here that didn’t quite fit. I was able to dig my fingertips down along a tiny gap between the wall of the drawer and the edge of the piece of wood. I struggled to pull it up. Finally it gave, and I was able to lift it upwards and out of the drawer. I set it down on the floor beside me. There were more folded papers in the drawer. I quickly took them out and into the sunlight as I unfolded them. One was a small painting without a frame. My heart began to beat in the same combination of excitement and apprehension that I had felt moments ago when entering the house. My mouth dropped open as I examined the painting further. It was slightly faded, but I still easily recognized those rocky cliffs, red hazy sky with brilliant white speckles and high golden grasses in the background. This was a painting of none other than Emry’s Evadere. It portrayed the real thing perfectly. What was this doing in Mrs. Anderson’s house? Who could have painted such a thing or had any knowledge of the place? As questions began to surface inside my head, I unfolded another piece of paper. My mouth gaped open. It was a birth certificate for Emry Logan.
I felt a little dizzy all of a sudden. All the dust was getting to me along with the way the sunlight poured in brightly into just one spot of the room, the rest of the place dark with black shadows. I braced myself against the wall for a few moments trying to take deep breaths. I would not allow myself to pass out here. My heart beat furiously. I tried to calm myself down, hoping the rhythm of my heart would cooperate as I did so. After a few more moments, I started to be able to see clearly again. I allowed myself to attempt to stand straight again without the assistance of the wall. I steadied myself praying I wouldn’t fall over. I waited just standing there, the papers still in my hand. I felt okay, just a little sweaty.
I looked back down at the birth certificate. Emry Logan born on July 21, 1988, son of Henry Logan and Trisha (Fisher) Logan of Seneca, Ohio. These were the names that Emry had given me, the ones he thought were fake. Underneath the certificate was a small envelope. Inside were some Polaroid pictures of a small, beautiful child, a little boy with bright blue eyes. It was Emry as a child. He was a baby in the one standing up in his crib and the others were taken of him as a toddler, maybe a little over a year old, outside playing in someone’s yard. What was she doing with this? I wanted to scream it out as loud as I could as it roared within my mind. Had Mrs. Anderson stolen this from Lainey Tritt’s house? But why? It didn’t make any sense. Why would she care about any of this as long as he was behind bars? What kind of case was she building up against him?
There were a few other papers underneath the envelope folded up as well. I went to unfold one, when suddenly I felt someone wrap their arms
around me so tight that I could barely breathe. The papers fell from my reach and scattered on the floor. I struggled with what little strength I had to break their grasp, but it was no use. They were too strong. They squeezed even tighter, and I winced as the rest of the air fled from my lungs. They dragged me out of the little room and down the dreary hallway. I couldn’t see who it was. My back was against their chest. I was certain it was man though. My legs flailed about as I tried to put up whatever fight I had left within me.
They forcefully carried me down the stairs, my elbows and head bouncing violently off the narrow walls on the way down. I grunted as my lungs pleaded for me to expand them. A sharp pain radiated across the front of my chest. The force of the violent suffocation felt as if they were breaking my ribs one by one. A numbness made its way into my face and blackness crossed my field of vision as I wasn’t sure exactly where I was anymore. My feet were now limply dragging on the ground behind me as they refused to put up a struggle.
I heard a door open and then the back of it slamming off the wall, echoing. Then with one giant heave, they tossed me like a rag doll, and I fell down a staircase, my body rolling, jolted by each turn and twist as different parts of my body smashed into the steps. Finally everything stopped as I landed with a hard thud on the cold, hard dirt at the bottom of the stairs. My chest heaved in pain as my lungs lapped in the moldy air around me. I could feel something wet running down my forehead. Probably blood, I guessed. But the worst pain was my ankle. The pain was so deep, so intense that I curled over on my side into a ball making a failed attempt to rid myself of it.
“You were warned!” a husky male voice hollered down at me from the top of the stairs. I felt like I needed to cry, but the sting and burning, as if my ankle had been ripped wide open,
Strange in Skin Page 25