Homecoming

by Amber Benson

  The crushing footfalls gained speed as the thing—she knew it wasn’t human—crashed through the underbrush, moving faster and faster as it closed the distance between them, its breathing ragged. It was running now, moving at an inhuman speed, snarling toward her, its movements building to a heart-throbbing crescendo that stopped just shy of the edge of the clearing. Whatever had come tonight was afraid to cross the boundary the tree line had created.

  And then the creature burst through the boundary line, the protective spell broken. The beast, all smoke and darkness and dread, descended on her, ripping at her torso and burying its cold teeth into her gut with feral intent, tearing away the flesh from her body in bloody chunks—

  —and she woke up.

  Only she was not in her old bedroom anymore. She was in her great-aunt’s room, but Eleanora wasn’t there. Instead, she saw Saint Anne, the woman from the candle, but then the image dissolved and another woman—a giantess, really—stood at the foot of the long, quilt-covered bed. She was smiling down at Lyse, whose body lay on top of the mattress, stiff as a board, hands crossed over her chest.

  But Lyse wasn’t in the body on the bed. She was a spirit, and she drifted by the door, close to the doorjamb, gazing at the scene: the giant woman at the foot of the bed and her own body there on the mattress, lying in state.

  “Am I dead?” she asked, but the woman shook her head, and Lyse looked closer and could see that yes, the woman was right—the body on the bed was still breathing, the gentle rise and fall of its chest marking it among the living.

  “Not dead, ma belle, merely dreaming.”

  The woman smiled then, and suddenly she held a smoldering cigarette in her hand. She took a long puff, then released the smoke so it poured from her nostrils like steam.

  “Ah, I miss that,” she said, indicating the smoke wrapping in curlicues around her head.

  “Who are you?” Lyse asked, once she’d understood her body was okay.

  “Humans call us ghosts, but Dream Walker is the name we witches give to souls who do not move on to the next plane after death. I am one of those who chose to stay on Earth after my passing. To help those that I’ve loved.”

  “Wait, witches?” Lyse said, almost spitting out the word.

  “Eleanora never spoke about me or the coven to you,” the woman said, “but once, a long time ago, we were very close.”

  Lyse felt her spirit float away from the door and come to hover next to the giantess.

  “There is so little time, ma belle. So very little time,” the woman continued. “It’s coming. It’ll arrive unheralded, and only you will know it for its true self. The coven will need your strength then—”

  “The coven?” she said, interrupting the giant woman. “What’re you talking about?”

  On the bed, the body grew restless. It opened its mouth and screamed, but the sound couldn’t be heard here in this dream world.

  “Damn,” the woman said, puffing away on her cigarette, though the ash tip never seemed to grow, “you sure channeled Elsa Lanchester with that scream, baby.”

  “I don’t understand—”

  The body on the bed opened its eyes, twisting and turning as it struggled with unseen hands.

  “The time’s coming for that,” the woman said. “All will be revealed soon.”

  She exhaled a plume of gray-green smoke, like something you would expect from the bellows of a dragon, and this time the smoke didn’t dissipate; it filled the room—

  —and Lyse was looking at the candle. The flame had gone out while she slept, and a plume of smoke rose from the extinguished wick.

  She inhaled sharply as she stared at the face of Saint Anne—and the single tear that slid down the picture’s cheek. Lyse crawled over to the candle and, ignoring her fear, pushed her face close to the glass, then sat back, smiling at her own idiocy. Upon closer inspection, it was apparent that what looked like a tear from farther away was actually a dollop of hot wax that’d somehow slipped over the edge and wound its way down the outside of the glass.

  The dream—or whatever it was—had left a bitter taste in her mouth, and the crying candle was just a symptom of this. Now she understood why she didn’t come back to Echo Park often: Things were always a little wonky at Eleanora’s house. She’d just assumed this was because she was a teenager and everything seemed dramatic when your hormones were racing out of control, but she was in her twenties now and the same things were happening again. Strange dreams that were more lucid than any of the ones she’d ever had in Georgia: crying candles, giantesses, and witches . . . It was all just too much to deal with. Especially when her focus should be on Eleanora’s illness, on making sure there weren’t any other treatment options, that there wasn’t a way to stave the disease off or at least stop it from being a death sentence.

  A neighborhood dog let out an anxious howl, the unexpected sound reverberating through her old bedroom with enough intensity to make it feel like the animal was standing right outside her window. She scurried backward like a crab, slamming the meat of her palm into the thick brass bed frame, and pain ratcheted up her wrist.

  Dammit, she mouthed—then froze as she felt someone’s gaze riveted on her back. It was unmistakable, this uncanny feeling of one’s privacy being invaded, of having someone unwittingly observe you in an intimate moment. She was not alone, and the knowledge ran through her body like an electric current.

  “Who’s here?” Lyse heard herself saying, never having felt so unnerved in Eleanora’s house before.

  No reply.

  “Okay, I’m gone,” Lyse said—as if there were someone in the room listening to her. “You’ve spooked me enough for one day.”

  She jumped off the bed and quickly made for the door. She wanted outside and fast.

  The paranoia was back.

  * * *

  Lyse pulled the hood of the shawl she’d grabbed from the kitchen up and over her dark hair, shoving her bangs out of the way so she could see where she was going. It had started drizzling outside, but the dark clouds seemed to be abating. It looked as though she was going to have a nice, sane walk down to the bottom of Echo Park Avenue and across Sunset to Echo Park Lake.

  She’d decided that taking a walk was the perfect antidote to being scared all alone up in Eleanora’s house. It felt like the specter of death had taken up residence in the bungalow on Curran, and the less time spent there without Eleanora, the better. Besides, she knew it would be good to get outside and clear her head, then make a much-needed call to Carole, whom she should’ve phoned hours ago.

  Instead, she’d procrastinated, telling herself the cell reception was terrible up in the hills, that she’d call Carole later—but she knew this was bullshit; she could’ve just used Eleanora’s landline. The truth was she didn’t want to talk to anyone, wasn’t interested in regurgitating the events that’d led to her wandering the hills of Echo Park on this wet October afternoon, unable to shake off the horrible dream and the weird feeling of being watched.

  How could I have forgotten it? she wondered, remembering the dream that’d dogged her for the entirety of her adolescence.

  Not the part with the giantess—that was new—but the sacred grove, the creature wanting to eat her, so it could taste her death on its tongue . . . this dream had recurred night after night for weeks at a time when she was a teenager. It had wreaked havoc on her sleep, exhausted her so she fell asleep during classes at school. More than anything, she’d hated the sense of vulnerability she felt when she was in the dream. It reminded her too much of the time after her parents’ deaths.

  Nope, not going there, Lyse thought, not wanting to think about her parents’ double funeral, of her standing alone at the grave site wishing she had joined them.

  Survivor’s guilt, her therapist had called it—the one Eleanora insisted Lyse see when she was fifteen and the nightmares had been at their worst.
Because you lived and your parents died.

  Removing her cell phone from her pocket, she ignored the old texts and messages and dialed Carole’s number.

  She hadn’t realized it before, but she really needed to hear her best friend’s voice. Maybe then she could find the strength to pull herself together and be strong for Eleanora.

  “Holy my God, where the hell are you?” Carole said before Lyse could even open her mouth.

  No hellos or how are yous from Carole. Her best friend always got right to the point.

  “I’m in Los Angeles—”

  “Bemo ate a box of crayons from his toy box last night and we ended up at the emergency room—”

  “Wait, what happened?” Lyse said without missing a beat. She was used to Carole’s habit of changing the subject on a dime. “Is he okay?”

  “Gonna be pooping rainbows, but otherwise he’s great. He thought it was hysterical. I did not,” Carole said. “You listen to my message? I doubt it because you sound way too composed. Someone broke into your place this morning—it’s not a mess, but your computer’s gone.”

  Lyse stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, the neighborhood sounds—car engines, trash cans being dragged up driveways, the chatter of children playing behind gated yards—growing louder as her sense of reality flipped upside down.

  “No, I didn’t,” Lyse said, finally. “Listen to the message, I mean. Damn, you’re kidding me . . .”

  Through the phone line, she could hear Carole shaking her head.

  “I don’t kid about that kinda stuff, baby.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Yeah, fuck is right,” Carole echoed, but she whispered the word fuck. Carole was a single mom whose little one, Bemo, had big ears and a nasty habit of repeating whatever he heard adults say. “I’m on it. The police came—but your neighbor got hit, too, so they think it’s hopheads looking for stuff to sell for drugs. Now, why are you in L.A.? What’s up with Eleanora?”

  Carole knew Eleanora from her great-aunt’s visits to Athens. Eleanora adored Bemo, and he was just as smitten with her.

  “It’s bad,” Lyse said, and her throat tightened. “Really bad.”

  “Hmm,” Carole said.

  “She’s dying,” Lyse said, and swallowed hard. “I haven’t gotten into the specifics, but apparently there’s nothing they can do.”

  “Oh, babe, I’m so sorry,” Carole said—and the pity in her best friend’s voice almost broke Lyse.

  For the first time in years, she wished she had a smoke. “I want a cigarette.”

  “No, you don’t,” Carole said—a hard edge to her words.

  Carole had given up smoking when she’d unexpectedly gotten pregnant with Bemo. Then she’d threatened to ban Lyse from the delivery room unless she quit, too. Bemo was a toddler now and Lyse had never regretted the decision . . . until today.

  “What’s up with leaving all the lights on at the nursery?” Carole continued, changing the subject again. “You just can’t do that, Bear. Overhead is expensive enough as it is without you adding to it. You can leave on the necessary-to-plant-life lights. Everything else, no.”

  After Bemo was born, Carole decided she was sick of working for other people, and she persuaded Lyse to leave their jobs at one of the local nurseries and open The Center of the Whorl together.

  Carole was the business brains behind the outfit, and Lyse had the magic touch with the plants. So far, they’d done pretty well for themselves, but when you owned and worked your own business, you were always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Especially where finances were concerned.

  “Yeah, I was in a bit of a daze when I left . . . Eleanora called me while I was still at work.”

  There was a break in the conversation—as if Carole were waiting for Lyse to say more, and when nothing came she said softly:

  “You okay, Bear? Other than Eleanora and the house? ’Cause you sound weird.”

  Lyse was dying to tell Carole about the strange things she’d been experiencing, but she knew they’d just sound ridiculous, and Carole was nothing if not pragmatic.

  Lyse pulled off the hood of the shawl, letting it bunch around the back of her neck and shoulders. The drizzle had stopped, and the crisp, clean smell of growing things filled her nostrils. She took a deep breath, enjoying the earthy smell.

  “Uhm, yeah, I’m okay . . .”

  “What are you gonna do?” Carole asked, using her I’m a mother, so don’t bullshit me tone. “How long are you gonna be out there?”

  “I don’t know,” Lyse said, running her hand along the front of a tall redwood fence while she walked. “I guess I’ll talk to her doctors, see if there’s anything she hasn’t told me. Figure out what I can do to make her happy while she’s . . . you know.”

  “Damn, Bear.”

  An older man was leaning against his chain-link fence, watching Lyse as she talked. It made her feel exposed, standing there on the sidewalk, so she decided to walk faster.

  “I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Lyse said. “Talking about it just makes me want to cry—and I don’t want to do that right now. Tell me about the house, okay?”

  “Sure thing,” Carole said—the last bit of thing cut off by a loud screech on Carole’s end of the line. “Bemo, no! I said no cookie right now—”

  Lyse couldn’t help but smile. The thought of Bemo—Carole’s ridiculously adorable hellion of a three-year-old—standing in the middle of the kitchen, hands on hips, shaking his auburn curls, and demanding his mama’s attention was just too damn wonderful.

  “I miss Beams already,” Lyse said, feeling an ache in her heart the size and shape of Carole’s toddler.

  “You want him? I’ll put the little monster on a plane to Los Angeles right now.”

  She knew Carole was only teasing. Bemo was the greatest thing that’d ever happened to her best friend, and she would never let him out of her sight. Still, the thought of Bemo hanging out with Eleanora was, like, the best thing ever.

  “I’ll take him,” Lyse said. “Eleanora would love to have him come stay.”

  “Yeah, he is pretty damn adorable,” Carole said, and Lyse could hear the pride in her friend’s voice.

  “He’s the best,” Lyse agreed, wishing she were back in Athens with Carole and Bemo instead of hiding out in Los Angeles. In many ways, Carole and her son were as much a part of her family as Eleanora was. She’d been there holding Carole’s hand when Bemo was born, so if that didn’t count for something, she didn’t know what did.

  “Here, take the cookie. I need quiet while I talk to Bear,” Carole said to Bemo. “Jeez Louise, that kid has energy! Okay, so where were we?”

  “Do I need to do anything about the house?”

  “They broke a window, but I’ve got a glazier coming,” her friend replied, and Lyse could hear the strain in Carole’s voice as she hoisted Bemo onto her hip. “Beams and I can go over there tonight and start putting it back together for you.”

  “You wouldn’t mind?” Lyse asked, surprised to find herself standing in front of a tiny modern glass-and-metal coffee bar that definitely hadn’t been there when Lyse was growing up.

  “Of course. It’s my job to help my best friend out,” Carole said. “And please send my love to Eleanora, okay?”

  “I will,” Lyse said, peering around the row of hedges separating the coffee bar from the local elementary school. “I just wish she were a little easier to reach. It’s difficult to really break through to her.”

  “She raised you, and she loves you,” Carole said.

  “I know.”

  There was nothing to add. Carole had called it: Eleanora loved her and she loved Eleanora. Lyse just needed to hold on to that and let it help her through the messed-up times.

  “Hey, I need to run, but thank you. For letting me know what’s going on,” Lyse said. “Am
I terrible? I just can’t even think about what’s happening back there right now. And you can handle the nursery on your own for a while?”

  “I can run the place blindfolded, Bear,” Carole said, and Lyse could hear Bemo screeching to be let down. “Plus—and I didn’t want to say anything until I knew for sure—but Frank is gonna come and stay with us while his place is being renovated. He says it’ll help him learn to be a proper dad, and I’m willing to let him try.”

  Bemo’s dad, Frank, was in the picture, but he spent time with Bemo only when he felt like it—which she knew upset Carole. This was a big step forward where Frank was concerned, and she really hoped it didn’t end badly.

  “I think that’s great,” Lyse said, the smell of coffee hitting her in the face. “If you trust Frank, so do I.”

  “He’s gonna be on Mr. Mom duty—even if he doesn’t know it yet,” Carole said, mischievously.

  “You’re so funny.”

  “And that’s why you love me—Bemo! Stop harassing the cat!” Carole obviously had her hands full. “Gotta go, too, Bear. Love you.”

  “Love you. And Beams!” Lyse said, cradling the cell phone to her ear; she could hear Bemo laughing maniacally in the background as the line went dead in her hand.

  She slid the cell phone back into her pocket and decided she needed some caffeine after that interaction. She’d have a latte or something, sit there and let her brain process the fact that someone had broken into her place . . . because that was just insane. There wasn’t anything in her place worth stealing. No money, no high-end electronics . . . She didn’t even own a television—

  “Penny for your thoughts, pretty lady.”

  The voice came from behind her, a rich and commanding male baritone. Surprised, she jumped like a cornered cat, whirling around to find the most captivating man she’d ever seen standing on the sidewalk, grinning down at her.

  Lyse

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” the man said, looking anything but contrite.

  “I was just a little lost,” Lyse replied, embarrassed by the way she’d initially responded to him. “In my head. I do that. Take a walk in there and get lost.”