by D'Ann Burrow
I hated Loretta’s word for it. This thing inside my head wasn’t a gift. It was a curse. One I didn’t want, that was hanging over me, buzzing like a bee drawn to a can of soda in the summer.
With each mile clicking past, the uncertainty welled up inside me. Aunt Loretta hadn’t given me any instructions. I didn’t know if I was going to some kind of hideout or a secret apartment or whatever else could be at the random address. I didn’t know anyone else in Texas. Well, I didn’t know anyone else outside of Piney Bluff.
I passed Dairy Queen, and I thought about stopping for a drink. They had good ice, and they made vanilla Coke just like I liked it, even if soda was on Grant’s list of forbidden things to put into your body. I needed a little forbidden fruit right now. Or at least I needed the caffeine, and I didn’t see a Starbuck’s anywhere around.
I was stalling. I knew it.
As I drove along the winding road to nowhere, I started to put a few pieces together.
The velvety black of night had just started to give way to the faintest hint of purple when I turned onto Clearview Lane. A long time ago, I would have been scared to make a trip like this on my own. I was scared to drive out of the five mile radius of home. My house. My school. The beach. My world had been pretty small…and it really wasn’t all that long ago.
Eight weeks ago today, I closed the shutters over the window at Tower 6. It was a different life back then. I was different. I hadn’t seen what true evil looked like.
But today I had. I looked through someone else’s eyes—and evil stared back at me.
Now I turned onto the pristine brick driveway and started to wind Loretta’s car through the professionally manicured grass. I caught a glimpse of a house in the distance. But it was too big to be a house—or at least too big to be a real house.
I was from California. I knew big houses.
This one was like a plantation on steroids. Flickering gas lamps topped brick half-pillars that interrupted the iron fence. If the guardhouse hadn’t been directly next to the gate, the house would have looked perfectly at home mid-Civil War.
I rolled to a stop, putting on my best I’m-supposed-to-be-here face. As my window lowered, a stout dark-skinned man leaned over my car, giving me a suspicious onceover. “Why are you in Loretta’s car?”
He knew my aunt? I blinked back at him. “Um,” I was legitimately flustered. “She let me borrow it.” My eyes fell on an aged brass plate on the left column.
Shenendoah Sanitorium
Sanitorium. Even the name sounded out of place, out of time. Here on this country road, I could have dropped back into the last century. I thought back to brief mentions of sanatoriums from history class. Wasn’t that where they put…insane people?
Oh hell.
My stomach dropped somewhere below the car seat.
“Name?” By the clipped tone of his voice, I could tell it wasn’t the first time he’d asked the question.
“Kennedy Thatcher.”
He nodded, shuffling back to the computer in his little guardhouse. He typed in a few keys before giving a satisfied nod. “You’re on the list.”
What list?
Before I could figure out what questions to ask, the gate swung open, and he waved me through. I eased down on the gas pedal, following the driveway toward the parking lot I could see in the distance.
I parked the car and stepped out from behind the driver’s seat. As I approached the front door, I heard a low, metallic hum. I looked down into the bushes just in time to see a tiny red light blinking from the camera monitoring my progress up the walk. I stooped down and looked closely. Every five feet or so, there was another camera. I looked up and realized they were lining the rafters as well. There were guards at the door of a facility in the middle of nowhere and cameras monitoring my every step. Were they trying to keep people in…or out?
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to keep going anymore. But I couldn’t stop.
Because I understood why Loretta sent me.
I placed my hand atop the scanner at the front door. I was surprised when the light glowed green and the door unlatched with a click. I expected to be stopped somewhere along the way.
After all, everyone had worked so hard to make me believe this place didn’t exist.
Correction—they’d worked so hard to make be believe she didn’t exist. She was gone, lost in the line of duty.
I opened the door and was almost overcome by the scent of sanitizer. It didn’t look like a hospital from the outside, but inside, I was struck by the unmistakable scent of cleanliness. A woman with short blonde hair looked up from her knitting as she sat at a tiny reception desk. Not the reception I was expecting with security so tight outside . Of course, if someone made it past the guard, the cameras and the scanner, it probably didn’t matter who sat behind the desk.
“Room, please?”
Room? How did I know which room? And then I thought to the paper I had folded in my pocket. I pulled it out, pressing the wrinkles out as best I could on top of the granite counter. My mouth had gone too dry to answer. I spun the paper around so she could read it.
“Oh yes.” Her voice was as warm and sweet as butter and honey melting into a biscuit. “Loretta called and said to expect you. You can go right on upstairs. Just let one of the attendants know if you need anything.”
Attendants—not nurses?
“Thank you.” I managed a hoarse whisper.
“Any time, dear. Just remember visiting hours end at ten.”
I glanced at my watch in a panic. I had 45 minutes. No wonder Loretta said I could be here and back to her house before my father arrived to pick me up. I had 45 minutes to decide how to fight.
I climbed the curving staircase, and for a minute, I thought what this must have looked like in the house’s prime. Probably hundreds of guests would have gathered here for balls and parties and whatever rich people did back then. I’d kind of zoned out of that part of U.S. History.
And now I was trying to zone out of my new reality. I approached the third floor, and the soft glow of pale yellow light pooled on the stairs to meet me. This floor was more serene and even quieter than the reception area, if that was possible. Some kind of chanting played softly from hidden speakers.
A heavy mahogany door practically screamed at me, directly across from the stairwell, its only label was the brass numbers in the exact center beneath some type of peephole. I balled my fist to knock, but the door opened with a hiss at my approach. I glanced to the right, not surprised to see another security camera. I forced a smile I didn’t feel and stepped into the room.
My heart stilled in my chest. Even in profile, I had no doubt who it was. She didn’t turn. She didn’t even act like I was in the room. I forced my hands into my pockets to still them from shaking.
I took two more steps and smelled her familiar perfume. Somewhere, I found my voice. “Mom, I need your help. I broke the rules.”
Acknowledgments
I’ve heard it said that it takes a village to raise a child. Bringing a book into the world is no different. While writing is a solitary profession, so many people are involved in bridging the gap from a first scribble on a page (or a few taps of the keypad) to a new-and-shiny final product that I know I’m going to leave someone out. And I’m so sorry about that. Hopefully, you know how much you meant to me, even if your name didn’t quite make it here.
First up, I have to thank my Thursday critique group. Denise, Dian, Tony, Lois, Gail, and Amanda - y’all have been with me since this was a story about a girl drinking soda on a plane. Thanks for being with me through the chaos of my move and always being a safe place (and giving me a reason to put on makeup and be around other people).
NTRWA people, I loved the time I had with y’all. You kept me motivated, inspired, and kept me going when this whole writing thing seemed kind of a dark path to follow.
Stephanie Monahan, critique partner extraordinaire, you always knew what the story needed, and you weren’t afraid to
tell me. Thanks for your honesty.
Ladies from The Keeper Shelf, y’all kept me sane. You’ve also been incredibly awesome at answering my questions about this whole publishing thing, no matter how simple the answer might seem. Thanks for helping keep me motivated during some unusual times.
My friends in the fanfiction world, y’all kept me motivated when you didn’t even know you were doing it. Your love for my stories convinced me that people really did want to hear the voices in my head.
I can’t say enough about my “reading team.” I approached y’all during the busiest season of the year with a huge favor to ask. Eve, Amanda, Denise, Sandra, and Carol – y’all give new meaning to the word awesome.
Sarah Hansen, I came to you with a vague idea of what I wanted for the cover, and you produced something that truly brought the story to life.
I also need to say thanks to my editor Jeni Chappelle. You didn’t bat an eye when I told you my timeline for getting the final polish on this story. Thanks for making it work.
And my final word of thanks goes to my agent Kathleen Rushall. While you weren’t involved with this book, you gave me the freedom to keep going and follow a story that I loved through to completion. The simple fact that you believed in me enough to take me on as a client has meant more than you’ll ever know. Thanks.
About the Author
D’Ann Burrow once told her preschool teacher she wanted to be a witch when she grew up. That simple comment signaled the start of a life-long fondness of things that go bump in the night. As she grew older, she could most often be found with her nose buried in a book, and she was especially fond of the Nancy Drew series as well as anything by Christopher Pike or Stephen King. Occasionally she’d take a trip to the world of the classics where The Scarlet Pimpernel and A Little Princess reigned among her favorites. She’s lost count of the times she’s read Little Women.
Today, D’Ann enjoys the world of Supernatural, stories about guys with fangs, and she’s seldom met a disaster film she hasn’t liked. When she grows up, she’d like to work at the Haunted Mansion. Until then, watching Ghost Hunters will have to count as research.
D’Ann writes about secrets people keep. Even the bravest heroine or a guy with a heart of gold has a few skeletons in the closet they’d rather not share with the world. When those secrets get out, things get interesting.
A Texas native, she knows making great guacamole is an art form. As a theater mom, she’ll happily chat about Broadway musicals by the hour. Molly and Lizzie, the family furry ones, are frequent stars of her Instagram account.
For more information:
@dkburrow
dannkburrow
www.dkburrow.com
[email protected]