“I know; I’m not doubting you. I heard it too, remember? It just gives me the willies, that’s all.” Justine rubbed her arms, then grabbed a blanket from the arm of the couch. “God, I can’t seem to get rid of this chill.”
Peyton scooted closer, and Justine shared half of the blanket with her.
“Do you still want to hear about what happened at the cemetery?” Peyton asked, wondering if her aunt would rather wait until morning.
“Of course I do. You said they were exhuming a grave, and you imagined you saw—”
“I didn’t imagine anything, Justine.”
“Okay, okay. Tell me what you saw.”
“When they opened the casket, I—I felt like . . . this is hard to put into words, but I felt like I knew who it was. I saw his life, through someone else’s eyes.”
“Who was it?”
“I’m not sure, but I think his name was Mitch.”
“Mitch? Mitch what?”
“I don’t know. But I know he was married, and had a child. A little boy, Justine.”
It took a second for Justine to realize the connection, and when she did, her eyes grew large. She subconsciously clutched the blanket a little tighter. “Are you saying the little boy you saw in the kitchen is—”
“I’ve been thinking about it, while you were taking care of that bird. This is going to sound crazy, Justine, but it’s what I feel.”
“Go ahead, honey.”
“I saw their whole lives together—saw them meet, saw them get married, saw them have a child. The same boy I saw in the kitchen that I told you about. It was him.”
“You said their lives.”
Peyton nodded. “It was like a rush of feelings—a flood of feelings, and images—I really don’t know how else to explain it.” She paused, remembering the final string of visions she experienced. “And I saw the end, too, Justine. Mitch was murdered, and the boy. All of them.”
“All of them?”
“I saw it all through someone else’s eyes, Justine. And I think it was his wife. They were all killed.”
Justine closed her eyes, let her breath out slowly. “Okay. You said his name was Mitch. Did you—”
“No, I have no idea what his last name is.” Peyton paused for a second, then made a decision. She tossed her half of the blanket aside and stood. “We have to go to the cemetery.”
It took a moment for Justine to realize that Peyton meant right now. “In the middle of the night?”
Peyton pulled her cell phone from her back pocket. “That’s what they make flashlights for, right?”
*
Ten minutes later, when Justine and Peyton approached the cemetery, they saw the open grave had been covered by a tarp, and the backhoe was parked next to the equipment shed. They stood beside the tarp.
“Why would they want to dig him up?” Peyton asked.
“Exhuming a body might mean they’re reopening a medical investigation, or trying to find evidence for a case they didn’t find the first time around. There’s no way to be sure until we know more about him.” Justine felt a little like a criminal wandering around a cemetery in the dark, flashing her cell phone light around. No, more like a grave robber. “Let’s hurry, okay? This is creeping me out.”
Peyton knelt by the headstone: Mitchell Scott Bannock. Mitch.
Justine read the adjacent headstone. “Bannock,” she said quietly, then, “Peyton, look at this.”
Peyton slowly ran her fingers across the letters etched across the smooth marble face: “Jenna Elizabeth Bannock. Loving Wife and Mother.” She looked up at her aunt. “I think this is his wife.” It was strange, touching the name of a person she felt she knew almost as well as she knew herself.
“And this would have been their boy.” Justine was standing by another headstone—slightly smaller—just on the other side of Jenna’s grave. “His name was Timothy Jonathan Bannock.”
Peyton looked at the dates etched on the headstone. “He was seven years old when he died, almost eight. The boy in the kitchen looked about that age.” Her heart sank when she realized the boy had died right before his eighth birthday. Birthday. Peyton was surprised at the certainty she felt. She knew her thoughts were coming from someone else, someone inside her. It was a message. “Justine, I think his birthday had something to do with their deaths. Something to do with a bank, and money for his birthday.”
“How do you know that?” Justine asked.
“I don’t know how,” Peyton said. “I just do.”
Justine walked back over to Mitch Bannock’s headstone. She hugged herself, tightly.
“Are you okay?” Peyton asked.
Justine turned, and Peyton was shocked at the look on her face. She looked sick.
“When we first bought the house, Peyton, the Realtor told us something. They’re supposed to, I guess, but we didn’t care at the time. I hadn’t thought about it until I saw the names.”
“The names?”
“A murdered family.”
“Justine, what are you talking about?” Peyton asked.
“Come on,” Justine said. “We’re going back to the house. There’s some papers in the fire safe I need to look at.”
*
“Here it is,” Justine said, pulling a yellowed newspaper page from the safe. She scanned it quickly, then handed it to Peyton. “This is what the Realtor told us about.”
Peyton had been right about a bank being involved. “The Twin Creek Savings and Loan was robbed?”
“Keep reading.”
The article listed the names and addresses of all the people killed in the bank robbery. “There they are, Justine. Mitchell, Jenna, and Timothy Bannock.” Peyton gasped when she saw their address. “Justine . . .”
“I know,” Justine said.
The Bannocks had lived at 1307 Oak Hill Drive, where Rick, Justine, and Peyton were currently living. Their home was the old Bannock house.
34
Peyton lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as she had been for the past three hours.
An overwhelming urge to jump out of bed and head to Omaha—to Zach—kept her from sleeping. The pull had grown stronger after what she and Justine had discovered about the house. So many questions had been answered, so many suspicions confirmed, but still, there was so much she didn’t understand. Why had Zach been arrested for a brutal murder that she knew in her heart he couldn’t have committed? Why had Mitch Bannock’s body been exhumed? And most of all, why was she involved in all of this?
Peyton was mentally exhausted.
She slid out of bed and headed downstairs to the kitchen. Maybe a cup of tea would help her calm her swirling mind.
She stopped in her tracks when she saw Timmy again, standing in the living room as if he’d been waiting for her. This time, however, Peyton wasn’t scared.
“Timothy. That’s your name, right?” Peyton asked.
“Timothy?” the boy said, looking a bit surprised. “Mom always calls me that when I’m in trouble.”
Peyton saw a red baseball cap lying on the coffee table, right beside a ball glove with the name “Timmy” scribbled on it in black marker. Peyton remembered the visions of a T-ball game, one of many she’d experienced at the cemetery, and suddenly the cap and glove made sense. They were his. “Okay, Timmy then, right?”
The boy smiled and sat down on the couch. “You saw me today, didn’t you? You and another lady?” he asked.
Peyton understood what he meant. He was referring to the cemetery, to his own grave. She nodded her head. “Yes, we saw you today.”
“That other lady is nice. I like her.”
“Yes, she is nice. Her name is Justine.” Peyton knew the little boy was appearing to her for a reason, like he had something important to say. She didn’t want to be standing in her living room talking to the spirit of a murdered child, but maybe something he said would allow his soul to pass on to wherever souls go, and he could find peace.
“Is she going to help you find him?”
“Yes, I think she is,” Peyton said, still not quite sure how far Justine would be willing to go to help her. Peyton knew Justine was convinced something was going on when she’d realized their house had once been the Bannocks’ home, but Peyton knew her aunt still had doubts. Especially when it came to Zach Regan, who was sitting in jail accused of committing a horrific murder.
As if sensing Peyton’s apprehension, Timmy said, “Dad’s in trouble. He really needs you to find him. There’s not a whole lot of time left, either.”
“Your dad’s in trouble?” Peyton asked. “What kind of trouble?”
“The bad thing is trying to keep him away from you.”
“The bad thing?”
“You know. The boogeyman.”
“Timmy, I don’t understand. Who’s the boog—”
“You need to go outside now.” Timmy pointed toward the front door.
“Outside?” Peyton asked, a little confused. “I want to talk to you some more. I have a lot of questions I’d like to ask you—”
Timmy interrupted her again, this time with about as much determination in his voice as a seven-year-old could muster. “You need to go outside now.”
With that, Timmy was gone. He was standing there one instant, just as real as could be, and the next, he’d simply disappeared into thin air. Peyton had so wanted to run upstairs and wake Justine, so she could see Timmy, too, but the moment was gone.
The house was silent again. Just the normal sounds of the night.
You need to go outside, he’d said.
Peyton hesitantly walked to the front door and turned the knob, afraid of what she might see on the other side. As the door cracked open, cold air slapped at her face, and snowflakes swirled into the house through the narrow opening.
Startled, Peyton quickly shut the door, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she tried to comprehend what she’d just experienced. She peeked through the living room curtains, seeing what she expected to see. A cloudless, starry night. There was no frigid air, no snowflakes swirling in the wind. It was calm outside.
Again, she thought about waking Justine, but she knew that whatever lay outside the door was meant for her alone.
She swung the front door open and boldly stepped outside.
It was cold and dark. A snowstorm was raging, and the wind whipped through her hair. Hugging herself, she turned back toward the house, but like Timmy, it too had disappeared. She found herself standing alone in a hotel parking lot, below a neon hotel sign.
She watched as a car pulled into the lot, and two people stepped out. Even through the swirling snow, she could see who they were.
One was Rakel Anders.
And the other was Zach Regan.
“Zach? Zach!” Peyton called out, but he didn’t respond.
Oddly, Peyton was no longer cold. The wind was still whipping, but she couldn’t feel it. She held out her hand and watched as the snowflakes seemed to blow through her, instead of sticking to her open palm. She was a spectator here, it seemed, and could do nothing to change what she was seeing. When Timmy had told her to go outside, he’d somehow guided her through a door into a place that had once been. To see what had already happened.
Dezi said Zach took Rakel to a hotel, Peyton remembered, realizing that seeing them here could only mean one thing: This was where Rakel was murdered. Helplessly, Peyton watched Zach enter the room, and Rakel slam the door.
Peyton suddenly found herself in the room as well, an unwilling witness to the horrible event Dezi had described over the phone. She didn’t want to see it, but couldn’t turn away.
From Rakel, Peyton felt nothing but pure malevolence as waves of sinister intent flowed from her body like a frigid, deathly gale. Peyton knew she was in the presence of evil.
But Zach was too far gone to realize it. He was in love with Rakel—truly, completely in love. A false love, Peyton knew. A deception, a dirty trick. Zach had been fooled by someone—or some thing—that squirmed grotesquely inside Rakel’s body, controlling her actions. And at this moment, Zach’s. He was innocent, blinded to the tendrils snaking from within Rakel, entwining themselves throughout his mind. He was an open door, and something was crawling inside.
Rakel put her arms around him, kissed him, took his hand and placed it on her breast. “You want me, don’t you,” she moaned. “Go ahead, feel it,” she said, taking his hand and rubbing it against her nipple.
Peyton wanted to look away, but couldn’t. She was frozen in place, forced to watch what had already come to pass.
Rakel spoke softly, telling Zach that she loved him, that she wanted him. Her voice was gentle, soothing, but underneath the docile tones Peyton could hear the snarling trickery of the thing inside her, growling with an unclean urgency.
Rakel stepped away from Zach, undid her shirt, let it drop to the floor.
The darkness in the room grew closer, the walls seemingly closing in as the presence within Rakel exerted its power over Zach, crawling through his body, and pushing his conscious mind further and further within himself.
“This is what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it, Zach?” Rakel unhooked her bra and tossed it to the bed. She undid her jeans, and kicked them off. She stood before him, completely nude. “Everything you’ve always wanted, right here in front of you for the taking.”
Like the dream, Peyton thought, except this time, she wouldn’t be able to call out.
Zach didn’t move. He stood in place, arms at his side, a blank look on his face.
“But I don’t fuck guys like you, Zach.” She tilted her head, feigned a frown. “Aw, poor boy.”
Peyton sensed confusion in Zach, deeply buried beneath a powerful layer of inescapable submission. He was hopelessly spellbound, a puppet on a string. And Rakel was his puppet master.
“I do have something special, though,” Rakel said. She reached inside her purse and took out a bottle of liquor. She unscrewed the cap, and raised the flattened bottle to her lips. She gulped down half of the bottle like it was nothing, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Mmm, so good,” she said. She placed the back of her hand against her forehead, and made a tsk noise. “Oh, you naughty boy, what did you put in here? Don’t you know that drugging your girlfriend could get you in a lot of trouble, Zachy?” Rakel laughed, her voice a little deeper than before, almost as if more than one voice issued from her throat.
Suddenly, Peyton could feel a change in Zach, as if another part of him was frantically struggling to come to the surface.
“Ah,” Rakel said, “we have a visitor, do we?”
The room compressed once again, violently, every bit of darkness within it pressing against Zach’s body.
“You stay where you are,” Rakel snarled. “He’s mine now.” She was breathing heavily, as if expending energy trying to keep Zach under her control.
But it wasn’t just Zach, Peyton realized. There was someone else here, too, fighting for control.
“There,” Rakel said. “That’s better. Just you and me again, Zach. Now bring me my purse.” She pulled the sheets back and crawled into the bed as Zach mindlessly complied, picking her purse up and holding it out to her.
“Go ahead, reach inside,” Rakel said. “You’ll find an old friend of yours.”
Zach pulled a box knife from her purse.
“That’s it,” Rakel hissed, the thing inside her writhing in anticipation. “The razor. You remember what it can do. It’s a lovely tool when wielded by an expert, like you.”
Zach stood silently by the side of the bed, staring at the box knife, his eyes vacant, blank.
“I want you to listen to me very, very carefully,” Rakel said. “I want you to take the razor and cut me. I want you to cut me like you cut yourself all those years ago. You want to cut me, Zach. You called me a whore once, and you meant it. Whores like me deserve to be cut, Zach, don’t they? It’ll be fun, you’ll see. You’ll enjoy it.”
Peyton watched as Zach gripped the box knife tightly in
his hand. He was going to kill Rakel, and there was nothing Peyton could do to stop it.
“Slide the blade out, Zach, and have some fun. I’m every person who’s ever made fun of you, all wrapped up in a helpless little pink package. Kill me, Zach. You want this.”
Zach extended the blade from the holder with his thumb, and placed the razor against Rakel’s throat. Peyton could see flies crawling on Rakel’s body, little black spots hopping from place to place against her white skin.
“That’s it, Zach. Right there,” Rakel said, the rise and fall of her chest becoming more pronounced, her breathing more rapid, at the touch of the steel to her skin. She tilted her head back, exposing her neck to the blade. “Cut me, Zach. Cut me. Cut me!”
The muscles in Zach’s arm tensed as he—
Like a thunderclap, Peyton felt another presence explode throughout the room.
In her mind, she saw the face of a man she’d seen once before. She’d seen his life through another’s eyes—Jenna’s—while standing at a cemetery fence.
Zach softly spoke a single word, his voice strangely echoing like two people speaking at once. One voice was Zach’s. The other was Mitch Bannock’s.
“No? What do you mean, no!” Rakel screamed, astonished by Zach’s unexpected defiance. Her voice became deep, almost animal-like as she continued to shout at him. “Take the knife and cut me, Zach! You must do it! I command you!” Low moans and grunts escaped Rakel’s lips as she fought to regain control over Zach. Demonic sounds.
Zach’s hand was trembling, the blade quivering against Rakel’s exposed skin as he struggled to resist. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, and he bared his teeth in an angry grimace. Fighting.
As Peyton watched, Zach’s face began to change. His features shifted and slid, as if malleable flesh and bone were being shaped by an invisible hand. For just an instant, the thing inside Rakel peered into a fiercely determined face, whose eyes burned with a knowing hate.
Peyton knew it was the face of Mitch Bannock, and he was looking into Rakel’s eyes at the thing that’d killed him and his family so many years ago.
Zach fell back from the bed, dropping the box knife as he stumbled to the door, steadying himself against the wall as he wrenched the door open and fled into the storm.
The Widening Gyre Page 16