I snatch my hand away and step out of the booth. I’d known all along coming here with him was a bad idea. But I’d done it anyway. “Whatever. I don’t believe in any of that stuff, anyway.”
He chuckles softly and brushes past me, into the next booth. While he picks through samples of depression era glassware, I wander to the other side of the aisle, trying to calm my nerves and stay focused on why I’m here. Pulling out a box of old photographs from a corner shelf, I flip through them slowly, thinking about what I’ve learned so far.
He is an only child, rarely seeing his parents while growing up.
He plays the cello and the piano, the latter beautifully.
He likes to draw.
That’s it. Nothing else. I have to find out more. Because no matter what my mom or anybody else says, something isn’t right.
I let out a slow, frustrated sigh, wondering how to figure it out. Every time I try to probe further, he manages to turn the conversation around to me.
I think about the house he’s just moved into. The house that his world-relief worker parents paid cash for. And the sudden, strange arrival. And the silver Range Rover. And the way he always seems to be watching me, waiting for me to say something.
I glance to my right. Lovell is crouched down, going through a stack of dinner plates. I watch him for a moment, drawn by the smoothness of his movements. The confidence and assuredness that seem to be a natural part of him. I wonder if he’s always been that way, or it’s something he’s developed over time. A strong sense of self-reliance and fearlessness that comes from never really knowing who you can depend on other than yourself.
He stands and I turn back to the pictures, flipping through them without actually looking at the images. When I get to the end, I notice a small photograph on the bottom, caught between the flaps of the box. I pull it out and hold it up. An extremely attractive, dark-haired woman sits on a swing attached to the limb of a tree. Her hair is swept up in a classic Gibson girl style and she wears a lacy, high-necked blouse and long, dark skirt. She is gazing to the left of the camera, a slight smile touching the corners of her mouth. As though someone she loves is standing just beyond the photographer’s shoulder.
I’m entranced, wondering who brought that expression to her face. A husband? A lover? A child? Knowing I can’t leave the store without it, I set the picture aside, replacing the other photos before pushing the box back into the corner. Halfway in it meets with resistance. Adjusting the box, I try again. It still won’t go. Pulling it out, I search for the obstruction – a framed photo lying face down on the floor. Reaching back, I pull it out and turn it over.
I stare at it in shock. Rising slowly, I hold it in front of me, my heart beating erratically. Incomprehension floods through me, and I shake my head in denial. But there is no mistaking it. The woman in the picture, gazing stoically back at me, is…me. Sitting on the edge of a delicate looking upholstered chair. And the man standing next to her, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder is Lovell. I blink my eyes rapidly, trying to clear my vision. But the people in the photograph remain the same.
The photograph is obviously old, the edges cracked and torn. The woman – me – is wearing a long, black dress with a hooped skirt, and off the shoulder short sleeves. Ribbons are tied around her neck and wrist, and her hair is pulled back to expose her long neck. The man is clean-shaven and wears a long dark jacket, vest and silk tie. I look closer. Even though the photo is faded, the eyes still hold that intense, penetrating gaze. The gaze I’d seen in real life, just moments ago. My hand shakes and I feel slightly sick.
“Find anything interesting?”
I gasp and jerk to the side. Lovell is standing behind me, looking over my shoulder.
“I wonder when that was taken,” he says. “It looks really old.”
Confused, I look back at the picture, wondering why Lovell isn’t as shocked as I am. But the picture has changed. The couple no longer bears even the slightest resemblance to Lovell or myself. The woman is still seated in the chair, but her dress is different and she looks heavier. The man is shorter, his face fuller, and a thick moustache covers his upper lip. I stare, astounded. What kind of tricks is my mind playing on me? I know I’d been deep in thought about Lovell, but this is crazy. Schizophrenic crazy. I look closer at the picture, looking for something, some resemblance, anything that might have made me think the couple was…us. But there is nothing. It doesn’t make sense.
I glance up. Lovell is looking at me intently.
“You OK, Kat? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost or something.”
My shock and confusion swiftly changes to anger and frustration. “What is that supposed to mean?” I snap.
“Nothing,” he says innocently, eyes widening. “Just an expression. You know, antiques store, old stuff, ghosts.” He grins, as though he’s just made a clever joke.
But it’s not funny.
“You do look a little pale,” he adds.
“I’m fine,” I answer, a little too harshly. “And for your information, I’m always pale.” I take a deep breath and try to soften my tone. “I just thought…I recognized the people in the picture. Thought I had seen it in a family album somewhere, and I was wondering how it got here.” It’s a poor explanation, but I feel like I need to say something.
“Really? Do you know them?” He looks at the picture curiously.
“No. I don’t. It’s just…nothing.” I quickly put the picture back in the box and turn away, snatching up the photo of the dark-haired woman.
“It’d be kind of cool if you did, though. To come across an old picture or find something that belonged to an ancestor.”
“I don’t know. I think it would be weird,” I say, still trying to make sense of what I’ve seen. Or think I’ve seen. “And, besides, how would you even know if something belonged to an ancestor? Unless you knew specifically what you were looking for.” I’m on edge and it’s obvious in my voice.
“Oh, I don’t know. Haven’t you ever held something and just opened your mind to it? Let it tell you its story?”
I look at him skeptically, wondering if he’s being serious or just teasing. “No,” I say, firmly. “I haven’t. Have you?”
“Yeah, I have. You should try it. It doesn’t always work. But sometimes you can pick up on the energy in an object.”
“The energy?” The conversation is making me impatient. I can’t figure out what he’s talking about, nor am I in the mood to try.
“It’s called psychometry. It’s the belief that the energy field in an object can transfer as knowledge. To those who are intuitive enough to pick up on it.” Rightfully interpreting my silence as disbelief, he adds, “All matter is energy, right?”
I nod, at least that part of it making sense.
“Well, then, don’t you think it’s possible? Like I said, try it sometime. I would think you’d be pretty good at it.” He smiles that lazy smile again. The smile that says what his words don’t.
I look away, glancing at my watch. “We should probably finish up here. I should get home pretty soon.”
“Sure. No problem.”
Lovell grabs the dinner plates he had been looking at earlier and we pick out a few more things, including another lamp, an old mirror and an antique wall clock. Lovell pays for his purchases – in cash, I notice – and we pile it all in back of the truck.
I’m quiet during the ride home, lost in thought. I’d been determined to find out at least one thing that would prove he was lying or concealing something. But so far the afternoon has been nothing but a weird, unsettling bust.
Taking a deep breath, I plunge in for one last effort. “This is a really nice truck,” I say, casually, looking around the interior. “It looks expensive.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” He keeps his eyes on the road.
“I guess your parents don’t have much use for it. Being gone all the time.”
He glances over at me, and smiles. “Actually, it’s mine,” he says, h
is eyes returning to the road.
“Really? Wow. What kind of part-time job did you have in high school?” And then I wonder: Maybe he gets his money from selling drugs or doing something else illegal. Maybe that’s why he’s so secretive. Maybe he’s afraid I’ll figure it out.
“I never made that kind of money,” he laughs. “It was a graduation gift.”
“You’re kidding, right?” My drug-dealer theory quickly disintegrates.
“No. It was from my Uncle Joe, my dad’s brother. I’ve pretty much been living with him since I was about ten.”
“Wow. This is some gift.” I can’t imagine any of my relatives being this extravagant for any occasion.
“He’s loaded, so it was no big deal to him. You should see what he drives.” He stops at a red light, arm stretched across the steering wheel, fingers drumming on the dashboard. “When he found out I was coming out here, he bought this and called it a graduation present. And who was I to say no?” His eyes glint with amusement.
“Sounds like a generous guy.”
“Yeah,” he agrees with a nod. The light turns green and we move forward, turning onto the tree-lined streets of my neighborhood.
“So what are you going to do after you get the house set up? Work? College?”
“I don’t know.” He shifts in his seat. “I’m thinking about art school. But we’ll see.”
“Do you think you’ll stay here?”
“Haven’t decided that either.” He waits for a car to pass and turns left.
The atmosphere in the truck suddenly shifts, filled with a tension and edge that wasn’t there before. I try to pinpoint what could have triggered it, but come up empty.
“What about you?” Lovell asks, keeping his eyes on the road. “You’ve only got a couple years before high school’s over. What then?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure.” I know that it’s a completely inadequate answer and I feel like I should say more, but I honestly don’t know. My parents are adamant that I go to college and I agree. I just have no idea what I want to study. “I guess I’ll figure it out between now and then.”
“Hopefully you will.” He pulls up in front of his house and cuts the engine. “Thanks for coming along, Kat. I really appreciate it. You were a great help.” A smile briefly touches his lips and he gets out of the truck.
I can’t help but wonder about the change in attitude. And why he hadn’t been looking at me the way he usually did, making innuendo-laden comments. And why he suddenly seemed anxious to be rid of me.
I can hear him unloading items from the truck, taking them to his front porch. Getting out, I reach for the box of dinner plates, but he places his hand on my arm. “It’s alright. I’ll get it.”
“OK.” I pull back and step onto the curb, rubbing my arm. “Good luck setting everything up.”
“Thanks. I’ll talk to you later.” He grabs the box and holds it with one arm, closing the tailgate with the other.
I go into my own house, deep in thought. Did I say something to trigger his abrupt change in mood? Maybe I shouldn’t have asked about work or college. Maybe there were issues that I didn’t know about. Or maybe it has something to do with his uncle.
I run a hand through my hair, wondering why I’m worried about it. The guy’s a creep. What does it matter if something I said upset him? It probably has nothing to do with me anyway. And even if it does, so what? From my vantage point, he was doing pretty well for himself. Eighteen. Gorgeous. An entire house to himself – at least for now. No work. No school. Cash to spare. And driving a sweet hundred thousand dollar truck. Not bad.
I head to my room, tossing my shoulder bag onto the bed with a sigh. The events at the antiques stores run through my mind. What the hell had happened? Drifting off into some weird half-asleep daydream while Lovell played the piano. Seeing weird images that aren’t there. There is no way to explain it. I press a hand to my temple, memories of the photograph sending a chill over my body. Now I really am seeing things that aren’t there. What next? I wonder. Faeries and elves dancing in the corner? Rotting, half-decomposed zombies rising from the ground at midnight? When does it end? Or does it just continue, the visions getting worse and worse until I lose my mind, no one believing me as I frantically try to explain.
I rub my eyes and sit down at my desk. Reaching for the seraphinite stone Rachel gave me, I rub its smooth surface. Yeah, I’m evolving alright. Evolving into a nut case.
I set the stone aside, overcome with fatigue, wishing I could stop thinking about all of it, but knowing it’s not possible. The incidents at school. The strange images. Lovell. The palm reading. The picture.
The picture!
Damnit! I left the photograph of the dark-haired woman at the store. I’d placed it on the counter when Lovell paid for his purchases then totally forgotten about it. I’d have stop in tomorrow to pick it up. I think about calling Mr. Camenson and asking him to set it aside, but I can’t imagine anyone else buying it between now and then.
Leaning back in the chair, I gaze out the window. Lovell’s house is silent and dark, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the roof. I hold up my hand and look at my palm, idly tracing the lines. On impulse, I grab a magnifying glass from an old coffee mug I’d recycled into a pencil holder, and look for the Mystic Cross. Surely it doesn’t have any meaning. It’s just one of the many lines I have on my hand. But why had Lovell brought it up? And why does he always look at me like he knows something I don’t?
I shake my head, tossing aside the magnifying glass. I’ve had enough thinking for one day.
CHAPTER TEN
Fog. Everywhere. White and cold and unrelenting. As always, I run. Desperate for a way out. But there isn’t one. No matter how far I run, which direction I go, it continues. On and on and on. And always, the thing behind me grows closer.
The forest grows denser, the trees and branches becoming thicker, narrowing the path. I stretch my arms out in front of me, forging my way through. The path grows even narrower, slowly disappearing altogether. I push forward, ignoring the pain from the scrapes and cuts on my bare skin. My arms are soon covered in blood, long trails of it snaking past my elbows and dropping with bright red splotches onto the ground. I can it smell it, warm and sharp, the iron tang of it strong in the damp whiteness.
The blood. The ground. The smell. I stop, panicked. I’m leaving a trail even a blind man can follow. I yank off my shirt and using teeth and hands, rip it in two. I hastily bind each arm. Dark patches of red quickly seep through the thin white cotton. But at least it stops the dripping.
I move forward as quickly as I can, dodging trees and branches, my feet exploring the area in front of me for rocks and holes. Hide. I needed somewhere to hide.
I hear it behind me, just a few feet away. Sniffing and growling. Low and menacing. It knows it has its prey. A sob escapes my throat. No! There has to be a way. Somewhere to go.
I slip between two overhanging branches and drop to my knees, crawling through a tangle of vines and shrubs. Thin, sharp-pointed brambles lash at my bare back, snagging on my bra. Reaching the other side, I stand and look around with relief. The fog has thinned, receding into long white tendrils that slowly rise upward. There is nothing before me but a wall of rock.
Screaming in frustration, I run forward, peering upward, but the rock extends for hundreds of feet, the surface smooth and flat. I look to both sides. The wall curves around, enclosing me in an inescapable prison of stone. Suddenly I know it has led me here, pushing me through the forest, making sure I made the right turns, followed the path that would leave me no way out. I’m trapped. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to climb.
It’s over.
I turn at the sound of rustling leaves. I can see it. A dark shape, materializing out of the fog. I can hear it breathing. Steady and even. I begin trembling, my muscles quivering and shaking so much I fear my legs will give out and I will fall, collapsing in a shuddering heap on the ground.
I forc
e myself to remain upright, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I will face it standing. No matter what. I’m trapped but I won’t give up without a fight. I reach down and lift my pant leg, my fingers closing around the hilt of the knife strapped to my calf. I rise, my hand shaking so badly the knife nearly falls out of my hand. I clasp it tighter and draw myself erect, my arm behind me.
It steps forward, it’s eyes slicing through me.
It reaches out, and I scream, my arm sweeping around in a powerful arc as I plunge the knife in as far as it will go.
_________
I wake, sweating and panting, the sheets and blankets twisted around my legs. Sitting up, I look around wildly. Moonlight glows softly around the window blind. Fish swam lazily back and forth across my computer screen saver. The hands on the clock glow neon green beside the bed: 3:14.
I took several deep breaths, trying to bring my racing pulse under control. Pulling the damp hair away from my neck, I look at Alecto, perched on my desk, her blue eyes gazing at me softly, as though patiently waiting for my frenzied thrashing to end. I run a hand across my forehead, propping my elbows on my knees. The edges of the dream begin receding, breaking into disjointed fragments that no longer seem to fit together. Sighing, I beckon Alecto over. She stretches and arches her back then jumps to the bed. I straighten the sheets and flip the pillow over. Alecto tucks herself beneath my arm. Turning to my side, I snuggle against her, kissing her small head.
“Why don’t the dreams just stop?” A tear slides down my cheek, but I brush it away impatiently. If only I didn’t have to sleep. I’d tried staying awake, fighting off the tiredness so I can avoid the dreams. But, somehow, sleep always manages to find me, my eyes inexorably closing.
I sigh, shifting position on the bed. Something about the dream was different this time. But what? It flickers at the back of my mind, but I can’t pinpoint it. Which is odd, because the dreams usually stay with me, with an intense clarity, for hours afterward. But this time I can hardly recall the details. Maybe that’s a good sign. Maybe it means they’ll go away again, like before.
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