There is a strange, sulfurous odor wafting into the office, like a toxic chemical spill from a science experiment coming from the chem lab at the opposite end of the building, making me want to retch.
I suddenly hear raucous laughter. Mirthless. Shrill. Echoing in the corners of the small office. My heart pounds. Frantically, I turn to see who it is. But no one is there.
I look out the window but, where there were classrooms and students before, everything outside is plunged into infernal darkness. Nothing moves.
The stillness and silence and sulfurous stench make my throat constrict.
I see something in front of me in the window pane – my own faint reflection. I touch it. There is something behind it. Something sinister. Growing larger. Glowing palely, corpse-colored.
Fear pulses in me like electricity, like lightning.
I turn to look at Principal Shore but standing in his place is my father.
I scream.
‘Evee,’ he whispers on a tortured note and holds out his hands to me as if in entreaty.
Hastily, I step back. Hysterical. Horrified. I haven’t seen him since I was seven-years-old. He hasn’t aged a day. He is just the same as I remember. Except for his eyes; they hold shadows. Except that he’s dead.
‘We don’t have much time.’ He seems worried more than scared as he looks over his shoulder, looking for something or someone I cannot see.
Then he does something that eases the tightness in my chest; he smiles. It’s a lopsided smile like the ones I remember. It’s his smile. My father’s smile. I remember.
‘Daddy?’ I croak. There are tears on my face.
‘Evee. Baby. You’ve grown up. I should have been there to protect you. I wish I could protect you better.’ He reaches out and strokes my cheek. His touch is surprisingly warm for a dead guy. Then he circles my wrist with his hand as if he is afraid of losing me. He stares at me as if memorizing my face. He is silent and still for so long that, eventually, I have to say something.
‘Daddy? I thought you were dead.’
He laughs but it sounds bitter. ‘Not yet.’
His words make me feel afraid. None of this seems real.
But his hand on my wrist feels real. Very real.
There are frown lines on his forehead now. ‘You must listen to me, Evee. I’m sorry that I have to do this to you, munchkin, but you’re the only one. The souls. You must guard the souls.’
All of a sudden, again, there is more demonic laughter. Mocking. Cruel. Hard.
I feel a thrill of sheer terror overcome me; the bang of blood in my ears, in time with my pounding heart. Behind it, there is a snarling, snatching sound, almost like dogs readying themselves to hunt in a pack and I imagine I see the movements of wild shadowy beasts on the other side of the room.
My father’s grip on my wrist is so tight it hurts. His fingers dig into my flesh. I don’t think he is aware that he is still holding me.
The ground and the walls behind him burst into flame. From here, the heat licks at my skin and singes my hair. My lungs burn as it roars like an animal unleashed, now gone wild.
‘Evee, run!’ My father screams and pushes me toward the office door, his words almost swallowed by the popping sound made by shattering glass as he is engulfed by the inferno.
Sobbing, I clamp my hand over my mouth to stifle my screams. Somehow, I force myself to run.
As I reach the door, I hear Principal Shore’s droning voice, ‘…and each with a right to an education. It’s our job to mold these students and teach them what they need to know…’
I forcefully throw open the door to the startled gaze of the PA, peering at me above her monitor. I’ve given her a fright and she half rises out of her chair to hover in terrible uncertainty. But I do not stop.
Principal Shore’s bewildered voice chases me down the corridor. ‘Miss Hale? Evelyn, what’s wrong? Are you all right? Evelyn? Come back this instant…’
But I do not look back. I run like there are demon hounds on my heels, picking up the scent of my trail…
Chapter Three
I don’t care where I end up. I just run.
There’s no one in the corridor because they’re all in class. The emptiness scares me, especially as the harsh sound of my footfall reverberates down its hollow length. I dart down the corridor, banging on the office doors at the end. They’re all locked.
‘No! Come on! Please!’ I scream, and futilely rattle at the handles.
My heart’s beating so fast, so very fast, and I’m terrified.
I give up on finding help and continue to run – past the music rooms and the cafeteria, past the athletics’ field and the school gates – until I am at the end of the street. And I still keep on going.
I don’t stop until my legs feel shaky beneath me and I know I can’t keep going, can’t keep up the pace.
By the time I slow down to a jog, I have no idea where I am. But there’s something strangely familiar about this neighborhood. And then I realize that I’m approaching the bus stop round the corner from where Mom used to take me for therapy after Dad died.
But he didn’t die. I know that now. And it messes with my head.
I try to remember what happened that evening almost ten years ago. I want to remember it. But I can’t. The only certainty is that Dad disappeared on October 31st. Halloween. All Hallows’ Eve. I’ve repeated the day over and over in my mind, millions of times, trying to remember. But I don’t remember anything much at all. I’m just saying the words in my mind but they mean nothing.
Shaking off my panic, I stop long enough to think. If I turn right at the corner, I’ll be on the street where my former psychiatrist still lives. If I turn left, it’ll take me downtown. But this part of downtown has been mostly deserted since the financial crisis a few years back, and now there’s only closed shops and houses with signs advertising they’re up for lease.
I need to get back. But I don’t know how.
One thing’s for sure though, there’s no way I’m going back into therapy.
So I do the only thing that’s logical. I wait for the bus.
*
After what seems like hours, when no bus arrives, I realize that I might as well accept defeat and try the only person I know who might just be willing to help me. Trudging along the cracked pavement, I wonder what the hell I’m going to say to her after all this time. She hasn’t seen me since I was nine-years-old and probably won’t even recognize me now. I only know that she still lives at the same address because she and Mom exchange Christmas cards every year.
The street ends on a cul-de-sac. Dead end. The houses are old, mostly weatherboard with flaking paint and sagging porches.
But Dr. Martin-Crane’s place is just as I remember. I stop under the shade of a large old oak and look up at the two-story, Amish-style house, large enough to be a frat house or feature as a haunted house in American Horror Story.
It seems deserted – but, then again, all the houses on the block look deserted. It’s not even midday, so most people will be at work or school. But I know Dr. Martin-Crane works from home, so I step up onto the front porch and head for the large brass knocker on the front door.
‘You’re too late,’ says a voice.
I almost jump out of my skin, wheeling around to find the source.
It came from the deep shadows beyond the porch to my right.
‘S-s-sorry?’ I stutter, slowly creeping toward the edge of the porch to carefully lean out over the railing. Squinting, I look down into the neatly kept yard.
A figure steps out of the shadows carrying a machete and I feel a bolt of pure panic coldly sliding down my spine. I hastily reverse as my eyes go wide with fear.
What have you got yourself into this time, Evee?
There’s no one around to save me. And I can’t keep running; my legs won’t hold me up much longer. I feel the fear close around me. Suffocating. Cold. I try to escape by putting as much space between me and the psycho with the machet
e as possible.
‘You’re too late. Dr. Martin-Crane’s not here. She consults at the local hospital from ten to one every Monday. You’re here to see her, right?’
Somehow, he manages to move with lightning speed to the front of the porch and already is climbing the stairs, taking them two at a time, before I even have time to blink.
I desperately look around for a weapon, any weapon, but the only thing to hand is the coir doormat, and it’s so ancient that I’m sure it’ll fall apart if I even attempt to pick it up.
‘You’re here to see Dr. Martin-Crane, aren’t you?’ he repeats. His voice is smooth, golden honey. Mellow and rich. It’s the voice of a sex god. And I finally register that he’s no longer carrying the machete.
‘Uh … no. I mean … yes,’ I hastily correct myself.
I find myself staring up and up – he’s got to be six foot two at least and big to match – into the piercing gaze of eyes so green and clear, they rival the emerald waters of the Florida coastline. I want to drown in them but I’m too much of a chicken to look at him longer than a quick flick up then back down. He’s so big, he makes me nervous. I’m tall for a girl, but he makes me feel petite standing next to him.
‘So, what is it then?’ he asks.
I hesitate. I hardly want to tell an absolute stranger that I needed a shrink when I was a kid due to a childhood trauma. So instead I skirt the truth a little. Flicking my eyes back up for only a moment, I say, ‘My mom’s an old friend of Dr. Martin-Crane’s and I … er …’ I pause as the truth runs out and end up staring at the coir doormat with its worn “Welcome” as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.
‘You…? What? Happen to be in the neighborhood?’ There’s no change in expression.
‘Um … well … this is gonna sound slightly weird,’ I find myself saying. Honestly, the whole day is starting to feel surreal, like some strange dream. Maybe I’ve fallen asleep in Principal Shore’s office, in between his boring speeches, and I’m having a disturbing nightmare.
‘Weird is normal around here,’ Mr. Gorgeous Green Eyes says with a smile to die for. He reaches up to remove his baseball cap and sweeps a large hand through his jet black hair, leaving it disheveled. I notice when he does this that his black t-shirt tightens around his solid chest and suck in a breath. ‘Try having a psychiatrist for a mother.’
Wait! What? A psychiatrist for a mother?
I can feel my jaw dropping open and this time I stare right up at him. ‘Dr. Martin-Crane is your mother?’
‘So she claims, though she’s pretty good at humoring crazy people.’
I give a snort of laughter. He doesn’t sound like he’s judging me – not that he knows or even suspects that I’m one of those crazy people his mom has treated. And after today, I’m not so sure myself whether I’m completely sane or not anymore.
So I take a deep breath and say, ‘Well, as crazy as this sounds, I think something or someone was deliberately following me and so I ran … and I kept running … and then I realized I was lost. Until I remembered your mom lives around here…’
My voice trails off. I wonder if he believes me. Hell, my explanation sounds crazy even to me. Great! So who’s the psycho now, Evee?
He’s frowning, which I suspect isn’t good. I open my mouth to say something – though I’m not quite sure what I’m going to say that doesn’t sound even crazier – when he looks at me, his green eyes slicing straight through me. ‘You’d better come inside the house. You can’t be too careful, especially around here. Maybe we should call the police.’
No, thank you. I’d run out of Principal Shore’s office like a bat out of hell; the last thing I need or want are the cops.
‘No, seriously, it’s fine. I just need to call a cab to come pick me up.’
He notices my reaction to his words and his frown deepens.
‘Look, come on inside and have a drink. It’ll help you calm down. I think there’s some Coke in the fridge.’ His arms are folded across his chest, and he’s rocking back and forth on his sturdy black work boots, still frowning. ‘I was about to take a break anyway. Cutting back the overgrown weeds near the neighbor’s fence is hard work. Not what I imagined I’d be doing on my Gap Year.’
So that’s what he was doing with a machete. A logical explanation. I might have rolled my eyes at my runaway imagination if he wasn’t still waiting for my answer.
‘A Coke’d be great,’ I hear myself say – I swear I’m turning into a delinquent. I should be getting the hell out of here. Demanding a cab. Instead, I’m following quite possibly the hottest-looking guy on the planet into his house, even though I don’t know him from Adam. And it’ll be just the two of us. Alone.
There’s an idiotic smile beginning on my face at my daring.
He takes an object out of the pocket of his jeans and glances up from the key in his hand to give me a reassuring smile. It’s totally electrifying. ‘It’s Ben, by the way. Not Bentley.’
I don’t even ask what he means.
‘It’s nice to meet you, Ben,’ I say, feeling relieved. ‘And it’s Evee, by the way. Not Evelyn.’
He’s trying hard not to grin.
‘Likewise, Evee.’
And I don’t know why, but I feel the whole percussion section of an orchestra is playing in my stomach just at the sound of my name in his mouth.
Chapter Four
Inside, the house is quiet and still and not a bit like I remember it. Apart from a few pieces of antique Cherrywood furniture, the place looks like it’s been totally renovated. There are new curtains, rugs, wallpaper and lamps, all in shades of yellow, from lemon to buttercup, as if someone wanted to harness the sunlight outside and bring it inside.
But this is nothing compared to the heavenly smell wafting from the kitchen at the rear of the house. And suddenly I’m starving. Of course, my stomach lets out an embarrassingly loud growl in reaction. My face flushes red and I look over at Ben.
‘You’ve heard of Taco Tuesday?’ Ben says with a hint of a smile on his lips, and I give a sheepish nod. ‘Well, I have it on a Monday. And I don’t usually wait till after three as I make it for lunch. It’s one of the very few dishes I can cook. I have a limited range; tacos, spaghetti or pancakes. You’re in luck; you’ve arrived on Taco-Tuesday-on-a-Monday and I’ve made enough for two. Must have been expecting you.’
It’s amazing how something so instinctive and necessary like satisfying one’s hunger overrides all other considerations – like calling a cab, like going back to school, like fear.
After handing me a Coke from the fridge, Ben starts to prepare the tacos. His movements are economical and focused. He dices up the tomato like a professional. Like he’s been handling sharp blades all his life.
I slide onto a stool across the kitchen bench where he’s working and take a sip from my can. It’s a good thing I don’t take a huge gulp because the next words out of Ben’s mouth have me choking.
‘You’re lucky I was home today,’ he tells me bluntly. ‘You know, a person can’t be too careful, especially around here. Especially now.’
It’s the second time he’s said this and it’s starting to freak me out.
‘Wait! What?’ I find myself floundering, swallowing the Coke too fast so that I end up snorting it back up. It’s not a pretty sight.
‘Don’t you watch the local news?’ he asks, pausing in the act of cutting up the chilies and looking straight at me. When he sees my blank expression, he sighs. ‘I guess not. Look, there have been several attacks on young women in this neighborhood in the past week. Okay, admittedly, they happened at night but it’s just not safe to be out alone – even in broad daylight. And I don’t like the sound of you being followed. This stalker’s a perv. He’s bad news. The cops haven’t caught him yet – personally, I don’t think they’ve got much of a clue – and there are two women in hospital in a coma. Like I said, you’re lucky I was home today.’
I almost find myself relieved – oh, I know what
Ben’s saying is serious and it’s totally tragic that two women are in hospital, but at least this monster who attacks women isn’t of the supernatural kind. But I see that there’s a gravity in Ben’s green eyes that makes me want to reassure him by agreeing. Besides, it’s just easier to agree.
Ben hands me over a taco, though he’s clearly not convinced I’m taking him seriously enough about the stalker thing, and I take a big bite. It’s delicious. He’s watching me still and I give him the thumbs up as I continue to wolf it down.
‘It’s real good,’ I say, chewing a mouthful in the most unladylike manner which would horrify my mom. He gives a rueful smile in response, like I’m ignoring the real issue.
I’m halfway through the taco when the front door slams back on its hinges and a familiar voice calls down the corridor, coming closer, ‘Ben? Are you taking a break? Have you finished taking down the–?’
Her voice trails off.
I look up as she enters, stopping dead in the center of the doorway.
‘Oh my God! Evelyn?’ Dr. Martin-Crane’s voice rises in surprise and agitation as she spots me sitting in her kitchen. ‘It’s started, hasn’t it? He’s returned.’
*
There are an abundance of confused thoughts and questions flitting through my mind, bombarding me, and I don’t know what to voice first – but the issue is taken out of my hands as Dr. Martin-Crane focuses on my face but motions to her son and the two of them quickly leave the kitchen, Ben telling me that he’ll ‘Be right back’ and ‘Don’t move!’.
I nod. Things could be worse. Maybe.
I feel kind of numb. My mind doesn’t really want to face reality. Deep down, it feels like Dr. Martin-Crane knows something. Something more than I do, at least. But I’m not sure what’s going on anymore, so following Ben’s order seems just fine with me – besides, I’m only halfway through my taco.
Voices drift down the hallway from the living room, loud enough to carry. I swear I’m not intentionally eavesdropping but I can’t help overhearing their conversation – especially as Ben’s deep voice rises in anger. Especially as I’m fairly certain they’re talking about me. I’m about to abandon my taco all together and follow them into the living room when Ben’s next words have me frozen to the kitchen stool, immobilized.
Darkness Echoes: A Spooky YA Short Story Collection Page 37