“No!” Emily cried.
“Oh yes, my child. That is the truth. That is what you’ve tried so hard to deny. You are mine! You belong to me, not Charles! He’s a fake—an impostor! And now it’s time for me to stake my claim to that which is mine. You are here for me and nobody else. No other man shall ever have you as I shall have you. Never! And I shall have you whenever I please, wherever I please. Do you understand, child?”
“No!” Emily screamed. She started squirming fiercely in an attempt to free herself, but was utterly helpless under John Hoffman’s enormous weight. He suddenly bent down and licked the nape of her neck, sending a wave of revulsion throughout her entire body.
She spat in his face.
“Why, you little bitch!” he hissed, smacking her hard on the side of her face. In an instant, he seized Emily’s robe and ripped it open, exposing her. He grasped her wrists and spread her legs apart with his knee all in one rapid motion. Emily felt his huge, throbbing penis pressed hard against the inside of her inner thigh as he took her nipple in his mouth and bit it. Then, in one huge lunge, John Hoffman ripped into her tender flesh like a dull sword stabbing a soft, ripe peach.
Emily let out a howl as he started rocking up and down on her with unbridled lust. With each inward plunge, she felt as though she were being split in two. She lay there writhing helplessly in pain for several long and endless moments, awaiting her imminent death . . .
Suddenly, the room was bathed in an intense, blinding white light, startling both victim and assailant. John Hoffman froze at once and spun his head around to look in the direction of the door as Emily peered around him in the same direction.
There in the doorway stood a young man, perhaps thirty or so, silhouetted in the unknown light source. He held a tiny infant in his arms, its head resting peacefully on his shoulder. The man’s features were pleasant; with kind, caring eyes staring from a handsome face wearing an expression of concern and pity.
John Hoffman gaped at the man in utter disbelief. “Not you!” he cried as he released Emily and sprung from the bed.
Emily glanced over at John Hoffman and saw the look of mortal fear on his face as he stood there petrified, staring at the newcomer.
“Be gone, John Hoffman!” the young man commanded then started moving toward him at a steady pace.
John Hoffman turned and glanced around the room in a fit of panic, apparently looking for a means of escape. Then, after realizing that there were no doors other than the one through which the stranger had just entered, he suddenly let out a bloodcurdling shriek and leaped through the window in the corner of the room- the sound of broken glass accompanying his terrified scream as he plummeted two stories to the ground outside and landed with a dull thud.
Emily gaped in shock at the window and felt the frigid night air as it rushed in through the parted drapes. She then turned to look back at the stranger, but he was no longer there. He, along with the baby and the bright light, had totally vanished.
Emily covered herself up with her robe and closed her eyes.
The young man had saved her life, she realized. And although she’d never laid eyes on him before, she knew precisely to whom she owed her life . . .
Clem Porter.
The room was dead silent now. And dark as pitch. And freezing cold. Emily remained there with her eyes shut tightly. One thought played itself over and over in her mind as she lay there sobbing softly, feeling sorry for herself:
Her only salvation was Clem Porter. And Clem Porter was dead.
Emily felt her body grow colder and imagined her skin becoming a pasty white pallor as she awaited death. It wasn’t so bad to die, she decided; to finally see an end to all the pain and suffering. The finality of it all was in fact a blessing, for she no longer had the desire to live. Why continue fighting a war she had no chance of ever winning? Why put death off any longer? Just let it happen—let it take you over and have everlasting peace . . .
Although her eyes were closed, Emily could see the mourners standing over her now, staring down at her. Faceless people who were still among the living, bidding their final farewell to Emily Hoffman before she was laid to rest. People with lives worth living, unlike herself, who had nothing to live for. They pitied her, but they shouldn’t. Emily Hoffman was at last being relieved of all the hell that life had put her through. They should feel happiness for her.
The organ music, playing softly in the background, suddenly ceased. The only sound now was the ticking of a clock coming from somewhere in the funeral parlor. Tick. Tick. Tick. A pair of hands appeared above her, grasping the lid of the coffin. The hands began closing the lid slowly and ceremoniously. Finally, the resounding thud of the lid landing home, sealing Emily Hoffman forever inside her own private little home for the rest of eternity.
The ticking of the clock sounded muffled and more distant now, but she could still make it out from inside her final resting place. Tick. Tick. Tick. It was soothing, very mesmerizing. It made it seem all that much easier to die as it tallied out the final countdown.
Emily Hoffman was nearly frozen stiff now, and unable to move a single muscle. Her eyes stung, but she couldn’t open them or move her hand so that she might rub them with her fingers. It was nearly impossible to breathe, too. She had nearly expended the air remaining in the coffin.
She started choking, desperately trying to gulp in the air that was no longer there. But the harder she inhaled, the less her lungs expanded. She was sucking in nothing but a dead void—a perfect vacuum.
The ticking of the clock became more pronounced. Louder and more resonant—as if it were coming from an echo chamber. It was slowing down ever so gradually. Soon, she thought, it would cease altogether.
She wished that it would hurry up and end.
Panic suddenly swept over her for some reason. Her thoughts shifted to a new priority. To breathe. She was suffocating and needed air. Needed it now. Death no longer seemed quite so desirable—it was scary and it hurt. She wanted to live, not die!
But her body was entirely frozen in its present state. All she could feel now was her heart in her chest, pumping sporadically. She felt it pump for a moment in an attempt to force her blood through her arteries then suddenly stop for several seconds; unable to perform its task. Then it would race as it received a fresh jolt of adrenaline, only to suddenly cease beating again once it had spent up the last of this fuel.
She tried to scream, but couldn’t. Her mouth was clamped shut; her teeth locked together in a permanent fusion of white enamel. She no longer felt the cold—just the weight of a ton of crushed ice.
Yet her mind was still clear. And what should be taking only seconds to happen was taking entirely too long. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, yet she was still alive.
Why couldn’t she die?
The ticking of the clock ground to a near halt. Tick . . . Seconds later, Tock . . . The clock sounded closer now; very close, in fact. And it sounded less like a clock and more like . . .
Water dripping.
Emily opened her eyes. At the far end of the bathtub she watched as a drop of water fell from the leaking faucet into the bath water with a plop.
She had been dreaming all of this.
She’d had another nightmare.
Her first reaction was alarm. The nightmare had seemed so real that she was still uncertain it hadn’t been real. She shot a glance first toward the empty glass still sitting on the edge of the tub then over to her robe still slung over the towel rack. Then, with some hesitation, she looked behind her for signs of the struggle with her father. All she saw was an immaculate white tile floor—no blood, no bodies.
Cassie! she thought.
Emily shot up out of the tub, stepped over to the door and opened it. Looking down, she saw Cassie lying on the floor, curled up in a ball asleep.
“Cassie!” she cried, tears of joy coming to her eyes.
Cassie sprung up with her tail wagging furiously then allowed her master to pick her up an
d hold her in her arms.
“Oh sweetie, I love you so much! Mommy thought you were a goner—but it was only a dream! Only a dream!” Emily cried joyously as her puppy licked her face.
She glanced down the hall at her father’s bedroom door and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that it was shut tight.
It truly had all been a dream . . .
Emily smiled gratefully at Cassie and said, “Mommy’s going to set you down and dry off now, girl. Then we’re going to build a nice, warm fire in the fireplace and hang out together, okay? How does that sound?”
She set Cassie down and went back into the bathroom. As she toweled herself off, Emily tried blotting the nightmare from her mind, but with little success. Her hands were still trembling from the ordeal as she put on her robe then made her way to her bedroom. Sitting down at the vanity to comb out her hair, she glanced over at the clock radio on the nightstand—it read 8:22. She’d been asleep in the bathtub for nearly an hour! She reached for the comb as the events of the nightmare permeated her thoughts.
It immediately occurred to her that there were several disturbing differences between this nightmare and all those preceding it. For one thing, she had never dreamt while in the bathtub before, and for that matter, had never dozed off in the bathtub her entire life. And, until now, her nightmares had always begun in the same horrifying way: her father molesting her as she slept in her bed. But the most alarming aspect of this particular dream was the fact that she hadn’t been a child as she’d always been in her dreams before. For the first time ever, she had been her present age. In fact, the entire dream seemed to have taken place in the present tense, and that’s what had made it seem so alarmingly real.
Emily fast-forwarded through each terrifying episode in her mind: Her corpse-like father’s sudden appearance as she fantasized about Ted. Her bloody escape from the bathroom. Cassie’s apparent murder. Her abduction by John Hoffman in her father’s bedroom and the unsettling riddle he’d conjured up. Being assaulted and raped by John Hoffman, then being saved by the sudden appearance of Clem Porter.
What did it all mean? she wondered.
She began analyzing the dream and was able to come up with theoretical explanations for some portions of it. The appearance of Clem Porter, for example, could have been the direct result of her finding his pocket watch at the old house and her subsequent conversation with Miss Rutledge regarding him. The apparent role-reversal between her father and John Hoffman seemed obvious, too: she had all but resolved that John Hoffman was the real culprit in all of this; especially after having just learned that Katherine had been abused as a child by him, and that she had referred to him as being “the Devil himself.” Her father Charles seemed merely a by-product of John Hoffman’s crimes—an innocent casualty, so to speak.
But what about the other things? she asked herself. Why had she been a full-grown woman this time? Had this been some kind of omen that something was about to happen? Something really terrible, no doubt? That everything had gone as far as it could, and now it was time for it to end . . ?
Was she going to die?
Near the end of the nightmare she had imagined herself dying. And she had welcomed death with opened arms; ready and willing for it to just happen and put an end to her hellish existence.
Is that what she really wanted? Is that what her subconscious mind was telling her?
Emily swallowed hard and considered this. Was she, in real life, potentially suicidal?
She set the comb down and stared at herself in the mirror. Is this what it all came down to? That she no longer saw any reason to keep on living? Was she finally succumbing to the past and letting it consume her to the point that she was willing to accept defeat and simply accept death as her only alternative?
She suddenly recalled what John Hoffman had told her in the dream—that she was his possession and that he would “have her” whenever and where ever he wanted. A cold chill shot down her spine as she imagined herself having to live out the remainder of her life in mortal fear of this terrifying prospect. To find herself one moment taking a bath, or reading a book then suddenly dozing off into a world of utter hell; and then being assaulted and raped repeatedly by her great-grandfather. Or worse yet, having to endure yet another incarnation of the same nightmare; with her father included in it as well. The image of his decomposed body and huge, gnarled hands skimming all over her body flashed in her mind and she shuddered . . .
Then it hit her.
These people are dead! she thought. They can’t harm me! This is just one big, horrible nightmare, damn it! It is not real!
Emily felt vindicated; but only for a fleeting moment.
What difference did it make, anyway—whether it was real or not? Which ever it was, it was in control. And she wasn’t.
Emily buried her face in her hands and started sobbing. Her life raced before her: past, present, and future. Fragments of pain, fear, and sorrow were all she could see. Whatever it was that made life seem worth living wasn’t there—no love, no companionship, no sharing, and no caring. She was nothing but a lonely, terrified woman whose life was, and most likely always would be, absolutely barren. Why go on any longer? she asked herself. What earthly purpose was there to her miserable existence?
I’m better off dead . . .
Just then the telephone rang, promptly jolting Emily out of her thoughts. Wondering who in the world would be calling at this hour, she stood up and went over to the telephone on her bedside table. She paused to take a deep breath in an effort to compose herself then picked up the phone in her trembling hand.
“Hello?”
“Emily, is that you?” a woman’s voice sounding vaguely familiar asked.
“Yes, this is Emily,” she replied weakly.
“I’m sorry to bother you at home like this, but I felt that I simply had to get a hold of you, considering the circumstances. This is Joanne Travers—Henrietta’s sister-in-law? We were in your lovely antique shop yesterday afternoon. Do you remember?”
“Oh yes, Joanne, I remember. I’m holding the oak dinette set for you,” Emily managed to say.
“That’s right. As a matter of fact, that’s why I’m calling. We were supposed to pick it up tomorrow morning after you opened, but I’m afraid there’s been a slight change of plans. Tom has to be back in Philadelphia as soon as possible tomorrow for an important meeting concerning a project that the construction firm has been working on. I was wondering if by any chance we could come by a little earlier than nine o’clock—say eightish or so? I really hate being such a nuisance but I simply must have that set, and if we leave Ashland Falls any later than that, Tom’s afraid he’ll miss out on some of the meeting. I tried to convince him that they would wait for him, but he gets so paranoid about things like this, if you know what I mean. Anyway, please let me know if it would be too much of an inconvenience to you, and I’ll understand. I really do hate putting you out like this.”
Emily said, “It wouldn’t be putting me out one little bit, Joanne. I’d be more than happy to oblige you. But are you sure eight o’clock is soon enough for you? I could meet you earlier if you’d like.”
“Oh my, Emily, you are so sweet! Eight o’clock will be just fine. We’ve already rented the trailer, so all we have to do is swing by your shop and pick up the furniture. I really do appreciate this, Emily,” she declared earnestly.
“No problem at all, Joanne. I’ll have the set waiting for you by the rear door; Henrietta can tell you how to find it,” Emily said.
“Wonderful! Thank you so much, Emily. And I’m sorry for calling you at home like this; but Henrietta seemed to think you wouldn’t mind.”
“It’s quite all right, Joanne.”
“Well, I’ll let you go. Thanks again, Emily, and we’ll see you tomorrow morning at eight.”
“Okay, Joanne. Good night.”
Emily hung up the phone and stared at it as a thought occurred to her. There was a reason for living, after all. And that reason
was so simple and so obvious that she nearly broke out laughing thinking about it. The rest of the world was the reason for living. There were other people besides herself—people who needed her, who relied on her for one thing or another, no matter how trivial it might seem. Take Joanne Travers, for instance. It may not seem important to anyone else, but that dinette set was something that she really wanted. And how else could she ever own it if it weren’t for Emily Hoffman?
And what about Miss Rutledge? She was old and lonely, with no family or friends. How important was Emily Hoffman to that dear old lady? The woman who had watched her grow up and had become her most cherished friend in the world?
And Cassie? What was Emily Hoffman to her? How dependent was that adorable little puppy on her?
A wave of shame swept over her. Suicide, she realized now, was perhaps the most selfish and cowardly act anyone could commit. No one, no matter how miserable or hopeless their life may seem, had the right to take their own life. Because someone or something, somewhere in the world needs that person in some way or another.
Emily shook her head slowly from side to side. How could she even conceive the notion of suicide? Because she was being haunted by dead people in her dreams? Because she couldn’t deal with her family’s past or bear to face her own questionable future?
Shit!
Pull yourself together, gal! You’ve gotten yourself this far in life, so why don’t you stick around and see what’s around the corner? It may look bleak, but you’ll never know the outcome if you’re not around to see it, now will you?
Katherine's Prophecy Page 11