by Amy Cross
I shake my head again.
“Clay,” Mom hisses, “don't make Mr. Kenseth wait!”
“I don't want to go!”
“Bring the child,” Mr. Kenseth continues, rising from his seat and shuffling back toward the curtain. “The infidels have chosen six this evening as the deadline. I intend to take this deadline and make it something they will never forget. I must speak of the third vision first, however, and for that I must be alone with the girl.”
“I don't want to be alone with him,” I whisper, grabbing Mom's hand in the hope that she'll understand. “You don't know what he's like, the things he does -”
“Mr. Kenseth is a good man,” she replies.
“I don't think he is,” I tell her. “He makes me -”
“Quiet!” she says, putting a hand over my mouth. “Don't let that radio pollute your mind.”
I close my eyes, trying desperately to stay calm.
“Mr. Kenseth is the link between this world and the next, between us and Attaroth. If he has chosen to single you out, Clay, it's because Attaroth himself wants you to know about the third vision.” Letting go of my face, she takes my hand and starts to lead me to the side door. “We've been living here for three years now, Clay, and in all that time we've been waiting for this moment. It's almost upon us.”
“But he -”
“He guides us,” she says, interrupting me.
“No, he -”
“He loves us.”
“He -”
“He knows what's best for us,” she adds, putting her hand over my mouth again and leading me into the corridor, before turning and crouching in front of me. “I am so, so proud of you, Clay. To think that my daughter, my little Clay, is the one who has been chosen to help Mr. Kenseth communicate with Attaroth. I swear to God, I knew the moment you were born that you were special. No, earlier than that... The moment you were conceived, I could tell I was carrying something special in my belly. Your father wasn't a believer, he didn't understand, but I knew, and I found a way to bring you to where the fates needed you to be.”
“Mr. Kenseth hurts me,” I whisper, with tears in my eyes. “I don't think you know what happens when you leave me in there with him, but he -”
“No,” she says, putting a finger against my lips. “Don't say any more. We're so close, Clay. Attaroth himself is listening to us now, watching our every move, reading our every thought. Let's show him that our faith is only getting stronger as the final moment approaches.”
Smiling, she takes her locket and clinks it against mine for a moment.
“Praise Attaroth,” she whispers.
“Praise Attaroth,” I reply, before turning to look along the corridor. At the far end, the door to Mr. Kenseth's dark study is already open.
Today
“Fuck!” I gasp as I lean against the huge trash container behind the supermarket's loading bay. The pain in my ankle is getting worse, and with every step I can feel the broken bones grinding against each other. Still, I can't afford to rest yet, not after just a couple of hours' hobbling from the house. I'm being pursued, and I need to move faster than ever.
“Come on, we're late!” shouts a man's voice nearby.
Ducking behind the container, I listen to footsteps, and seconds later I hear an engine being started. Peering around toward the main delivery yard, I spot a truck heading to the gate, which I guess means that the day shift people are starting to head off to lunch. The pain in my ankle is throbbing but I force myself to stand and pull the lid off the container. The first thing I see is a huge pile of discarded sandwiches, but suddenly the familiar stench of bleach hits me and I almost start to gag. Reaching down, I find that all the sandwiches have been opened and doused with bleach, which is a pretty typical supermarket attempt to discourage people like me from going through their trash.
“Assholes,” I mutter, limping around the side of the container in the vain hope that some of the food might have escaped being bleached.
Making my way to the next container, I take a look inside and find that the same thing has happened again. The hunger in my belly is starting to ache, and all I can think about is food. Glancing across the yard, I see that there's no-one about, so I limp over to the rear door that leads into the delivery area. When I peer through the plastic curtains, I see trolley after trolley stacked high with food ready to be put out in the main store, and there doesn't seem to be anyone around. I know I should be more cautious, but right now I can't help myself: I limp inside and lunge at the nearest trolley, grabbing a sandwich packet and tearing it open.
“Clean-up in aisle seven,” announces a voice over the tanoy. “Clean-up in aisle seven.”
Ignoring the announcement, I grab another sandwich and continue to eat. This might be my only chance for a while, so need to get as much as possible, although my damaged ankle means I can't exactly run fast. For once in my life, I need to hope that fate is on my side and that no-one notices me. As I continue to stuff sandwiches into my mouth, barely even taking time to chew, I continuously glance over my shoulder to make sure that I'm alone. Finally, once I can eat no more, I grab a bottle of mineral water and take a drink, before spotting a pallet full of whiskey bottles. For a moment, it occurs to me that I could use alcohol to numb the pain in my foot, but I quickly remind myself that drinking would just slow me down. At least the pain means I'm not likely to fall asleep, so I turn and start limping back out into the delivery yard.
“Where do you think you're going?” asks a police officer, stepping in front of me.
“Sorry, wrong turn,” I mutter, trying to push past him.
“Hang on.” He puts a hand on my shoulder, pulling me back. “Turn around. Let me get a look at you.”
“I'm on my lunch break,” I reply, trying to pull away.
“You stink,” he says, pushing me against the wall. “Thought you'd come and get a free lunch, did you?”
“No, I...” Feeling the pain in my ankle start to throb harder than ever, I glance across the yard and try to work out if there's any way I can run away.
“What's your name?” he asks.
“Mary.”
“What's your real name?”
I turn to him.
“Alright, let's try something else. Where were you at 8am this morning?”
“I don't know, I -”
“How about number nine, Mason Drive?” he continues. “Don't worry, I'm not psychic. It's just that you match the description of a girl who assaulted a realtor and then hobbled away on a broken ankle.” He looks down at my feet. “Injured yourself, did you? The neighbor said he saw you jumping out the window and landing badly, then limping away across the garden. He was out putting up some more Christmas decorations so he got a good view of you, even managed to get a couple of shots on his phone, so the chances of mistaken identity are pretty minimal.”
“You've got the wrong person,” I reply. “I'm -”
Before I can finish, he lightly taps my ankle with his foot, sending a wave of pain through my body and causing me to let out a cry. I swear, it feels as if the broken bones are cutting at my flesh from the inside.
“Wrong person my ass,” he mutters. “You're going to have to come with me. Don't worry, we'll sort you out with a lawyer down at the station.”
I shake my head, as the pain continues to throb.
“What was that?” he asks.
“You can't,” I grunt, trying to force the pain from my mind. “I'm not coming with you!”
“It's not a request,” he replies firmly. “I'm arresting you on suspicion of theft from this supermarket, and also on suspicion of being involved in an incident at number nine, Mason Drive at approximately 8am, including breaking and entering as well as a serious assault.”
“Please...”
“You can either tell me you name and we can do this properly,” he continues, “or I can take you in and we'll run your details through the database, see if we get a match.” He pauses for a moment, staring at me.
“Call me cynical, but I wouldn't be too surprised to find you've been in trouble before. Am I right or am I right?”
“You don't know what you're talking about,” I hiss, grimacing as another wave of pain hits me.
“Then enlighten me.”
I shake my head.
“Come on,” he continues, grabbing my shoulder, “I've got a car out front. You're lucky, I was already here to deal with a shoplifter, so you don't even have to wait.”
“I'm not going anywhere with you,” I reply, pulling away from him and starting to limp toward the gate. “Trust me, you've got the wrong person.”
“Do you want me to add resisting arrest to the charge sheet?”
“Just leave me alone,” I mutter.
“Hey!”
As soon as he grabs my shoulder again, I turn and try to hit him, only for him to twist my arm behind my back and spin me around. When I try to pull free, he twists my arm tighter than ever, causing me to cry out in pain as I feel a pair of cold metal handcuffs being clamped around my wrists. I struggle again, but out of the corner of my eye I spot movement over by the gate and another police officer comes into view.
“You can't do this,” I say, turning to the officer who's holding me. “Please, you have no idea -”
“Save it for the station,” he says firmly, twisting my arm a little more. “You're not going anywhere else, not for a long time.”
Ten years ago
“Attaroth is waiting for us,” Mr. Kenseth says as he sits by the boarded-up window, through which only a thin shaft of light has managed to break into the study. “He's just on the other side of the veil that separates this world from the next, but...” Slowly, he turns to me. “I think perhaps you know all of this already, Clay, don't you?”
I shake my head, before turning to look over at the door on the far side of the dark room.
“Don't lie to me,” he continues. “Clay, I've had you marked out as being special from the beginning. You see them, don't you?”
“See who?” I ask, turning back to him.
“The ones who leave us. Tell me, what do they say to you? Do they even understand that they're dead?”
“I don't know what you're -”
“Clay,” he says firmly, “please. I know it's true.”
Staring at him, I can't help but wonder how he managed to learn so much about me. I thought no-one understood the things I saw.
“Do... Do you see them too?” I ask finally.
He stares at me for a moment, with a faint smile, before answering: “No. I have never been granted that particular power, but Attaroth... He told me.”
“He told you about me?”
“I'd always suspected you were special,” he continues, “but in my third vision this morning, Attaroth told me to pay particular attention to you. He told me you have a unique opening into the place between worlds, into the cracks that the dead fall into. He's quite fascinated by you, Clay.” He pauses for a moment. “He told me you took something from Beatrice's room. Don't worry, you're not in trouble. Attaroth thinks the whalebone lighter is very pretty, although he says you should find a proper use for it. Cigarettes are bad.”
I open my mouth to reply, but something stops me. When I took that lighter I was completely alone, and I've kept it completely hidden ever since, terrified that someone would find out that I'm a thief. There's absolutely no way anyone could know what I did, not unless they were somehow watching me without being seen.
“He likes you,” Mr. Kenseth says, reaching out and running a finger across my cheek. A faint flicker of a smile crosses his lips, and for a moment he looks as if he might even cry. “I think he's been waiting for people like us, Clay. People like you and me, people who are attuned to his plane of existence. The third vision was entirely about you, as if he's excited by the prospect of having you join us in the new consciousness.” Leaning closer, he kisses the side of my face. “Clay, little girl, you and I are special. Attaroth is ready for us.”
I hold my breath as he touches the top of my dress, his fingers tugging at the fabric. This is the same game he plays every time, pretending that he's not going to just take what he wants. It's almost as if he's nervous.
“In fact,” he continues, lowering his voice to a whisper, “I think we might even be the king and queen of that new place. We might even have thrones and crowns, and people bowing down before us. Wouldn't that be exciting? Attaroth knows that we're special, Clay. He's heard our thoughts.” He stares at me for a moment. “You know what kings and queens do, don't you? They -”
Something sparks in the darkness.
Suddenly he pulls back, clutching his hand as if he's in pain. He stares at me wildly for a moment, and for the first time in my life I can actually see a hint of confusion in his eyes.
“What did you do?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“But you...” He pauses, before glancing up at the ceiling for a moment. “Do you feel him in this room, Clay? Do you feel Attaroth watching us?”
I turn and look over my shoulder both ways, but all I see is the darkness.
“Not with your eyes,” Mr. Kenseth continues. “See him with your mind, and with your soul. Close your eyes.”
Doing as I'm told, I wait for some kind of hint that Attaroth is here, but all I can sense is Mr. Kenseth making his way around behind me. He has this kind of manic energy that seems to be drowning everything else out.
“He's here,” he says, running his fingers through my hair before leaning down and sniffing the top of my head. “You smell so good, Clay, like...” He moves down to sniff the back of my neck. “Skin smells so much nice when it's not lathered in soap, don't you think?”
“I should go to my mother,” I whisper.
“She's okay,” he continues, pushing his fingers through to my scalp, as if he wants to feel the shape of my head. “She brought you to me, Clay. Her job is done, as is the job of everyone else here. Except you and me, at least. Tell me, Clay, are you ready to drink from your locket when the time comes? It's very important that you take your medicine, to help you on your way to the next plane of existence. Attaroth himself told me what to use.”
I nod.
“Has your mother explained what you have to do?”
I nod again.
“And you're going to be a good little girl, aren't you? You're going to drink it all up?”
“I promise.”
“You'll miss your body, though, won't you?” he asks. “Attaroth is going to give us a new type of life in his world, but there are certain pleasures of the flesh body that we'll be leaving behind. I'm almost... Well, not sad, exactly, but...” He runs his hands along my shoulders and onto my neck. “I will miss one or two of the things we've been doing down here, Clay. You've been so very, very good to me.”
“Can I go now?” I ask, trembling with fear.
“You don't want to experience these things one more time?”
“I want to go and see if my mother's okay.”
“I told you, she's fine.” He leans down and kisses the side of my face again. “I feel tense, Clay. Can you think of a way to make me feel better?” He kisses me again. “Can you maybe -”
Before he can finish, I feel a sharp pain on the side of my face and Mr. Kenseth pulls back, almost falling over. It's almost as if a spark of electricity leaped between us.
“How are you doing that?” he barks.
“I don't know,” I reply, turning to him as I hear the ominous sound of a helicopter making another pass over the hospital. Why are they doing that? “Can I go to my mother now?”
“But you...” He pauses, with fear in his eyes. “Fine. But send one of the other women in to see me. Hope, maybe, or Marcia. Not your mother, though. I need to commune with a blonde woman. No, maybe two blonde women. Send two blondes, and tell the rest that I'll address them again when the time of the ascension is here. I need to relax first.”
“So I can go?”
“If you must. We'll b
e together soon enough, Clay, in the great hereafter. Even though our souls will be separated from our bodies, I'm quite certain that we'll be able to find one another.” He reaches forward and brushes a hand across the side of my face, sending a shiver through my body. “We're good together, Clay. Out of all my wives, you're my favorite.”
Today
“You can't do this!” I shout as I'm pushed into the cell. Slamming hard onto my knees, I stumble back up and run to the door, just as it's swung shut and the guard turns the key. “Let me out of here!” I snarl, shaking the bars with such force that I actually feel pain in my shoulders.
“You know what you need?” he asks, taking a step back as he smiles at me and slips the key into his pocket. “You need to sober up, little girl.”
“I'm not drunk,” I sneer, “and I'm not a little girl.”
“Whatever. You on drugs?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Maybe you're just fucked in the head,” he continues. “Have you been diagnosed with any kind of mental condition? I mean, no offense, but you look like you should have been diagnosed with some kind of mental condition. Those eyes of yours, they're frantic, never stopping on one thing for long enough to see properly.”
“You don't understand,” I reply, reaching through the bars in a vain attempt to reach the keys in his pocket, “I can't be in here! I have to keep moving!”
“Or what?”
“Or he'll catch me!”
“And who might that be?”
“Just let me out of here!” I shout, still trying to get to the keys even though I know it's hopeless. “You have no idea what you're doing! If I stay here, if I stay anywhere for too long, he'll find me! I've been running for so long, you can't stop me now!”
“Should've thought about that sooner, then,” he says with a smile, “before you went and assaulted a realtor.”
“Go to hell,” I reply firmly.
“You should be nice to me. The smart ones round here know to show a little respect for the staff, otherwise they're gonna end up with a little less food than they'd like.” He steps closer. “Are you gonna cause problems, or are we gonna have a little cooperation?”