As if reading my thoughts exactly, Sarah pushes away from me and tips her chin. Our gazes collide and a potent blend of anger, hurt and fear flashes in her eyes. “The police are going to say she was in the same cult as the others. And that’s crap! That’s total crap!” She raises her voice and the few people around us turn to stare. “What did you see at the Hanson Mansion? How did you know what happened?” she demands.
Eyes darting left first then right, I check to see whose attention she’s caught. Conversations seem to have resumed. Any glances that land our way appear insignificant. Confident what I’m about to say won’t be overheard, I say, “Look, Sarah, I’ll tell you everything, okay? I’ll tell you everything I know. But not now. Not here.” I rub my forehead and feel as if my toes are curled over the edge of a great precipice from which I’m about to pitch myself. Once she knows what I know, there’s no turning back. She’ll either think I’m crazy and never speak to me again, or we will grow closer. Either way, I’m taking a huge risk. “I’ll tell you after school. I’ll tell you the whole story.”
Sarah nods, her gaze never wavering from mine. And in that moment, the risk I’m taking by telling her seems too great. I don’t want to lose her. The thought of her thinking I’m insane and never speaking to me again is too much for me to bear.
Without anything else to say, without any other word of assurance to offer, I tell her what is in my heart. “This is going to stop. We are going to stop it.” As soon as the words leave my lips, I’m filled with a kind of conviction I’ve never felt, a sureness that saturates every cell in my body and I know I’ll make good on my promise. I will protect Sarah until my dying breath.
Sarah nods a second time. Unshed tears shine in her eyes. “Okay,” she whispers then swallows hard. “I have to go now.” She rakes a hand through her hair and blinks several times. “I have to go see how my friends are holding up.” Her gaze is intense as it seizes mine.
“Okay.” I try to stare straight into her brain and gauge what she’s thinking, but as far as I know, I don’t possess such a power. All I see is a girl who just lost her best friend. She maintains eye contact for several beats then turns and walks away from me. Watching her go sends a pang directly to the center of my chest. I worry I’ll see it again after I tell her in detail what I saw. She’s be well within her means to think I’ve lost my mind. And who knows? Maybe I have.
Shaking my head, I allow my chin to drop to my chest. I squeeze my eyes shut for a split-second, the dizzying whirl of thoughts spinning through my mind overwhelming me. When I open my eyes, Tom’s navy stare bores into my skull, his pink skin paler than usual. “What the heck were you talking about with her? What’re you going to stop?”
Taken aback and staggered for a moment, I’m at a loss for words. Mouth dry and unable to blink, I draw a blank on how exactly I should respond.
“Dude, you okay?” Tom arches one brow and cocks his head to the side as he studies my face.
Snapping out of the stupor that claimed me seconds ago, I say, “Yeah, fine. I’m fine.” I trip over my words.
Tom nods, his expression relaxing only marginally. “So what was all that you were saying to Sarah?”
I clear my throat and feel as if the temperature in the school has climbed by at least ten degrees. “Oh, uh, that stuff about stopping stuff?” Tom bobs his head. “Yeah, uh, I was just trying to make her feel better, you know?”
Both of Tom’s brows dip. “It sounded a lot stranger than that.” He seems unconvinced by my pathetic attempt to lie. Searching my face, he asks, “Is everything all right?”
The question is loaded, that much I know. I clear my throat a second time. “Yeah, fine, I’m fine. Everything’s fine,” I reply with far too much enthusiasm. A girl just lost her life, either to murder designed to look like suicide or by suicide. Nevertheless, a young girl is dead, and I’m spouting about everything being okay and fine when in fact nothing is fine or okay.
“Riiiight,” Tom draws out the word. He searches my face for a moment then, as if a switch has been flipped, his features relax. “I’m out. I’ll see you at lunch.” We fist bump before he walks away.
Rattled by the fact that I had to lie to someone I like and respect, the first friend I’ve had in as long as I can remember, I return my attention to my locker to gather my books for first period. As I twist my body, I am met by a pair of sea foam green eyes. Like twin laser beams, they slice through the clusters of kids gathering in the hallway, peering out from rich, tan skin. They clash with mine, holding me hostage briefly. I wrestle with the urge to squirm under the weight of his gaze, to immediately lower my gaze to my feet. But I don’t. I stand my ground. Rolling my shoulders back in a sad attempt to compensate for the five or so inches he has on me. To my surprise, I watch as a tattooed arm crosses his body to adjust the strap of his backpack before he turns and walks away, breaking eye contact.
Unsure of whether I should be disturbed by his abrupt exit or taking a victory lap, I take a wooden step toward my locker and clumsily grab textbooks and binders. But when my arm brushes a photo I snapped of Sarah on my phone and printed from my mom’s computer and I glance at it, my pulse speeds dangerously. Positioned with her arms at her side, spread as if awaiting an enormous hug, when taken, I felt as if I captured a moment of pure joy. Everything about her—her smile, the crinkle of her eyes and nose, and the way her arms are splayed—implies happiness. That is how the picture looked when last I saw it. It does not look as it did yesterday. Upon the tender flesh on the inside of her wrist, crude lines are scrawled in red, meant to be blood and with droplets falling from them and pooling at her feet. Heart sprinting so that it thrashes within my ribcage, the allusion the picture makes makes my entire body tremble. That trembling intensifies when I see what’s written on the inside of the door to my locker. In what looks like black marker, a message has been written for me. It reads: I know why you’re here, but you can’t save her. You can’t save any of them.
Pitching backward several steps, voices in the hallway fade in and out from a roar to an eerie muffled sound close to silence. The temperature, suddenly as uncomfortable as the midday New York sun in July, swelters. My vision wavers, flickering from dark to light and I feel as if I’ll faint. This situation, the horror of what I saw in my vision, has become personal. Someone near to me, someone I love, has been threatened. Sarah is in danger, and I have no idea how to keep her safe, only that I must find a way. I must find a way to keep her alive.
Chapter 9
Moving from class to class, I feel as if I’m existing in a phantasm or a hideous dream. I can’t concentrate on lectures, can’t even think a single thought that doesn’t center on Sarah. Spinning and burrowing like a wheel in mud, my mind spirals out of control. Sarah is in danger. Those four words ring through my marrow, tolling with the finality of funeral bells and resonating through the cavernous hollows of my being. Compounding the sense of impending doom that haunts me and saturates the very air in my lungs is the fact that this is my fault. Sarah being in danger is all my fault. Whoever or whatever is doing this knows what I am and is toying with me. Why else would the picture and the message appear in my locker? Sarah is a pawn. The thought that her life is viewed as expendable to anyone causes the blood in veins to churn and bubble like molten lava. She is innocent. And she’s suffered enough after losing yet another of her best friends to a suicide that is bogus.
As I contemplate the rash of alleged suicides that’ve occurred in Patterson, a face keeps popping into my mind. Luke Carmichael. Pitch dark hair and mint green eyes, both striking in presentation against skin the color of brown sugar, fill my thoughts. I’m not sure why but it’s there. Perhaps his face lingers there because he’s been watching me since my first day of school, never socializing or interacting with anyone else. New to the district and devoid of any connections, he exists as a singular entity, a lone wolf with an enigmatic air about him. I’ve tried to casually gain information about him without success. No one seems to kn
ow a thing about his past, his family, where he moved here from. Not a shred of information big or small abounds. He’s a phantom. And while he drifts about like a shadow, his presence is anything but insubstantial. To the contrary, when he’s nearby, the atmosphere shifts. The weight of his gaze can be felt. Something about him makes the hair on my nape rise and quiver. I’m uneasy when he’s around. He seems to see me for what I am, whatever that is. He seems to sense my pull. I can’t be certain what he sees. All I know is that when I am held hostage by his penetrating gaze, all I can think of is the strange pull I’ve felt on more than once occasion, and I feel as if he’s watching what unfolds in my mind like a movie. That phenomenon is what leads me to believe his path has not crossed mine coincidentally, and that he’s somehow involved in all that’s going on with the suicides.
Submerged in thoughts of Carmichael and concentrating hard on making the connection between him and the deaths, I am oblivious to Sarah until she’s before me.
“Danny, what’s going on? Are you okay?” Bright blue eyes, puffy and squinting with concern, search my face.
“Yes, yes, of course. I’m fine. Are you okay?” My voice is low and intimate but only conveys a fraction of the worry I’m feeling for her.
Her lower lip trembles and a single tear trickles from the corner of each eye. She wipes her nose with a tissue balled in her right hand. “No, Danny, I’m not okay. Not at all.”
I reach out and lightly grip her shoulders then guide her toward me, bringing her close. But she interrupts my action, keeping herself at arm’s length from me. She looks directly into my eyes. “Danny you need to tell me why you’re so sure the deaths aren’t suicides. I need to know what’s happening. I need to know what you know.”
Matching the intensity of her stare, every fear-laced possibility of the future plays out. In the space of a breath, I envision her slapping my cheek and calling me a liar, crazy, a freak. I see her turning on her heels and walking out of my life for good. I see her hating me. Though I do not believe them to be predictive or in any way related to the pull that strikes me and tows me along like a being I’m not in control of, vulnerability associated with falling in love produces worst-case scenario results. Swallowing hard, I respond. “I will. I promise I’ll tell you everything. But not now. Right now I have something I have to take care of.”
I watch as the corners of her mouth sag, a small frown forming. “Please, Danny. I need to understand. I need to make sense of all this if sense can be made.” Her eyes plead with me, breaking my heart softly but completely.
Slumping my shoulders and allowing my head to droop, I realize I do not have another choice. I opened up to her at the Hanson Mansion and revealed more than I should have. I cannot turn back now. I’ve reached the point of no return. Words cannot be unsaid. I’ve come this far. Turning back now is not possible. Sighing, I say, “All right. Let’s go. I’ll tell you everything.” I take her hand and lead her to the front parking lot, to where my car is parked. I open the passenger side door and close it once she’s safely inside. I slide in behind the steering wheel and start the car so that music can play in the background while I share with her the bizarre happenings in my life in the last few months. As a song by Passenger plays softly, I lick my lips and fill my lungs. “I’m going to tell you a lot of stuff. It might sound crazy and unbelievable, but you have to know everything I’m telling you is true.” I reach out and take both of her hands, wrapping them in my own. “Please, promise me you’ll listen with an open mind at the very least. Promise me.” My grip on her hands strengthens.
She returns the gesture by squeezing my hands. Her eyes are wide and glassy as she nods. “I will. I’ll do that.”
“Please, it’s important. I’m not a liar and I’m not crazy. I want you to know that.” The desperation in my voice is tangible, the urgency clear. I’m seconds away from telling her secrets no other human being on this planet knows. Not a single living soul.
She doesn’t respond verbally. She simply bobs her head.
“Okay,” I breathe before I start at the beginning. I begin by telling her that I was shot in a convenience store just blocks from my house. Her brows gather and she places a hand over her heart as I describe the searing, white-hot pain, the explosion of sound and color before nothingness claimed me. I tell her about the deep darkness and the light that beckoned me toward it. I tell her about the man who seized me and returned me to the hospital gurney, returned me from death. I explain to her the sensation that lays claim to me, the one that takes possession of me and commandeers my body, leading it to an orderly who I’m sure murdered a little girl in for a routine appendectomy and eventually to a second convenience store to find the man who shot me. I share with her that I killed him and the bizarre phenomenon that occurred thereafter. I tell her about the house I journeyed to, the one that belonged to the orderly. I explain everything to her in great detail, only leaving out the part about the picture of her in my locker that was colored upon and the message that accompanied it. I don’t want to frighten her any more than she is frightened already.
I do not know how much time has passed when finally I pause and sip from my water bottle. I’ve lost all sense of it, of seconds, minutes and hours. I’ve been sharing my truth. I’ve told Sarah as much as I can.
A long pause spans the distance between us. I await a response of some sort. But Sarah says nothing.
“Say something, please.” I turn so that my body faces her. “After everything I just said, surely you have something on your mind.”
She closes her eyes and shakes her head. “Danny, I don’t even know where to begin. My brain is overloaded.”
Her words land like a ham-fisted punch to my gut. I want to double over, to curl into a ball and be sick. I’ve done what she asked of me, told the unvarnished truth and now she won’t make eye contact with me. She stares straight ahead.
My throat tightens around the lump of dread lodged there. I try to clear it. “Tell me what’s in your head, what’s in your heart.” The last part of my sentence is little more than a hoarse whisper as emotion cracks my voice.
Still gazing out the windshield and into the now setting sun, Sarah’s face is awash with soft buttery light. Slowly, she turns to me, a scattering of platinum highlights woven through her golden hair. “I believe you,” she astounds me by saying. “I don’t know why. What you’ve told me sounds like something out of a paranormal television series or something.” She closes her eyes and shakes her head. “But I believe you.” Her eyes open and I swear she gazes directly into my soul. “I can’t explain why, but I do. I believe you, Danny.”
My breathing snags, and the empty aching pain that constricted my throat and leveled me dissipates. She believes me. Impossibly, Sarah believes me.
Taking both her hands in mine once again, I tell her she needs to get home.
Alarm carves a line between her brows. “Why? Do you think I’m in danger?”
Every muscle in my body tenses, resisting lying to her. “I don’t know. Two of your friends are gone. I don’t want to take any chances with you. I don’t want you going anywhere by yourself.” Under normal circumstances I’d think I sound like a possessive lunatic, but the circumstances are anything but normal. Sarah should not be alone.
“Okay,” she agrees, and I see that locks of her hair tremble. She’s visibly shaking.
“I’ll walk you to your car then follow you home. Is anyone there?”
Sarah’s gaze darts left then right. She checks the time on her phone. “Uh, yeah, my mom should be getting home right about now.”
“Okay, good. Lets’ get you home.” I open my door and walk around to open hers. I take her hand and help her out then walk across the parking lot to her car.
The sun hovers near the horizon line, stubbornly fighting to keep her hold on the sky. But day inevitably surrenders to night. Darkness waits. Its arrival is imminent.
With my eyes cast skyward for the briefest of seconds, fear washes over me. But whe
n my gaze returns to Sarah, firm resolve takes hold. I vow to not let anything happen to her, to protect her.
After settling her into her car, I follow her home, say goodbye and then return to my home. There I head straight to my room, thankful that my mother is working the evening shift and won’t be home to question me should the need to leave arise. Kiera is out as well, likely taking advantage of our mother’s absence. Once in my room, I toss my backpack on my bed then settle behind my computer. I do a general search for Luke Carmichael, his name, his face, niggling at my brain all day. My search turns up very little in the way of information, that is, unless Luke is secretly a fifty-nine year old cardiologist from Santa Monica. And while it isn’t that odd to not find a boy my age on a general search, at the very least, it would reveal social media accounts. But any and all avenues lead me to the same place: the corner of nowhere and a dead end. The closest I come to unearthing insight into who Luke is happens when a Patterson address with the last name Carmichael linked to it pops up on my screen. I quickly scribble it on a piece of loose leaf paper then stuff the page in my pocket. But before my fingertips leave the sheet, awareness tingles across my skin. Like a cool breeze over damp skin, it leaves me with goose bumps. Immediately, I call Sarah to make sure she’s okay. She tells me her family is home and that all is well. No one has plans to leave. They are all in for the night. That piece of information provides a modicum of relief. I stand and stretch, stepping away from my desk, then walk to my window. Night has fallen, the world beyond my pane of glass so dark all I see is my own reflection when I attempt to peer out.
Darkness. Luke Carmichael. Suicides. The words meld to form the equivalent of a barbed wired ball that rolls around in my brain, spiking and piercing everything in its wake. I head to the kitchen and have a toasted buttered bagel and a glass of orange juice. But food doesn’t help. And with each step that I take to return to my room, the address that I scrawled on a piece of paper makes a crunching sound, as if calling attention to itself. I try to ignore it, try to pretend I don’t hear it even when I return to my room, plop on my bed and run my hand over it, causing the sound to intensify. I do so for an hour before the urge to leave and find the address on the crumpled page becomes overwhelming. I stand and practically run to the front door and steal off into the night to my SUV, unable to resist a second longer and grateful once again that my mother isn’t home. I punch the address into the GPS navigation system of my phone and follow the instructions until I find myself at an average looking raised ranch with cream colored siding and brown shutters. A sleek black sports car is parked in the driveway. In the interest of not getting caught, I park a few houses down the street.
The Dark One Page 9