Heart Of Darkness

by Maggie Shayne

  “Sheee-it.” Brad took a pull from the beer can that probably drained half of it as he crossed the room to part the curtains. He stood there, staring out at the storm for a moment. And then the can fell from his hand, the remaining beer spilling on the floor.

  “Jeez, Brad, watch it, will you?” Randy snatched a dish towel that was hanging near the kitchen sink and hurried toward him.

  David rose slowly. “Brad?”

  “You know my father’s really particular about this place,” Randy said, kneeling near Brad and wiping up the beer. “I told him we’d—”

  By then, David was across the room, a hand on Brad’s shoulder. “Brad, hey, what’s going on?”

  Brad turned slowly. His mouth was agape, foamy spittle running from one corner, onto his chin. His eyes bulged, and he was as white as the snow outside.

  “Brad! Hell, someone call nine-one-one! I think he’s having a heart attack. Brad, talk to me, man.”

  But Brad didn’t say a word. David tried to hold on to him, thinking he could maneuver him onto the sofa or something, but the man was just too big. His knees hit the floor, and then he toppled forward and didn’t move.

  The others gathered around him, Kevin already on the phone, giving the address, Randy kneeling beside Brad on the floor, loosening his clothing, feeling for a pulse.

  “He’s still breathing,” he said, looking up. “His heart’s beating—hard.”

  David looked out the window, sure Brad must have seen something that scared the hell out of him—and already knowing, deep down in his gut, what that something must have been.

  And he was right.

  She stood there on the cliffs, staring out over the storm-tossed water. Oh, he couldn’t see her face clearly, given the darkness and the snow. But her dark hair blew in the wind, and she hugged her arms around her as if she were freezing.

  “That’s it. I’ve had enough of this bullshit.” David turned, heading for the door.

  “Dave, where the—?”

  “Take care of him, guys. Randy, you know CPR as well as I do. If his heart stops, do it. Meanwhile, elevate his feet, keep him warm and make sure he keeps breathing and has a pulse. The paramedics will be here in no time—station’s only a half mile away.”

  “But where are you going?”

  “I’m gonna go deal with our ghost.” He grabbed his Carhartt jacket off the hook near the door and was pulling it on even as he stomped outside.

  The cold wind hit him in the face, sending a shiver up his spine as he moved around the corner of the house, over the frozen ground, heading toward the cliffs. Straining his eyes, shielding them from the falling snow with one hand, he caught sight of her standing there. At almost the same moment, he heard sirens in the distance—the ambulance coming for Brad. He was at once grateful for their speed and annoyed that the sound made her turn in his direction. Because the moment she spotted him, she ran.

  Her trajectory was downward, angling away from him while heading toward the road. He quickly changed direction and began to run the same way, hoping to cut her off before she reached her car, or broomstick, or whatever the hell mode of transport she’d used to get here.

  He pushed himself, and the snow wasn’t deep enough to impede him much. Puffs of steamy breath emerged from his nose and mouth. The ambulance’s flashing lights approached, and as it neared the driveway, it illuminated a vehicle parked along the roadside. It had to be hers.

  He felt a rush of relief, the thought passing quickly through his mind that if she drove a car, she must not be a disembodied spirit. Banishing the notion as ridiculous, he headed for the car.

  And he reached it, looked around, saw no one. Either he’d beaten her to the road or it wasn’t her car, after all. He leaned his hands on his knees, gave himself a minute to catch his breath and glanced up toward the cabin where the ambulance was parked, its attendants presumably already inside tending to Brad. He’d better be all right.

  A sound caught his attention, and he turned in the direction from which it came, watching through the darkness as footsteps, crunching rapidly through the snow, came closer.

  And closer.

  And then she emerged from beyond the overhanging limbs of a snowy spruce tree, looked up and straight into his eyes, and stopped dead in her tracks.

  She wasn’t a ghost. Puffs of steam emanated from her slightly parted lips.

  She had straight, jet black hair and huge eyes of deepest brown, and skin that was coppery, like her mother’s had been. She was beautiful, and she hadn’t changed at all, that he could see. In twenty-two years, she’d aged only enough to appear more adult than teenager. She was the only girl he’d ever loved. And somehow he’d loved her more after her death than he had before.

  Or maybe she was his obsession.

  She was dead, and yet she was standing here looking at him.

  Sierra Terrence.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A Few Days Earlier

  Denton, New Hampshire

  HER EYES BURNED. HER lungs burned. Her skin was starting to burn. She struggled to breathe, but sucked only searing-hot smoke into her lungs. She couldn’t see anymore, and her eyes stung as if they’d been irrigated with battery acid. She squeezed them tight as she staggered from the bedroom into the hallway, feeling her way, groping with her hands and moving forward even though everything she touched was hot, and hotter. Her only hope was to find the stairway. A way down. A way out.

  Should have gone out the window. Should go back into the bedroom, make my way to the window. The boys might still be out there. Maybe…

  She sank to her knees, suddenly unable to move another step. It must be due to the smoke, she realized, even as her consciousness slipped to blackness and back again, until it was impossible to tell which was which without the advantage of sight. It was pitch in the smoke. It was pitch in oblivion. One was the same as the other.

  She moved her lips, because her arms and legs would no longer cooperate. She thought she could manage, perhaps, to scream for help—and she did, as loudly as she could with a voice gone hoarse. The sound was so loud and so real and so foreign to her own ears that it shocked her wide-awake.

  Lifting her head, blinking the room into focus, Sara Jensen saw two sets of wide eyes fixed on her. Her roommates looked more than worried. They looked scared.

  Nikki was closest, already coming closer, frowning, feeling for the pulse in her wrist.

  “I’m fine,” Sara said, and tried to pull her arm free.

  “Yeah, and I’m an R.N., so shut up.”

  “It was just a bad dream.”

  “You were screaming, Sara.” Nikki dropped her wrist and touched her forehead. She would be going for her bag next. “Not to mention you’re soaked in sweat, shaking all over and your heart’s running at about two-ten.”

  “It’s the fifth time this week, Nikki,” Cami said. “I’ve been worried sick about her.”

  “Fifth time?” Now Nikki really looked worried. She tilted her head, studied Sara in an intense way that made her want to squirm. “Why didn’t one of you tell me? I mean, I only moved in yesterday, but still—”

  “I was hoping it would go away,” Cami said. “And…I didn’t want you to change your mind about taking the room.”

  “You think I’m that hard-hearted?”

  Cami shrugged.

  “And you, Sara? Why didn’t you say something?”

  Sara shook her head. “I don’t like discussing it. It’s my problem, I’ll deal with it.”

  Nikki sighed. “It’s probably stress-induced. Stress will wreak havoc on your entire body, you know. And with stuff like that, not talking about it tends to just let it keep building.”

  Sara nodded as if in full agreement, but she didn’t really think so. There wasn’t any unusual amount of stress in her life. She was teaching art to elementary students and loved her job. She was painting—and even if the images were troubling, they were good. And yet she felt nervous, jumpy, as if something was wrong, but it was
something too elusive to see or understand.

  “So what’s the dream about?” Nikki asked. “Is it the same one every time?”

  Even as Sara began to nod, Cami jumped in. “She’s trapped in a fire, unable to breathe or see or find her way out.”

  Nikki frowned. “And that’s it?”

  “That’s it,” Cami said. “Except that this time she screamed a name, instead of just a…well, a scream.”

  Sara looked at Cami, licked her lips. “I screamed a name?”

  Cami nodded. “David.” And she watched Sara’s face. “That name mean anything to you?”

  A chill moved through her, but she tried to ignore it. “Hell, I probably know a dozen Davids. None of them well enough to have me shouting their names in my sleep, though.”

  “So, tell me more,” Nikki said. “What kind of place are you in? What do you see and hear—”

  “Wait, wait, you can see for yourself.” Cami bounced off the bed and crossed Sara’s bedroom to where her paintings stood, covered in white sheets. One was on a tripod, and the others leaned up against the wall. Sara sighed and pushed her dark hair off her face. She had a headache.

  One by one, and with great care, the petite redhead pulled the sheets off the canvases, revealing the paintings. One was of a big old house that appeared on the verge of falling down. It had rounded balconies outside several of the second-floor rooms, and a rounded front porch to match. There was a turret of sorts, with a cone-shaped peak on top.

  The others in the series were the same, but each showed the house during a different season. The giant maple in the front lawn went from red buds and tiny leaves to full lush foliage to the scarlet and orange transformation of autumn.

  “And then the new one. It’s the worst,” Cami said. Sara sent her a look and she returned a sheepish smile. “I mean, the scariest and most horrifying. They’re good, they’re all good. Just awful, you know?”

  “I’m glad you’re not an art critic, Cam. I don’t think ‘good but awful’ would help me sell anything.”

  “Oh, Sara, you know I love your work.”

  Nikki was staring at the latest canvas as if mesmerized. The newest painting showed the house in flames, and a hazy face in an upstairs window. There were shadows on the snow-covered ground outside. As if people were standing out there, watching the place burn.

  “Hey, Nurse Nikki,” Sara said, trying to feign a casual tone, even though she was far from feeling okay. “You think you’re going to come up with a diagnosis if you stare at that thing long enough?”

  “It’s the old Muller House,” she said.

  Sara felt her body shudder in involuntary reaction. The ripple of it rushed up her spine at the words, but she didn’t know why. “It’s not a real place, Nik. It’s just made up.”

  Nikki turned to her. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No.”

  “No, you had to have seen it. Maybe when you were a kid or something. It’s a real place—hell, I used to walk past it every day on my way to school. It’s all new and nice now, but it’s really old. And you’ve captured it, right down to that big maple tree on the front lawn.”

  Sara got out of bed and moved toward the painting. “I’m sure I made it up. Maybe it’s just similar.”

  “You’re from Maine, right?” Cami asked Nikki. “Is that where it is?”

  “Yeah. Port Lucinda. It’s a small town on the coast.” She looked at Sara. “Have you ever been there, Sara?”

  “No. Never. It has to be a coincidence.”

  Nikki lowered her head, paced away from them. “Don’t freak out on me, okay? But, um…that place is kind of famous in my hometown. They don’t call it the old Muller House anymore. It’s Sierra House now. A crisis center for teens.”

  Sara blinked and looked at her. “Sierra House.”

  Nikki put a hand on her shoulder. “There was a fire, I don’t know, some twenty-odd years ago. A girl was killed. She was a runaway or something. The town restored the place and named it in her memory.”

  “Oh my God,” Cami whispered.

  But Sara was shaking her head. “It’s not the same place. It’s not, how could it be?”

  “Sara,” Nikki said, “I would tend to agree with you, but…there were five teenage boys sent to juvie for starting that fire. My mother grew up there. She knew them, used to talk about it all the time. How horrible it was that they did what they did, how no one knew the girl was inside and how those boys would have to live with that for the rest of their lives. Five boys, Sara. And look, look what you painted here.”

  Cami moved closer, tilting her head as she stared at the painting. Then she gasped, clapped a hand over her mouth.

  Sara looked, too, at the shadows on the snowy ground. Five of them. Five shadows. She frowned, looked from Cami to Nikki and back again. And she knew she had to go to Port Lucinda. She had to see that place, uncover the story, for herself. She had to prove to herself that it wasn’t the same house, that this was all just coincidence.

  Because if it wasn’t, then she didn’t know what it was. She didn’t know what it could mean. She didn’t know why it gave her a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  SHE LEFT THAT VERY AFTERNOON—with a lot of help from Nikki, her brand new roommate and fast friend. Nikki had given her a set of keys to her mother’s house in Port Lucinda, and told her to make herself at home there. Her parents were on vacation, and she’d phoned to ask if she could use the house for a few nights in their absence.

  It wasn’t entirely honest, Sara thought. Nikki didn’t want to use the place herself—oh, she and Cami both would have come with her, if they could. But she was the only one with a pile of unused sick days at her disposal. Nikki’s job as a nurse at the Trauma Center was as new as her room in their apartment, so she couldn’t very well ask for time off. And Cami was in great demand, as well. She was one of three chefs at Denton, New Hampshire’s classiest restaurant. One of the few female chefs they’d ever had, and the youngest of either gender. She had a lot to prove to the owners of Tastebud. And so far, she was knocking them dead.

  Both of Sara’s roommates wanted her to wait until they had time to come along. Both of them promised to join her in Port Lucinda if she hadn’t returned by mid-week, when they both had days off. Both insisted she stay in near-constant contact by phone. And both were worried to death.

  Those things they had in common. But they were on complete opposite sides in their opinions about Sara’s symptoms. Nikki was convinced it was stress combined with having heard, and then buried deeply in her subconscious mind, the story about the Muller House tragedy. Maybe she identified with something about the victim, Sierra Terrence. It was certainly either that, Nikki opined, or a brain tumor.

  Cami was convinced it was something far different. The ghost of Sierra, haunting Sara’s dreams, trying to get a message through to the living, through her. When asked why a dead girl from Maine would choose Sara to dump her problems on, Cami hypothesized that maybe Sara was the only one the dead girl could reach. Maybe she’d tried with others. Maybe she even nudged Nikki to come live here, so that Sara would find out about the real location of the house. She had a mission to accomplish here, Cami insisted. And the ghost wouldn’t leave her alone until it was done. Just like on Ghost Whisperer, or Medium.

  Cami’s theories made Nikki angry. Nikki’s skepticism made Cami crazy. And all in all, Sara thought Port Lucinda, Maine, was going to be a peaceful haven from the friction at home, even if it were entirely populated by ghosts with unfinished business.

  She drove her canary-yellow VW Bug to the address Nikki had supplied without a hint of trouble thanks to her handy little GPS system, its confident, computerized voice (she’d chosen the female version) guiding her right to the front door with a nearly cheerful-sounding, “You have reached your destination.”

  She reached up and shut it off. “Thanks, Jane-Jane.” The house was gorgeous, a great big rectangle with a covered front porch, a wide, paved driveway and an
attached two-car garage with room for an apartment above it. The lamps that flanked the entryway looked like a pair of old-fashioned carriage lamps, she thought.

  She took out her key and opened the door, feeling as if she were intruding, and yet not. She hadn’t driven into the village of Port Lucinda yet. This house was on the outskirts, and she’d reached it first and felt inclined to establish a home base before braving the next step on her journey of discovery, as she was calling this mad trip—even while knowing there was likely not going to be a damned thing to discover. She would feel silly for driving all the way up here by this time tomorrow. She would feel ridiculous.

  But tonight, she felt afraid. And not quite ready.

  And her cell phone was ringing already.

  Thinning her lips, she toed off her shoes and left them near the front door, then answered the phone while walking slowly through the house and looking around.

  “Are you there yet?” Nikki asked.

  “I just walked in the front door. You’re psychic.”

  “Don’t talk like Cami. Listen, go into the living room.”

  “Nik, I’m tired. I’m hungry and I need to use the bathroom. Could you maybe chill, and let me call you back in a half hour?”

  “No, but this will only take a minute. I’ve got something for you.”

  Sara closed her eyes and sighed, but walked through a wide hall that emptied into a big living room with outdated, but spotless, furniture in powder blue.

  “Go to the bookshelf,” Nikki said. “See it?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She crossed that plush cushy carpet to the bookshelf—built-in, floor to ceiling, five shelves and the length of the entire wall. There had to be a couple of hundred volumes there. “What am I looking for?”

  “Mom’s high school yearbooks. Should be on the bottom, toward the right.”

  Sara traced the spines with her eyes and spotted Memories on a handful of slender volumes, each one with a year after the word. “I see them,” she said.