by Amy Cross
She stops as soon as she sees me, and I swear I see the shock in her eyes. I pause for a moment, wanting to turn and leave, but I quickly remind myself not to be paranoid. I don't know that she and her friend were talking about me, and Doctor Hamlin warned me that I mustn't jump to conclusions. Paranoia is such an easy trap. Forcing a faint smile, I make my way along one of the aisles and take a look at some silver candlesticks. I'm not going to buy anything, of course, but I figure I should pretend to browse for a few minutes before going to find Craig in the hardware store.
“Louise said it was very sudden,” the woman whispers a moment later, as if she thinks I somehow won't hear her. “I suppose the whole thing is just extremely unpredictable.”
Okay, so they're definitely talking about me. Apparently Louise has been spreading gossip about our attempted dinner party last night, which means most of the town is probably talking about me by now. I glance over my shoulder, to make sure that no-one else is watching me, and then I head to the door.
“Can I help you?” the woman calls out.
I mumble something about being fine, and I quickly make my way onto the sidewalk. Feeling a little weak, I head over to a bench and take a seat, and I figure I might as well stay here for a moment before I go to join Craig. I don't want him to know that I failed in my attempt to do something normal. I feel so pathetic, but at least the voice has stayed away so far today. I'm starting to think that for some reason, the voice is much stronger at night, which means there's a good chance it'll be back again later.
Somehow, I don't think it's done with me.
After a few minutes, I get to my feet and start making my way to the hardware store. I'm sure a few more people are watching me, and probably passing comment, but I refuse to turn and look at them. They're just -
“Emily! Emily, wait!”
Turning, I look back along the street. At first I don't see anyone, and for a moment I worry that the voice has returned, but a moment later I spot a man hurrying this way with a little girl.
“Emily!” he calls out. “We were just about to go to your house!”
“I'm sorry,” I stammer, taking a step back, “but I'm not quite sure who... I mean, I don't know if you're aware, but my memory isn't so good at the moment.”
“It's me,” he continues breathlessly as he reaches me. “You're not an easy woman to find, Emily Carter. It took me a couple of months to narrow down a town, but finally I managed to get an address. We came a long way.”
I wait for him to say more, but he clearly thinks I should recognize him.
“Hello Emily,” the little girl says, frowning as she stares up at me.
“You remember us, don't you?” the man asks. “Luke. Luke Knight, from Redfield.”
“And Alice,” the girl adds. “Are you okay, Emily? Did you forget about us?”
“Of course she didn't forget,” the man says, reaching out and putting a hand on my arm. “Emily -”
“I'm really not sure who you are!” I snap, pulling away. “Whatever you want, maybe we can do it another time?”
“I've been looking for you because I need you,” he replies, with a hint of desperation in his voice. “Emily, he's back. You saw the news, right? He got the others. He took control of Carl and made him kill them. Out of everyone who was at the church during those final meetings, you and I are the only ones left. I was starting to worry he might have got to you.”
I open my mouth to tell him that I don't know what he means, but something about this man seems very familiar. I can't remember where or when I've met him before, but at the same time I know deep down that he's not a complete stranger. I think I've met the girl, too.
“I think I heard your voice,” Alice says after a moment. “In my head. I thought you heard mine too.”
“You look different,” Luke continues. “Emily, I know you didn't believe me about Chanciechaunie before, but I've got proof this time. Alice has seen him!”
I look down at the girl.
“It's true,” she says cautiously, scrunching her nose. “I don't remember what he looks like, but...”
Her voice trails off.
“He's trying to get my daughter,” Luke says. “Two weeks ago, she climbed out the window and left our apartment. Fortunately I caught her before she got too far, but she was heading toward the rail-line near our place. When I found her, I saw the look in her face. You know the look I mean, Emily. Blank, as if there's nothing in there. It only lasted a few seconds, but she remembers a man calling to her.”
“Come with me,” Emily adds.
“That's what he said to her. It's the same thing he said to me, too, all those years ago.”
“I really don't know what you're talking about,” I tell them, taking another step back. “I've had some medical treatment that affected my memory and -”
“We need you! Emily, you're the only person who understands what we're dealing with!”
“I have no -”
“Chanciechaunie is after Alice!”
“Who?”
“Chanciechaunie! Emily, we -”
He sighs.
“Can we go somewhere and get a coffee?” he continues. “Emily, I need to talk to you. I've managed to keep one step ahead of him so far, but that isn't going to last forever. I have to find some way to stop him, to make him leave her alone, because right now I know it's only a matter of time before he tries again. And I can't be sure that I'll manage to keep Alice safe this time.”
I want to tell him that this is nothing to do with me, but deep down I feel that I should at least hear him out. Besides, the little girl is adorable, and somehow I know that I've met her before. I might even have heard her voice once or twice, calling out to me for help.
“Hey!” Craig calls out suddenly, hurrying across the street. “Emily, are you okay?”
Startled, I'm not quite sure what to say. I was about to go with this strange Luke guy, but suddenly the idea seems completely ludicrous.
“I'm fine,” I stammer, “I just -”
“Can I help you with something?” Craig asks, stepping between Luke and me. “My wife's not feeling too well, so whatever you're selling, she's not buying.”
“Your wife?” Luke tries to push past him, only for Craig to grab his arm and hold him back. “Emily, I don't know if this guy is really your husband, but I need your help. Alice and I have come all this way and -”
“Buddy, what you need to do here is to back off,” Craig tells him. “I'm not gonna let you hassle my wife.”
Feeling a little dizzy, I step back and lean against a parked car. The world seems to be spinning around me, and after a moment I look over my shoulder, feeling as if I'm being watched.
“Emily, this is important,” Luke continues, sounding more desperate than ever. “Chanciechaunie is after Alice and -”
“That's enough!” Craig says firmly, putting his hands on Luke's chest to push him back. “You need to leave her alone!”
“You don't understand!” Luke tells him. “My daughter is -”
“I don't care about your daughter!” Craig replies, interrupting him. “I only care about my wife, and right now you're harassing her.” He turns to me. “You don't know this guy, do you?”
“I...”
My voice trails off.
“Do you, honey?”
I pause, before shaking my head.
“No,” I stammer, feeling as if I just want to get away from this whole scene. “I don't know who he is.”
“Are you serious?” Luke asks, his eyes widening with shock. “Emily, what's wrong with you? Don't you remember the church, and the night when Amanda died, and the creature you saw outside Marie's apartment?”
Those names cause a faint ruffling sensation in my chest, but the memories must be hidden very deep and I'm not sure I want to dig them up right now. Luke continues to call after me, but Craig holds him back and I start hurrying along the sidewalk, heading toward our car. Whoever Luke is, and whatever's happening to his dau
ghter, it's none of my concern and I need to focus on my own health.
“We're at the Penneville Hotel!” he shouts. “Emily, come and find us!”
I climb into the car and pull the door shut. Finally alone in silence, I lean back and take a deep breath. There's still half an hour before my appointment with Doctor Swayze, but I need to regather my thoughts a little. I have enough to deal with right now, keeping that awful voice out of my mind. The last thing I need is to get involved in somebody else's drama.
In the distance, Craig is still arguing with Luke. I'm so glad I have such a strong and smart husband. Someone who can protect me from the madness of the world.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“And can you grab the other two cans from the garage?” Craig calls out to me as I make my way across the garden. “Just bring them round and I'll see if they fit better! I'll check the mail and meet you there!”
“Sure thing!” I reply, and I can't help but smile as I hurry toward the garage door. Since coming back from town this afternoon, Craig and I have been getting on with some work around the house, and I'm starting to feel as if I really belong here. Doctor Swayze helped me see things differently, and now I understand that I've been extremely ill. It's as if my head malfunctioned for a few years, but fortunately I seem to be on the right track again.
Pulling open the wooden door that leads into the back of the garage, I start humming to myself.
This must be how other people live their lives.
Happy.
Content.
Normal.
For the next few minutes, I rummage around in an attempt to find the cans that Craig is after, although they don't seem to be on the bench. I squeeze past the car and around to the other side, but I still don't have any luck, and I'm about to give up when I suddenly notice that one of the car's doors is slightly open. Peering through the window, I spot several large boxes on the back seat.
I know I shouldn't snoop, but I pull the door open and take a seat, and then I open the nearest box and find that it's full of old paperwork.
And my handwriting.
I feel a knot of anticipation starting to tighten in my chest as I realize that I've accidentally stumbled upon some of the boxes that I gathered while I was on the road. Craig told me he'd burned them, but I guess a few must have been left behind by accident. Now, as I take out one of the notebooks, I realize that these things are relics of an earlier life, and of a time when I was truly out of my mind.
I start flicking through the notebook, and I find that it's filled with scrawled comments and references to the deaths of children all across the country. I don't remember writing any of this, of course, but evidently I was utterly consumed for a while. I must have been a complete lunatic.
I was mad.
A shudder passes through my chest.
I'm better now.
“Lecadol?” I whisper, struggling to decipher my own, spidery writing. I have to turn the book a little, trying to get a better view in the garage's low light. “Cherlo... Clero... Clerobenzopyl?”
I have no idea what I'm reading. It's as if I've found the furious, frantic notes left behind by someone who died. Deep down, I know that I'm the one who wrote all of this, and I suppose it all seemed very important to me at one point. I should just set the notebook down and walk away, but instead I reach further into the box and find some old photos, showing what looks like a wheat field in the middle of nowhere. There are more photos near the bottom of the box, with brief descriptions and dates on the back, and I realize I must have been all over the country during my travels.
No wonder Craig was so worried about me.
“Honey?”
Startled, I turn and see that he's standing nearby. I must have been so absorbed by these boxes, I didn't even hear him coming to find me.
“You shouldn't be looking at those,” he says cautiously, setting the mail aside and stepping closer. “I thought I'd burned them all. Doctor Hamlin warned that they might set you off again.”
“I was just curious,” I stammer, setting the photos back in the box and then climbing out of the car. “It's hard to believe that I was so...”
My voice trails off, and I feel a shudder as I realize that I was truly, completely insane. I'm so grateful for the treatment I received, and at least I know now that I'm on the right path again. If Craig's men hadn't eventually tracked me down, I might have ended up dying alone in some motel room, far from home and from the people who love me.
“Do you want to help me burn this stuff?” he asks.
I hesitate for a moment. Why? The answer should be obvious.
“It might be helpful,” he continues. “I don't know, therapeutic or cathartic, something like that? But it's okay, you don't have to be -”
“No, I'd like to help,” I tell him, forcing a smile. “After all, there's no need to keep this garbage around any longer, is there?”
***
The smoke rises high into the afternoon sky. Craig was right, it does feel good to see the last vestiges of my search being destroyed like this, and I can finally start to believe in a new future.
Our future. Together.
***
While Craig finishes his work in the garden, I take the mail inside and set it on the kitchen counter. Craig deals with all the mail these days. Most of it's just bills and junk anyway, but after a moment I see that this time there's a letter addressed to me. The name and address are handwritten, and there's a Hartford post-mark.
I should just leave it on the pile for Craig, but instead I open the envelope and find a short letter inside, written on headed note-paper from some kind of hospice. At the bottom of the page, I see the name Jeannie Mackenzie.
“I hope this is the right Emily Carter,” the letter begins. “It took so long to find you. I don't have much time left, but there's one more thing I should have told you when we met at the motel a couple of years ago. After my grandson's death, I found some drawings that he'd made at kindergarten. I want to believe that they're just nonsense, but I can't dismiss the possibility that they might mean something. I've enclosed copies for you to see. They might not offer much new information, but I thought I should send them anyway, just in case they help. My daughter hid them away for so long. I imagine she didn't want to face the truth about what they might show.”
She adds something about the importance of the search, but I quickly reach into the envelope and take out some folded pieces of paper. When I open them, I find scans of a child's drawings, and I immediately recognize the boy's attempt to draw a cottage in a forest. There's a large, twisted tree next to the cottage, with black circles on the branches, and a dark figure is standing in the center of the picture, staring out.
I've seen this.
I don't know where, or when, but I've seen this place.
Glancing out the window, I spot Craig working on the car. He'll be a good few minutes still, so I head to the phone and dial the number for the hospice.
“Jeannie Mackenzie, please,” I say as soon as someone answers on the other end of the line. “I think she's a patient.”
But she's dead.
The nurse explains that Jeannie died just a couple of days earlier, which must have been shortly after she mailed the drawings to me. After thanking the nurse, I set the phone down and take another look at the drawings. I want to toss them away, to pretend that they're nothing important, but I can't quite bring myself to stop staring at the image of the twisted tree and the cottage.
Suddenly hearing footsteps, I fold the sheets away and tuck them into my pocket, just as Craig comes through the back door.
***
“Didn't I tell you it'd be okay?” Craig calls through from the dining room. “Mike Swayze is a good doctor. I'm sure those new pill are gonna help you sleep!”
“I'm sure they will,” I mutter, still rifling through the box that I brought home from the hospital. I don't remember much of my time on the ward, but I know I made lots of notes on scraps of pape
r, and now I'm searching for any kind of reference to the names Luke or Emily. If I can find something, even just the faintest shred of evidence that I once knew those people, maybe I can unlock the rest of my memories. If I ask Craig, about the hospital and about the letter from Jeannie Mackenzie, he'll just tell me to stop worrying. I need to know for myself.
“Dinner's ready!” he shouts.
“I'm not hungry,” I whisper.
“Emily? Dinner's ready!”
“I'm not hungry!”
“Come on, I've made a real effort! I actually spent time in the kitchen! Humor me!”
Ignoring him, I tip the box's contents onto the bed and spread the papers out. There's so much in here, and I'm sure most of my notes were just gibberish. Still, there's a kind of itch in the back of my mind, telling me that Luke and Alice are somehow important, and I'm worried that they might be somehow connected to the voice. If I could just begin to figure out what I was doing before I was re-admitted to the hospital, maybe I can work out what to do next.
Finally, realizing that there's nothing here, I remember that I had some notes stuffed into the pockets of my dark jacket. Turning, I hurry out of the bedroom and along the corridor, and then into the dining room.
“I have to -”
I stop as soon as I see the table.
Craig has made a real effort. He's set out two wine glasses, with a bottle in the center of the table, and he's even lit a couple of candles. Stepping closer to the table, I see that he's actually cooked a decent-looking spaghetti bolognese, which is quite an achievement since I know he hates spending time in the kitchen. Before I can even think to tell him that he's gone overboard, he hurries closer and pulls the chair out for me, and I can tell from his nervous smile that this is very important to him.
“For the first time in years,” he says with just a hint of desperation in his voice, “why don't we share a romantic meal at home?”
“Craig,” I reply, trying to think of an excuse to go to my jacket, “this is -”