by Glen Krisch
The humming of Aunt Leah and Uncle Jack continued, a steady vibration reminding her of bees in springtime. Her mind retreated as the dark specter ravaged her mind, the very nature of her being, down to the cellular level.
The last thing Clara heard was her dad speaking in Latin: “Et ambulate in aeternum. Maledicta, maledicti sunt daemonium vestra. Daemon tui; domine.”
As she lost consciousness, her mind followed its instinct and translated the words, finding their meaning, plumbing them for their every etymological wrinkle: You will walk forever. Cursed, cursed to serve your demon. Your demon; your Lord.
CHAPTER 29
The storm settled in over the Super 8 and remained into the early morning. Krista tried to sleep but gave up when she realized it was a wasted effort. She was still awake when the steady static-hum of rainfall slackened to a silent mist around 3 a.m. She spent the long hours until sunrise sitting in the padded office chair, staring at an elaborate spider web sprawling across the exterior of the window frame. A little black spider scuttled along rain-dappled silk, cleaning and repairing every square inch. She marveled at its tenacity, but then, of course, the web was its life.
What would you do if you were that little spider?
Fatigue weighed heavily on her senses, making her maudlin and short-fused. She shut the heavy curtain and headed for the bathroom; ready or not, she would start her day.
After showering and changing into jeans and a modest white blouse, she gathered her travel suitcase and headed down to the lobby.
She twirled her car keys around her index finger, remembering with a smirk how Neal had magically caught her keys.
Was that just yesterday?
The dull green carpet in the hallway smelled like urine. She held her breath and hurried to the lobby.
She felt isolated and alone—better, sure, because she didn’t want to subject any of her family to what she was about to do—but she wasn’t the go-it-alone type. She wanted to put this day to rest, even though it was just beginning, and she was facing it with no sleep.
She gripped the keys. It would be easy to turn around and head back to the warm embrace of her family. No one would question her for coming home so soon.
But Breann … Her friend had risked so much at Nan’s graveside just trying to make contact, to reach out to Krista for help.
Not heading immediately back to the ferry was only confirming her growing madness.
Before leaving the sun-washed lobby, she filled a travel cup with complimentary coffee. No sugar packets. A house fly sat on the sugar shaker’s spout. Her eyes burned with fatigue, and the sunlight glared as if she’d been drinking all night.
“I guess I’ll take it black,” she whispered in exasperation.
“Ma’am?” a voice called out, and Krista turned with a start.
A young woman, worn beyond her years, came in through the front door in a cloud of cigarette smoke. She swiped her hand through the air and stepped behind the high counter.
“Yes?” Krista said.
“Are you checking in?” the woman asked as she typed into her computer.
“No, just getting some coffee before I head out. I left my room key on the counter.”
“I hope you enjoyed your stay,” the woman mumbled. She didn’t wait for a reply before swiping her cellphone’s screen and propping her elbows on the counter.
Krista gave the woman an unseen thumbs-up and secured the lid on her coffee. She left without another word, stepping out into air both heavy from the storm and acrid from the clerk’s freshly smoked cigarette.
The prison was pretty much what she had expected. The building was broad and brooding, brown bricks capped with gray cement bulwarks topped with ringlets of razor wire. A guard gate secured the employee parking lot. She left her car in the out lot and followed a narrow sidewalk walled off on either side with twelve-foot-high fencing. The sidewalk led to a small building that acted as the central hub. Access to the large windowless building beyond was only possible through the entry building.
She passed through a set of double doors, visible security cameras recording her from every angle. From inside a glassed-in booth, a doughy man with beady eyes looked up, as if expecting her.
Of course, he knew you were coming; he probably saw you on a dozen security screens.
“Good morning,” Krista said when she reached his desk.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, I, um … I’m here to see Edgar Jenkins. I talked to his lawyer and he was supposed to clear it with you.”
“Let’s see.” The man’s eyes narrowed as he pecked at his keyboard with his index fingers. “All right. Are you Mrs. Forrester?”
“Yes, Krista Forrester.”
“ID please.”
She slid him her driver’s license through the slot below the bulletproof partition.
He took her license, typed some more, and then stood from his office chair. He scanned her ID and then clicked some more on his computer.
Krista suppressed a mad desire to explain why she was here.
No, I don’t sympathize with the child killer. No, I’m not here to profess my love to Edgar and propose marriage.
She wondered what she must look like on those security cameras, and then decided she didn’t want to know.
“Thank you, ma’am.” The doughy man slid Krista’s identification back through the slot. “Kind of unusual,” the man said, throwing her off-guard.
“Pardon me?”
“Jenkins’s lawyer, he’s not here. That’s just, I don’t know, unusual.”
Krista returned her driver’s license to her wallet and her wallet to her purse. “I don’t think anything can be usual when you’re talking about a killer like Edgar Jenkins.”
The man cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows. He looked like a scolded child. While he might be used to being surrounded by evil men, working at a prison wasn’t something Krista could ever imagine being ‘normal.’ She might’ve offended him, but she didn’t really care at this point, just as long as she got a chance to face Edgar.
“Someone will be right out to see you,” he said, and pointed to the wooden bench near the door. “Have a seat.”
She sat on the bench and checked her cell phone. A new text from Neal:
Love you like crazy
The message was exactly what she needed right now, but she couldn’t bring herself to reply. Not now, not when she was so close.
A door next to the glassed-in booth opened and a young prison guard with a tense glare and peach fuzz on his lip stepped through. He was massive, at least six-foot-five. He looked suited for the football field. A wooden baton hung from his belt. The holstered gun looked far too big, like it could take down an elephant with one pull of the trigger. His presence lessened her apprehension, but only slightly.
“Mrs. Forrester?” he asked.
Krista cleared her throat, which had gone suddenly dry. “Yes?”
“I’m Officer Burkhart.” He didn’t offer his hand, not that she expected him to; even so, he didn’t exactly look pleased to see her. He unlocked a small locker embedded in the wall.
“I need your purse and other belongings. Sharp objects, dangling jewelry. Anything that might be fashioned into a weapon.”
She removed her watch and stashed it inside her purse. She placed her purse inside the locker. She patted her pockets and along her neckline, but she didn’t have anything else that might be fashioned into a weapon. Or so she hoped. Burkhart gave her a nod.
“If you follow me, I’ll escort you to interrogation.”
“Interrogation?”
The word was intimidating. She knew the meaning, but not the origin, which Clara would no doubt know off the top of her head. Krista missed her daughter something fierce.
“Don’t let the word get to you. We set you up in a quiet room. I’ll
be right outside the door.” He tried smiling to set her mind at ease, but it wasn’t working.
“I’ll be alone? With him? ”
“That’s what I’ve been told.” He gestured down a side hallway. “After you.”
She already knew this, but it was still shocking to hear. Edgar’s only requirement to meet her was for it to be one-on-one. His lawyer adamantly opposed the idea, but he eventually backed down. She imagined having at least one prison guard standing at her side, ready to wallop the sonofabitch if the need arose. It was hard to ignore the urge to turn and run, far and fast, and never return.
Their feet were loud in the enclosed, featureless tunnel.
“I can see you’re nervous, Mrs. Forrester, and I understand.” He loomed next to her and tried to match her shorter strides. “I’ll be right outside. Plus, he’s already handcuffed to the table. He can’t move more than two inches from where he’s sitting.”
They turned a corner and Krista followed him down a long hallway with cinderblock walls painted a shade or two darker than the institutional beige floor. They passed through another set of doors that locked behind them. Three doors were off to the left, three to the right. Another stood at the end of the hallway; through the small glass window were at least two sets of prison bars. Transfixed, she nearly ran into Burkhart, who had stopped outside one of the rooms.
“You need anything, I’m right outside this door. Just call out for Damon and I’ll be at your side before you can finish saying my name.”
“Okay.” She felt small, a child venturing where she knew she shouldn’t.
Burkhart unlocked the door and stepped inside first. Krista followed on his heels and felt reluctant to leave his considerable shadow. The sterile gray room was bare except for a heavy metal table between two folding chairs.
“Edgar? You be a good boy, you hear?” Burkhart said.
Edgar’s head remained dipped low, none of his face visible until Krista stepped around the prison guard. His hands were flat against the table top, and when he lifted his head, he clapped so hard it echoed in the tiny room. His wrists moved a little more than the two inches Burkhart promised. Manacles around chained him to a heavy loop secured to the table.
“Oh, don’t you worry about a thing, Officer!” Edgar’s eyes gleamed, alert. He smiled at the two of them.
“I mean it.”
“I know you do. And so do I.” Edgar lifted his manacled wrists to their limit. “What am I going to do, besides?”
Burkhart leaned in to Krista, whispered, “Are you okay?”
She nodded.
“Like I said, just say the word.”
“Thank you.” She couldn’t take her eyes off Edgar.
Burkhart stepped outside, closed and locked the door behind him. He peered through the door’s tiny window and nodded to Krista before blotting it out with the bulk of his back.
As she approached the table, she noticed the cameras at the upper corners of the room. Could she speak openly without sounding crazy? She took a deep breath, took strength from the fact her family was intact, loving, and eagerly awaiting her return.
Edgar stared at her every move, curious.
Krista willed her hands to steady before she reached out for the chair. When she finally sat across the table from Breann’s killer, she realized Edgar was little bigger than she was. She had always pictured him large, broad, a physical menace.
“The old man, he’s dead, isn’t he?” Edgar’s smile was lurid, somehow suggestive. He clasped his fingers together. Waggled his eyebrows. Waited.
CHAPTER 30
Rain trailed off to a fine mist sometime before dawn.
Clara awoke from a deep sleep, without warning, segue, or outside provocation; at least that’s what it felt like when she sat bolt upright. Her heart galloped along, as if she’d sprinted the length of the sandy beach.
The dream was so entirely consuming that every moment felt real—walking along the sand near the lake, kicking angrily as she plowed a path, water lulling close by.
That much she remembered. Like photographs long studied.
Does eidetic memory work with images from dreams?
She swung her feet around to the floor, fully expecting to find sand clinging to her soles. She found nothing of the sort, but the emotions from her dream remained.
Heidi hadn’t stirred in the bed next to her; she let out a barely-there snore.
The light outside shined weakly through banks of gray fog, the windows rain-dewed. She only now remembered the storm, how it had knocked out the power.
Clara picked up her flashlight from the bedside table. She’d fallen asleep with the light powered on. The cone of dirty yellow light did little to push back the shadows. She pressed the power button.
“Hey, Heidi,” she called out.
Her cousin stirred but continued to slumber.
Clara shook Heidi’s shoulder, startling her awake, blinking, scared.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. The sun is up.”
“Really?” Heidi said. “What … what time is it?”
Clara looked at the alarm clock, but its numerals weren’t lit. She tried the light switch and it too didn’t work. “Power is still out.”
Heidi sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Can you believe the crazy storm?”
“Sure. Storms happen all the time,” Clara said, feeling an instinctive urge to downplay the previous night.
“But what about … what about all the other stuff?” Heidi pulled the covers to her chin, obviously scared of something.
Clara’s mind flashed to last night, playing Aunt Leah’s séance game, The Knowing. She remembered everyone’s shadows dancing around the outside of their circle, cavorting along the walls. And then … and then, she couldn’t remember.
“What stuff?” Clara felt a sudden chill so she slipped into her robe and cinched it around her waist.
“The weird stuff your dad was talking about. That book. The pages. The words, they were in Latin. Remember?”
Clara looked at the knotty wood floor. She remembered the shadows cavorting, and then … the door leading to the deck slid open, and … and then a cold darkness crept inside. She suddenly remembered everything.
“The shadows,” Clara said with wide eyes. “They snaked inside. They swirled and danced. They … they took you, yanked you away from the island. Robby, too.”
Heidi gave her an unsure look and said, “Come on, Clara, stop trying to freak me out.”
“You don’t remember?” Clara recalled more details, in more depth.
“No. Sorry,” Heidi said. “I’m starving. Let’s go eat.” Heidi bounded over to the door, opened it, and skipped into the hallway. “Coming?”
Clara flipped the light switch on and off. Still no power.
“Yes.”
She paused at the doorway and had to brace herself against it as a vivid image came to mind: her dad chanting in Latin, her broken knowledge of the language translating in fits and starts. You will walk forever. Cursed, cursed to serve your demon. Your demon; your Lord.
“Clara, come on,” Heidi called out from down the hall. “Let’s make breakfast!”
Clara shook her head, trying to regain her sense of now.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay,” she repeated, as if to reassure herself.
Before leaving the bedroom, she glanced back at the beds. She had no memory of going to bed. She had no memory of changing into pajamas. She had no memory … no memory after Aunt Leah’s game. In fact, she couldn’t even remember the game finishing.
She made her way down the hallway, trying to piece together what had happened. When she reached the kitchen, Poppa was sitting at the island, sipping orange juice from a glass.
“Clarabelle! So, I heard it on good authority you’re going to make me breakfast.” Poppa winked
at Heidi and she smiled in reply. He looked spry and much healthier than he had since the day she arrived. His dark blue polo shirt and tan work pants seemed to actually fit his emaciated form.
“Sure … I guess.” She watched as Heidi gathered ingredients from the cabinets. “I don’t really ever cook.”
“Why not?” Heidi asked.
“It’s just … I don’t know. My mom always does the cooking.”
“I guess you can be my helper then,” Poppa replied.
“Can we cook with the power out?” Clara asked.
“It’s a gas stove,” Poppa said, “so I’ll need a match to get it started. I guess it all depends on what you’re making.”
“Pancakes?” Clara said. “That’s all I know how to make.”
“I’m sure they’ll be delectable,” Poppa said.
Heidi smiled and returned to gathering ingredients.
Clara remained in the doorway, her mind slipping into the comforting churn of word dissection.
dih-lek-tuh-buh l: delightful; highly pleasing; enjoyable.
Once she had the word mastered, her mind relaxed, and last night receded like a fading memory. Nothing bad had actually happened, right? So what’s the purpose of stressing over it? If anything, her mind had merged memory and dream. Last night … last night hadn’t been weird or frightening.
“Where is everyone else?” Clara said, helping Heidi gather cooking supplies.
“Your dad, Uncle Jack, and Trevor, are out on the lake fishing,” Poppa said. “Leah and Robby are out front. I think they’re playing croquette again.”
Heidi said, “We better get cooking. They’re going to be hungry.”
“Okay!” Clara said.
“What do I need to do first?” Heidi asked, dumping cups of flour into a big metal mixing bowl.
“We need eggs,” Clara said. “Oh, and milk from the fridge.”
“Don’t dawdle or you’ll let out all the cold air,” Poppa said.
“Okay, Poppa.” Clara went over to the refrigerator, trying to picture where everything was before opening the door. She hurriedly grabbed the egg carton and a milk jug. She kicked the door shut, having gathered her supplies in just under two seconds, and smiled at Poppa. “Pretty fast, huh?”