Haven Lost

by Josh de Lioncourt

  * * *

  As she approached the corner where she’d turn onto her street, Emily slipped a hand into her pocket and fumbled with the mute switch on her phone. It was well and truly dark now, and the streetlights were giving everything a sickly pallor. Far off in the distance, she could hear a man shouting at someone, punctuated with the faint pleadings of a woman’s voice. Nearer by, a child was crying and a dog was howling his displeasure to the cold night air.

  But all of it was filtered out by Emily’s own internal mute switch. It was just part of life here. And besides, she had other things on her mind.

  All the way home, her thoughts had been dominated by images of the mysterious…what? Apparition? That was crazy. He had to be an actual person. Some kid from school playing a trick on her? It seemed like a lot of trouble to go to, and Emily couldn’t think of anyone who hated her enough to waste that much energy on pranking her. What then?

  Shoving her hands deeper into her pockets, she quickened her pace as she rounded the corner, and nearly fell headlong over the old man who was sitting on the sidewalk, his back against a fire hydrant. An old and stained tweed coat was thrown around his shoulders, and his legs were wrapped in a frayed and filthy blanket. In his lap was a dilapidated McDonald’s Happy Meal box.

  He looked up at Emily with bloodshot eyes that seemed to lack any emotion. Faintly, in the glow of the streetlight, Emily could see festering sores around his mouth, only partly hidden by the graying beard and whiskers around them. Quickly, she looked away.

  “Gotta quarter?” he croaked. He sounded like an actor repeating lines of dialog written in a foreign language he did not understand, and which were, to him, only meaningless gymnastics of the tongue.

  Emily fished the fistful of coins that had been her change at Starbucks from her pocket and dropped it into his Happy Meal box without really looking. Stepping over his legs, she kept moving.

  “Thanks, babe,” he said in a dull voice, and Emily hurried down the sidewalk, past the row of shabby and decaying houses toward her own.

  Stupid thing to do, really. What if Mom—or worse, her stepdad—had seen her giving money to that bum? They’d ask her where she’d gotten it and search her for any more she might have. Of course they would find her savings, and all those months of working for her new skates would be for nothing. Stupid! Stupid stupid stupid!

  She slowed again as she approached her house. It stood out a little from the others on the street, thanks to her own efforts. There were fewer weeds choking the front yard, and the rosebushes on either side of the front steps were trimmed, albeit clumsily. No beer cans littered the walk. No trash or rusting old car parts showed themselves from beneath the blanket of snow, as they did in front of every other house on the street. She’d done the best she could with what she had and turned this broken little corner of the world into somewhere she could call home.

  She made her way up the walk and climbed the steps. As she reached the top stair, she felt the first prickles of unease. The house was silent. The familiar babble of the television was absent for the first time in Emily’s memory. The windows were dark, too.

  She crossed the porch and paused at the door. It was closed, but not far enough to latch. That, by itself, didn’t mean much. Neither of her parents was particular about keeping the house locked up. But coupled with the strange stillness around the house, it made her uneasy.

  She reached out and pushed the door open. She stepped inside, feeling an acute sense of foreboding.

  “Hello?” she called. Only silence answered at first.

  She heard a low rumble from across the living room and let out a breathless screech that turned into relieved laughter.

  She came the rest of the way inside and closed the door softly behind her. Standing there in the gloom, she waited for her eyes to adjust, dripping snow onto the stained and threadbare carpet.

  Her stepfather was asleep on the sofa. His head was flung back on the arm at one end, and he had a bottle of booze wedged in the fork of his crotch. He was snoring with the utter abandon of the absolutely drunk. The harsh, almost medicinal smell of whiskey stung her nostrils and made her eyes water. She wiped at them with her sleeve and sighed with resignation. After years of coming home to that smell, and others that were far worse, she thought she ought to be immune to it by now.

  She moved quietly through the living room, not wanting to wake him and have to answer questions. She just wanted to get to her room.

  As she reached the hall, she glanced back at him. He was facing away from her, and clearly far gone enough that she could risk turning on the light.

  She reached into the pitch darkness ahead of her, found the switch on the wall, and snapped it on with the palm of one hand.

  Much later, when she would have time to think back on that night and try to make sense of the crazy sequence of events that followed, it was the flipping of that switch to turn on the hall light that she kept coming back to. Such a simple action. Such a mundane gesture. And yet it was that ordinary decision that changed the entire course of Emily’s life. How would things have turned out if she’d just not flipped that switch? There was no way to know. Things probably would have been different—but not necessarily for the better.

  As the light flared on above, and Emily blinked against the glare, the world subtly shifted on its axis—just a notch or two to the left—and everything changed.

  Lying on the floor, just outside her mother’s bedroom door, was a small, crumpled, and naked figure with needle tracks up and down her bare arms and legs. Her skin was nearly translucent in the harsh light of the overhead bulb, and her eyes were open, staring sightlessly at the far wall.

  Emily stood stunned for three long seconds, hearing the deep snores of her stepfather in the living room, the tick of the clock on the wall behind her, and the accelerating thud of her own heart. Like one in a dream, she took two quick strides toward her mother and knelt beside her motionless form. She knew before she reached her that she was dead. No one alive could be so still. No one alive could look so pale beneath that yellow light.

  She reached for her wrist to check for a pulse, just as Mrs. Dudley had taught them in health class. There was nothing. Her mother’s skin was cold and loose beneath her fingers.

  For a long time, Emily only continued to kneel there, cradling her mother’s wasted arm between her hands. Her brain fought to make sense of it. Her mother was dead. Her mother was dead. Her terrible, wonderful, crazy mother—the woman who had beaten her for the dollar she’d earned recycling bottles four summers ago, but also the woman who had held her hand on the first day of school and promised her a treat when she came home. She was dead.

  The confusion of images and mix of conflicting emotions washed over her in an immense tidal wave, and when the tide rolled back out again, they had all coalesced into a single stone of fury, lying at the bottom of her stomach.

  Shaking, she rose and stared down at the lifeless form at her feet. She felt something stir inside her for a moment. It was, perhaps, pity for the sorrowful creature before her. Maybe it was simply the sudden loss of the hope that one day things would be better again—the way they’d been on that long ago first day of school…first day of hockey practice…first ride on a bicycle…first…first…first…

  There had been so many firsts, but rarely any seconds.

  The rage pushed all else aside, and Emily’s feet began carrying her back down the hall of their own accord. Her fists clenched themselves at her sides. She felt like a marionette under the control of a particularly unskilled puppeteer—one who was pulling the strings wildly but was too far away to see the fruits of his labors.

  She crossed the living room in near total silence and stood above the man who had led her mother to this end—the man who had brought Emily herself to this moment. She stood there, fists clenched, and waited helplessly as the rage and hatred she had suppressed for so many years fought her for control. In the end, it won, and Emily gave in to it with something lik
e relief.

  She snatched the bottle from between his legs and overturned the remains of its contents onto his head with vicious, childish joy. Sputtering, he sprang up all at once, like one of those mechanical monsters at the House of Horrors, and began rubbing his burning eyes with the heels of his hands.

  “Fuck fuck fuck!” he cried, and Emily reversed her grip on the bottle, holding it by the neck and cocking it back over her shoulder like a baseball bat.

  He caught sight of her between his fingers, and his face flushed with anger. He got to his feet, towering over her, and Emily took a step back.

  “What the fuck are you doing you little shit?” His voice was low and dangerous, a warning sign, but Emily stood her ground, her fury making her reckless.

  “Where is she?” she hissed between clenched teeth, wanting to see if he knew—wanting to see if he had any idea at all.

  “How the fuck should I know? Probably gone to bed. That was good whiskey, you bitch. You wasted a whole fucking…”

  “She’s dead. While you were sitting here getting drunk, she took one high too many and now she’s gone.” Emily’s voice was rising crazily. She fought to stop it, to rein it in, but any semblance of control was long gone.

  Her stepdad only stared at her, seemingly not understanding her words. The look of dumb confusion on his face only added fuel to the fire that was burning inside her, and she flung the bottle at his face with all her might.

  He moved aside just in time, and the blow only glanced off his jaw, but it still had enough force behind it to cause him to take one shuffling step backward. He raised a hand to the side of his face as the bottle exploded on the floor at his feet, speckling his jeans with fragments of glass.

  “You lying little bitch!” he roared, and he lunged drunkenly toward her. Emily leapt aside, sure that she did not have the space to evade him. But she wasn’t his target—not yet anyway. He flew past her into the kitchen, and she heard one of the cupboard doors slam against the wall as he flung it open.

  And then Emily realized what he was doing. He was going for his gun. She didn’t give herself time to think. She simply ran.

  She flew out the front door, slamming it behind her, and back into the freezing night. Snow was falling thick and fast now, and Emily slipped and slid her way down the sidewalk, her arms windmilling at her sides. She was still wearing her backpack, and the added weight served as a counterbalance for her mad dash.

  Behind her, she heard her stepfather screaming, but she couldn’t quite make out the words.

  At the corner, she leapt over the old bum, still huddled beneath his blanket against the hydrant. He stared at her wide-eyed as she flashed by, but she caught only a glimpse of his astonished face in the glow of the streetlights.

  And then a new sound came to her—the sound of gunshots. He was shooting at her! Jesus!

  She ran faster, slipping and falling as she went, but always getting up again. As she approached the next corner, she dared to look back over her shoulder, just in time to see her stepfather falling over the bum’s legs and skidding across the sidewalk into the gutter, where he splashed into the slush and dirty snow. Roaring, he clutched his gun to his chest and was already getting back to his feet again as Emily turned to watch where she was going and hurtled around the corner.

  “Come back you fuckin’ bitch!” she heard him scream again behind her.

  Ignoring him, she kept running as cars sped past her. She turned down the main drag, barely paying attention to where she was going. It was all she could do to stay on her feet amidst the ice and snow.

  Somewhere, far away in the night, she heard the distant wail of sirens. She wondered vaguely if someone had called the police because of the shots. Not very damn likely. No one on her street much wanted a visit from the cops. The philosophy, if one could brand anyone on Danvers Avenue with having anything so sophisticated as a philosophy about anything, was to let folks take care of themselves and mind your own goddamned business.

  Block after block, she ran. The cold air burned her lungs. Over and over, she slipped and fell on the slick pavement. Twice she didn’t get her hands up fast enough to break her fall, and she scraped skin from her chin and nose; and still she ran.

  At last, she could go no farther. The sound of her stepfather’s shouts had long ago faded behind her, and she collapsed beside a snowbank at the edge of a wide expanse of parking lot, hardly aware of her surroundings.

  She sat, her back against the snow and her arms wrapped around her knees, staring down the sidewalk the way she’d come. Snow pattered down around her, catching in her hair and dripping down into the collar of her coat. If she saw him coming, she’d have to get up and run again. She’d have to—and she wasn’t sure she had any running left in her.

  Sweat ran down her face and seemed to freeze her skin. She wiped at it with the sleeve of her coat, but that only made the places on her face where flesh had vacated the premises sing with agony. She gritted her teeth and watched the sidewalk.

  She needed somewhere to hide. A place from where she could call Casey and have her come for her. She could stay at Casey’s tonight…and then tomorrow…

  One step at a time, she told herself. First, a place to hide.

  She took another wary look down the sidewalk, then turned and surveyed her location.

  Far across the lot was a row of shops, dominated by the glowing neon sign of America’s low-price leader. Across from it, cloaked in shadows, was the warehouse that was turned into the House of Horrors every October.

  Walmart would be full of people, and safer. But with her bloody face and undoubtedly frantic appearance, she’d certainly raise suspicion among the staff.

  The warehouse was a little closer. She’d go there first and see if she could find a way inside. She could hide out in there until Casey could come for her.

  Wearily, Emily got to her feet and, with one last look down the deserted sidewalk behind her, started across the parking lot.

  Chapter Three

  Emily made her way down one long wall of the brick building, wanting to get behind it and put its bulk between her and the street. Her footsteps seemed uncomfortably loud in her ears as she crunched her way through the snow at this deserted end of the parking lot. She knew she was leaving prints in the fresh snow but hoped that, between the dark and the flakes that continued to fall, no one would notice them.

  She turned the corner and stopped to rest, leaning against the brick facade of the warehouse. She was cold, tired, and her muscles ached from the rush of adrenaline. It had kept her going, but now had just about given out. She shivered and hugged herself for warmth.

  The snow was deeper here against the back wall of the warehouse, all but burying a pair of dented and rusted trash barrels. Light from the bustling row of shops across the lot cast her shadow over the fresh snow—ink upon a clean page. At the far end, she could just make out a small service door. Snow was piled halfway up its front, but it was the only way in on this side, so she’d try that first.

  She pushed herself off from the wall and worked her way down the length of the building, weaving a little unsteadily on her feet. She reached it, leaned with her forehead against the glass for a moment, then pushed down on the handle. Locked. Not much of a surprise, really. The warehouse was only used during the Halloween season as far as she knew.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, taking deep breaths and willing her heart to slow its frantic rhythm. She straightened, opened her eyes, and moved past the door and peeked around the corner, looking for another way in. There wasn’t one, but there was a small window a few feet off the ground just a dozen steps down the other side of the building. It was worth a try. If it was locked too, she’d forget about the warehouse, head over to Walmart, and try to come up with a plausible excuse for her bleeding face if anyone asked.

  She forced her way into the snow beneath the window, throwing handfuls of it to either side. She braced her feet as best she could and pushed up on the frame. It did
not slide up, but Emily thought she felt it give a little before she lost her footing and fell backwards into the snow.

  Swearing, she got up again, planted her feet more firmly on the least icy places she could find, and pushed up on the window again.

  With a horrible screech, the window slid open a few inches and then caught on something and would open no farther.

  Emily stared at the opening, biting her lip. She wasn’t sure it was big enough for her to squeeze through, certainly not with her backpack and all. If she took it and her coat off, she could probably just barely get inside.

  She swung her backpack off her shoulders, mashed it as flat as she could get it, then shoved it through the open window. It fell to the floor inside with a loud thud.

  Well, Em, she thought, you better hope you really can get in there now.

  She stripped off her coat, shoved it in after her pack, then scrambled up the bank of snow until she could sit on the edge of the window sill.

  She swung herself around, wriggling in through the window feet first.

  There was one terrible moment when she thought her head, which she had never thought of as particularly large but now seemed perfectly enormous, was not going to make it.

  With a groan and the sacrifice of a few more scraps of skin, Emily toppled to the floor atop her coat and backpack. She was in.

  For a few minutes, she lay there, shivering and exhausted. It had been a very, very long day.

  She sat up, pulling her coat out from under her and slipping her arms into the sleeves. She stood, closed the window against the cold night air, and turned to survey her surroundings.

  In the gloom, she could just make out that she was standing on one side of what appeared to be a tiny break room for the staff when the warehouse was occupied. A long counter ran most of the length of the far wall, and upon it were dark hulking shapes that were probably a microwave, the kind of refrigerator you might find in some motel rooms, and a coffee maker. On the floor in one corner was what Emily thought, in that moment, was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen. A space heater! She went over to it and, crossing her fingers that the electricity was still connected, turned it on. With a pop and a low buzz, it began to warm up, and Emily turned to find the light switch.