by Kylie Brant
But she knew it was more than that. The similarities in her and Eryn Pullman’s pasts were eerie. It was difficult to understand the vagaries of fate that landed one of them in a psych facility and the other in the US Marshals Service.
Eryn: Then
Screams tore from her throat, a steady stream of frenzy. Eryn flailed on the bed. Shudders shook her body. Her throat went raw and hoarse, but still the shrieks came, flowing around her, a wordless voice for the terror gripping her. “Mama! Mama!”
The sound of running footsteps didn’t stem her cries. She was wrapped in a horror she couldn’t put into words. It was dragging her back. Back to something she couldn’t quite remember, except for the sense of horror.
“Eryn! Wake up!” Arms tightened around her and at first Eryn fought them. The arms with their clawing fingers would return her to a place she didn’t want to see again. Never wanted to see, ever.
“Wake up, Mama’s here. Sh-h, now. Sh-h.” Eryn choked back sobs as she was rocked, shaking so hard it felt like her body would break in half. “It’s all right now, everything’s all right. Sh-h.” Mama stroked her hair and Eryn snuggled closer, shivering. “Tell me about your dream, baby. Tell me all about it.”
Eryn shook her head against Mama’s chest. Even now the nightmare was fading into the distance, like the balloon she’d once let go of at a parade. It got smaller and smaller until she could no longer see it. But the fear remained. Even when the dream was over, the way it made her feel lingered.
“Want to come to bed with me for a while?” Eryn felt herself being lifted and carried down the hall. It was a rare treat to be allowed in Mama’s bed, but all she cared about now was Mama holding her close. Whispering that nothing would ever hurt her again.
Eryn knew the words were a lie. But she needed to believe them. That was easier when she could stay clutched in Mama’s arms until she went back to sleep.
After a long time, her eyes shut again. She could no longer answer Mama’s whispers in her ear. She felt the arms loosen around her, which was okay. She was still in Mama’s bed, where it was snuggly and soft. Eryn felt herself begin to drift. Everything was quiet except for the whispers nearby.
“So what’s wrong this time?”
“What’s wrong? She’s five, Bill. You saw the information the doctor gave me about night terrors.”
“Did the doctor have any idea how many years this is supposed to go on? Maybe she should be trying to get at what’s causing them.”
Their words floated around Eryn, preventing her from fully falling asleep.
“I think I already know. It’s my fault. All of it.”
Something in Mama’s voice had Eryn lifting her head from the pillow. She sounded like she was about to cry. Uncle Bill had his arms around her. “Stop. You don’t know that. It doesn’t help to blame yourself.”
“Even if I deserve it?” Mama sniffled. “It all went wrong so fast. And I was so busy trying to fix it, I didn’t even consider Eryn was part of it too. Do you think she remembers?”
“No.” It was the voice Uncle Bill used when he didn’t want you to argue anymore. “She was too young. Life happens. We deal with it.”
“Someone has to be there for her, Billy.” Mama rested her head on Uncle Bill’s shoulder. “I just wish Eryn had a big brother to look out for her like you did for me.”
Eryn nestled into the pillow again. They were talking about boring stuff. She didn’t want a big brother. Henry was bad enough. Except . . . she yawned and pulled the covers closer. If she had a brother, maybe he’d beat up Henry when he was mean.
Or maybe he’d beat up Eryn. People didn’t always act the way they should. Not even grown-ups. Sometimes the people who were supposed to protect you from monsters were monsters themselves.
Everyone was always extra nice the day after Eryn had bad dreams, even though she was fine when she woke up. When she overslept, Mama said she didn’t have to go to school that day. Eryn was happy. She didn’t like kindergarten. They had fun books and paints there, but she couldn’t use them all the time. Only when the teacher said. The other kids were mean sometimes and didn’t share the paint. And when Eryn hit them to make them share, she was the one who got in trouble.
Even Mary Jane made her favorite breakfast. French toast. She ate it all, and when the woman wasn’t looking, she licked the leftover syrup off her plate. Somehow Mary Jane knew, though, and scrubbed Eryn’s face with a smelly dishcloth.
“Where’d Mama go?” she asked, pulling out of Mary Jane’s grasp.
“She went back to bed. Why don’t you get your paints out and make her a nice picture? I’ll get you some newspapers.”
Eryn skipped to her room and pulled the containers from beneath her bed. She took off the covers and removed the paints, stacking one on top of the other until she had a rainbow of colors. Mary Jane bustled back in and laid newspapers on the floor beneath Eryn’s easel. “Make a mess and I’ll put all your paints away,” the woman warned before leaving the room again. Eryn made a face behind her back before carefully carrying the paints over to the shelf on the easel. She made Mama lots of pictures, but even after she was done, Mama was still asleep.
Bored, she went back to her room. Mary Jane had brought in a lot of newspapers, and some were still folded in a pile on the floor. Eryn went to get scissors and tape from another tote under her bed. She’d make some paper dolls. Then she could get construction paper out and make clothes for them.
You’re not supposed to use scissors without an adult.
“Shut up,” she muttered. Mr. Timmons was always so, so bossy. It was like having a Mary Jane in her head all the time.
Bet Henry would be surprised if you snuck in and cut up the clothes in his dresser.
She pressed her lips together. That would be bad. Very bad. Lots of times Uncle Arlo had naughty ideas. If she listened to him, she often got in trouble.
But sometimes they’re fun ideas. And Henry deserves it after locking you in the stable.
A shiver crawled up her back. She didn’t want to remember the cold, damp room in the stable. Eryn was scared when Henry locked her in there. She’d screamed and screamed. Henry had gotten in trouble, but not enough.
Sneak by Mary Jane so she doesn’t hear you. You can be in and out lickety-split. All of Henry’s clothes, in pieces!
“They’ll know it was me. You should be quiet.”
“Eryn?”
She turned around, shoving the scissors down at her side so Mary Jane couldn’t see. “What?”
The woman was standing in her doorway with a basket of dirty clothes. Twice a week she collected them from everyone’s hamper to do the wash. The way she was looking at Eryn right now made her think Mary Jane could see right into her head. “Who are you talking to?”
Hunching her shoulders, Eryn muttered, “No one.”
“I heard you, so don’t lie to me, missy.”
“Mr. Timmons and Uncle Arlo.”
“You know, your mama had an imaginary friend when she was little.”
“She did?” Eryn’s gaze shot up.
“Yes, ma’am. By the name of Scarlett Mooseberry. She used to insist I set a place for her at the table.”
“Mr. Timmons and Uncle Arlo don’t eat.” They just chattered all the time, arguing mostly. Telling her what to do. Their voices filled her head and made it hurt.
Sometimes they made her scared.
Mary Jane took a step into the room. “Your mama knew her friend was just pretend. You know yours are, too, right?” She had a look on her face Eryn had seen from adults before. The doctor lady said it was normal for kids to have imaginary friends. They could feel very real. But everyone got weird if they heard her talking to them. Eryn tried not to do it. But sometimes she forgot.
“I know.”
The way Mary Jane stared at her made Eryn feel small and afraid. But the woman finally moved away. When she was gone, so was Eryn’s good mood.
Go away, she silently commanded the voices.
Go away go away go away!
It’s all right, Eryn. Just listen to me and everything will be fine.
Nosy old bitch. You should stab her with the scissors. Teach her to mind her own business.
Put the scissors away now.
Use them. Use them like I said. And maybe the next time you see Henry, you should . . .
“Shut up!” Eryn brought both hands up to clap them over her ears. She accidentally grazed her face with the scissors. “Ouch!”
Put them down, Eryn.
See what I mean? Use them use them use . . .
“I said shut up!” She knew whom she should use the scissors on. How she could get rid of the voices for good. Eryn pulled her hand way back and then brought it forward to ram the pointed scissors into her ear.
Eryn: Now
“You were up late.” Rosalyn’s voice lacked its normal cheeriness as she stuffed Jaxson’s limp arms in the sleeve of his coat.
Eryn thought that at seven Jaxson was plenty old enough to dress himself. But his mother zipped him up before fetching his lunch box out of the refrigerator. “I couldn’t sleep.” She’d dragged out a fresh easel and painted until she tired. And then she’d gotten on her laptop and looked up some information for today.
“I know.” Rosalyn smiled before leaving the room, reappearing a few moments later with Jaxson’s boots. “I was reading until after midnight and saw your light. I peeked in on you. Do you feel all right?” At Eryn’s look, her smile dimmed. “I mean . . . Dr. Steigel said if the medication isn’t doing its job, sometimes difficulty sleeping is one of the side effects.”
Rosalyn’s words brought a sliver of concern. One Eryn doused by saying firmly, “Everyone has insomnia sometimes. Even you, apparently.”
“Oh, I was sleepy.” The other woman lifted her sluggish son out of his chair and nudged him toward the kitchen doorway. “The book was so good, I just had to finish it. I’m paying for it now, though.”
“Rosalyn.” Once Eryn had the other woman’s attention her courage shriveled. She forced herself to continue. “Have you ever noticed lights shining on the property? I saw some last night. I couldn’t figure out where they would be coming from.”
“I’ve seen some before, too,” Jaxson piped up.
Rosalyn gave him a light shove. “Go to your room and get your backpack. Quick, like a bunny.” His pace qualified more as a trudge. When he was out of hearing, his mother looked at Eryn with a frown. “Please don’t fill his head with crazy ideas. He already has the wildest imagination. Why, just a couple of weeks ago he was certain he heard noises in the attic after we put him to bed. He wasn’t satisfied until your uncle had gone upstairs and looked all through the place and assured him there was no one hiding up there.”
Eryn could attest that Jaxson had seen lights outside at least once, but there was no way she was going to rat on her young cousin. She nodded. “I’ll try to be more careful around him. But I wasn’t imagining things. I caught glimpses of a light several times last night.”
“Well.” Rosalyn sent a harried look in the direction her son had gone. “We could get you some room-darkening shades, I suppose. Once in a while we do get a car using the drive in front of the gate to back up in. Maybe you saw headlights. Or it could have been the deputies, looking around again. I’ll be glad when they’re gone.” She broke off as Jaxson reappeared. “All right, young man, let’s get you to the car.”
Eryn stared after her aunt as she hurried her son to the large living room. Headlights wouldn’t account for the lights she’d seen over the course of at least an hour. And maybe she was asking the wrong person, in any case. Because when she’d first seen the light last night, Eryn had gone to the coat closet and looked for Uncle Bill’s parka, the same one Jaxson had discovered missing when he’d gone outside hoping to meet up with his dad.
It’d been missing.
When her cell sounded, Eryn read the text and then set the note she’d written on her neatly made bed. Pulling her coat on, she moved quietly toward the front door. Rosalyn hadn’t yet returned from dropping Jaxson at school, and Uncle Bill’s office door was closed. She hadn’t seen Mary Jane this morning, but she knew from experience the woman could appear when one least expected her.
Eryn slipped out the door, ran down the drive, and saw the strange vehicle idling outside the gates. The sheriff’s car sat almost directly across the road. The deputy in the driver’s seat was watching her. It added to the niggling sense of paranoia that had lodged inside her, summoned by Rosalyn’s words. The tachyphylaxis condition required her to remain hypervigilant about monitoring her symptoms on a daily basis. But she’d been on her current cocktail of pills for over a year without a problem. Just because she’d had trouble sleeping for a few hours didn’t necessarily mean her medication was losing its effectiveness.
But tossing and turning waiting for sleep was different from the industrious hours she’d spent last night. The long stretch spent painting, followed by hours researching on the web.
She pressed the button to allow the gates to swing open and walked through them, closing them behind her before slipping into the black sedan.
“Hi. You Eryn?”
“Yes. Thank you for coming.” She immediately felt silly. An Uber driver was paid to take her where she wanted to go. Eryn had discovered that much in her research last night. She’d used the credit card Uncle Bill had set up for her years ago to charge incidentals at Rolling Acres. The ride to town would be the first thing she’d ever charged without supervision. The thought was simultaneously thrilling and depressing.
If the older woman behind the wheel found anything odd about her words, it didn’t show in her expression. “No problem.” She checked her phone. “It’s a beautiful day for a drive. You’re wanting to go to Haywood County Private Driver’s Instruction in Waynesville, correct?”
“Yes.” Eryn repeated the street address to her, and the car slowly pulled onto the road. Nerves jittered in her veins. The plan she’d formulated last night now felt hasty and ill advised. But she had to start taking control of her life at some point.
This was a baby step toward that end.
Eryn stood hesitantly in the doorway of the driving school she’d found online. “C’mon in.” The fortyish man rose from his desk chair and strode to the doorway to shake Eryn’s hand. “I’m Gary Atwood. This is the premier private driving school in the county.” That’s what the online ad had proclaimed. “You look like you’re having second thoughts. If you do, I don’t want you close enough to escape out the door.”
He chuckled and she managed a slight smile. Arranging for private driving lessons would constitute the first independent act she’d taken outside of Rolling Acres. She didn’t want to spend time considering the fact. It would give this moment a weight disproportionate to the act. She wiped her palms on her pants. Tried to quiet the rapid pounding in her pulse.
“Are you here for yourself or someone else?” Atwood dragged a chair over to a small table and gestured her toward it before fetching himself another.
“Me.”
“Okay, that’s all right. Not everyone gets the opportunity to learn in high school. And some people aren’t ready in their teens.” Atwood had no more sat before he bounced out of his seat to grab a brochure on his desk and came back to hand it to Eryn. “The best thing about private instruction is the individualization. We work around your schedule and can design the program to your expectations. You actually chose an excellent time to make arrangements.” He had the swift and smooth patter of a natural-born salesman. “Everyone needs instruction in winter-weather driving. And in another few weeks, winter’s gonna be here, whether we like it or not.”
She nodded silently, anxious to get this part over. “Can I sign up now?”
Surprise flickered across his face, but Atwood quickly recovered. “Absolutely. Let me get a contract.” He jumped up again to cross to a filing cabinet. Pulled open a drawer and withdrew a file folder. “We don’t have to get into a
ll the specifics right this minute. You’ll want to consult your schedule, and then I can try to match it up with one of my drivers.” He came back, taking a paper out of the folder and handing it to her with a pen. “We can start with your name and contact information.” Eryn carefully filled out the lines he was indicating. When she’d finished, he took the sheet from her. “Rather than making you complete all this, we’ll just have a conversation and I can fill it in. First off, what are you hoping . . .” His voice broke off as he stared at the paper. When he looked back at her, his expression had closed.
“Eryn Pullman. Don’t tell me you’re Henry’s wife?”
God, no. “He isn’t married.”
The man nodded, then rose and ripped the contract in half. “Sorry. I misspoke earlier. We aren’t accepting new students, after all.”
“But you just said . . .”
“No new students.” He crossed to the door and held it open. His meaning was unmistakable.
A hot wash of shame flooded her when she realized what was happening. Without another word, Eryn got up and walked stiffly toward the car waiting for her.
“Well, that was fast!” The woman—who’d asked to be called Lucy—took one glance at Eryn and then snapped her jaw closed.
Eryn yanked open the car door and practically dove inside the vehicle, slamming the door behind her. She bent forward, arms wrapped around her waist, wishing with all her heart the ground would swallow her whole. After meeting Madeline Carson yesterday, how had she failed to consider something similar could happen the next time someone recognized her name? Tears pricked her eyes, and she swiped them away furiously. She wanted nothing more than to be back in her room so she could curl up in a ball and lick her wounds. What was so damned special about being able to drive, anyway? Her meds could make her super sleepy. She’d have to be extra cautious each time she got behind the wheel.