The Dead Lands Page 11

  Stop it! he commanded himself, feeling foolish for allowing such childish imaginings to get the better of him. He was too old to be afraid of darkness and shadows. Even on a gloomy night like this, there was nothing to be afraid of.

  He took a breath and held it for a few seconds, then let it out slowly.

  Even that didn’t help. His pulse was still beating hard in his wrists and neck, and the shadows behind him—where he couldn’t see them—moved closer until he could almost feel them rubbing against his skin.

  “Stop it … Stop it … Stop it,” he whispered, but even the sound of his own voice now set his nerves further on edge.

  The feeling that there was something or someone standing behind him grew until it was almost unbearable. He let out a nervous, little moan, but it was enough to draw the attention of his mother, who was in her bedroom across the hall.

  “Hon?” she called out. “You all right?”

  Jim reached out and swept the locket off his desk just as his mother opened the door and snapped on the overhead light. The sudden flood of bright light hit Jim’s eyes like a dash of cold water. He winced and covered his eyes with the hand that wasn’t holding the locket.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said, his voice clipped and edgy.

  “What are you doing, sitting here in the dark?”

  His mother started to come into the room but then apparently thought better of it and remained standing in the doorway. She looked at him with a trace of sadness and sympathy in her eyes. No matter how true it was or wasn’t, she was convinced Jim was still mourning the loss of his father, even though he had died six years ago. She was always going on to him and to her friends about how tough it must be for him to grow up without a male role model.

  Jim was sure she never really believed him when he insisted that he was doing just fine. It wasn’t that he didn’t miss his dad, but something else was bothering him right now, and he knew he couldn’t talk to her about it.

  It’s just your imagination, he insisted. Lately, it seemed to get out of control all too easily.

  “I just turned off my computer,” he said. “I was thinking of heading to bed.”

  “Kind of early, ain’t it?”

  Jim shrugged and said, “There’s nothing to do.”

  “How ‘bout a movie. I just got that new Brad Pitt movie from Netflicks if you want to watch it with me.”

  Jim shook his head and said, “Not really. I’m kinda tired.”

  He was lying to his mother, and he thought she knew he was. She stood in the doorway a moment longer, the light from the hallway haloing her head with a mellow, lemon glow. He could almost imagine she was an angel, sent to watch over him, and the tension inside him released its grip … a least a little.

  “You’re not sick, are you?” his mother asked, sounding worried now.

  Jim shook his head and said, “No. I’m just beat after football practice today. Coach Carter worked us pretty hard.”

  “Well then … sleep well.”

  She left, easing the door shut behind her. When the door latch clicked, Jim couldn’t help but jump. His shoulders ached from the muscle tension. He got up from his desk, walked over to the wall switch, and snapped the light off, plunging the room back into darkness.

  When he turned around, he saw the ghost standing by the window.

  Abby

  I always knew Reverend Wheeler was a mean, nasty person. I shouldn’t speak so freely about him, but it’s obvious that he’s a servant of Satan. He claims to be a man of God still, but I believe no man of God would say and do to me, or anyone, what he has said and done to me.

  One of the worst things, I think, is that he accused me of stealing from my own mother.

  You see, my mother owned that locket. She treasured it. I don’t know where she got it. I suppose my father might have given it to her back when they first fell in love. It’s hard for me to imagine the two of them ever being in love. I only remember the bad times … once my father started drinking. But I suppose they were in love at one time, and that may be where my mother got her locket.

  I wish she was here so I could ask her.

  It’s a beautiful locket, though, don’t you think? I’m lucky I even have it. A few days before the house fire, the day we got word from the Wheelers that I could live with them for the summer, she gave it to me to keep.

  Later, my uncle accused me of stealing it from her.

  That’s not the only thing he’s accused me of, either. He’s never come right out and said it, but I’m positive he also thought—still thinks—I had something to do with how my mother and Jon Hilton died. When I told him I was in town when the fire started, he looked at me with this dark scowl like he was trying to see into my heart … right into my soul.

  Of course I didn’t start the fire. I loved my mother more than I can say, and I certainly never would have done anything to hurt her or Jon.

  When we were on the ship Faire Child, heading to Maine, my uncle took the liberty—he said it was his right because he was now my legal guardian—of inspecting my luggage. That’s when he found the locket. It’s made of gold, you know, so I think it’s worth a lot—certainly more now than when my mother got it, but I value it so much because it meant so much to her.

  The Faire Childe was running with the wind as a storm—a hurricane, as we learned soon enough—swept up the East Coast from Florida. The ship’s captain was a brave man, I’ll give him that. I forget his name after all these years, but I’ll never forget him. He stood at least six feet tall and looked to be about as wide at the shoulders as he was tall. He had thick white hair, a full, white beard, and sparkling blue eyes that looked like they could see clear over the horizon.

  But no matter how brave he was, he was no match for a hurricane on the open ocean. The ship wrecked on the rocks at the southern tip of Cushing’s Island. Everyone on board died. When you come out to the cemetery—you will come, I hope—I’ll show you where, but you probably won’t be able to see it.

  That’s the thing about the Dead Lands. I think we create our own reality here after we die here based on what we did and didn’t do when we were alive. Every time I look out to sea, I see the shipwreck on the rocks.

  But as I was saying, my uncle confronted me with my supposed theft just as the storm hit. He accused me of stealing the locket and then lying to him about it. He said I was guilty of other unnamed … unnamable sins, too. And he told me if the ship wrecked, if I died before I confessed all of my sins, I would face my Lord in final judgment with my sins still staining my soul. If that happened, the Reverend said, then God, who according to him is a just and angry God, would cast me into the fiery pit of Hell to suffer for all eternity.

  I didn’t believe him then, and I don’t believe him now. From everything I’ve seen, God, at least the way I conceive of Him, is a kind and loving Father and creator.

  Still … I wonder why I’ve been trapped here between life and death so long.

  It‘s got to have something to do with the locket and the strand of hair tied to it. My mother said she cut it from my head when I was a baby. And the key … That’s what has to be what’s keeping me here.

  They certainly drew me to you, didn’t they?

  So maybe you’ll help me find out.

  Chapter 8

  Drifting with the Tide

  —1—

  “Are you for real?”

  Jim heard himself ask that question as if he were listening to someone else talking in the next room.

  His eyes were wide open, and he pinched the back of his left hand just to make sure he wasn’t asleep and dreaming. The streetlight outside his window cast a distorted rectangle of light across the floor, and the gauzy figure of a young girl wavered in and out of sight, melting into the darkness and then reappearing.

  For a long, terrible moment, the figure was perfectly silent, staring at him in amazement. She looked at him as though she couldn’t quite comprehend where she was or what was going on. Jim n
oticed that she was wearing a lacy, white dress that looked old, like something from a history book. The hem practically brushed the floor. When she finally moved, he heard a faint swishing that reminded him of the sound gentle waves made when they break on the shore.

  The girl’s perplexed expression shifted, her face changing shape like a movie projection on an uneven surface. Her lips moved, but Jim couldn’t hear anything except the distant drone of cars passing by on the street. He took a single step forward and, holding out his hands, repeated his question.

  “Are you real?” He controlled his voice a bit more now.

  A chill wound through him when the girl’s focus changed, and she made direct eye contact with him. Then, ever so slowly, she nodded. The glow in her eyes got brighter, and even her figure took on substance.

  Am I crazy …? Am I losing my mind …? he wondered as a thrill of fear and intrigue rippled through him.

  “My name’s Jim.”

  He consciously kept his voice down because he was afraid he’d burst the illusion, if that’s what this was. Besides, he didn’t want to disturb his mother. If she burst into the room now, she would certainly break the magic of whatever was happening. Even if it wasn’t real … even if he was dreaming, Jim wanted to hold on to this moment for as long as he could. Whatever was happening, this moment was magical.

  “Who are you?” he whispered, feeling more confident as he took another step closer. The figure shimmered and wavered, and he was afraid that even approaching it would send it away, so he froze in his tracks, his eyes wide and staring.

  Again, the girl’s mouth moved, and this time he heard something … a whisper as faint as the flutter of a moth’s wings in the night.

  “I … I can’t hear you,” he said, swallowing hard and trying not even to blink. “Could you say that again?”

  This time, as clearly as if she were standing right beside him, unseen and leaning close to his ear, he heard the single word, “Abby.”

  “Abby?” he repeated, as a tightness gripped his throat. He didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh out loud … scream … faint dead away … or maybe wake up. “Abby who? What’s your last name?”

  “Cummings. My last name is … Cummings …”

  “Abby Cummings … So where—? Are you from around here?”

  The girl’s expression tightened as she turned slowly and cast a glance over her shoulder toward the window. Outside, swirls of mist half-obscured the streetlight. In the distance, a bird was singing. Jim thought it sounded like a mockingbird, but he was pretty sure mockingbirds were daytime birds. Why would a mockingbird be singing at night?

  “No,” she finally said, her voice still so faint Jim wasn’t convinced he heard her correctly. “I can’t believe it! Can you really hear me?”

  “I can see you, too,” Jim said, fighting back waves of excitement. Whatever was going on here, he couldn’t believe it was happening. Even if it was a dream, he didn’t want it to end, not yet.

  The girl raised her right hand and, holding it out in front of her, turned it over so it was palm up. She flexed her fingers, looking amazed that she could control them.

  “I’m … real,” she said.

  Jim saw her mouth move, and he heard the words, but they seemed somehow disconnected … like one of those badly dubbed kung fu movies his friend Mark liked so much. His throat felt desert-dry as he nodded, not sure she could see the motion, but too frightened and excited to speak.

  “Who are you?” she asked, her voice stronger.

  Jim didn’t dare move.

  “My name’s—” His throat closed off, but he cleared it and finished, “Jim … Jim Burke.”

  The girl smiled wistfully, her eyes glowing as she reached out to him with both hands. Jim resisted the urge to reach out and touch her. When she spoke again, her voice was clearer, and she—or her image—got more defined.

  “You look like someone I used to know a long time ago.” She said this as a look of infinitely deep sadness swept over her.

  Jim felt a rush of embarrassment and looked away. He was suddenly panicked, thinking she might disappear, but when he looked at her again, she was still there … clearer, if anything.

  “Are you really a … ghost?”

  He hated the weakness in his voice. All the while, a small, rational corner of his brain was screaming at him, insisting that he must be hallucinating this … or else he was dreaming …

  But if this is a dream, he thought with a thrill, it’s amazing in its detail.

  Everything in his room was exactly as it should be—his bed, bureau, desk and computer, the pile of dirty laundry in the basket in the corner—everything except for the translucent ghost by the window, looking at him and actually speaking.

  “I think so,” Abby said.

  “So how did you get here?”

  The smile on the girl’s face widened, but her expression still looked sad. She started and cast another quick glance over her shoulder as though she had heard something he hadn’t. Like a luminous, dissipating cloud, she began to disappear.

  “No! Don’t go,” he cried out, reaching out to her and watching as his hand passed clear through her with no sensation other than a quickening chill.

  She turned back to him, looking relieved … if that was the word.

  “There are times when I’m really dead,” she said, her voice floating like a mist in the darkness, “but they don’t last very long.”

  — 2 —

  Mike was sitting on the edge of the bed in his bedroom, just staring at the floor, when he heard the heavy tread on the stairs. He knew it was his father, and he cowered, silently praying that he would walk past his door and go to his own bedroom or the bathroom. But when the footsteps hesitated outside, tension bunched in his neck like a coil of tangled knots in a rope.

  He waited for his father to knock and ask if he could enter, but then, without any warning, the door flung open, and his father stood there. Mike shrank back as he stared up at him in silence. His face was in shadow, and for an instant, Mike imagined an evil red glow in his father’s eyes.

  “You coming downstairs to breakfast,” his father asked, “or are you gonna sit up here all day?”

  When Mike nodded, he heard something crack in his neck.

  “You’re not doing anybody any good, moping around up here, you know?”

  Mike wanted to ask his father what exactly he thought he should be doing. Since his sister died, he hadn’t felt safe enough to tell either of his parents what he was really thinking and feeling, and they certainly hadn’t asked him, but he had seen something out there on the cliffs … something he didn’t dare tell anyone about. Besides, they were so involved in their own grief they seemed not to care about him anymore. His mother was so distraught by Megan’s death she spent all of her waking hours crying. Even when the tears subsided, she would sit by herself, staring blankly into the distance.

  His father, on the other hand, seemed more angry than sad about what had happened, and he seemed to put all the blame for Megan’s death on Mike.

  As if he could have done anything to stop it!

  Sure, he had gone out to the cliffs with Megan against their mother’s word; but once they got there, they had gone their separate ways. He liked to poke around in the abandoned battlements of Fort Williams, which had been built during World War II, while Megan always went for a walk along the cliffs. She used to tell him—and he half-believed her, at least when he was a stupid little kid—that she saw mermaids on the rocks below, combing their hair with seashells and singing. Even if the mermaids weren’t real, and he doubted they were, he knew his sister liked to walk along the cliff edge and look out over the ocean.

  He never even suspected something had gone wrong until he found one of her sneakers—the same one he now had hidden under his bed. He had recognized it as his sister’s immediately because of the long, multicolored laces with red and yellow plastic beads tied on the ends. And looking around, he had also seen her footprints o
n a muddy part of the trail leading out to the cliffs. Her left foot still had a sneaker while the right foot was bare.

  And it sure looked like she had been running. Studying the tracks more closely, Mike had also found another set of footprints. They were larger than Megan’s and obviously made by a man-sized shoe or boot.

  As afraid as he had been that something had happened to Megan, he had also been afraid that, if there was a dangerous person out here, then he might be in danger, too. He picked up the sneaker and was about to head home when he heard someone coming up the path. Fast. Running. He knew it wasn’t Megan. The thud of footsteps was too loud. Then Mike heard the person—a man—muttering curses under his breath.

  An instant before the man came into view, Mike ducked behind some yew bushes. It hadn’t been raining that day, only a bit foggy in the morning, but the man was wearing a yellow raincoat with the hood up. He was leaning forward, staring at the ground as though studying it. That was probably why he didn’t see Mike duck out of sight.

  As he came closer to where Mike was hiding, the man kept scanning the ground, moving his head back and forth as though he had lost something and was looking for it. Mike froze and held his breath, staying where he was and praying the man would pass by. After a short pause, he continued along the path that threaded the side of the cliff, so Mike never saw the man’s face. Not clearly. But the raincoat seemed familiar. It looked a lot like the one his father had bought at L. L. Bean’s last summer before the family went on their annual camping trip.

  Once the man was gone, and Mike was sure it was safe, he took off for home as fast as he could, clutching Megan’s sneaker to his side under his jacket.

  These memories were racing through Mike’s head as he stared blankly at his father, who looked like a statue in the doorway, unmoving … unyielding. The silence between them lengthened until Mike thought he was going to scream.

  “The funeral’s at eleven o’clock,” his father said, glancing at his wristwatch. “So what say you come downstairs and eat breakfast with us? Your mother could use a little sympathy and understanding, you know?”