The Dead Lands Page 8

  Paralyzed by her fear, Abby didn’t even dare to drop back down below the edge of the windowsill. She was positive it was Reverend Wheeler out there, and he would see even that slight bit of motion and know where they were hiding.

  So she waited and watched, willing with all her energy that Reverend Wheeler would be drawn off track by the Reaper just as the Hell Hounds had.

  Abby worried that he would stand there until dawn, but then finally, miraculously, Abby heard the faint cry of one of the Hell Hounds far off in the distance. Reverend Wheeler cocked his head to the side and took one last look around. Then, with a swirl of his cloak, he started away from the lighthouse, his dark figure blending into the shadows of the night.

  “There,” Abby said as genuine relief flooded her. “They’re gone.”

  She got up and walked over to Megan, who was still leaning against the wall and sobbing. When Abby touched her on the shoulder, the girl looked up at her, her eyes glowing like burning coals in the darkness. Abby was vaguely aware of the sound of piano music that was still playing softly.

  “Now do you believe me?” Abby asked.

  Megan nodded, her expression vacant.

  “We should never leave the cemetery after dark unless we absolutely have to!”

  Megan said nothing. Her shoulders were shaking as she cried. The lighthouse staircase echoed with the sounds of her weeping. Abby wondered: If anyone who was alive happened to be nearby, would they hear her and think the lighthouse was haunted?

  “It’s all right. We’re all right now,” she said, fighting back a surge of anger that was directed at Megan. If it hadn’t been for her, wanting to check out the flickering lights on the cliff, none of this would have happened. It was a miracle they got away, and they were still not safely back at the cemetery.

  What if Reverend Wheeler left one of his Hell Hounds there to watch and wait for them?

  “It’s not that,” Megan said, her voice hitching with every word as if she had a breath to catch.

  Abby had no idea what to say to her. She felt compelled to help her, if she could, but right now her goal was to figure out what had happened to Megan so her spirit would be released. More and more, though, she had the distinct impression that Megan wasn’t being truthful with her. She was holding back something, and Abby was determined to find out what that was.

  “What is it, then?” Abby said, trying to sound patient and understanding as she sat down beside Megan and took her hand in hers.

  Megan didn’t speak for a long time, but Abby told herself to calm down. They would have to stay here until morning, anyway, so there was no hurry.

  “I can’t believe that they would do something like that,” Megan said at last.

  “Do what? Who did what?”

  “My … my family, and my friends … and the people from my school. I can’t believe—” Her voice broke off, and once again the darkness inside the lighthouse filled with a long, slow moaning cry and the faint sound of piano music. As the echoes faded, Megan looked at Abby and said, “I can’t believe they all miss me so much …”

  “I know. I know,” Abby said. Even though she had been dead for such a long time, now, she wasn’t sure she was still in touch with such powerful emotions. But emotions were what kept you here in the Dead Lands.

  “And I—”

  Megan was still sobbing quietly, and Abby waited patiently until she could speak again.

  “I miss them … I really, really miss them.”

  “I know,” was all Abby could say.

  Abby

  You’re not the first person who could hear and see me. There have been others. Not many, but even if people can’t see or hear me, somehow they know I’m around. That’s not usually what happens. Most people have no idea I’m here. Even people who come out to the cemetery, the worker who cuts the grass and plants flowers or folks who wander around looking at the old gravestones, mine included, can’t see me.

  They almost never do.

  It’s tough, trying to communicate with any of them when I want to or need to. I guess not many of them are spiritually attuned to a ghost’s existence.

  Through the years, though, I’ve seen many spirits pass on, and I can’t help but wonder why I haven’t left this place as well.

  Not that I’m envious.

  Sometimes, when souls leave with the Reapers, I know they don’t go to Heaven.

  Sometimes, I’m sure, they go to Hell.

  Something’s keeping me here. I have no idea what.

  It might be because of my need to help others. So many lost souls that I meet need help realizing what happened to them. They need help with the transition from life to death. Many of them—most of them, in fact, are confused at first. Some of them are genuinely terrified when they realize they’re dead while others just get angry. Others are happy to be free of the burdens of life. But for one reason or another, most of them don’t fully accept that they’re dead, and they freak out, claiming it isn’t fair—that they weren’t ready to die.

  As if anyone ever is.

  They insist it wasn’t their time. Then there are those who simply don’t believe they’re dead and keep acting like they’re still alive. They’re the real ghosts, like the woman in the lighthouse keeper’s house. They remain like that until they can no longer deny they’re dead.

  Eventually, they disappear. Well, most of them, anyway.

  Some pass on into the Light. Others get swallowed up by shadows darker than a moonless night. Darker than the grave.

  Usually, it’s the lost or confused spirits who don’t pass on that I try to help. People I feel sorry for. They stay behind like me, clinging to whatever’s left of their life because of something they did or something that happened to them.

  Often, it’s because of the way they died, like if someone was killed by another person. Other times, it’s because they’ve left something important unfinished, and they need to finish that task or reach that goal, whatever it is, before they can find peace.

  Several spirits I know have lingered for many years, even all through the times I’ve been “sleeping” in my grave. They don’t want to or they don’t dare to let go, so they just stay where they are.

  There are plenty of spirits who won’t leave the house they lived in when they were alive or the place where they died. I’ve seen lots of them near these roadside shrines where they may have died in a car accident or whatever. These are the real ghosts, the kinds of things Mr. Poe and Mr. Hawthorne wrote about in their stories. There are some living people, priests and others, who do stuff to get these spirits out of these houses. It’s sad for the spirits because they can’t let go of what they used to know. They don’t know where else to go.

  Before my mother died, she told me that my Aunt Lily had something valuable that belonged to me, but she never told me what it was. Maybe that’s what keeps me here. All this time I’ve been dead, I’ve been trying to figure out what it is so I can solve the problem. There’s the locket, of course, but I know where that is, and I still haven’t moved on.

  Maybe I never will.

  Maybe I just have to accept that I’m stuck here forever …

  Chapter 6

  Trick of the Eye

  —1—

  When morning came, it was raining. The sky churned with scudding gray clouds, and a strong, steady wind was blowing in off the ocean. Abby looked out toward Cushing’s Island, which was almost lost to sight in the downpour. Still, she could see the blackened hull of the Faire Child, tossing back and forth in the waves. Its broken spars raked the sky as though trying to shred the clouds.

  Suddenly aware of a presence behind her, she turned and saw Megan standing a few paces away. Her hands were outstretched, and the most peculiar expression wrinkled her face.

  “It’s raining,” she said, her voice tinged with wonder.

  “Quite hard,” Abby replied.

  She waited and watched as Megan turned her hands over so her palms were up to the sky. The raindrops
seemed to disappear when they hit her hand and then reappear a split second later on the other side before falling to the ground.

  “How come I can’t feel it … the rain on my hands?”

  The answer was so obvious Abby didn’t bother to say it. She watched Megan a moment or so longer and then turned to look back out to sea. Towering breakers roared onto the beach, casting foam and seaweed high up onto the white sand—the “Singing Sands.” Halfway between the shore and Cushing’s Island, flocks of seagulls and eider ducks rode out the storm. White and black flashes bobbed up and down in the churning waves.

  “I miss it,” Megan finally said, her voice so soft it was carried away by the wind, leaving the impression that she hadn’t spoken at all.

  “Miss what?” Abby asked.

  Megan still had her hands extended and was staring at them with the most perplexed look.

  “I miss the rain on my face,” Abby said for her. ”And the wind in my hair … even the chill of a winter’s night. I miss them all. After a while, though, these things become distant memories, but. Oh, sometimes the memories are so painfully sweet.”

  She wondered why she was feeling so wistful today and thought it must have something to do with last night’s memorial service for Megan. Abby recalled her own burial, and was saddened by the memory of how there had been so few people there—just her Aunt Lily, a little girl about half Abby’s age who Abby didn’t recognize but assumed was her cousin Milly, and the minister, a dark, imposing man, but not as dour and scary as Reverend Wheeler.

  Or maybe it was tension and outright fear after the fright she’d gotten last night still echoed through her. She started to tremble whenever she recalled how close they had come to being run down by the Hell Hounds and taken by Reverend Wheeler. If it hadn’t been for that Reaper, they wouldn’t have been here now.

  Still, was that such a good thing?

  Even a miserable, stormy day like today meant nothing when they couldn’t feel the rain on their faces or the wind in their hair.

  “They’ll probably be having my—” Megan’s voice caught, but she forced herself to continue, “My funeral soon.”

  “Maybe it’s today,” Abby said, feeling more sadness well up inside her. “The weather’s perfect for a funeral.”

  Megan considered for a moment, then shook her head and said, “I don’t think so. I mean, time is kinda strange here, isn’t it? It’s only been—how long since I died?”

  Abby was pleased that the girl could talk about her own death without any hesitation or apparent discomfort. It was a sign that she was adjusting well and that she might be moving on soon. Perhaps after the funeral, she would find the peace she was looking for, and a Reaper would come to take her away. Abby hoped it would be into the Light, but over the years she had learned never to try and guess until it actually happened.

  “Two days,” Abby said. “I met you on the beach two days ago.”

  “Two days. Don’t they usually wait until the third day for the funeral?” Megan frowned, trying to remember. “I think when my Uncle Harry died, they had his funeral three days later.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Abby was distracted. Again, her gaze had shifted out to sea and the hull of the shipwreck. The discolored remnants of the sails flapped like huge wings against the sky, beating back the storm.

  “I have to leave for a while,” she finally said, and she started moving across the cemetery lawn toward the gate.

  “How ‘bout I come with you.” Megan limped slightly as she walked because she still had only one sneaker and one bare foot.

  “No!” Abby said, surprised by the sudden vehemence in her voice.

  She didn’t even know exactly where she intended to go, but she was determined to go alone. On some level, she realized something had changed drastically. Something had happened that was directly affecting her. Even though she had no idea where to start, she was compelled to find out.

  “Absolutely not,” Abby said. “You’ll be safer here today. Remember last night?”

  Megan’s eyes widened, but then they softened as an unheard sob shook her shoulders. She lowered her head and seemed to diminish in size.

  “Just stay here. And don’t go anywhere without me,” Abby said. “I won’t be long.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Abby hesitated at the gate, her hand poised in the air, caught in midgesture.

  “I’ll tell you when I get back.”

  — 2 —

  Wearing a sports coat a size or two too small for him, Mike was sitting on the edge of his bed. Outside, rain pelted his bedroom windows, running in thick, silver lines down the panes. He was staring out the window, lost in thought, his left hand clenched around his sister’s sneaker so tightly his knuckles turned white. The lack of blood flow made his fingers tingle, but that feeling was nothing compared to the frozen emptiness inside him. He felt like he was going to throw up.

  He simply could not believe Megan was gone … dead … and, because his parents had decided on a closed casket service, he would never see her again.

  Ever.

  The dress shirt he was wearing was also a bit small for him. When the top button was buttoned, it choked him. When she saw him getting dressed, his mother had joked about how fast he was growing. The necktie, which he was proud to have tied himself, only strangled him all the more. He was getting dizzy. Pinpricks of white light spun across his vision. He couldn’t stop staring at the sneaker in his hand as his eyes filled with tears, blurring his vision.

  “You ‘bout ready there, champ?” his father called out from the hallway.

  Startled, Mike leaped off the bed, bent down, and tossed Megan’s left sneaker under his bed. It clunked when it hit the wall. Just as he was straightening up and turning around, his father opened the door and burst into the room. He was wearing a black suit with a white shirt and dark blue tie. His face looked thinner than normal, and dark circles lined his eyes. His mouth was drawn up at the corners.

  “What’s taking you so long?” A suspicious look filled his father’s eyes as he cast a glance around the room.

  “Nothing.” Mike wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket. His lower lip started trembling. “Just, you know, thinking.”

  His father didn’t appear to relax, and Mike waited for him to start yelling about something.

  “You tied your tie yourself?” he asked.

  Biting down on his lower lip, Mike nodded.

  “Well, you didn’t quite get it.” His father signaled him to come to him with a quick snap of his fingers. “Here, lemme show you.”

  Mike was trembling inside as he approached his father. He had always been unpredictable, but since Megan died, his father seemed a lot more on edge. The most innocent thing could set him off.

  His father’s knee popped when he knelt down and slipped off the knot Mike had tied. He was breathing heavily, and his face had a pinched, impatient expression as he drew the tie out and silently tied it, flipping the ends of the tie so quickly they snapped across Mike’s face. When he was done, he slid the knot up tightly, his knuckles pressing hard against Mike’s Adam’s apple.

  “There, better,” he said, his knee popping again when he stood up.

  Staring down at the floor, Mike reached up and loosened the tie a notch. He was waiting for his father to say something, anything, just a small word of comfort, but instead he turned and walked away.

  “We’re leaving to Megan’s viewing in five minutes,” he said over his shoulder. “As soon as your mother’s ready.”

  Mike nodded and would have replied, but the lump in his throat—maybe it was the tie—made it impossible for him to speak. He shivered as another wave of chills went through him. He had never been to a funeral or even visiting hours at a funeral home before—not even when Grammy Evans died. He wasn’t sure he could handle this, but even if his father was acting distant to him, he told himself he had to be there for his mother … and for Megan, wherever she was.


  — 3 —

  Detective Gray tugged his coat collar tightly up around his neck as he swung the cruiser door shut and dashed from the curb up the short walkway to the front porch of the apartment building. On one side of the door, there were four small doorbell buttons. Names were scrawled in different styles of penmanship on small pieces of index card taped or thumbtacked next to each buzzer.

  Gray found the one he was looking for—

  Andrew Collins—Apt. 3.

  —and pressed the button.

  He couldn’t hear the bell or buzzer sound inside the building and wondered if it even worked. Stepping back, he looked up at the second floor. Both sides of the building had large bay windows. He wondered if Apartment 3 was on the right or left. In any event, as far as he could see there were no lights on in either upstairs apartment. Perhaps Mr. Collins had seen the cruiser pull up and had ducked out of sight, pretending he wasn’t home.

  Gray stepped forward and pressed the button again, holding it down for a count of ten before letting it go. Then he waited.

  Still nothing.

  The only sound was that of rain, splattering from the downspout on the corner of the building and splashing down the driveway to the street, sweeping sand and leaves along with it. Gray was irritated. He was cold and miserable, and the last thing he wanted to do was stand out here in this raw weather. Clenching his fist, he rapped on the door hard enough to get the attention of anyone on the first floor.

  He stopped knocking and waited for a count of five and then started knocking again, hard enough to rattle the glass in the door window frame. At last, a light came on in the hallway, and a balding, overweight, middle-aged man wearing a stained strap t-shirt and plain boxer shorts sauntered barefoot down the hallway toward the door.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m coming. Keep your damned shirt on.”