Rising Darkness, Page 2

  She was imagining that, wasn’t she?

  Other than the murmurous trees and the distant report of a car door slamming, the day was silent, while the wind tumbled sticks and leaves around like a child playing at jacks. A shadow covered the dancing debris, smearing it with darkness.

  How could a tree cast that kind of shadow when the sun was not yet high in the sky? She glanced upward. Or perhaps it was a shadow thrown by a cloud.

  Malice brushed the edge of her mind, and the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck rose. Or perhaps the darkness was something else, with an unfriendly agenda.

  She shook her head at her own overactive imagination, turned back around and resumed walking again.

  You saw! She looked at us. Does that mean she heard us?

  Normal people don’t hear us. We must tell!

  She jerked to a halt and broke out in a fresh sweat.

  I didn’t just make that up.

  I’m hearing voices.

  I’m. Hearing. Voices.

  An internal quake rattled her bones. She turned backward in a circle, staring around her with dry eyes. There was no one else close by. Down the street a couple of children exploded out of the front door of a house, their school bags slung over thin shoulders.

  A few yards away twigs and pine needles tumbled in a dark pagan dance.

  Everything else had stopped. There was no wind, no lick of breeze against her skin. Even the trees overhead had gone silent, waiting.

  There was nothing around that would cause that wrong, impossible turbulence of air.

  Her teeth clenched. She stamped her foot at the dancing sticks and leaves, and hissed, “Stop it!”

  The small voices burst into chatter.

  Yes, she heard us. She did.

  We must go!

  As abruptly as they had started, the voices stopped. The leaves and twigs dropped to the ground.

  Nothing else disturbed the stillness, just a few cars pulling out of driveways as people headed to work under the watchfulness of the looming forest, as some of the trees only tolerated the humans who had moved into their territory—

  Where had that thought come from? Why would she think such a thing?

  Panic clawed her. She was used to dreaming strange dreams. She’d done it her entire life. Hearing voices though, and seeing what she saw—seeing what she thought she just saw—that was psychosis.

  She clamped down on the panic. No. She was just too tired and not fully awake yet. She was still half-caught in a dream state where Dalí’s clock melted and Escher’s stairways led on an endless loop to nowhere.

  Coffee would shake off this crazy fugue. She turned around and headed back in the direction of her house, working to a lope as she rounded the corner.

  Her ex-husband, Justin, stood on her deck at the bottom of the concrete stairs. His dark hair shone with glints of copper in the early morning sun, his narrow, clever face bisected by dark Ray-Ban sunglasses. He was dressed for the office in a functional yet elegant suit, the jacket unbuttoned in the unseasonal warmth of the spring morning.

  When she caught sight of him, she groaned under her breath and slowed to a stop. Justin caught sight of her before she could pivot and jog away.

  Oh, great. Just what she needed, on top of everything else.

  Well, the sooner she talked to him, the sooner he would go away again. Resigned, she walked forward to meet him.

  Chapter Two

  MICHAEL HAD BEEN in a rage for as long as he could remember, long before he understood the reasons for it.

  As a small boy, over thirty years ago, he had been prone to screaming fits and spells of inconsolable sobbing that had lasted hours. Once it had lasted days. In his memory of that time, his parents were vague, ineffectual shadows, pantomiming concern and alarm. That one time had involved doctors, along with a hypodermic needle.

  He hadn’t liked shots. Five adults had been needed to hold him pinned down. After that he had gone through a period of medication and therapy. The medicine taught him a valuable lesson. It made him feel odd and fuzzy. He realized he would have to curb his behavior if he wanted to be free of it, so he learned how to be cunning.

  He colored a lot of pictures and studied the therapist as much as she studied him. As soon as he figured her out, he told her everything she wanted to hear. Eventually the sessions stopped, and so did the medication.

  Still, he remained a stormy, headstrong, brilliant child. Despite all of their early literacy efforts, his parents could not interest him in reading until he saw an evening news segment on the First Persian Gulf War. Rapt, he watched unblinking until the news program was over, and then he demanded that his father read every article in the newspaper on the subject. Within a few years, his reading comprehension approached the college level.

  School was pastel. It didn’t make much of an impression on him. The other children were pastel too. He didn’t have friends. He had followers. By observation and raw gut instinct he knew what the teachers thought of him, that they were both intrigued by him and also worried about his future.

  He didn’t care. They were pastel. Nothing external was ever quite as real as what shouted inside of him.

  He was well on his way to developing into an adult sociopath. His dreams of release from pastel rules were as yet unformed but increasingly dangerous. He had already been in several fights with other children, and he had discovered that he liked violence.

  And he was good at it.

  One day when he was eight, an old woman appeared at the fence of his schoolyard playground.

  Michael was as aware of her presence as he was aware of everything else around him, but he ignored her while he organized his group of followers for a strenuous bout of playground mischief.

  Then the most extraordinary thing happened.

  Boy, the old woman said.

  That was all. But she said it INSIDE HIS HEAD.

  He turned to stare at her.

  The old bat looked exceedingly pastel. She looked like just a nondescript woman with a cheerful apple-dumpling face who had paused to watch children run and play during a school break.

  His eyes narrowing, he walked toward her, school, stranger-danger, followers and mischief, all else forgotten. Several of the other kids called his name, and some kind of missile thumped him on the shoulder. He ignored everything else and stopped about fifteen yards away from the six-foot chain-link fence. All the while, the old woman watched him with bright, black raisin eyes.

  “How did you do that?” he asked.

  Shrieking children ran between them, playing a game of tag, but she still heard him in spite of the noise. Her face crinkled into a friendly smile. It’s a secret, she said. I know a lot of secrets.

  His breath left him. He stared at her in wonder. She might be old and wrinkled, but she was definitely not pastel. He took another quick, impetuous step toward her. “Teach me!”

  Her smile wrinkles deepened although she never stopped watching him. Those bright eyes of hers were alight with amusement and something sharper. I might, she said, her mental voice casual. Or I might not. It all depends.

  Never before in his short, pampered life had he been stared at as if he had been weighed and found wanting, but that was how the old woman stared at him now. He scowled, not liking the sensation. “It depends on what?”

  On whether or not you know any manners, young man, she told him. And whether or not you’re still salvageable.

  He had never seen eyes as old as hers. He was too young and ignorant to understand how deadly they were. All he knew was that this strange conversation was more real than anything else that he could remember.

  He ran to the fence, clutched metal links in both hands and looked up at her. “I’m sorry,” he said. The unaccustomed words stuck in his throat, but he forced them out an
yway. “I’m sorry I was rude. Please, would you teach me how you did that?”

  Her face softened and she touched his clenched fists with gnarled fingers as she spoke aloud for the first time. “Well said. And I might teach you, but it still depends on one more thing.”

  He shook his head in confusion. It was so odd. From a distance she had seemed so small, barely taller than he was. Now that he was right up next to her she seemed to tower over him.

  “Anything,” he promised. He had been so young.

  She bent forward and locked gazes with him. He realized that he had been wrong about her eyes too. They weren’t like friendly little raisins. They were hot and full of burning power like black suns.

  “You must keep it a secret,” she whispered. “Or I will have to kill you.”

  Terror thrilled him. Never, in reality or his wildest imagination, had an adult spoken to him like that. And she might even mean it.

  (Whereas the man he had grown into knew very well that she had.)

  He pushed against the fence. “I promise. I won’t tell anyone.”

  “Ever,” said the old woman.

  He nodded. “Ever.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Cross your heart and hope to die.”

  Those words. She meant them. Wow, this was so cool. He held her gaze and grinned. He crossed his heart and hoped to die.

  The old woman smiled her approval. “Atta boy.”

  She told him to be quiet and wait, and he did, though it was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

  He was rewarded for his patience two weeks later. Walking home from school, he saw a U-Haul van parked in front of a small house located a couple of doors down from where he lived.

  Curious, he wandered over to watch half a dozen men unloading furniture, appliances and boxes. There were no toys, no bikes, nothing weird or spooky, just ordinary furniture. Pastel. He had started to turn away when he heard a thin, elderly female voice from within the house call out to the men.

  A sharp, delicious shiver, like the flat of a cold blade, ran over his skin.

  He hadn’t heard that voice for very long, but he would recognize it anywhere.

  He knocked on her door. She gave him a cookie. To the hired movers they looked like a pleasant, ordinary old woman making friends with a well-mannered, curious neighborhood boy.

  A week later the old woman met his parents. Soon after that he was taking piano lessons from her on Tuesdays and Thursdays. His family didn’t own a piano, so he also went over to her house on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays so he could practice on hers.

  His parents were amazed and delighted at the strength of his artistic dedication. It seemed to be just the key they needed to settle him down. When his mentor invited him for summer vacations, they agreed with a poorly concealed relief.

  In the meantime, Michael grew from a troubled little boy with messy, uncontrollable emotions into something quiet, controlled and infinitely more deadly.

  He learned who he was.

  More importantly, he learned why he was the way he was.

  “You lost the other half of yourself,” his mentor told him. “It happened a very long time ago. So long ago, in fact, that I am surprised there is any sanity left in you at all. You must remember who you are. You must remember everything you can, and rediscover your skills and your purpose. I can help you do that.”

  As he learned meditation and discipline, he grew to understand what his mentor meant. He felt that raging part of him like a beast that was too lightly restrained. He harnessed that energy as he grew older, turning all of his focus onto it, and scarlet threads of memory began to unfurl into the past.

  Past before his birth in this lifetime.

  Past into distant history, so very long ago.

  And he began to remember what he had lost. Who he had lost.

  The other half of himself.

  An unshakable determination settled into him. If she still existed in any way, he would find her again.

  He would find her.

  Chapter Three

  EARLY ON THAT bright spring morning, Mary continued with obvious reluctance toward her ex-husband as he stood in front of her house.

  “Oh that’s flattering of you,” Justin said with a grin. “Good thing my ego is so preened and shiny. Good morning, and screw you too.”

  “You show up uninvited, you get what you get,” she said. Her voice sounded rough. She cleared her throat. “For pity’s sake, man. It’s not even seven o’clock yet. I never talked to you this early when we lived together.”

  “Then why don’t you answer your phone?” he said in exasperated reply. “If you’d pick up, I wouldn’t have to stop by unannounced.”

  She squinted at him then jogged up the stairs to unlock her front door, while he followed her at a slower pace. “Because it didn’t ring.”

  “Is it even in the house?” he retorted as he came up behind her. He peered past her at the riotous mess inside. “How can you tell? The hood of your car is cold but you weren’t answering when I knocked. I was going to let myself in to make sure you were all right.”

  She sighed. “Don’t make me regret giving you that key.”

  “You’ll have to arm wrestle me to get it back, and you know I cheat.” Once they had both stepped inside, he looked at her again more closely. Something in his face changed, the humor dying away. “Are you okay? You look really pale.”

  “I’m fine.” She removed her sunglasses and rubbed at her face. She could still feel creases on her cheek from the cloth she had slept on. The pounding in her head had grown worse. She turned to walk to her kitchen and said over her shoulder, “I need coffee. Do you want a cup?”

  “Yeah.” Justin followed her. “Look, do me a favor. Make an appointment to see your doctor, okay?”

  “What? No. I said I’m fine.” Mary stopped in the middle of her kitchen and looked around in confusion. She knew exactly where she was, but everything still seemed alien, incomprehensible.

  She didn’t belong here. Panic clutched at her again, like a drowning victim trying to pull her underwater. She flung it off, shaking herself hard like a wet dog as she headed for the coffeepot.

  “I don’t think you’re as fine as you say you are.” Justin frowned at her.

  She waved a hand as if to brush away his words. “I had a day from hell yesterday. My shift was twenty-six hours long. We had a multiple car accident and a couple of gunshot victims.”

  He shook his head. “That’s rough. What happened?”

  “The accident was a pileup on I-94. No fatalities, thank God. The shooting was a different story. Some girl found out her BabyDaddy had another BabyMama. She borrowed her brother’s nine-millimeter and emptied the clip into the pair while they sat outside at the local Dairy Queen.” She glanced at Justin, her expression grim. “Now she’s in jail facing murder charges. BabyMama Two is dead and BabyDaddy is in ICU. He may or may not make it, and all the babies have been taken by Child Protective Services, which, when you think about it, might be the best thing that’s happened in their little lives.”

  Justin’s voice turned hushed. “I heard about that on the news.”

  She yanked open a cupboard, pulled out the coffee and a filter. She said over her shoulder, “To top it all off, I got maybe four hours’ sleep, so of course I look like shit. It’s no big deal.”

  He sighed. “Look, I don’t have time to argue with you. I’ve got twenty minutes to get to work—so just promise me you’ll go get a checkup and shut up already.”

  She filled the coffeepot with water, poured it into the reservoir and switched on the machine then slammed the pot onto the burner. “Seriously, Justin,” she snapped. “Do I come over uninvited to your house and tell you and Tony what to do?”

  “Honey, I’m sorry,” he said in quick
contrition. She startled as he put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “It’s just—hell, even I know you’re never supposed to talk to a woman about her weight, but you’ve lost weight you couldn’t afford to lose. You were always a little bit of a thing, the original five-foot-two-and-eyes-of-blue gal.”

  She gave him a grim smile as the pungent aroma of coffee filled the kitchen. “Don’t start inflicting Dean Martin songs on me again at this time in the morning, or I swear I won’t be responsible for my actions.” She pointed at him. “And that’s what I’ll tell the police when they arrive with the body bag.”

  He didn’t smile back. Instead his handsome features took on a mulish expression. “I’m being serious here. You’re not looking good, Mary. You’re all bones and nerves. If you won’t have a rational conversation about it, I’ll have to make an appointment for you myself to go see Tony.”

  “The hell you will.” Her smile turned to a glare.

  He pulled out his cell phone, turned his back and ignored her. After a few moments he started to speak on the phone. He moved down the short hall to the living room.

  Mary felt the urge to scream. Instead she blew air between her teeth, like steam escaping from a pressure cooker. She poured herself a cup of coffee and took it to the table. As she shifted a stack of magazines and mail off of a chair, she discovered the cordless phone.

  She clicked it on and listened. No dial tone. The battery had gone dead. She had a cell phone, but she used it for work, and Justin didn’t have the number. She hung up the phone to recharge it and sat to put her elbows on the table, resting her forehead on the heels of her hands as she hunched over her coffee.

  Her mind arrowed back to her dream. She was dreaming with more frequency and they were getting more vivid. This time the bodies of the seven creatures in the circle were translucent. Ribbons of colored light had streamed from them, flowing and moving in the air as if the creatures were some kind of alien anemone. The poison had tasted bittersweet and smelled like cloves.

  She had dreamed in color several times but she had never before dreamed a smell or a taste. Was that development somehow connected to her hearing voices and seeing impossible things?