314 Book 2 (27 page)

Mindy cringed and shook her head. “
Hell no. That’s a shitty idea, honey. You know me, fuck the establishment and all, but I think it’s beyond a bad idea to go screwing around with these people.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“Are you kidding me? You were just saying that you thought these people blew off the heads of a whole town and then covered it up, and these are the people you want to fuck with? For real?”

“I was just joking about that,” said Nia.

“Well, that’s an awful joke, darling. You’re no Carlin. Someone tells me about heads popping because of weaponized demonspawn and I perk right the fuck up and pay attention. I think we’d better just do what they paid us for and thank our lucky stars that we got out of here alive.”

Nia raised her eyebrows and smirked at Mindy. “If they really are responsible for killing all those people, and they really believe in my ability, do you think there’s even a
remote chance in hell either of us are leaving here alive?”

Mindy didn’t answer.

“Think about it,” said Nia.

“I am thinking about it, thank you very much. And I’m not going to stop thinking about it
now. I’m going to be up all goddamned night thinking about it. I’ve got stress issues, Nia. You know that. And now you just dropped a fuck-ton of stress on my ass.”

Mindy got out another cigarette.

“Don’t get another” said Nia. “You’re smoking like a chimney.”

“I smoke when I’m stressed,” said Mindy with the cigarette dangling from her lips.

“I’m serious, stop it.” Nia stole the cigarette from Mindy’s lips.

“Give it back.” Mindy grabbed Nia’s hand as her friend smashed the cigarette and let the
crumpled remains fall to the pavement. “Oh, real mature.”

“I’m just trying to keep you from hurting yourself.”

Mindy frowned and shook her head. “Yeah, well quit it. I need my smokes if I’m going to deal with the shit you keep telling us. Some of that stuff just sticks in my head, like I can see it. Fucking creepy. Like that lady at the book store.”

“Which lady?” asked Nia.

“The one that was eaten by the dog things.”

Nia looked at Mindy
, puzzled.

“You know, the one that was flirting with the UPS guy. He went up the stairs and she stayed down in the store. Remember? You were telling us about it when we were there today.”

Nia shook her head. “No I wasn’t.”

“
You must’ve,” said Mindy. “How else would I know about that?”

“
I never told anyone about that,” said Nia. “Oliver told me to only talk about what happened before 3:14. The woman getting killed in that bookstore happened after the event. I never talked about it.”

“Well, I know about it somehow,” said Mindy. “I know all about it. I could describe the scene to you.”

“As if you were there?” asked Nia.

Mindy seemed frightened by the implication. She nodded, and then started to shake her head and wave her hands. “Wait, wait, wait. What the fuck is up with this? Am I psychic, or psychometric, or whatever? What the fuck?”

“Hold on,” said Nia as she took Mindy’s hand. She rubbed her thumb on Mindy’s knuckle. “Tell me what you know about the Salt and Pepper Diner.”

“What are you doing?” asked Mindy.

“Tell me about Grace,” Nia was insistent and she closed her eyes as she held Mindy’s hand.

“The waitress?” asked Mindy.

“Yes. Tell me about her hair.”

“What?” asked Mindy, frightened and confused.

“Just do it. Try to remember what color hair she had. Think of it as a memory – as if you knew her, and had been there in the diner eleven years ago. Try to remember that day.”

“This is insane,” said Mindy.

Nia gripped her friend’s hand. “Just do it.”

Mindy closed her eyes and tried to recall a memory she had no reason to have. Nia was familiar with the confusion that psychometric transference of information could have on the recipient. It was a unique sort of insanity to be plagued by memories that
you shouldn’t have. The closest approximation Nia could think of was the way some childhood memories might be dreams, and never being able to distinguish reality from subconscious fiction. A cogent recollection of your own past is something that is intimately personal and integral to identity. Once it’s toyed with, the results can be maddening. There had been more than a few times in the past when Nia was certain she was teetering on insanity.

“Red,” said Mindy before she pulled her hand away from Nia. “She had red hair.”

“That’s right,” said Nia.

Mindy staggered back and nearly tripped over a concrete slab at the front of an empty parking spot. She shook her head and furrowed her brow as she said, “You must’ve told me that. You must’ve told me about her.”

“No, I didn’t,” said Nia. “At least not verbally.”

“You must be wrong,” said Mindy. She seemed on the verge of tears.

Nia sympathetically reached out to her friend, but Mindy pulled away. “I know how it feels,” said Nia as if in apology. “I know exactly what you’re going through. Your head starts to fight it, and you’ll try to convince yourself that it’s just a dream, or that there’s some other reason for you knowing it. I think it’s a defense mechanism that our brains have. You’ll refuse to believe…”

“What the fuck is going on?” Mindy grasped the side of her head as if suffering a migraine.

“Honey, I know. I know.”

“I feel like, like…”

“Like you’re going nuts,” said Nia.

Mindy nodded.

“Trust me, I know all about it. I spent most of my childhood feeling that way.”

“I don’t want this,” said Mindy. “Why am I remembering this awful shit? How do I get rid of it?”

“You don’t,” said Nia. “It never goes away.”

“It feels so real,” said Mindy.

“It is real,” said Nia.

“Do I have the same gift you do?” asked Mindy.

Nia looked at her hands. “I don’t think so. I think I gave you those memories. I was thinking of Grace when I held your hands. I think I transferred that to you.”

“You can do that?” asked Mindy.

Nia shrugged. “I never knew I could before today. I think this place is making my ability stronger. Something in Widowsfield wants me to know what happened here, and wants me to let others know.”

“I’m not so sure that’s a good thing,” said Mindy. “What do you think is causing it?”

“Honestly, I think something in Widowsfield is trying to use me. I don’t know if it’s The Skeleton Man, or The Watcher, or what it is, but I think something, or someone, is excited that I’m here. It’s as if they realize they can use me to tell their story.”

“And they’re making your ability stronger?” asked Mindy.

“I guess so,” said Nia. “I think they’re focusing on me. When we first got here, it felt like they were everywhere around Widowsfield. But the longer we stay, the more focused they become on me. I can feel them watching.”

“Watching from the walls?” asked Mindy.

Nia nodded. “I think they want people to know what happened here.”

“What if that’s not what they want?” asked Mindy as she got out another cigarette. Her hands were shaking.

“What do you mean?” asked Nia.

Mindy shrugged as she sparked her lighter. She took a long drag before answering. “I don’t know, but I wouldn’t trust them. Widowsfield isn’t a fucking paranormal zoo or something, where w
e get to peek in at the horror and insanity. You know what I mean?” she asked before taking another drag.

“No,” said Nia, perplexed by her friend’s implication.

“Where’s the cage keeping the lions from killing us?” asked Mindy. “What’s keeping them in?”

Most people will admit to a bad memory. As we age, it becomes harder and harder for the neurons in our brains to fire the way they should. We end up stopping mid-sentence as we struggle to recall something that we shouldn’t have forgotten. It’s part of the human experience, and we’ve all gotten used to it.

However, there are intense moments in our lives that we swear we can remember every detail of. Sometimes these moments of clear recollection were spawned by fear o
r terror, and other times they’re just a random, pleasant moment in our lives that has been carved in stone in our minds. These few shining examples of our ability to recall our past can help to shape our personalities. We cling to those few moments as if our sanity depended on them.

Yet our recollections are false. They’re almost always warped and altered. As bits and pieces of the memory crumble away, our brain tricks us by filling them in, like different colored bricks used to patch a decrepit wall.

You don’t need to look any further than every courtroom in the world to see that I’m right. It used to be that eyewitness testimony was considered to be ironclad evidence in a trial. When a person witnessed a crime, or was beaten, or mugged, or even raped, the court held their accounting of the incident above all else. That has changed in recent years.

DNA evidence has forced us to alter what we accept as truth in the l
egal system. Thousands of cases where an offender was jailed based on being fingered by a witness have been thrown out after DNA proved their innocence. This isn’t a rare occurrence. In fact, it’s startlingly common. Even in cases of violent attacks, where the victim was face to face with their assaulter, we’ve discovered that their recollection of the details is often dramatically wrong. The victim’s brain, in a desperate attempt to seek closure and revenge, struggles to rebuild the wall of memory. Those multi-colored bricks that have no business in the wall manage to find their way in. And before the victim ever realizes it happened, they’ve created a new wall all together. As the victim stands behind the one-way glass and points at a perp in a line-up, they’re basing the accusation on a memory that their mind pieced together.

You can’t trust memories.

Widowsfield

March 14
th
, 1998

Alma woke up in the front seat of the sedan. Her mother was smoking beside her, with the window down, staring plaintively at the woods outside of where they were parked. The radio was on, and a Motown singer promised of better days, better days, oh those better days. The song served as a transition between a pleasant dream and a terrible reality.

“Mom?” asked Alma as she groggily stirred. Her hands stung, and her head pounded.

Amanda Harper was startled by her daughter. She flicked the cigarette out of the car and then hit the switch to roll the window up. She allowed an inch of space to remain so the smoke could drift out. “Hey sweetie, how’re you feeling?”

“Where are we?” asked Alma. Her stomach rumbled and she was afraid that she might vomit.

“We’re still in Widowsfield,” said Amanda before pointing out in front of the car. “That’s the Jackson Reservoir.”

Alma looked forward
at the expanse of water. The car was parked at a scenic view, one of the places where drivers were beckoned to come sit in a specially designated area meant to reveal a beautiful scene. The parking lot that sat beside the cliff was all but empty, leaving them with a prime spot overlooking the reservoir and dam below.

Widowsfield was partially powered by a hydroelectric dam, which Alma could see in the distance. They were parked on the
upper portion of the reservoir. It was a man-made lake whose flow was controlled by a dam which pulled off the water to pour into another lake further down.

“How are you feeling?” asked Amanda again.

Alma looked at her hands, and discovered that they were wrapped in bloody bandages. She recalled fighting with her mother at the window of Terry’s cabin, but the rest of the day was a blur of confusing memories. Her mind seemed to struggle with the recollection, as if she’d been assaulted with too many memories and needed time to sort them out.

“Are you feeling better?” asked Amanda after Alma refrained from answering the first couple times.

“I’m scared,” said Alma as she started to cry.

“I know, baby,” said Amanda. “But you don’t have to be scared anymore. Okay?”

“Why not?” asked Alma. “Why are we here?”

Amanda smiled at her daughter, and it was the most unsettling mo
ment Alma had ever experienced – or at least that she ever remembered experiencing.

“What are we doing here?” asked Alma.

“I think I know when I lost my mind,” said Amanda.

“Mommy, you’re scaring me,” said Alma as she thought about trying to get out of the car.

Amanda continued with her story, ignoring her daughter’s fear. “For a while I thought it was Michael that turned me into this. You know, he was always a bad father, and a worse husband. Always.” Amanda got out another cigarette.

Her hands were shaking.