Gravestone (13 page)

28. In My Sleep

I haven’t forgotten.

Not in the least.

It wakes up with me like a hangover. It’s in the mirror like a black eye. It walks with me like a pulled muscle. It hears the same silence I hear. It sees the same glances I see. It comes home to an empty house. It needs answers like an unfinished crossword puzzle. It kisses me to sleep like the bite of a spider hiding under the covers.

I have not forgotten.

What I’m trying to do is make sure I have a plan and make sure I have my sanity. Maybe just not in that order.

My hope lies in this stranger named Jared. Not Newt or Ray or my mom or my uncle or, God forbid, Poe.

It’s in someone I don’t know and can’t find but who’s out there.

I just have to bide my time.

But I haven’t forgotten you, Jocelyn.

I’ll never forget.

The sound downstairs doesn’t awaken me because I’m not asleep.

It’s the middle of night, and I’m thinking of Jocelyn. Mom got home before I went to bed, and she was in a decent enough mood. Everything seemed normal. She asked me if I’d finished my homework and asked about school and seemed genuinely interested to see if anything out of the ordinary was happening at Harrington High. Of course I said little, but we still managed to have a halfway normal conversation.

So the screams coming from downstairs really freak me out.

I jerk out of bed and topple over Midnight as I open my door and practically tumble down the stairs.

I don’t need to ask who these screams are coming from.

Tonight they’re louder than usual.

I go to Mom’s bedroom and shout her name and turn on the light.

She’s in the corner on her knees, clawing at the wall. Clawing like she’s trying to get out, clawing like she’s trying to get something off of her.

“Mom, Mom, come on, Mom, it’s me, Mom!”

She waves her hands around her head as if she’s fighting off mosquitoes. Her hair is messy, and she’s wearing a long T-shirt. Her white arms and legs look skinnier than I remember.

“Mom,” I keep saying.

Finally the glazed, possessed eyes blink a few times and come back to reality. She’s breathing heavily, as if she’s been running.

“You’re just dreaming, Mom.”

She puts a shaking hand over her eyes and nose as if she wants to hide underneath it. The bed next to her is a mess of wadded-up sheets and blankets.

“It’s okay, Mom.”

“No,” she says.

“You’re awake now.”

“He comes to me in my sleep.”

“What?”

She looks around the room as if someone might still be there. I can feel the cold bumps crackling over my skin. I realize how cold I am, standing there in only boxer shorts.

“He comes into my room in the middle of the night. He crawls into my bed.”

I don’t want to hear this.

“Mom, you’re just dreaming.”

“He’s real, Chris. He’s real, and he’s been coming ever since we got here.”

I shiver and shove the fear away. One of us needs to be sane and strong. It’s gotta be me.

“It’s just a nightmare, Mom.”

“No.”

“Remember when I found you outside that one night?”

“This is different.”

“What do you mean? How is it different?”

She tightens her mouth and seems to try and swallow but can’t. I go into her bathroom and get her a glass of water. I hand it to her as she sits on the edge of her bed, looking at the wall across from her. A bare and empty wall. No pictures, no art, nothing.

She takes a sip. A little bit of water is still on her lips and dribbles down the side of her chin.

She’s like a child. I swear this is ridiculous.

“He’s real and I feel him.”

“Come on.”

“I’m not trying to frighten you, Chris.”

“You’re not frightening me. At least not with what you’re describing.”

Your insanity’s freaking me out.

“I wasn’t drinking tonight.”

“I know.”

“I swear, Chris.”

“Mom, I know.”

“I saw him. I felt him. He’s real. He’s real and he has red eyes that glow in the night under the covers and he came for me. He wants me, Chris.”

I go to open my mouth, but then I feel it tighten. I feel my eyes water up and my soul get showered on, and I feel like I’m about ready to just unleash a really seriously embarrassing bout of tears. I slide my hand over my mouth and then bite my skin to get some reality back.

Mom rubs her arms like they’re dirty, like she’s cold.

“Can I make you something? Something warm?”

She only shakes her head. She leans back on her bed, and I try to uncoil the blanket to put it over her. I see her profile on the edge of the pillow. Her eyes are still wide open, once again looking at the wall.

Can you see something I can’t?

I want to ask her what I should do. I don’t know.

You gotta call Dad.

“Mom—”

“Lock your door, Chris. And keep that dog by your side.”

For a second I look back through the door. I can’t see anything outside it.

But I wonder.

“He’s real, Chris. He’s real.”

I wait for a while and watch as her eyes close. Then I shut the door and make sure our front and back doors are locked. I stand in the family room in the pitch black, and I wait. I listen. I stand still to see if I can hear anything. Something moving in our house. Outside our house. In Mom’s bedroom. Maybe even below us.

But I don’t hear anything.

I only feel cold and creeped out.

I go upstairs and do what Mom told me to do. I lock the door. Then I bring Midnight up by my chest and stroke her with my hand as I wait for the night to be over.

Sunrise always takes too long to come.

29. The Warning

The Crag’s Inn is impossible to find. The bumping, twisting road starts to make me carsick.

After reading the map Mom gave me and telling her no road exists out this far on this stretch of dirt road, we stumble upon it. A side road to a side road. One going slightly upward and the next going straight up as if it’s daring you to try to drive it.

The thought of doing this every week is insane.

But what isn’t insane, Chris? You gotta go up the hill to fall off it.

“This map must be old.”

“It’s the latest they had,” Mom says.

“Maybe someone doesn’t want this road on a map. Think about that?”

“Perhaps, but someone
does
want some part-time work.”

“It’s part-time work to get here.”

“We just got turned around.”

“I swear,” I say, trying to fold the map and then just crumpling it up and tossing it into the backseat. “There are twice as many roads around here as that map shows.”

“Some of these roads might not even be listed. Who knows.”

“I think Solitary isn’t listed. The town people forgot. Like the evil little child in class.”

“Stop it.”

The road we’re on is bumpy with several large gashes in its center. It coils upward, going straight along the hill and then veering around and continuing the opposite way.

“Those are from rain and snow draining down,” Mom says, meaning the ruts in the road.

“Great. I really don’t feel like barfing right now.”

“We’re almost there.”

“You don’t even know if we’re on the right road.”

But we both know. There doesn’t have to be a creepy sign for creepy to be all over this.

After we going back and forth like a yo-yo, my nausea seriously getting worse from the road and from reading in the car, the road takes one more turn and then levels out. The trees are denser here than anywhere we’ve passed so far. The sky is blocked from view. The road ends in a dead end, with no driveway or parking place around. It just ends with a house nearly hidden amidst trees.

“That looks abandoned,” I say.

“That’s why she needs help.”

“What? Cutting down trees?”

“Be respectful, okay?”

“Am I ever not?”

“Even with your mother.”

I roll my eyes as she stops the car. I can hear the sound of birds here. They’re loud, and it seems like they’re everywhere, like we’re standing outside an exhibit at Brookfield Zoo back in Chicago.

“You first,” I say, only half joking.

We’re facing the side of a dark log cabin with a giant stone chimney arched in its center like a church steeple. It’s hard to tell the size of the inn. The cabin is oddly shaped, with a slanting dark tin roof on one side and a porch on the other, an upstairs window and then slightly off to one side a bottom window underneath it, then another deck on the left side of the house. It looks like a kid put it together with Legos and made it uneven and out of whack.

“Come on,” Mom says.

I get out and stare at the trees around us. They’re so dense I can’t see any end in sight. I turn to try and find a door, since there’s no sidewalk or driveway or walkway.

Mom is heading toward the deck on the right side, which has some remnants of steps going up to it. I pass something that at first resembles a mailbox, then I see it’s a wooden sign with a faded emblem on it.

On top of this sign is the most brilliant blue bird I’ve ever seen.

Amidst the dark shadows under these trees and the faded gray of the cabin we’re walking toward, this ball of rich blue paint is just sitting there, not making a sound. I walk a little closer, but it just sits there, perched and watching like a suspicious stranger.

Mom is already a few steps ahead of me. I don’t want to make the bird fly away by calling her name. I slow down and then stop.

The bird’s head moves, so I know it’s real. For a minute I was beginning to wonder.

Maybe it’s a pet. Maybe it’s been trained to be around humans.

The bluebird’s chest is a lighter blue while its feathers and head are a vibrant turquoise. The black eyes and beak face me as I reach out my hand, knowing the bird is going to fly away but still mesmerized by being so close to it.

Then it bites me.

I howl as the bird keeps tapping away at my hand.

It’s not like it hurts. It just shocks me.

“What is it?” Mom calls back at me.

“Ow. Get out of here. Go on.”

I bat the bird away, and it flies off. For a second it seemed like it was going to come back at me, but then it disappears.

It wasn’t going to come back, come on, man.

I look at my hand. One of my fingers is bleeding.

I go up to my mom. “That bird bit me.”

“No, it didn’t.”

“Yeah, it did. That pretty bluebird—just sitting there looking peaceful—it took a nice little chunk out of my finger.”

“Why’d you reach for it?”

“Most birds fly away. At least the kind I’m used to.”

Mom has a smile on her face. “Maybe it doesn’t get many guests.”

“Thanks for your understanding. Glad it wasn’t a bear.”

“If it was a bear, I think there wouldn’t be time for understanding. Just running.”

I’m rubbing my finger, still irritated that something so striking had the nerve to bite me, of all things, when I hear a voice above us.

“You’re late.”

Standing on the deck is a gaunt figure dressed in black.

I see her eyes, and I almost turn around and start running back down the hill.

“Come on inside,” she says, then she steps through a door and disappears.

Mom motions her head for me to hurry up.

That bird was a warning. It was a sign.

I stare at my index finger and see the speck of blood on it, then wipe it off with my other hand.

That’s just a sign of what’s to come, Chris.