Rest In Peace

Table of Contents

 

 

Where am I?

There were smells in here. Curious smells from every direction, smells she couldn't quite identify. Like the one lingering upon her blanket and in the tangled strands of her hair . . . an outdoor smell: wild and earthy, and not altogether unpleasant. It reminded her of frost and snowy moonlight, autumn wind, and warm, wet fur . . .

Trembling violently, she eased the blanket down from her shoulders. Her skin felt raw against the roughness of the fabric, raw and chilled and unusually sensitive. To her shock, she suddenly realized that all her clothes had been removed.

Lucy curled herself tightly beneath the blanket.
Please let this be a dream—please let me wake up!
Her mind was wild with terror, her heart pumped out of control. She couldn't breathe, couldn't stop shaking, couldn't stop the frantic spinning of her thoughts. Where was she and how had she gotten here?

A dank breeze snaked across the floor, threatening the candlelight and swathing Lucy in those strange and secret smells. But there was another odor she detected now—a much stronger odor than the one she'd noticed before. Something dead. Something spoiled . . .

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First published in the UK by Scholastic Ltd, 2004
Published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2005

Copyright © Richie Tankersley Cusick, 2004 All rights reserved

 

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Cusick, Richie Tankersley.
Rest in peace / Richie Tankersley Cusick.
p. cm. - (The unseen ; pt. 2)
First published in the UK by Scholastic Ltd., 2004.
Summary: Having survived the accident that killed her friend Byron, Lucy tries to cope with
her new powers and attempts to figure out who—or what—is stalking her.

eISBN : 978-1-101-17678-8

[ 1. Extrasensory perception—Fiction. 2. Horror stories—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.C9646Res 2005 [Fic]—dc22 2005047435

 

 

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any
responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

Prologue

He stood and he watched her.

Watched the frantic rolling of her eyes beneath her closed, bruised eyelids . . . the terrified heaving of her breasts beneath the torn, mangled material of her blouse. From time to time a whimper escaped her lips . . . or a gasp . . . or even a whispered plea for help, as she dreamed her terrible dream. And sometimes her hands would thrash against the darkness, clawing at shadows and bloodstained bandages, as she relived, over and over again, those last tragic moments of her waking nightmare . . .

He knew this dream well.

Knew every scene—every gory, meticulous detail—for he had been with her the night it began, and he had been with her every night since, feeling it replay endlessly, torturously, through her sleep . . .

 

So this is what it's like to die . . .

Lying there on her back in the grass, all alone in the darkness, Lucy could sense the wet, runny mask of her face. Tears? Blood? She couldn't be sure, couldn't be sure she even
had
a face, couldn't be sure about anything except that her body screamed in pain each time she tried to draw even the shallowest of breaths.

I can't move . . . Help . . . Somebody, help me . . .

With a ragged cry, Lucy tried to lift her head, tried to peer through the thick, endless night surrounding her. As in a dream, she could see the faraway sky blazing bright, lit by a giant fire—and along with those sickening smells of pain and fear and despair that threatened to choke her, now there was the gasoline
. . .
burning rubber
. . .
white-hot metal
. . .
and something else
. . .
something dear to her heart
. . .

Byron!

That's Byron's van!

She'd been sitting in the front seat beside him, and she'd been staring at the moon. That blood red moon hovering there behind the trees and glowing out through the dark, shredded fabric of the clouds. She'd been staring at the moon, and then she'd jolted with the first sharp swerve of the van. Confused and groggy, she'd heard Byron's shout, the piercing shriek of brakes and tires, she'd felt the road give way to air beneath them as they dove off the shoulder and off the crest of the hill, and out through the foggy night, plummeting down and down into nothingness
. . .

Byron? Can you hear me?

She knew somehow that she hadn't spoken aloud, knew somehow that her thoughts had burst free of her pain, only to fall silent among the shadows. It was so dark out here. So dark, so frighteningly still, except for those flames leaping and glowing against the distant horizon
. . .

Something ran in front of us.

Byron tried to swerve, he tried to miss hitting it, but something ran in front of us . . .

What was that?

It seemed so familiar somehow
. . .

But her thoughts were fading
. . .
fading
. . .
and she knew she was slipping away. In desperation she stared up at the trees overhead, great gnarled branches etched thickly against the black dome of the sky. And then she noticed that moon.

Byron, I'm so scared! Please help me!

The soft rustling sound, like wind sighing through grass. Except that she couldn't
feel
any wind, not even the faintest of breezes, in this heavy night air.

Coming even closer
. . .

Oh God!

As Lucy's head turned helplessly to one side, she saw shadows all around her, shadows slinking along the ground and through the trees, slivers of black and pale pale gray, and sparks of amber light
. . .

Oh, God, don't let me die like this!

She thought of Byron. The vision burst inside her brain with such force that she choked and gagged and vomited blood in the grass. In that one instant of agonizing clarity she saw his midnight eyes, heard his calm, deep voice telling her not to be afraid. Now she remembered how he'd turned to her in that last split second of his life, his eyes desperate with helplessness and disbelief as he'd reached for her hand.
Did he touch me?
The thought drifted through her mind, light as a feather.
Did we touch one last time?

But the whispers were louder now, and the fire was brighter than ever, and she was so weak
. . .
so tired.

Please . . . please . . . just let me die fast . . .

She braced herself for the end. Felt hot breath caressing her throat
. . .
smelled the faint, familiar scent of something sweet
. . .

Byron . . . I'm so sorry . . .

Down, down, she sank
. . .
into the endlessness of time
. . .

Who are you . . . ? What are you . . . ?

And that voice
. . .
fading far into nothingness
. . .

“Oh, Lucy
. . .
there's no name for what we are
. . .
”

 

And so he stood, and he watched her.

How lovely she was . . . and how curious . . . so small and fragile, her pale skin nearly transparent, her expression as remote, as beautiful, as death.

But not quite.

Not quite dead yet.

Shock was just a stepping-stone. It would be so easy, he knew, to ease her across that tenuous threshold; just one swift, silent act on his part.

But there was something entrancing . . . mesmerizing . . . about the way she hovered there—just on the edge, between life and eternity—that was exciting to him.

There had been no time to take her before.

Before, as he dragged her to safety, and then as she lay there in the tall scorched grass, bruised and battered and drenched in blood, the others sweeping in silently around her, quivering with anticipation . . .

But “No,” he had ordered them. “Stand away—this one is mine.”

Damn
those who had stopped to help!

And a firetruck, no less—a whole
convoy
of emergency vehicles, in fact—heading homeward from some tragedy, following a careful distance behind the van, yet still close enough to witness its fatal careen off the road, its hurtling descent down the rocky hillside, the bits and pieces of its broken shell raining like fireworks through the shattered night.