Shimmer (11 page)

Spitting and gagging as I struggled to stand, wiping my sleeve hard against my face, then spitting and gagging some more as I paused long enough to look around.

Aware of a voice in my head, urging,
“Move!”

And though I tried to obey, I was so unused to being her, so unused to having limbs so much longer than mine (not to mention the stiff, pouffy dress and tight shoes that were practically binding my feet), it was pretty rough going at first.

But when the voice repeated, adding,
“Hurry! There’s no time to waste! They’re coming!”

I stumbled forward, feet fumbling, heart beating frantically, turning toward the house just in time to see a man racing away from the barn, a man I immediately knew was my father, with a confusing array of emotions held in his gaze.

“Git!”
he yelled, pointing at the house, allowing no time for pleasantries. “Git upstairs and hide in that closet in your mama’s old sitting room, and don’t come out till I git you myself. Do you hear me?”

I tried to read his gaze, wondering what it was he was hiding from me, but then he said it again, louder this time, and I couldn’t help but obey.

“Do
not
come out for anyone but me. No matter what! Now,
git
!” he practically screamed.

I was off. His words trailing behind me as I raced through the front door and up the creaky wooden stairs. The thought of saying good-bye not even entering my mind, since it all seemed surreal, like a game of some kind.

Bad things happened to other people, not me.

I was rich, privileged, the only child of a big, important, plantation owner, which made me special in a way that far surpassed all the others. Aside from my mother’s untimely death, anything negative, dreary, or bad had always whizzed past me on its way toward somebody else.

I made for my mama’s old sitting room, just like my papa had ordered. And though I was sure no one knew, the truth is, I’d often visited that room.

I liked to sit in the soft, cushy upholstered chair she used for reading, before switching to the less comfortable straight-backed one she used for correspondence and list making. And more often than not, I’d play either one of two games: one in which I pretended she was still here, reading and chatting with me, and another in which I’d somehow become her, find a way to stand in her place.

But today there was no time for games.

Soon enough my papa would climb the stairs and come find me. And when he did, well, I was eager for him to see just how perfect I was.

Just how willingly I’d obeyed his every word.

Then maybe he’d finally take notice of me, since he never seemed to notice before.

I made for the closet, crawled into the small, dark, rarely used space, wrapped my fingers around the edge of the door and pulled it shut as well as I could. Crouching all the way against the back wall, just about all settled in, when I remembered my dog.

I scooched forward, propped the door open, peeked my head out, and called, “Shucky! Here boy!” before chasing that with a low, even whistle I prayed my father wouldn’t hear.

Relieved by the sound of Shucky’s paws scurrying across the wood floors, I caught him as he slipped inside the closet and jumped right onto my lap. Yipping softly, he excitedly lapped at my cheeks, as I shut the door again and moved us back into place.

I clutched him to my chest and tried not to giggle at the way his icy-cold nose prodded against my shoulder and neck. Struggling to ignore the cloying scent of mold and mustiness and various things that hadn’t been used in a very long time, while I worked to decipher the look I’d seen in my father’s eyes.

Was it love that I’d seen?

And would I even recognize it if it was?

It’d been so long since anyone looked upon me that way, I had no way to recognize the signs.

And that’s how I spent my last moments.

Fending off old closet smells, fending off my dog’s stale, panting breath, while trying to determine just exactly what my father’s gaze had meant.

My legs beginning to ache from being so awkwardly bent, my back and buttocks growing sore from leaning for so long against the hardwood floor.

Wondering if I should maybe take a quick peek, see what might be taking him so long to find me, when my dog suddenly stiffened, perked up his ears, and narrowed his eyes as he let out a low, menacing growl.

But while he may have been the first to sense it, it wasn’t long till there was no mistaking it.

The sound of a stampede—hundreds of bodies running with purpose.

The sound of violence—things crashing and breaking as a series of screams rang out, one in particular, one that I recognized as my father’s, that rose above all the rest.

The sound of my front door being pulled from its hinges.

The sound of my house being stormed, invaded, ransacked, and looted.

The sound of the horrible, lingering silence of a papa that never came looking for me.

And yet, I continued to wait like he asked.

Waited long past the time the crackling began and the closet floors began to heat.

Long past the time gray ribbons of smoke curled their way in and around the door frame and rendered it impossible to breathe.

Long past the time the flames licked at my heels and rose up my dress like snakes.

Long past the time my frightened dog clawed huge gaping holes in my dress as he fought with all of his might to escape.

But I wouldn’t let him go, wouldn’t let him leave without me, I just held him fast to my chest, my lips incessantly whispering my father’s warning:

Do not come out for anyone but me, no matter what!

My body blistering and burning, as the bow on my dress worked like some kind of accelerant and encouraged the flames to leap onto my hair and my face. Engulfing me in a pain so wrenching, so great, I told myself it was a game.

That it couldn’t possibly be happening to someone as special as me.

Repeating the words as a wave of red, searing-hot timbers crashed down upon us, reducing my dog and me to nothing more than a pile of charred bones and black dust.

Obedient till the end, I’d died in the exact location where my father had told me to wait.

Then, just as quickly, I was
out.

Gazing down at what little remained of myself and my dog as the scene continued to play, seeing smoke, fire, destruction, and blood, most of which belonged to my father, judging from the looks of his severely mangled body.

And when I saw what had caused it or, rather,
who
had caused it—when I realized we’d all been murdered—well, from that moment on, all I could see was red.

A bright, raging red that shimmered and glowed and bubbled all around until it was big enough to house me.

Anger.

All I could feel—all I could
see
—was a burning hot
anger
that raged deep inside me.

An anger so intense it came to define me.

And so I vowed my revenge, vowed that every single one of them would pay for making me like this.

Ignoring the vague, magnetic pull of something bright and promising and good—preferring to spend the rest of my days in my angry new world.

I watched the massacre continue, lasting just over a month, watched as the death toll and bodies all piled up. Allowing those I’d deemed innocent to follow that pull to whatever bright thing lay beyond, while luring the rest of them into my shimmering trap of revenge—watching it grow bigger and bigger with each and every soul I admitted, until it became the large, dark globe where we lived.

My throat grew dry and constricted, and for someone who no longer breathes, I had the sensation of desperately needing to before I was suffocated. The weight of Rebecca’s soul becoming so heavy, so burdensome, I couldn’t even begin to describe my relief when I found myself back on the other side of it.

I coughed and sputtered, and tried my best to center myself. And even though Bodhi patted my back and Buttercup softly licked my hand, it took a while till I was able to face them again.

When I did, I looked right at Rebecca and said, “I’m sorry for what happened to you.” I fought to keep my voice steady, sincere. “But I’m also sorry to tell you that you’re wrong.
Dead wrong
. Every thing you’re doing here and all of your reasons behind it are way off. You are sorely misguided, and too many people are suffering because of it.”

But even though I tried to gaze upon her with love and compassion, I guess I didn’t really realize until it was way past too late that the look, the word, and the emotion was completely unrecognizable, completely meaningless, to someone like her.

The next thing I knew, little Shucky had transformed into the Hell Beast I’d first met, as Rebecca stood before us, shaking with uncontrollable rage, her eyes glowing in the same way as her dog’s.

“You will
never
leave this place!” she screamed. “You will never find your way out of here!
Never,
I swear it!”

The ground shook, the wind howled, and a steaming hot blaze flared and burned all around, and less than a second later, Rebecca and her Hell Beast were gone.

20

I will never forget the sound of it.

For as long as I continue to exist, I know for a fact that that sound will exist right along with me.

I mean, how do you get past the shriek of hundreds of souls screaming in agony?

How can you possibly get over something like that?

Just because they were no longer encased in real, physical, flesh-and-blood bodies—just because they were no longer in possession of a beating heart and central nervous system—didn’t mean they were aware of that.

Rebecca ruled their perception in a way that made all of their mental and physical agonies seem all too real, just as she continued to rule our reality too.

The gale raged around us, whipping my hair into a frenzy, causing it to lash hard against my face, leaving me with no choice but to duck my head low, squint my eyes tightly, and yell into the howl of the wind. My voice rough, hoarse, as I struggled to be heard over the blare, warning Bodhi and Buttercup to concentrate, to locate the small gap of
silence
in their own heads, reminding them as well as myself that it was the only way to keep us from sinking even deeper into Rebecca’s hell.

Yet, despite all of that, despite the fact that we all knew better, it was pretty rough going for each of us. It was one thing to know we were playing into the false reality of Rebecca’s world—quite another to spare ourselves from it.

I manifested a leash for Buttercup, something he usually hates, but at that moment he was all too willing to be anchored to me, and we clung to each other, making our way between souls, our bodies getting battered and buffeted as we desperately searched for the prince. But there was so much wind and smoke and debris, so many traumatized souls, it was impossible to see his.

“We have to split up.” Bodhi grasped my arm and shouted into my ear. “I know you don’t want to, but trust me, it’s the only way. We have to free these souls one by one. If we stay like this and do nothing, we’ll never get anywhere. We’ll just get sucked into the vortex of extreme suffering, along with the rest of them.”

I looked at him, not at all sure if I was really up for the task. Even though I felt like I knew the territory, possibly better than him, there was still a small part of me that didn’t trust myself.

There was still a small part of me that didn’t quite believe I could actually, effectively accomplish all that.

I was barely handling myself with them, so how could I possibly maintain my concentration and focus without them?

I mean, it’s one thing to talk the talk—it’s quite another to actually walk it.

And as far as I and focusing went, well, let’s just say we were like two distant cousins who’d rarely met.

But Bodhi, sensing, if not hearing, my hesitation, along with every worried thought in my head, looked at me and said, “You can do it, Riley. You’re going to be fine. Heck, you helped me, didn’t you?”

I nodded. That much was true, though the reminder didn’t do much to ease my own nagging doubt.

“And what about Buttercup? Where would he be right now if it wasn’t for you?”

I gazed down at my dog who was gazing up at me, and I couldn’t help but hope he couldn’t hear my thoughts just like I couldn’t hear his. I didn’t want him to know what a big wimp I’d become.

I wrapped my arms around my waist and bent my head low, my hair whipping all around me, getting thrashed pretty good, as I danced around on my tippy toes to keep my feet from being burned.

Some apprentice I was turning out to be—I couldn’t even concentrate my way past Rebecca’s manifested weather storm.

I’d barged my way in here without ever once stopping to consider just what I might be getting myself into, only to flip out and lose all my nerve at the exact moment it truly began to matter.

It was like gazing into a mirror and seeing the absolute very worst version of me.

But then again, I was only twelve.

Eternally stuck at twelve.

And with that in mind, how much could really be expected of me?

It’s not like being dead made me any wiser than I’d been when I was alive.

It’s not like being dead made me any more mature, or instilled any more confidence or strength in me than I’d had on my very last day on the earth plane.

I mean, maybe if I’d been allowed to make it to
thirteen,
I’d be grown-up enough to face something like this. But as it was, thirteen, and all that it promised, was never going to happen for me, so why should I be expected to deal with something as big as all this?

But just after I’d finished the thought, Bodhi tugged hard on my sleeve and said, “You’re wrong.”

I raised my head slightly and peered at him through my tangled up bangs.

“You
can
concentrate and focus, you’ve already proved that.”

I swallowed hard. Even though my body no longer made saliva that I could actually swallow, I did it anyway. Old habits really do die hard, it seems.