Chapter 6: Their Secret Place

The darkness wasn't her friend anymore. Emily couldn't stand it. She turned everything on: ceiling light, desk lamp, bedside lamp. She would have flooded every part of her room with a spotlight if she could. The dark made her panic, overwhelmed her senses. This feeling was so much worse than the quiet of the gray place. She tasted her emotions, mouth burning from them chased with the occasional swig of vodka.

Sounds were worse. The least little creak made her jump. Emily's senses, stuffed down for four long months, were so sharp they cut her with every move she made.

The feeling of closing in returned. The belt against her skin was a trap, crushing her. She stopped herself with a sob of air when her fingers found the clasp.

She would not. Emily needed them with her, now more than ever. But she had to be close to them, closer even than their tokens allowed. It was time for her to face them again.

The rest of the vodka went into her backpack along with a thermal blanket and a flashlight. She missed her hoodie when she went looking for it. The yard. It would be wet from the dew. Emily fished a fresh one from the closet, reluctant. She wanted her lucky sweater. Sam was all over it.

Ear to the door, all quiet. She turned out the lights, held her breath, eased the doorknob in silence, cringing at the dark and the stillness of the house. Her shaking hand opened the door, sneakers finding the quietest path down the hall to the stairs.

The lights were out on the main floor, the only sound a muffled cough from above. Her father slept, at least. She hoped. The back door was her only escape. If she went out the front, the police in their watchful cruiser would stop her or at least tell her parents she had gone and she couldn't have that.

Not that it mattered really. But she didn't want some dumb-ass cop stumbling on their secret place and ruining everything.

The door was black in a hall of pale charcoal. Everything in her yearned for it. Despite her new fear of the dark, she hurried forward. Her fingers brushed the edge of the knob, felt the cool smoothness like fresh silk.

Sudden light tore a shriek from her as she spun, hands on her heart.

Pamela looked like hell.

"Where do you think you're going?" The rasp was unfamiliar, a caricature of her mother's voice. She had a glass in her hand, a deep amber liquid filming the sides when she moved.

"Out." It was the best Emily could do. The truth, at least, was her first instinct. She'd kept that much of herself.

"Get your ass back to bed." Pamela lifted the glass, tossed back a huge mouthful. Swallowed. She was far enough gone she didn't even grimace at the taste.

Emily smelled the whiskey at the same time she felt the shock. Her mother never swore.

"I need air." With a backpack.

"I said," Pamela swayed closer, her face a crimson demon, "get back to BED!"

The lunge was expected and Emily was fast enough and sober enough her mother missed.

"Leave me alone!"

Feet thumped on the floor above while the bed creaked. Emily knew she had to go. Her father would never understand. But, Pamela was blocking the door by then.

"Get out of my way."

"Like hell I will." Her mother lifted her glass and saluted. "Don't you think you've done enough damage to this family without running off in the middle of the night?"

She had done damage. Truth. And yet, the damage began ten years before when her little brother came home. And that wasn't her fault, not even a little bit.

Pamela's voice carried. Jack ran down the stairs and stood blinking at the bottom.

"What's going on?"

"Your daughter," Pamela weaved in place, the whisky taking her over, "thinks she is going out."

"Emily?" Jack's face was crushed already from the day. The confusion made him look pathetic.

"I just need to get out for a while." Surely that made sense. How could they stand it another minute? Insects of her mind's making crawled across her skin.

"It's three in the morning." He shook his head. "Please, honey. It's been... such a long day. Just go back to bed. We'll talk in the morning."

Pamela laughed. "A long day?" Her arm drew back. Emily flinched, turned her head as the glass shattered against the far wall. Something stung her cheek and her seeking fingers found blood. "A long DAY! A fucking long stretch of hell!" She lunged. Emily fell back, grasped for support, found none, fell to one knee. Pamela hung short of her, arms around her pulling her away, Jack forcing her retreat.

"It's YOUR FAULT!" Tiny drops of saliva joined the blood on her face as her mother's words attacked her. "YOUR FAULT! The girls died because of you! Your brother is gone because of you!" Pamela wrenched herself from Jack's grip and stood there, panting, staring down with naked hatred at her only daughter, for all she knew her only child. "He is just a little BOY, Emily. He needed you to be his big sister and love him. And you threw him AWAY! What the hell is wrong with you?"

Emily couldn't hold her mother's eyes any longer. She looked down. A drop of red hit her jeans and wicked along the fibers. A blood star.

She got to her feet, looked at the door. Heard her mother's grunt and felt her move out of the way.

"Fine. Go."

Jack immediately protested, but Emily was already throwing the lock, bolting toward the darkness.

She saw her mother's shadow fall over her as she staggered to the open door and screamed her anger into the night.

"You make me sick!"

She didn't make it far. Her mother's words were true for her, too. Harris' perfect rose bushes hid her retching. Her stomach emptied itself without her consent, leaving her weak and staggering.

She managed.

There was one instant that she heard her father calling her name when she sobbed out a silent cry for him to take care of her. But she was almost to the path, saw it up ahead under the streetlight, and the girl's call was stronger than his.

The path was blackness itself. She fumbled for her flashlight, but waited. She didn't want Jack finding her. She quivered as she walked, slowing to a staggering creep, feet catching on holes and roots she couldn't see like hands trying to pull her down, hold her back.

Meanwhile, the whisper of the trees cackled bad names.

Loser. Fuck up. Killer.

Those voices were familiar, at least. But louder now that she was back.

The gray. She needed to go there. It was the only way she would survive.

Who was she kidding? Survival was the last thing on her mind. But she had to last long enough to do what was needed and the gray place was the only way.

It hovered around the edges of her, brushing her with heavy wings, but never settling, a shy and fleeting thing. There was too much emotion, now, her soul too raw to go back. The gray didn't know how to smother it again.

She sobbed in rage into the night. And felt the edges firm, slide over her. So it would be anger, then. That would serve her.

By the time she made it to the hollow, she had worked up as much fury as she could manage. She shrieked it out to the stars, screaming herself to quiet. Then fell to her knees in the dirt and let the tears come.

She snuffled snot and wiped at her nose with her sleeve, feeling the sting of the cut on her cheek. Crusted blood gave way under her fingers and the hot wetness started flowing again. She felt a jagged edge inside her skin, the glass lodged too deep to get it out on her knees in the dark. She finally gave up. It didn't matter anymore anyway.

The bottle was a welcome friend. She drank as much as she could as quickly as she could, feeding the thing inside her, ready for the end. Cole's image tried to keep her from leaving him, but she was beyond even that need to stay. For all she knew she would be joining him. He was probably with the girls already. She let the thing come, asked it to, finally begged for the courage she needed. Drank some more when the darkness said she should, grateful it was with her in the end.

***

When the gray comes back, she embraces it like a lover. It settles around her and hugs her close. She is thankful and still and dead inside.

Perfect.

She reaches into her backpack. Comes up empty. The knife. She forgot the knife. Can see it in her head, tucked between her mattress and box spring. She can't even get this right.

When her hold on the gray starts to crumple to despair, the dying place offers a solution.

Fitting.

It's a short walk. Stagger, in her case. Through a thin line of bushes. Down a short path made by locals. She can hear the sound of the water before her feet scuff the grass at the side of the road. The walking is easier and yet harder at the same time. She keeps feeling them, like that night. Hearing their footsteps pounding over the bridge on their way to the tracks.

And then she is standing on the bridge overlooking the river. Leans into the railing, the metal bar digging into her stomach, forcing the tokens to jab her skin. She knows the fall to the ravine will do the job. And the tracks are close, so close. She climbs up on the top of the handrail and balances, swaying on the narrow beam, looking down at the flashes of water below. She can't see the bottom, but knows it is there. The hum of the river is her song, calling to her.

Better yet, the train whistle sings in her blood. She looks up, sees the headlight of the locomotive slicing through the dark, flashing through the trees. On its way to the bend. Slowing down. Just like that night. Her ride is coming.

But no. Her ride is below her, roaring over jagged rocks. White foamed water in the moonlight.

The thing within her whispers again, but it is different than she's heard before.

It's all right. It's time. Jump.

Yes. Time to jump. She sighs out a deep breath. Strokes her waist three times. The train whistle is her cue.

"Emily."

She knows that voice. Turns her head. Sees a flash of tartan and fishnets.

Emily spins and slips, her sneakers losing grip on the beam. She sees them as she starts to fall, standing there, watching her. Their white, white skin glowing in the darkness.

She throws her arms out to touch her friends. Her fingers catch the edge and hold. She has to get to them! Nothing else matters. The gray, the whispers, the death inside. Nothing.

Her hands ache from holding on. Arms shiver, muscles overtaxed. The train clatters by around the bend, the roar of it filling her mind and heart. She manages to get one leg over the rail. The other. Collapses in a puddle of spent energy in the dust of the bridge. Listens to the rattle of cars passing. Hears their laughter echoed in the clack of the wheels.

Looks up.

Sam. Tara. Madison. Standing over her.

She sobs once. Reaches for them, seeking their warmth, their light, their love.

Her fingers touch Sam's. Pass through. Chill to the bone.

Dead, they have come back to haunt her.

She screams. And darkness.

***