Lingering Echoes (2 page)

I turned away
, loathing his very being. The twinge of guilt I felt for losing my temper was mingled with the satisfaction of seeing the red stain on his cheek.

And yet, I didn’t want to deal with it anymore. Already, I was tired. I hated conflict and the draining emotions it e
voked. I could sense it would get worse, festering like an infection the longer I remained at our summer cabin.

I turned to D
ad, the man responsible for bringing me here, and for pressuring an implausible merger. I looked at him in earnest.

“Why did you bring me here, Dad? I told you I didn’t want to com
e—not to the cabin and not on this boat. Why can’t you ever just listen to me?” My eyes moistened.

“Well, Allie,
I just thought it might help you to—”

“No, Dad!
I don’t need your help. And besides, there’s nothing
to
help. She’s dead!”

My hand brushed against the coarseness of the tree trunks
, tracing the lines and curves of the bark with my fingers. Haunting laughter filled my mind, bidding me towards the river I knew too well. With an aching heart, I followed. I kneeled by the river’s side, collecting the fallen pine needles and cones. I tossed them in, watching the ruthless current drag them along. The leaves glanced off protruding boulders before they were sucked underneath the surface.

I let out a l
ong sigh and glanced upwards, allowing drizzling rain to kiss my face. A silent flash of light lit up the darkened sky, followed by a mumble of thunder. As the sky shed its heavy tears, I remained huddled on the muddy soil, staring up into the grayness.

The
abrupt rumble of a motor caught my attention, clashing against the sounds of nature. I stood up, straining my eyes through the curtain of rain to find its source. Across the river I could make out a figure on a motorcycle. He was dressed in dark clothing, his head sheltered with a helmet.

He seemed to be staring at me.

Curious, I stared back. Neither of us moved.

What was he doing out in the rain? He was probably won
dering the same thing about me, wondering what I was doing outside all alone. Wiping water from my eyes, I took a step backwards, not taking my eyes off him. Why was he was still staring? I stepped backwards once more, assessing this stranger.

He revved the motor, once, twice, three times. Then he seemed to come to a decision. His bike roared towards me, closing the gap between us. The bridge was off to my right. I didn’t wait to see if he was going to cross it.

Unsure of his intentions, instinct told me to run. I spun around, sprinting towards the cabins. Adrenaline fueled my blood, warming my cold limbs, as I dodged trees and bushes. I didn’t look behind me, even when I was sure the motor was becoming louder, closer. I kept running.

The cabins were in sight.
Only then did I dare to glance over my shoulder, my heartbeat thumping in my ears too loudly to hear the motor for sure.

He was gone.

Just as a shiver of relief coursed through me, I slammed into a body, shrieking as I beat at his chest. His strong arms grabbed me, holding me captive.

“What the—
Allie! Stop!”

With wide eyes and a quick intake of breath, I stared up at Aaron. His arms were wrapped around me, pinning my forearms again
st his chest, ending my struggle.

“Let go!” I shoved against him
, uneasy with his restraint, and he released me. Still panting, I glanced over my shoulder once more, swiping rain from my vision.

“What happened? Are you ok?” Aaron put a hand on my shoulder, turning me around
to face him. This time I didn’t shake him off, now welcoming the familiar face.

“There was someone—someone out there,” I said, b
ut except for the rain playing its unique melody against the pine leaves, the forest was quiet. Aaron raised an eyebrow. Drenched and hysterical, in combination with my outburst yesterday on the boat, I knew he thought I was insane.

“Come on,” Aaron said, taking my
elbow. I checked once more to be sure the motorcyclist had disappeared, and then I followed his lead. Aaron walked with me to the front porch of our cabin, and we sat on the covered steps.

“What were you doing out in the rain?” he asked.

I hesitated. “I was out by the river.”

Aaron paused a moment before he said,
“You were thinking about your cousin.” It wasn’t a question. Just a simple statement of fact.

He knew then.

Aaron caught me watching him carefully. He opened his palms and explained, “Your dad told us your little cousin drowned last summer.”

I
clenched my teeth, giving a simple nod of my head.

“I don’t know what I can say to make you feel better, but I’m sorry that
happened. Do you want to talk about it?”

“No!
” I didn’t mean to snap at him. Frustrated at the little control I seemed to have over my emotions these days, I tried again. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s just...that’s all there is to say. Maddie drowned. No amount of talking can change that.”

Quiet for a moment,
Aaron then rose to his feet. “Well, in that case, I was going to grab some breakfast, but do you want to shoot hoops instead?” He put out his hand with understanding resting in his expression.

I almost laughed at his abrupt change in
conversation, but I was more relieved—and grateful. I looked down at my dripping clothing. I probably should have changed, but I didn’t really want to be alone. “Sure.”

With one final glance towards the river,
I put my hand in his, and he pulled me to my feet.

***

“Allie! Over here!”

A hushed
, but loud, whisper caught my attention from where I stood behind the crowd. Brooke gestured with her hand, patting the empty space next to her on the log bench. I eased my way through the audience, slipping in next to her, and apologizing to the woman on my right when I kicked her back. She glared at me before returning her attention to the storyteller.

Aaron, sitting on the other side of Brooke, waved at me.
“What took you so long?” he asked. “Still soaking your muscles after your brutal loss this morning?”

I rolled my eyes.
“Whatever. I was just off my game.”

Aaron shook his head and returned my smile.
“You can prove it to me next time.”

“Thank you, thank
you,” the storyteller’s deep voice bellowed from the stage as he bowed in appreciation. We turned our attention towards him. Clasping his hands against his black vest, he offered a gentle smile from behind his white goatee.

Brooke leane
d over. “He just finished telling some of his favorite Aesop’s fables,” she whispered with excessive volume. “He was really good!”

“
Shh!” The woman next to me threw another pointed look, scooting away. Brooke stuck out her tongue and scowled back. I suppressed a giggle, despite the immaturity of it all.

“And now,” the man continued, quieting the crowd, “It is my great pleasure to introduce the lovely an
d distinguished Alina Ivanova.” The audience gave a welcoming clap.

A middle-aged woman crossed the stage in a billowing skirt, dyed with purple, red, and touches of green ink flowing into each other. Her thin, long-sleeved yellow blouse swirled, belling out at her wrists as she curtsied. An olive-green scarf wrapped around her head, he
r hair tucked inside. Silver tassels decorated the fringe along her forehead, jingling together behind the gleam of the fire.

“Good evening,” she began, and the crowd so
ftened. Her husky voice hinted of an accent. “Russia, where my family originates, has many tales. As a young girl, I sat around the dinner table while my babushka told us story after story, filling our minds with morals and lessons she wished us to remember. And now, in her honor, I pass these tales on to you.”

She paused, allowing the slight rustling of the trees to set the mood, the soft breeze twisting the dancing, orange flames. Her eyes scanned the crowd, now captivated into silence. I flinched when her eyes met mine, holding my gaze for an uncomfortable moment; a moment that tugged at my darkest secrets, my deepest fears, invading my privacy.
I struggled to pull away, to resist her searching eyes. The woman released me, and then she began her tales, weaving in and out with descriptions that painted vivid pictures in our minds of the lessons and morals she wished us to know.

As the evening grew late,
I stifled a yawn. The glowing embers flickered, a soft blush amongst the coals. Families shuffled out with sleeping toddlers gathered in their arms. As the numbers began to dwindle, the final storyteller played a gentle, concluding tale, rhyming and strumming on his guitar. Many from the audience stood up to leave, dusting off their pants as the final strum echoed a closing chord.

“Wait!” a dark-haired teenager called out, sitting with a few of his rugged pals. “No one told a ghost story.
You can’t sit around a fire without a ghost story.”

His protest caused
murmuring of agreement from other kids, their shadowed faces illuminated by the dying light.

“You want a ghost
story?” a familiar Russian voice observed. Alina Ivanova stepped back onto the empty stage. Her pale eyes pierced through the smaller crowd. She smiled, heightening her sharp cheekbones and pinching the crow’s feet around her eyes. Those standing to leave hesitated, their interests peaked once more.

“
I know a true one. It happened not far from here,” Alina began, pointing a long finger towards the lake hidden behind the row of cabins. “Just north of the river and east of this great lake, there lived a family: a mother, father, and their two children. The boy was the age of many of you,” she said, pointing at some of the teenagers present. A knowing look passed across her face.

“There was something evil in that
boy, something dark festering inside of him. He was always in trouble. Always,” she emphasized.

The boy who requested a ghost story squirmed in his seat as she gazed at him before continuing.

“He trusted no one, and no one trusted him, especially not his father. His parents were protective of their little girl, whose age barely touched ten. She was a sweet girl, who adored her brother and saw the small spark of good inside of him. But she was the only one who could see it, and even that did not protect her from his malice.”

My body mimicked those around me, sitting with my back straight and tense. We waited with eager ears.

“For one day, the boy, furious with his father for threatening to send him away, burned the house to the ground. Trapped, with no hope of escape, the blackened walls collapsed upon themselves, burying the family in a fiery prison. Heavy, hazy smoke circled the remains like vultures.” There were small gasps from the crowd.

“Yes.
Mother, father, and sister. All three suffered a vicious, painful death, unable to escape from the sudden bursts of flames that engulfed the house in the quiet night—a night that broke the silence with screams of terror and agony as their skin was seared from their bones.”

I shuddered, my face grimacing in distaste for the story.

Truly, it could only be a story.

Brooke gripped Aaron’s arm with her left, holding my hand with her right. She stared straight ahead with a look of horror on her face.

“At night,” Alina continued, “if you listen, you can hear their wailing through the trees, the mourning of a family lost, murdered by the callous hands of their only boy. But sometimes,” she concluded, voice just above an audible whisper, “it might only be the angry wind whistling a haunting tune. That is for you to decide.”

In answer to the insistent knocking, I flung my cabin door open.
A bright light flashed into my hazel eyes.

“Hey!” I protested, blinking away the glare. There was a quiet click and the light disappeared. When I cou
ld see again, Brooke awaited me with two teenage guys flanking her sides.

“So, are you ready?” she asked.

“Err, ready for what, exactly?”

Brooke’s eyes brightened
as she held up a large flashlight. “For an exciting adventure, that’s what! Come on!” She grabbed my arm, tugging me after her. I dragged my feet and released myself from her hold.

“Hang on a second, Brooke. What do you mean?”

“Will you please just be spontaneous and—”

A voice behind me interrupted Brooke’s pleading.

“Did I hear someone say ‘adventure’?” Aaron stepped out the door, stretching his arms behind his head. The veins in his biceps bulged, attracting Brooke’s attention.

“Uh—
Brooke? You want to explain?” I said, nudging her from her smitten stupor.

“Huh? Oh—
right.” She beamed at us with a mischievous glint in her eyes, looking around before she spoke with a low voice.

“So I wa
s just sitting on my porch when these two happened to stop by and say hi.” She gestured towards the guys beside her. “Adam and his brother...Brad, was it?”

“Brett,” the shorter of t
he two corrected, appearing disappointed in her memory lapse.

“Yeah, that’s what I meant.
Anyway, they were at the storytelling last night, and Adam says the ghost story is true!”

Adam nodded emphatically.

“Ghost story—ha!” Nick scoffed. I turned around in surprise, not realizing my stepbrother had joined our small circle. “If that’s the best she’s got,
I
could be a storyteller. That was the lamest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Well, it really did happen
,” Adam affirmed.

Nick looked at him
with mockery on the edge of his lips.

Adam stepped
forward. “I’ve heard the rumors before about the fire. Last year, I checked it out with my friends. We drove up to the location of the fire close to midnight. The remains of the house were still there. Just when we started walking around, a windstorm picked up out of nowhere. I swear we could hear a little girl’s voice in the wind, like crying.”

Everyone became silent.
I wrapped my arms around myself, looking at the ground with uneasiness.

Slow, rhythmic clapping
disrupted the mood. All eyes followed Nick’s clapping hands. “Bravo,” he said, looking down at Adam. “I suppose I should congratulate you on your efforts to pick up on girls with made-up stories, but if that’s the best line you have, maybe I should be offering my condolences.”

Adam glared at him. “It’s true,” he defended again. He puffed up his chest and crossed his arms.

“Why don’t you come with us if you don’t believe us?” Brett interjected. “We’re going right now.”

Nick prepared to object.

“Not a bad idea,” Aaron said. “We’ve got nothing better to do tonight, anyway.” He put a hand on Nick’s shoulder. “What do you say, man? Are you up for some teenage drama?”

Brett and Adam
scowled at them while Brooke, equally insulted, put her hands on her hips.

“You’re not that much older than us,” she stated, upset by Aaron’s demeaning slight.

Aaron put his hands up. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it. Come on, we’re ready. Lead the way.”

***

After parking outside a large circle of trees, we walked passed a “NO TRESPASSING” sign that had obviously been ignored on numerous occasions. Spray-painted profanity stared back at us in bold, fiery letters across the warning. Following the trail of empty beer cans and cigarette butts, we noticed how the lush grass abruptly turned into dirt. Cracked, blackened branches littered the ground and, in the center of it all, were the remains of what was once a large home with exquisite design.

Of course, imagination was required. It helped that the so
uthern portion of the house was mostly intact with its lavish, log exterior. The fire must have been stopped before it had destroyed the house in its entirety.

As my eyes roved
along what should have been the rest of the home, my heart fell heavy. Burnt rubble was piled high on top of one another. It looked like a forgotten tomb.

“So it does exist,” Aaro
n spoke, disturbing our awed silence.

“Told you,” said Adam.

“Why hasn’t it all been torn down and removed?” I swallowed, envisioning the burning flames that had destroyed the home and left it like a grave. It seemed to be a vivid and gruesome reminder of what occurred here. “They at least removed the bodies...right?”

Brooke and I glanc
ed with uneasiness at the debris. I looked away, almost fearing I might see a charred hand emerge from within. I chided myself. That was what too many cheap horror films will do to one’s mind.

Adam smiled at our reaction. “Y
eah, don’t worry. No way would they leave the bodies. Rumor has it, the kid who burned it down refused to let anyone clean it up. It was his home and his property—after he had killed his old man that is. He could do whatever he wanted with it. And for some reason, he chose to leave it as is.”

“He probably wanted to leave it as a souvenir,” Brett suggested. “The kid was sick. He killed his entire family. It wouldn’t surprise me if he
wanted some kind of trophy or memento of what he had done.”

I grimaced. “Do you know what happened to him?”

Adam shrugged. “Nah. I didn’t look that much into it. I’m betting he’s just your local psychopath now.” Adam laughed at his own joke.

Unsettled, I turned away, observing the trees surrounding us. It was close to dark. I didn’t like how the old tree branches all seemed to hunch over, like they were ready to enclose around us at any minute. A shudder slid down my back and I spun in a quick ci
rcle, looking around me. A hand touched my shoulder blade, and I jumped.

“You
all right there, Allie?”

I shook away from Aaron’s touch with a sharp inhale. “Don’t do that!” My comm
ent came out brusquer than I intended. Everyone looked at me in surprise.

“The ghost story is really getting to you, isn’t
it, little sister?” Nick laughed at me.

“And don’t you ever call me that,” I snapped at him. With my arms still crossed, I stalked a few feet away, turning my back on all of them.

“What’s her deal?” I heard Adam whisper.

“I don’t know
....”

I listened to the silence behind me, embarrassed by my reaction.
But I couldn’t help it. Talking about death only reminded me of how Maddie had drowned. They wouldn’t understand. Nobody could.

“Well, we’
re here. Now what?” Nick said. He walked up to one of the standing walls, his flip-flops crunching against the glass particles beneath him. He peered into one of the cracked windows. “Well, I can tell you what other people have been using it for. I’m going in.”

We
followed Nick around the corner of the building and stepped inside a short hallway that led us to a bedroom. Nick gave a low whistle, while Brooke crinkled her nose in distaste.

There w
as a battered, queen-sized mattress lying inside a weathered bed frame. Next to it was a dresser, positioned on its side like a bench. Formulating the rest of the circle were tree stumps, a large boulder, and other miscellaneous items that seemed to have been brought in and used as chairs. In the middle of the configuration were gray ashes and fragments of wood.

“This is apparently the place to party,” Brett said,
kicking aside a beer can and seating himself onto one of the tree stumps. “Not bad for a makeshift campsite. Anybody have a match? I say we make a fire of our own.”

I shook
my head in disgust. I looked around at the graffiti-covered walls and the ransacked furniture. This room was one of the few remaining from the disastrous fire. A fire that had taken the lives of an unsuspecting family: a mother, father, and an innocent little girl...

A surge of emotion
flooded my chest, taking me by surprise. “This isn’t right. We shouldn’t be here!”

E
veryone seemed to be judging the expression on my face. I tried to hide my moistening eyes.

“Allie,
this happened a long time ago. We’re not doing anything wrong,” Brooke said. She seemed embarrassed by my objections, smiling in apology to Adam and Brett.

“Yeah,
we’re not doing anything worse than what’s already been done here,” Adam said. “We’re just trying to have some fun.”

I shook my head again.
“Fine. Do whatever you want. I’ll wait by the car.” Stepping over a block of wood, I marched out of the room and hurried down the destroyed hallway. Escaping the awkwardness I had created, I breathed a heavy sigh.

Outside, night had fallen and the temperature in the air continued to drop. Now I wished I’d brought a sweater to impede the growing wind. I
rubbed my bare arms to make my goose bumps disappear, but something else kept causing my hair to stand on end.

I thought about the boy who had killed his family and shuddered in revulsion. Yet my heart also felt an odd sense of remorse for him, for reasons I couldn’t quite figure out. What happened to the boy that made him so hateful, to drive him to do something so cruel? And what happened to him after his family died?

He was probably locked up in some juvenile detention center or circling through state custody from one foster home to the next. How long ago was this anyway? Maybe he was a grown man, locked in prison for theft and other murders, just waiting to get out so he could strike again.

I fought against a wave of apprehension, observing
the gloomy silhouettes of the trees, searching for watching eyes or whatever it was that urged me to leave. Closing my eyes, I pressed my forehead against the cool window of the jeep, struggling to contain the overwhelming sadness and panic.

Minutes later, reluctant footsteps and quiet voices approached from behind me, leaving the burned ruins standing alone.