Where Silence Gathers (12 page)

“Hey, you.”

Though I've been expecting it, the sound of Briana's voice still makes me jump. My blood pumps faster and harder as I open my mouth to greet my friend, attempting to hide the fury that's reared it's beautiful-hideous head again.

“ … think it's a good idea, Billy,” Georgie is saying, the wind carrying the worried statement to us. Briana reaches me and turns at the same time I do.

“I think it's a great idea!” Billy slings his arm around Georgie's neck and steers her toward his truck. She's so drunk she can barely stay standing. How long was I talking to Forgiveness? Everyone is suddenly running to their cars. Someone trips and no one helps him up. There are a few Emotions among the group, but not as many as usual; alcohol numbs us. Maybe that's why we like it so much.

“What's going on?” I ask Briana, momentarily forgetting Revenge and his betrayal. I take one step in Georgie's direction, wondering if I should intervene. She hates it when we do that, though. Worry is here, twitching between us and touching our backs with hesitant fingers. The wind is getting stronger and the sky is even darker.

Frowning, Briana just shakes her head, but Faith is grabbing the cooler and overhears me. “They've got it in their heads to go to the mines,” she answers, glowering. Her cross glints in the dying firelight. “See who's brave enough to go in.”

The door to Billy's truck slams, and then the headlights flick on. Too late, Briana starts to run toward them. “Georgie, wait!” she calls, her voice rising in panic. Billy just laughs and reverses. I can see Georgie's silhouette as she drapes herself over his shoulder. He must have rolled down the window, because the sound of her drunken “Star-Spangled Banner” drifts through the air just before the truck drives out of view.

Seething, Briana runs back to the shoreline and seizes my wrist. “Idiots!” she hisses, tugging at me. We head for her car. The interior smells like pot when I get in. Ethan did just borrow it, after all. Usually Briana tries to cover up the smell with perfume, but tonight she just starts the engine and follows the parade, a line deepening between her eyebrows. “This is so stupid. The boards are probably rotting in there. Even when the mines were functioning, they never let us—”

“It'll be okay. We'll get Georgie.” I may not have drunk much, but it doesn't really sink in until right now how badly this could go. Suddenly a new fear presents itself. I stare at the taillights ahead of us, trying not to let it show how anxious I am. Everyone left in a hurry; there are probably a lot of drunk drivers on the road. Wobbling, squinting, slurring. A vile taste surges up in the back of my throat and I turn my head to force it back down. And in that moment, the rain begins to come down. It doesn't begin with the gentle pitter-patter it usually does, the gradual increase of ferocity. The downpour lashes at the side of the car. Briana switches her wipers on, swearing under her breath. She never swears.

While I'm watching her, trying to think of how I can stop the night from spiraling out of control, I hear it again.

Alexandra.

I'm looking right at Briana when it happens, and she doesn't even blink. The voice really is entirely in my head. There's something so familiar about it, so infuriatingly out of reach. Gritting my teeth, I twist away and concentrate on the rivulets of water quivering down the glass. Revenge said I wasn't crazy, but I can't trust anything he says. Not anymore. Maybe this unraveling isn't just because of Nate Foster or the choice.

William, don't.

Madness has touched my family before.

“They probably won't do it,” Briana says, almost to herself. “They'll chicken out.”

Thunder shudders through the mountain again. We're getting closer. Even if the sign wasn't there, announcing the truth of it in glowing letters, I would know. There's a sensation in the marrow of my bones, not just dread or fear or worry—it's like I'm about to step onto that rickety elevator myself and plunge into the darkness.

The mines. The mines
. I'm remembering that moment in my room again, when I heard something besides my name. I've tried to convince myself it was one of those waking dreams, something that felt real but couldn't be.

But in this moment, I know the mines aren't empty.

My best friend is chewing her lip so hard her teeth are taking skin. To fill the black hole of silence sucking us in, I blurt, “Billy's dumb enough. He might. He won't get far, since the elevator is shut off. But there is a ladder beside it, for emergencies. It's made of metal. It'll probably hold his weight. My dad took me down a couple times, so I might be able to remember the tunnels if someone gets lost.” I keep babbling, managing to distract one of us, at least. My words are only making things worse for Briana.

Fear is sitting in the backseat, eyes closed, nostrils flaring as he inhales the scent of our mutual terror. One corner of his mouth tilts up in a tiny smile. Images flit from Briana's mind to mine. She's picturing Georgie on the ladder, the whites of her eyes bright in the gloom as she clutches the bars. Then her foot slips. She falls. The sound of her scream echoes in my ears.

“Briana,” I breathe, wanting it to stop. “Don't worry. Nothing bad is going to happen.”

“How do you know?” she whispers. Her grip on the steering wheel is as tight as mine is when I'm sitting in front of Nate Foster's house.

Fear is gone, yet it's still difficult to speak. My tongue feels thick and dry, as though it's made of cotton. “I promise. Okay? You know I never break a promise.”

She glances at me. “You don't.”

“So you have to believe me. I'll take care of everything. I'll make sure. All right? You just stay in the car and wait for me to bring Georgie back.” I take one of her hands off the wheel and lace our fingers together, wishing that strength was something that could be shared through air or skin.

Briana opens her mouth to protest, but the mines come into view and we both go silent, trying to assess the situation. Her grip tightens painfully as we park behind the chain stretched over the road. The others must have lifted it and gone under; I can see fresh tire tracks in the mud. Though it's hard to tell through the glittering curtain of rain, there are dim shadows moving next to the mines. Billy is really going to do this.

A fresh sense of urgency surges through my veins, and I secretly welcome the distraction from the choice, the unknown, the past. With one last, reassuring glance at Briana, I get out of the car. She says something I don't hear just before the door closes.

The downpour is relentless. It pounds at me, making my clothes stick to my body in a sopping mess. Ducking beneath the chain, I shield my eyes and slosh through a puddle toward the entrance. There they are. Billy and his friends parked right by the mouth. They all have flashlights, beacons that guide me to where they stand. Georgie must have lost her enthusiasm when the storm started, because she's still in the truck, watching us.

I go up to Billy and resist the urge to shove him into the rock wall. “This isn't funny!” I yell, pushing my hair out of the way, snagging my eyebrow ring in the process. They all turn to me. “Let's just get out of here and go to the diner. My treat!”

“Yeah, right!” Billy grins, and a drop of rain slides into the gap between his front teeth. “We're going in. Dylan dared me to touch the pick!”

The pick. It's on display in one of the tunnels, the very first tool ever used in these mines. Dad took me down to see it once. It was so rusted and moldy I hadn't wanted to touch it.

“Are you insane?” I snap, swiping at my nose impatiently. “The pick is on the other side of the mines, by the entrance they closed up. Even the workers didn't use that tunnel anymore!”

This just strengthens the gleam in Billy's eyes. He brushes past me and starts for the entrance. I stay where I am, trying to decide what to do. Then lightning flashes, illuminating everything for a moment. But it's long enough to see it, to realize what I'm looking at.

Someone is standing in the entrance to the mines.

Instinctively I blink, convinced it's a hallucination or a dream. But it doesn't disappear. The voice speaks in my head again, louder and more clearly than ever before.
Alexandra
.

Suddenly I can move again, and I stumble back so quickly my heel catches on a rock and I fall. Dylan says my name, reaches for me. Billy has stopped, but I barely notice. “No, no, no … ” I keep scooting away, terror exploding in my chest. The palms of my hands tear on the gravel. Yet I can't take my eyes away from it. The form is broad-shouldered and tall. There's no way to mistake it for the gangly boys surrounding me. The darkness swallows his face, and though there's nothing
to give it away, I
know
this thing isn't human. What is it?
What is it?

A door slams in the distance, and then warm, solid arms are wrapping around me and helping me up. “Alex, what's wrong?” a voice shouts in my ear. This one I know. Briana. Finally I shift my gaze to look up at her and rain gets in my eyes. I blink again, and when I glance back at the entrance, it's empty. Whoever—
whatever
—was standing there is gone.

“I know you're still there,” I whisper.

Briana puts her head next to mine. “What?”

That's when I comprehend that everyone is staring at me. Georgie is outside, huddling next to Billy and shivering. Even she looks bewildered, and she's accustomed to all my peculiarities. Trembling, I stand up. My wounded palms ache and sting.

“I'm freezing. Let's get out of here,” I say, clenching my fists to hide the scrapes. The others seem to agree. The boys shut their flashlights off and trudge to their vehicles, muttering about me. Georgie extends her hand, her expression conflicted, but I walk away.
We won't give up on you
. They should. They will. One way or another, the pieces of me will keep falling until there's nothing left.

I get into Briana's car, and a few seconds later the two of them follow. The seats are soaking and I listen to them squeak as they settle, notes in harmony with the thunder and rain. The engine idles, adding to the noise that blocks all my thoughts.

“Alex?” Briana says, looking at me as if I'm about to detonate. Maybe I am.

“I'm not drunk,” I say dully, leaning my forehead against the cool window. “You can drive me back to my car.”

Still, no one moves. Georgie clears her throat. “I'm sorry I went with Billy. I-I know how you feel about … about driving when … ”

“It's fine, Georgie.”

She stops talking. The wordlessness becomes so thick it feels like the air itself has become solid. Nothing is distracting me now. I want to tell them everything about the other plane and the memories resurfacing about my father. I wish I could talk about the attacks and the betrayals. I yearn to reveal how I sit outside a house on Sanderson Road almost every night. But I don't. I don't say anything at all.

Briana shifts gears and drives.

It isn't until we're back at the lake that someone actually speaks again. Her voice floats from the darkness of the backseat, sounding just as broken as I feel. “You guys don't have to call me Georgiana anymore.”

Then she vomits.

Fifteen

The flag over the shop doorway snaps in the wind. The storm may have subsided for a few minutes, but it's far from over.

I park my whining car, slam the door, and run up the stairs. The boards beneath my feet quake with every step. Angus stares at me from his window, something suspiciously like fear in his eyes. A dog barks in the distance. As I reach for the doorknob, the memory of that silhouette in the mouth of the mine presses in, along with the knowledge of Revenge's betrayal. So much is happening that I don't understand, so much is going on that I can't control. I want to take my gun and shoot Nate Foster until he can't haunt me anymore, but Forgiveness is there, hounding me every time I think about doing it. A scream is building up inside of me, higher and hotter and horrible in its intensity, but I can't let it out.

In the entryway, I sit on the bench and yank my boots off. They leave trails of water on the floor. Then I'm standing, barely aware that all the lights are on and the sound of my aunt's worried voice drowns out the television. Before I can escape to my room, Missy rushes out of the kitchen, the phone in her hand. That's when I realize that my cell is ringing in my pocket. I hadn't even heard it. Not once.

“Alex,” she breathes, stopping. Saul comes up behind her and wraps his arm around her shoulders. Relief and Anger and Worry crowd around them, watching me with luminous eyes like rats in the dark. I want to launch myself at them, claw those eyes out.

“ … can't just vanish and expect us to be okay with it!” Missy is saying. She pushes a wet strand of hair away from her forehead, and that's when I notice her clothes are just as wet as mine. They must have gone looking for me. My stomach sinks as I realize that I forgot to send the text. “We were worried. We're responsible for you, and—”

“You're not my mom.”

It feels like I'm floating above us, looking down, watching the words leave my mouth. Regret and Guilt instantly appear, surrounding me with their strange scents and assaulting me with their big hands, but it's too late.

Saul's face is thunderous. His entire body tenses, and I flinch. He doesn't hit me, though. He wants to, I can tell, and I deserve it. But Saul is a good man. “Alexandra, you do not talk to your aunt that way,” he growls. A vein stands out on his temple.

A fraught silence falls between us. We can hear the town clock, always ticking and marking time even when it feels like time should stop.
Dong. Dong. Dong
. The rain begins again, tapping against the window over the sink. I imagine the voice in my head speaking in the language of those taps, whispering
let me in, let me in
. Saul and Missy wait and stare, expecting some kind of reaction. They look like two mannequins, plastic and fake and unmoving. We all do. For a moment I just stare at them blankly, wondering how this has happened.

I'm the first to become human again. This time, though, instead of trying to glue the pieces of us back together, I choose to say nothing. I squeak and drip down the hallway and into my room. Missy calls after me. I shut the door on her concern and turn the lock. The carpet is drenched, and a moment later I feel the bite of wind over my skin. Frowning, I turn. The window is open again. I didn't leave it that way. But if someone was looking through my things again, I can't tell—my room was messy to begin with. So much has happened today that I can only feel an overwhelming sense of exhaustion and resentment.

The Emotion stands in front of me, touching my chin. I tilt my head back so it rests against the door and ask him, “Which is worse, do you think? Feeling everything, or feeling nothing?”

“Feeling nothing,” Resentment answers without hesitation, his hairless scalp gleaming. “The most painful emotions are better than none at all. Ironically, we make you human.”

Absorbing this, I brush past him to close the window. When I turn around he's gone, so I sit on the bed. The mattress springs squeak. Dampness penetrates my blankets and sheets from my clothes, but it doesn't matter. The glint of Saul and Missy's birthday gift taunts me for the hundredth time, and I finally shove it into the nightstand drawer.

Through the wall, I can hear Angus's parents—Doug and Tina—fighting. That must be why Angus was watching for me. Another prick of guilt sends pain through my bones, and I sit with my back to the wall, looking at a jar on the floor and ignoring the current Emotion leaning over me. The jar had been in the art room at school, so vacant and forlorn; I couldn't leave it there, not when I knew someone who would want it, give it a purpose. Whatever purpose Angus has for his empty jars. Somehow, though, I know there is one. I'll give it to him soon … as something to remember me by.

“I don't care if you've been working all day! You think I'm not tired? Just pick up your shit. I'm not a fucking maid.” Angus's mom must be in his room, since her voice is closer than usual. Her husband answers, the words muffled, but it has the effect of poison: lethal and instant. She shrieks back.

Their anger is too much for me to handle tonight, so I lean over and fumble for my laptop, intending to do more research on the flash drive. But then something across the room moves, and I look up. My reflection in the blank television screen stares back. It waits in the corner, expectant.

Outside, lightning flares and fades. I get up and go to that ancient television, kneel in front of it. My fingers suddenly have a mind of their own as they turn it on and press a button on the VCR. The video hasn't been touched in months. Part of me expects it to be gone, as if the machine would try just as hard as me to avoid the memories and swallow the tape whole to do so. But seconds later there's a crackling sound, and my little brother's face fills the screen. My heart simultaneously soars and crashes.

“Mommy, tell her to stop!” Hunter shrieks. The camera is zoomed in on him, and he writhes with both agony and laughter as I dig my fingers into his side. But the camera just shakes as our mother joins us, and then it is all three of us on the bed in a tangle of arms and legs. I watch us, feeling a smile curve my lips.

For just a minute, my family is alive again. Nothing else exists. Something shimmers beside me, and I don't even care when a gentle hand settles on the top of my head. The smell of dandelions permeates the air, and the most dizzying sensation grips me. Joy. But she's not the only one that comes; Sorrow has returned. They hover, their essences unrelenting and not entirely unwelcome. The size of my room and the strength of their apathy make the gust of feeling all the more poignant. Tears sting in my eyes. Releasing a ragged breath, I reach out to brush my brother's round face, the sounds of his voice a lullaby that will help me sleep tonight. I'm so lost in them that it's jarring when my hand collides with the hard, cruel reality of the television.

As swiftly as she came, Joy is gone. All I see of her is a glimpse of red hair.

Sorrow and I look at each other. I don't tell him to go, I don't scream my hatred. Words have never seemed more impossible or inadequate. Which is why shock vibrates through me when Sorrow murmurs, “They are beautiful.” The words are rough and raspy, like he hasn't spoken in years. And then he's gone, too.

Beautiful
. I focus on the screen again, clenching my fists in the sheets. This is why I don't let myself watch it. The rush might be exhilarating, but the fall is devastating. I'm torn in half by conflicting urges: to keep watching or smash the television into a hundred jagged pieces.

“Do you give up?” the other me demands, static making hair cling to her forehead. Hunter manages to get out a yes and our mother kisses his cheek. The screen goes blue and the stillness rings in my ears.

Just like the night of the accident, they're here one moment and gone the next.

My first instinct is to turn on the loudest, most violent music I have, or open the window again and let the storm rip the room apart. Anything louder than the pain. Yet I don't move; I just concentrate on the blueness and see their faces. “I know I promised,” I finally whisper, feeling as if something inside me has exploded and I'm bleeding, bleeding, dying. I trace the place where my mom's eye crinkles were, leaving the smear of fingerprints, and for the first time I take comfort in the fact that my family isn't really here. They're only on the screen, where they can't see what I've become.

Saturday dawns warm and bright, which is unfortunate, since I'm grounded. At least I assume I am, given last night and the fact that Saul saw my car this morning. I couldn't tell him what really happened, so I told him I rammed into a telephone pole trying not to hit a deer. He didn't say a word. He just took a sip of his coffee, dumped it in the sink, and walked out. Missy still hasn't left their room.

I sit on the bottom step outside, watching the wind stir the treetops. A bird flies past. Long weeds sway beside the railing. My cell phone is next to me, silent after another unanswered call to Dr. Stern and an ignored call from Andrew. I glance down at the screen, and the moment I do, it lights up. The caller ID won't let me pretend or avoid. His name glares up at me in bright capital letters:
ANDREW
.

“Who you dodging?”

A shadow falls over the ground by my feet, and I jump. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust and recognize the face standing over me. “Oh, hey, Erskine. What are you doing here?”

The town mechanic spots my car and walks over to it. There's a toolbox clenched in one of his hairy fists. “Your uncle told me about your mirror. Thought I'd come out and take a look at it, since I'm having a slow day. Not much I can do about the other damage, though.” He squats and opens the box, winking at me. His gray ponytail gleams and his red tank top is stained with motor oil.

“Thanks.” I smile.

“So who's getting the cold shoulder, if you don't mind my asking?” He nods toward my phone, screwdriver in hand.

I hesitate, watching him take the remains of the mirror off. Erskine's always been a gossip and he'll just keep asking. So I eventually sigh and say, “Andrew Lomenta.”
Please don't ask me why.
I don't have a good lie prepared.

An Emotion materializes beside the mechanic. Fear. He grins in my direction while his slender fingers grip Erskine's shoulder. “ … know he was your old man's best friend and all, but I would stay away from that one,” he's saying.

I blink and Fear is gone. Erskine's words register. “Wait, why? How do you know him?”

He doesn't answer. Suddenly, all his attention is riveted to his task as he pulls another mirror out of the box—it's a different color than my Saturn—and attaching it. Recalling something my father once told me, I frown. The details are fuzzy and slow in coming, but they do come.

“That's right, he grew up around here,” I say. “Dad told me he moved away when he was a teenager, but I keep forgetting. What did Andrew do to you?”

Strangely enough, blabbermouth Erskine has clammed up. “Never mind, it was a long time ago,” he mutters, his tools clattering and the lid slamming down. He's already finished. Usually it takes Erskine forever to do a job because the talking distracts him. “Just … be careful. And come by the shop to get the rest of your car looked at.” He stands and strides back to his truck, boots crunching on the gravel.

I start to stand too, still confused. “Okay, well, how much do I owe you for—”

“Don't worry about it. I'll see you around, all right?” Without another word, Erskine tosses his toolbox into the passenger seat, revs the engine to life, and roars down the road.

Strange
, I think again. Maybe Erskine borrowed some of Ethan Brinkman's stash. He always gets edgy when he's on something.

Silence and boredom return. I could go look for Dad's rocket, or plug in the flash drive, or finish cleaning the attic. Instead I stay where I am, tapping my foot and squinting. Part of me knows that I'm waiting for him. For Revenge. Hoping and hating. Friendship is a habit that's not easily broken. But the other part of me doesn't want to admit it, so this—sitting here, allowing my world to crumble around me—is nothing more than enjoying the warmth of the sun on my skin.

An ant makes its way up my leg, and I let it get as far as my knee before flicking it off. The conversation with Forgiveness goes around and around in my head like the record player Revenge found in the attic:

The thing about choices is that they only exist as long as there's one to make.

What are you saying? That you'll vanish the instant I choose one of you?

Essentially, yes. Unlike Emotions, we are only allowed near a human before and during the summons. Afterwards, we're gone. It's just the way things are.

If there was any phrase I could obliterate from existence, it's that one. Just the way things are.

The stillness is disrupted again by a bush across the road rustling. At first I think it's the wind growing fiercer, but it happens again and something darts behind a tree. Apprehension appears in the empty space beside me, staring into the forest with wild eyes and holding my wrist so tightly it hurts. My throat is suddenly dry, and I tell myself it's nothing but a squirrel or a deer; there may be shady characters in Franklin, but they act under the cover of night. Day should be safe. The sun should keep bad things away.

Another shadow moves. I begin to stand; whether to confront it or run, I don't know.

The stray dog steps into the open.

The Emotion dissipates and I release a long breath, silently instructing my heart to calm. The stray hesitates at the edge of the road, her ears flattened in fear. The food I've been leaving out hasn't seemed to make a difference; if anything, she looks worse than before. Now Compassion materializes, her dark hair tickling my nose as she presses her temple against mine. For a moment we breathe together, and I find myself yet again unable to summon hatred for a creature from the other plane.