Dead Spots (11 page)

Grant set a bowl of cobbler in front of her. The steam rose off the pastry and melted the vanilla ice cream scooped on top. He handed her a spoon before darting away to grab two glasses and the milk. Looking through the doorway to the hallway, Mackenzie saw that it was still a blackened husk. The contrast between the burnt, rotting floor in the hall and the sparkling tiles of the kitchen was mesmerizing and terrifying.

Grant dropped into the chair where his jacket still hung and grinned. “You're better at this than I ever hoped.” Looking relieved as well as thrilled, Grant tucked into his own bowl, ladling a huge bite into his mouth.

“How can this be?” She lifted the spoon and stared at her distorted reflection.

“You're full of life. Full of the energy of the real world. You can restore dead spots, pluck out the energy of the things that once existed here, and make them a reality again. We're eating a cobbler someone in this house once made. This is milk someone bought at the store. The chairs, the table, all of this, are restored to how they once were because of you.”

“That is why you wanted me to concentrate on just eating lunch. So that the food would become real.” Mackenzie stared at her cobbler as she broke the crust apart with the edge of her spoon.

“That's true.”

Raising her eyes, she studied his face as he eagerly ate. “You needed me to make the food a reality.”

Grant's spoon paused halfway to his mouth. He returned her stare, then gave her a slight nod.

“Can you do this?” She indicated the room with one finger.

Setting down his spoon, Grant chewed the food already in his mouth. At last, he shook his head. “Not like I once could. I've been in here too long. I'm drained of nearly all my life energy. The dead spots have eaten so much of me.”

“You need me then.”

He inclined his head. “Yes.”

Mackenzie dared to taste the cobbler. It was delicious. After swallowing, she settled back in the chair and stared at him. He continued to eat, but he seemed nervous, maybe a little shy.

“Your companion. You said they died. So we can die here, right?”

Grant let out a long breath before saying, “Yes.”

Mackenzie swept her tongue over her dry lips and hugged herself. “Okay. So the … what did you call them?”

“Wraiths.”

“The wraiths killed him. Her?”

Grant looked uncomfortable, but answered simply, “Her.”

“The wraiths killed her. So we could've died just now? Those things?”

“We all die here.”

Mackenzie narrowed her eyes. “You're still alive.”

“But I've died, Mackenzie,” Grant answered grimly. “I have died too many times to count and in many different grisly ways.”

“I don't understand.” Mackenzie snagged his hand and squeezed. “I can feel you. You're not a ghost.”

“And not a delusion?” Grant gave her an amused smile.

Mackenzie was startled by his words and quickly withdrew her hand. She was horrified to realize her mind was slowly accepting what was happening as reality.

“That wasn't fair. Sorry,” Grant said apologetically. “But it's nice that you consider me to be real.”

“If you're alive and … uh … real, then how could you have died all those times?” Mackenzie squinted at him. “Explain, please.”

Leaning forward on his elbows, Grant folded his hands and set his chin atop them. Meeting her inquisitive gaze, he said, “This is what I didn't want to tell you yet, but I guess I need to. Mackenzie, if you die here, you come back. You just wake up in some random place with full memories of your demise and just a little less life spark than you had before.”

Mackenzie inhaled sharply. “Oh, God.”

“That's why I wanted to get us to a different dead spot and teach you how to take control of it and manipulate your surroundings before nightfall. The dead spot where we were earlier was enjoying toying with you, but at some point it would have gotten hungry enough to want to feast off of your fears. And that is when it would have tried very, very hard to kill you.”

Mackenzie stared at the melting ice cream pooling around her piece of cobbler and poked the stoneware bowl with one finger. It felt solid. The outside was beaded with condensation and she could smell the sweet fragrance of the baked peaches. It all felt so frighteningly real, but how could it be?

She raised her gaze to regard Grant thoughtfully. His fingers slowly rotated his glass of milk, as he watched the frothy liquid. When she had first seen him, he had reminded her of an old movie star type, handsome and elegant. Something about him whispered that he was from another era. He looked like no one she had ever met, but maybe her mind had plucked him from an old movie she couldn't remember.

“What is your full name?”

His blue eyes flicked in her direction. “Grant Beauregard. My family was from Georgia.”

“You don't have an accent,” Mackenzie pointed out.

“That's because I worked very hard to ditch it when I attended acting school in Los Angeles.”

“I knew it! You look like an old-school movie star!”

Grant gave her a long, suspicious look. “What does that mean?”

“I totally saw you in an old movie and put you into my dream.”

“I never made it into the movies. I had a few roles on television, but nothing more exciting than the person in the background. My biggest role was walking down a street in an episode of
The Twilight Zone
.” Grant sighed, his entire demeanor defeated. “I started selling appliances to make ends meet. I was on my way to a casting call for
The Guiding Light
when I walked into the wrong building. It was a dead spot. Abandoned recently, I guess. I was so determined to get the role, I dismissed the shabby exterior and stepped inside and…”

“The door shut,” Mackenzie finished.

“Yes.” Grant sipped the milk, then patted the white mustache away with a napkin.

“What year was that?”

“It was in 1959,” Grant answered. “What year are you from?”

Rubbing her lips together, Mackenzie fidgeted.

“The last person I met who entered a dead spot in front of me was from the year 2005.”

“I'm a little further on than that,” Mackenzie admitted. “But you don't look like an old man, Grant.”

“We don't age here, Mackenzie. Time really has no meaning. The sun rises and sets, but the seasons don't change. At least not in the way the real world works. Each dead spot is surrounded by a season, but there is no real pattern to it. I've been all around this country and a dead spot in Pennsylvania could be in the depths of winter, but you travel a few miles and the next one is in the height of summer.”

Mackenzie absorbed this bit of information. “Okay, so we're in the world of dreams and nightmares.”

“Right. And what you did here you can only do in the dead spots. Dead spots are the bridge between the world we came from and the world of nightmares and dreams. The dream world outside the dead spots is very dangerous for us. We cannot affect it like we can the dead spots where the energy is a lot more concentrated, but this world can read us, hunt us, hurt us. Whether we die in a dead spot or out in the world, it doesn't matter. We always come back.”

“So if you always resurrect, why didn't your female friend come back? What are you keeping from me?”

“If we die enough times, we eventually become a part of this world. A wraith. My companion…” Grant paused, struggling not to lose his composure. “My companion had been in the dead spots since before the turn of the century. I mean the previous century. I believe she said it was around 1891 when she entered. She taught me all she had learned about the dead spots, tried to keep me as safe as possible. You have to keep moving in this world. Always moving forward every day, or the area you're in becomes the very essence of your nightmares. Eventually, she died one too many times. I waited for her for two days to return. But when she did…” Tilting his head back, Grant took a moment to regain control of his emotions. When they were in check, he said, “At first I thought it was a wraith emulating her, then I realized it was truly her.”

“I'm so sorry,” Mackenzie whispered, her heart breaking for him. She knew what it was like to lose someone dear far too intimately for her not to sympathize with his pain.

In silence, she finished her dessert. As Grant finished eating, she carried the dirty bowl to the sink. When she turned it on, the water flowed clear and lukewarm. She found some dish soap and a dishcloth and washed the bowl. The action came normally to her and it made her feel a bit more centered. Setting it in a wire dish rack to dry, she gazed out the small window. The bizarre birds were not in the trees lining the broken fence, but the murk dwelling in the woods just beyond the overgrown backyard was unsettling.

“They took my Xanax,” Mackenzie said aloud, though she hadn't planned to. “It was on purpose, wasn't it?”

“Why do you say that?” Grant asked around a mouthful of food.

“The pills help me fight anxiety attacks. I imagine this world and its dead spots want me anxious.” Dread filled her at the thought of having another episode and not having the option of popping a pill. She had to admit the Xanax had helped when she took it. Even now, listening to Grant's horrific story, she was calmer than she should be.

“Maybe.” Grant joined her and gently nudged her aside in order to wash his things.

“But if the Xanax is working…” She was hesitant to finish the thought.

“Then maybe this is real, huh?”

Twisting her mouth into a grimace, she set her hands on her hips. “Placebo effect, maybe. I think I took the pill, so I'm calmer.”

“But if you're in a coma, or having a nervous breakdown, isn't that a bit too rational a thought?”

Mackenzie couldn't think of a reply, so she opted for silence. The clinking noises the silverware made as it was being put away were joined by a more ominous thump beyond the kitchen.

“Did you hear that?”

Grant shook his head. “I didn't hear anything.”

She pivoted on her boot heel and started toward the open doorway. She walked to the edge of the tiled floor and stared into the darkened hall.

“Can those things get inside?” Mackenzie looked over at Grant.

“Yeah, they can if we don't take precautions. I admit I'm hoping they wait until nightfall to try something again. That will give us time to restore the house and fortify.”

“I think we're too late.”

Stepping into the hallway, Mackenzie moved her hand toward a light switch. The lights overhead flickered on as the walls shimmered to a dull yellow color. A dark green shag carpet flowed along the floor, vanquishing the dust, webs, and mold.

“The seventies,” Mackenzie groaned. “Ugh.”

Other than the archway to the living room and opening to the kitchen, four doors appeared at regular intervals along the hallway. Anything could be hiding in the rooms.

Grant stepped into the hall next to her and handed her a cast-iron frying pan. It was very heavy, but she liked the way it felt in her hand. He carried a butcher knife. The sight of it clutched in his fingers unnerved her, but if he had wanted to hurt her, he could have done so already.

Holding the pan like a baseball bat, she edged toward the archway. Again, there was a thump and it sounded as though it was coming from the living room. When she exchanged glances with Grant, he nodded, then moved ahead. The living room was just as vile as she remembered. Flinching, Mackenzie maneuvered around a pile of junk while Grant headed toward the windows. Scooting along the fireplace, Mackenzie leaned over to check the front door. She gasped when she saw it was ajar.

“The door is open!”

Grant sprinted past the piles of burnt furniture to the foyer. “Did you close it when we entered?”

“I don't remember! I think so. Is it open to the real world?” Mackenzie stumbled toward him, hope filling her.

“No, no. No one came through from the real world.” Grant pushed the door all the way shut. “But something could be inside.”

“They could have easily come in through the busted windows though,” Mackenzie pointed out, waving toward them with the frying pan.

“That's another weird quirk of this world,” Grant said, slightly grinning. “The wraiths must use doors.”

“Huh?”

“You know how vampires have to be invited in? Wraiths can only enter through doorways.” Grant tapped the door with his knuckles.

Mackenzie stared at him incredulously. “That seems … dumb.”

“Fix the door so the lock works, okay?”

“So I just think about what it needs to do…” Mackenzie reached out to the broken doorknob and lock, concentrating. A dull throb in the back of her head occurred just as the door was restored and a brand-new doorknob and shiny bolt lock appeared. “Ugh … that felt weird.”

“It's because you probably added a little extra kick to the lock. Which is good. That's added security,” Grant said. “Did your head hurt?”

“A little.” She rubbed the spot on the back of her head with her fingertips.

“You used up a lot of life energy restoring the kitchen. You better just restore the rooms we need then and the back door. You're not used to being a shaper.”

“A what?”

“It's what we call people who can reshape the dead spots. A shaper.” Grant flashed a very enchanting smile her way. “Let me guess. That's lame, too?”

“A little weird,” Mackenzie responded. “So what rooms do we need?”

“Bathroom and bedroom.”

“You mean bedrooms.”

“Right.” Grant glanced out the front window. “I don't see them anymore.”

“With my luck they're inside.” Mackenzie wielded her frying pan like a sword. “But this should be able to handle them, huh?” It felt heavy in her sweaty hands.