Dead Spots (24 page)

“Their brightness?”

Grant gave her a short nod. “Exactly.”

“Like how you see me?” Mackenzie rubbed her temple, confusion filling her.

“No. No,” Grant assured her. “To me you just stand out more sharply. Like a full-color image in a sepia photograph. He can see you like a flame in the dark. That's how wraiths see us.”

“Then why did he save me?” Mackenzie struggled to wrap her mind around all that was happening. Everything was so complicated and dangerous.

“So he could kill you himself. He's probably tracking us right now. Or at least trying to.” Grant studied the woods thoughtfully. “We'll stay off the road and head west in a straight line. There is an abandoned ranch that way. It's far off the main road.”

“How do you know this?”

Grant gave her an exasperated look.

“Oh, yeah. Fifty years trapped in here.”

“Exactly.”

“But who is he? Do you know him?”

“It's not important, Mackenzie. Just stay away from him. Please. Just stay away.”

Exhaustion ate at her. It frustrated her that she had started to feel stronger earlier, but now she felt completely drained and completely disconnected from her own body, mind, and reality. It was as if the real Mackenzie was floating somewhere in the ether. Closing her eyes, she let her mind drift in the darkness, not really thinking, but merely existing. Too much had happened in too short a time for her to entirely process. It felt like a hundred years had passed since she had floundered into the dead spot.

“You're so pale,” Grant said worriedly, pressing a warm palm to her forehead. “The dead spot took a big bite out of you back there.”

Tildy's words earlier during their confrontation had awakened within her the dangerous abyss of dark emotions. Upon reflection, Mackenzie realized she had fallen completely for the bait. “She riled me up so it could feed on me, didn't she?”

With a weary look, Grant dropped his hand. “Yes. And it did.”

“Dammit. This place keeps using Joshua against me.”

“Yes, it will continue to.” Grant regarded her thoughtfully. “Give me your purse. I'll carry it.”

Mackenzie handed it over. The straps had already left a deep groove in one shoulder. She was tempted to discard her small laptop to make it lighter. “Thanks.”

Grant claimed her purse and slung it over one arm. “Now you.”

“Huh?”

Taking ahold of her arm, he pivoted into her, crouched, then tugged her downward so she draped over his back. Grant wrapped one arm around her legs and held on to her arm as he stood with her sprawled across his broad shoulders in a fireman's carry.

“Hey!”

“Trust me. I know what I'm doing. This is the best way to carry someone.”

Without giving her a chance to protest, he started to trudge through the woods. It was a little uncomfortable lying across his shoulders, but her aching body and throbbing feet were grateful.

“I don't need to be saved,” she mumbled into his arm.

“Yes, you do. Now let me save you,” Grant retorted.

Tears blinded her instantly, her throat tightening, when she thought of how she had tried and failed to save Tildy. Her whole life she'd waited for someone to come save her. That was probably why she had fallen so hard for Tanner. He swept into her life and turned it upside down, freeing her from her mother's domination. Since Joshua's death she'd been waiting for someone to somehow save her from the deep-rooted depression that had engulfed her, but no one had. Now she was exhausted both physically and mentally. Maybe it was time for someone new to save her. She swallowed the protest on the tip of her tongue and closed her eyes.

Maybe one day she'd be strong enough to save herself.

 

CHAPTER 15

Mackenzie must have dozed because her next coherent thought was that Grant really needed a shower. Sweat saturated his shirt and dripped off the ends of his hair. Every inch of her body hurt and her feet felt numb. One of her arms was asleep and felt like a deadweight. Lifting her head, Mackenzie surveyed their surroundings, which were surprisingly peaceful and normal in appearance. Grant was carrying her through a field of waist-high grasses and insects hummed soothingly around them. The storm clouds were gone. It was late afternoon, so the sky was turning lavender and pink on the horizon. A farmhouse rose up directly before them. The roof had fallen in to the structure and stuck up like splinters, and the clapboards were gray with time. The porch leaned heavily to one side and broken glass sparkled on the ground beneath hollow windows. The weathered posts of a fallen fence encircled the property resembling rotting teeth and a wrought iron gate rested in the overgrown grass. There were no signs of the balloon swarm, the odd red-eyed owl creatures, or the silent mourners. The ground around them was undisturbed by creeping hands and Tildy didn't stand hollow-eyed and smirking anywhere in the vicinity.

“That's probably going to make my head hurt,” Mackenzie muttered.

“Ah, you're awake,” Grant said in a good-natured tone.

“So the psycho didn't catch up with us, I take it?”

“We gave him the slip.” Grant sounded immensely satisfied with this accomplishment.

“I think I can walk now. My feet are numb. Besides, you must be exhausted.”

“I'm okay. It's only been a half hour since you fell asleep.”

“Who are you? Superman?”

Chuckling, Grant kept strolling toward the house. “You're not that heavy. Besides, I carried heavier people off battlefields. You need to preserve your strength to shape the farmhouse.”

She wondered if she'd get another headache. Restoring the small house earlier had not adversely affected her, but the amusement park dead spot had taken a big sip of her energy. Also, it was really uncomfortable being carried like a bag of seed slung over both of Grant's shoulders.

“Please, Grant. Put me down.”

“If you insist.”

Once he set her down, she shakily found her balance and reclaimed her purse from him. Her feet throbbed in her boots, but the pain had yet to hit fully. She wished the rest of her felt numb. Fear pricked at her and the sense of loss was acute in the aftermath of the events at the amusement park. She'd invested her heart and soul into saving Tildy, and seeing her transform into a wraith had gutted her. From her experiences with her online support community, she knew that helping others was a way to heal, but that wasn't the only reason she'd wanted to help Tildy. The other woman had reminded Mackenzie of herself. They were both shadows of the women they had once been. Mackenzie wasn't even sure who she was anymore, but she knew without a doubt she did not want to end up like Tildy.

“Don't be afraid. You can do this, Mackenzie.”

Grant rested a hand on the small of her back, applied gentle pressure to prod her forward, and guided her toward the farmhouse. Maybe it was because her mental defenses were so battered, but Mackenzie felt it when she passed over the barrier into the dead spot. Her skin crawled with a cold static feeling for just a second. Curious, she stared at the house and wondered what it had looked like before it had fallen apart. Instantly the splintered, gray boards smoothed out and turned a pale white while the roof rose up and wove itself back together, black tar and shingles rolling into place. The glass flew up into the empty windows, fitting together like puzzle pieces to form a smooth surface. The shutters straightened and turned a deep blue while the porch leveled and a porch swing flew up to hang from heavy iron chains. The front door righted itself and turned white.

The pain hit immediately, right behind her eyes, making her head spin. She braced herself against Grant, pressing her eyelids closed, hoping the world would stop whirling about. After a few seconds the stabbing sensation ended and her equilibrium returned.

“Ta-da,” she said, her voice slightly cracking.

“You're amazing!” Grant gazed at her in awe. “But that hurt, didn't it? That dead spot really got you. Let's get you inside. You're not looking well at all.”

Grant wrapped an arm around her waist and helped her walk the last few hundred yards to the house. Each step did its part in reawakening her feet and by the time they reached the porch she could hardly rest her weight on them.

The porch creaked when they stepped onto it, but it felt sturdy enough. The front door opened easily onto a long hall decorated sparsely but nicely with antique photos on the wall and an old Persian runner.

“You shaped the inside, too! I've never seen anyone do this before!”

How was she supposed to answer him? Mackenzie had no idea how she was doing any of it. It was as if she were Harry Potter and had no idea what she was really supposed to do.

A parlor was through one doorway, a dining room through the opposite one. A staircase led up to a higher floor. A small office farther down the hall was decorated in paintings of farming scenes and old almanacs. The kitchen spanned the back of the house and was filled with very old appliances, though, surprisingly, a coffeemaker and microwave sat on a hutch.

Falling into a chair, Mackenzie propped her feet on another seat, grimacing. She dreaded taking off her boots and discovering the true damage from their trek.

The smell of coffee permeated the room and the microwave dinged. Mackenzie raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Did I do that? Or you?”

Grant busied himself getting a cup of coffee for both of them, pulling mugs off a shelf over the hutch. “Does it matter?”

“Not really.”

Grant opened the microwave to reveal a bowl of chili sitting next to corn bread wrapped in a paper towel. Leaning her elbow on the table, Mackenzie forced herself to relax while Grant laid out the food, poured water for both of them, and set the table. By the time he was done, she had a serving of the chili, buttered corn bread, coffee, and water all served on someone's chipped family china.

In silence, they tucked into their meal. At first she wasn't too keen on drinking the hot coffee, but it cleared her coated throat and made her feel a bit more alert. The hot chili also revived her to some degree and the corn bread had bits of jalapeño in it which stung her tongue in a pleasant way. The kitchen had a comforting aura and it made her wonder what the people had been like who had lived here.

“Do you need more, dear?”

They both started as a woman dressed in a flowered dress entered the kitchen. She had red hair streaked with white hair and it was drawn into a long braid down her back.

“I … uh…” Mackenzie looked at Grant for guidance, but he was staring at the woman in shock.

“I have some apple pie and ice cream for dessert,” the woman continued. She cleared the table and set the dishes in the deep sink under the window.

“Who are you?” Mackenzie finally managed to ask.

“Loretta Thompson. I live here.” She gave Mackenzie a knowing smile and set about serving slices of pie topped with ice cream. “Since Wilbur died, I'm on my own. I don't get many visitors nowadays.”

“You made her,” Grant whispered under his breath, his eyes wide. “You made her!”

“No, I didn't!” Mackenzie protested.

Loretta set the desserts before them. “I'll get the guest room ready for you while you finish up. You both look like you need a good bath and a comfy bed.”

“Do you have a first aid kit?” Mackenzie dared to ask. “I hurt my feet walking in my boots.”

“Of course! Let me just get that for you right now,” Loretta answered in her Texas twang and gave her a big smile.

Unnerved, Grant watched Loretta step out of the kitchen and into the hall. They could hear her footsteps receding.

“We need to go,” Grant said shortly.

“Why?”

“You made her, Mackenzie! You shaped her like you did this house.”

“She's so nice though! And if she's the memory of someone who lived here and I created her, why would she harm us? I just want us to have a safe place to relax right now,” Mackenzie answered, perplexed by Grant's worries. “You're not making sense.”

“This is very different from the dead spots forming Tanner, or wraiths taking on the forms of people from your mind. Loretta is actually formed from the dead spot's own memory.”

“I took control of the dead spot when we entered it,” she said hesitantly, sorting out her thoughts as she spoke. “So, if I have control of it and I want a safe haven, then that's what the dead spot shaped itself to be, right?”

“Exactly,” Loretta said from the doorway. She carried a big plastic box with a red cross on it. “The dead spot remembers everything this house used to be and my life in it. So it re-created it because you wanted it to be this way. The dead spot just wants to commune with you.”

“Don't listen to her,” Grant said sharply.

Loretta gave him a bright smile. “Worried?”

Grant looked away, his hands clenched on top of the table.

Loretta set the first aid kit on the table and popped it open. “We need to get these shoes off.”

“Loretta, are you the dead spot?” Mackenzie asked, excited at the prospect of somehow communicating with the energies of this world.

“No, no. Just a figment of a memory.”

“But you know things,” Mackenzie pointed out.

Loretta gently worked the zipper on the side of one of Mackenzie's boots. “Yes, I know what you both know.”

“So you're telling me what Grant knows?”

“Some of what he knows,” Loretta admitted. She gave him a furtive look. “But I can't see everything.”

“So dead spots want shapers to shape them?”

“Dead spots want to feel alive again. To feed on the energy of the living.”

“The headaches come from them feeding, don't they?”

Loretta nodded.

“She's a memory.” Grant bent toward Mackenzie, imploring her with his eyes. “She has limited understanding of this world.”