Defy the Dark (8 page)

The guide finally finishes his boring recital of the guesthouse's history and says, “Let's head upstairs and I'll tell you all about the ghost, all right?” We follow him down the hallway and crowd into a room overlooking the street. There's nothing in the room but an ancient armchair that nobody moves to sit in. “I've brought you in here because we can't all fit into room number three down the hall, which is the site of one of the two deaths that this guesthouse is known for.”

He tells us that in the fall of 1897, two young women boarded here, one of them a teacher, the other a seamstress. They shared a room because neither of them could afford her own, and because back then it was safer for two women to board together than alone. One night, the teacher came back from work to discover that the seamstress was dead—shot by a gunslinger who mistook her for a prostitute who had turned him down. A few days later, the teacher herself died.

“She took her own life,” the tour guide says, and the whole group is silent. “We'll never know why she decided to do it. Perhaps her delicate feminine sensibilities were too upset by the untimely death of her roommate. Just before Halloween, she hanged herself in the cellar.”

A noticeable shiver ripples through the crowd, and I wrap my arms around myself.

“Now, who's up for checking out the deceased's room?” the tour guide says cheerfully. Nervous laughter titters through the group. “It's pretty small, so you'll need to take it in groups of four or five.”

Everybody starts moving toward the hallway, and since I'm on the edge of the group, I get pushed out of the room first, bumping into one of the boys standing just outside the door. They're all wearing puffy down jackets and ski hats, and I separate them out as Tall, Medium, and Short.

“Dude, watch out,” Tall says.

“Sorry.”

“Hey, do you go to Westfield?” he asks. “I don't recognize you.”

“I go to Coal Creek,” I say, pitching my voice lower. I know he doesn't realize I'm not a guy, and I don't think I want to deal with him figuring it out. A thick rush of homesickness fills me. I'm so sick of being new all the time. I miss my friend Jada with her blue hair, and Kendall who's obsessed with anime. I miss the warm weather and I miss—God, I miss Angie. Even if she never really liked me that way, at least she didn't think it was crazy that I liked her.

The shortest of the three guys comes back from looking over the railing at the foyer and says, “Hey, do you remember seeing that door down there? I bet it leads to the basement. Wanna go check it out?”

“That's where the tour guide said that chick killed herself,” Tall says.

“Duh,” says Short. “That's why we should go down there.”

“Yeah, let's go,” says Medium enthusiastically. “This tour is boring.”

Tall gestures at me. “Hey, dude, wanna come?”

I glance over my shoulder at the tour guide, but he's busy corralling the crowd in small groups into the bedroom. “Yeah, okay.” The guys are right. This tour is boring, and I want to check out the rest of the house before McKenzie shows up.

We go back down the stairs as quietly as possible.

“What's your name?” Tall asks.

“Ty.”

“Hey. I'm Brian. This is Chad and that's Jason.”

“Hi,” I say, nodding to them.

“What are you doing on this tour?” Brian asks.

“Just moved here. Wanted to see what it was about.”

Jason's already at the door they spotted. It has a latch holding it shut, and when he lifts it, the door springs open. “Whoa,” he says, and shines his flashlight down the stairs. I see dirt at the bottom; the basement's not finished.

“That's creepy, man,” Brian says.

Chad is apparently the one with the most need to prove himself, because he shoves his way to the front and says, “Whatever. Don't be a chicken.” He heads down the stairs, and Brian and Jason chuckle nervously before following.

I trail them down the steps into the cellar, the smell of damp dirt surrounding me. The space is pretty small, but as they shine their flashlights around the room, I spot a door on the far wall.

“Check that out,” Chad says. “That is awesome.”

I try to suppress the shiver that runs over me, but I can't. I'm not cold, exactly, but there's definitely something eerie about the air down here. It feels thick against my face, as if I'm walking through fog.

Even Jason seems a little freaked out. “Dude, do you really—”

But by then Chad has already crossed the basement and opened the door in the wall, and the scent that spills out is foul.

“Something must've died in there,” Brian says.

We all go stiff with silence, until Chad says, “Yeah, dude, like a rat.”

Jason gives a nervous laugh and joins Chad at the threshold. They sweep their lights through the space. I'm standing behind them, beside Brian, but I can see a little. It's a big room; I think it goes underneath the whole house. There are several piles of furniture in it, chairs and tables and an old tufted armchair that must have once been pretty nice but is now clearly a nest for whatever died.

Something flutters at the edge of the flashlight, and Chad curses out loud, bumping into Jason. “Dude, get away from me,” Jason growls.

“Shut up—check that out.” Chad shines the light up, and for one terrifying second I think there's a body hanging from the rafters. “It's a sheet,” Chad says triumphantly. “Somebody tied a freaking sheet to the ceiling.”

The boys start laughing, and I join in—I can't help it—it's just a sheet nailed to the rafters. It's not a ghost at all; it just looks like one.

Something touches my back, and I glance over at Brian, who's closest to me, but he's at least three or four feet away.

I freeze.

There's something behind me. I want to turn around but I'm paralyzed. The boys are joking about how someone got that sheet up there in the first place. They don't notice that I've stopped laughing. The impression of five fingers on my skin—even though I'm wearing my own puffy jacket—is unmistakable. And then I feel someone lean over my shoulder, an unseen weight bending toward my head. I feel breath against my ear. Even though I want to scream, I don't, because of that
hand
pressing against me as if to say,
Don't say a word
.

Suddenly the door slams shut, and Chad and Jason and Brian shriek and leap back. One of them trips on something and falls onto his butt, his hands scrabbling in the dirt, and
still
I'm unable to move. I'm stuck in place as if roots have grown out of my feet and dug into the ground.

“Move, move, move!” Brian shouts as they race toward the stairs.

Their feet pound up the steps, and I'm alone in the dark with this thing.

The breath on my ear is like a kiss: cold lips against my warm skin. I know I should be scared. I should be pissing my pants with terror. But the feeling that sweeps through me isn't fear; it's awe. There's something
real
down here in the cellar. Something that upends everything I've ever believed about life and what comes after.

As if this entity, whatever or whoever it is, can sense my wonder, the fingertips slide over the small of my back in a cool caress. It's almost inviting. And for some reason I remember that day in the library with McKenzie and our physics homework. It was just the two of us, with nobody there to see the way she looked at me. Her flirty grin, her body angled toward me, leaning into the possibility.

I don't want to leave.

Something on the other side of the door in the wall thumps, like someone's knocking.
Get. Out.

Cold ripples across my skin as I realize there isn't only one entity in this cellar. There are two. And one of them does not want me here.

The hand on my back shoves me toward the stairs, unsticking me from the ground.

I run.

Rachel Hawkins

Eyes in the Dark

A
s soon as I see the truck parked behind the Smart-N-Sav, I know I'm in trouble.

Lindsey knows it, too.

“Nooooo!” she groans as I freeze in the doorway. My heart races and I have enough self-respect to remind myself that it's kind of pathetic to get all flustered just from seeing some guy's
car.

But he's parked right under one of the few streetlights that hasn't blown out, and now I can see him, sitting in the front seat of the truck, his long fingers tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel.

And just like that, I go from flustered to straight up twitterpated.

“He's waiting for me, right?” I ask Linds. “I mean, he knows I work here—why else would he be waiting in the Smart-N-Sav parking lot at night?”

“We
are
having a sale on sliced ham tomorrow,” Lindsey says, squinting out into the darkness. “Maybe he's trying to get a jump on that.”

Scowling, I start tugging on the strings of my apron. “Linds, there is a chance
Kelley Hamilton
has come to get me from work for the express purpose of making out with me. I'm gonna need you to get real serious
real
fast.”

Linds gives the huffy sigh that always accompanies an eye roll, but I'm still watching Kelley. So far, he hasn't noticed me and Linds in the doorway, which I am very grateful for. No girl looks her best in a bright red apron with
SAV SMART! ASK ME ABOUT OUR FRESH MEAT!
scrawled across the front.

“Sam, we have been over this,” Linds says as I stuff the apron in my purse. “That way?” She nods to the truck. “Lies madness. Sexy, sexy madness with really nice hair, but madness nonetheless.”

She is right. There are three major reasons—all with their own subset of accompanying reasons—I should not walk out to that truck. I know this because last week during Government and Economics, I made a list. I used highlighters and different colored pens and everything.

But then Kelley sees us. The corner of his mouth lifts, and even though it's not a full-blown smile, it does all those clichéd things. It turns my knees to jelly. It gives me a sudden case of stomach butterflies. It makes my blood feel hotter and thicker.

It also blows my organized, reasonable, extremely colorful list to pieces.

“Okay,” I say, turning to Linds. “So I'm supposed to be sleeping over at your place tonight, anyway.”

“And you are.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “I'm serious, Sam—you are not spending the entire night with that guy.”

“Duh,” I tell her, fishing my phone out of my pocket. “I'm not that kind of girl. I promise, I'll be at your place by”—I check the time—“midnight. Maybe half past. How much trouble can I get into in two hours?”

Linds glances toward Kelley. “With him? Probably too much.”

“Eleven thirty, then,” I tell her, and when she keeps frowning, I tug on her sleeve and widen my eyes. “Pleeeeease?”

Finally, she laughs. “Oh, God, not the anime eyes. Fine. Eleven thirty. But after that, I'm calling a SWAT team. Or worse—your parents.”

There's someone else she could've mentioned calling. That she didn't is yet another reason Linds is my best friend. “Thank you,” I tell her, giving her a quick hug.

“You're welcome. And understand that I expect payment in the form of a thoroughly detailed account of what making out with Kelley Hamilton is like.”

“Done.”

I turn and start walking to the truck, wishing I'd thought to put on some lip gloss while I was arguing with Linds.

As I approach, Kelley gets out, coming around to lean against the passenger door. He stands there, legs crossed at the ankle, and grins at me. “Samantha Porter. Fancy meeting you here.”

My brain races for some witty retort, but he's
smiling
and
leaning
and his dark hair is falling in his face, and it's a wonder I can think to breathe, much less banter. Still, I manage a weak “Are you stalking me?”

His grin deepens. “No, I'm stalking the Smart-N-Sav. Last week, she sold me canned peaches for fifty cents, so I'm pretty sure she likes me.”

“Hate to tell you, but she actually sold everyone her peaches for fifty cents.” By now, I'm standing right in front of him, close enough to breathe in the clean, soapy smell of his skin. I lean closer, dropping my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And today? They went down to just a
quarter
.”

“That skank,” he says, and I laugh.

In a series of easy, graceful moves, Kelley reaches behind him, opens the passenger door, and bows. “Since Lady Smart-N-Sav has broken my heart, may I at least escort her handmaiden home?”

“You may,” I tell him as he helps me up into the truck. Inside, it's shockingly clean and smells like Kelley. The leather seat is cold through my jeans, and I wonder how long he's been waiting for me.

Kelley cranks the engine, and stale warm air rushes out of the vents. The radio blares to life, some pounding rock song, and Kelley and I both jump, laughing nervously when he turns the music off.

“I have to say,” I tell him, “you don't seem like a Truck Dude.”

He shrugs, looking over his shoulder as he backs up. “My dad got it for me. Figured since I was moving back to Alabama, I ought to try and fit in with the locals.”

“Are you glad? To be back in Hellburg?”

Kelley snorts at the nickname. We live in Haleburg, but in a deep Southern accent, it sounds like Hellburg. And, to be honest, that name feels more fitting sometimes.

“I'm not
not
glad, how about that?” he says. He pulls out of the parking lot and onto the two-lane highway. “It's not the worst place I've ever lived, that's for sure.”

Ah. And there we have it. Coming in at the bottom of the list: Reason Number Three I Should Stay Away from Kelley Hamilton: his super-weird past. I wrote that in green highlighter.

Until we were in the sixth grade, Kelley lived in Haleburg with both his parents. His dad was a doctor in Dothan, the nearest big town, and his mom taught at the high school. Even back then, I'd had a crush on him. I mean, I still had a drugstore valentine he gave me in kindergarten.

But when we were twelve, Kelley's parents got divorced. His dad moved to Dothan, and Kelley's mom took him back to her hometown, somewhere in Georgia.

But Haleburg is a small town, and people still talked. When I was in eighth grade, my mom heard from a nurse who used to work with Kelley's dad that Kelley was having . . . issues. And then the next year, that same lady said that Kelley'd had to go to Atlanta and live either in a hospital or reform school. No one was ever really sure.

And then of course there were rumors that he was messed up on drugs, and someone else said they'd heard he was homeless in Nashville. But just as many people said that it was nothing like that, that yes, he'd a rough time with the divorce, but nothing out of the ordinary.

And then, a few months ago, at the beginning of our junior year, Kelley suddenly reappeared. He sure as heck didn't
look
like someone who'd been a junkie and/or homeless. And there was his easy grin, his quick laugh. If he were all psychologically damaged, he wouldn't be so
nice
, right?

I mentioned that to my mom just the other night, but she got a funny look on her face. “Maybe, but I still don't want you hanging around him. Just to be on the safe side.” (That, by the way, was Reason Number Two I Should Stay Away from Kelley Hamilton.)

We come to a four-way stop, and Kelley glances at me. “Since I'm not stalking you, I actually don't know where you live. Which way?”

“I'm staying with Lindsey tonight.” Now he's looking at me, and the next words come out in a rush. “She's not expecting me for a few hours, so we can hang out or . . . whatever.”

Oh, God.
Or whatever?
I'm so glad it's dark in the truck so he can't see the blood rushing to my face.

Or whatever
. I hate myself so hard right now.

But Kelley nods. “Excellent. You, uh, wanna drive around then?”

I'm not sure if that's universal code for “go kiss each other's faces off,” or if it's just a Southern Guy Thing. I do know that I've never just “driven around” with any boy.

So even though my voice is light when I reply, “Yeah, sure,” my hands are twisting in my lap, pulling at the hem of my sweater.

Kelley makes a right, and soon, we're leaving Haleburg behind, the truck speeding down the dark road, nothing on either side but peanut fields. Overhead, there's a crescent moon, and the stars look bright and cold against the dark blue sky.

Kelley opens his window, and I roll down mine, too. Even though it's a chilly November night, I have to fight the urge to stick my head out like a dog. I settle for dangling my hand in the air, my skin quickly going numb. Ever since Kelley strolled into homeroom in August, I've felt like we were circling each other, heading for this night, this moment. And now—

A chime rings from my purse. I fish out my phone, expecting a text from Linds. But the name flashing on the screen is
JUSTIN
, and the text reads
HEY, U AT LINDSEY'S? MISS U!

I hold the phone for a second, debating whether or not to answer. Because this? This is the Number One Reason I Should Stay Away from Kelley Hamilton: I have a boyfriend.

Or I kind of do. I mean, Justin and I have never had a conversation that involved words like
boyfriend
or
girlfriend
, or
exclusive
. There's been no, like,
jewelry
exchanged or anything. So I have no reason to feel guilty, really.

But thinking that doesn't stop my stomach from clenching as I slide the phone back into my bag.

“Anything important?” Kelley asks over the rush of the wind. By now, we've passed the peanut fields and are driving through the woods that encircle Haleburg. Thick copses of evergreens block the moon.

I smile back at him. “Just Linds, checking on me. So are we driving anywhere specific, or . . .”

He grins, and I catch my breath, hoping he doesn't notice. “I thought we might go check out the covered bridge.”

“Cater Creek Bridge? We can't.”

Something crosses Kelley's face, and for a second, I think it's annoyance. But it's gone as soon as it appears, and he shrugs. “I know we're not supposed to, but—”

“No, I mean we actually
can't
. They blocked the road.”

The covered bridge used to be kind of famous in Haleburg. My parents had taken me there a lot when I was little. Sometimes we'd had picnics under its broad red roof, sometimes I'd played in the icy-cold creek running under it. It had been a pretty spot.

But over the years, fewer families came to the bridge for picnics, and more teenagers went there to get high or have sex. The bridge, which had been so picturesque and quaint, had started to feel seedy and sinister.

I couldn't remember if Kelley had been here when Cater Creek Bridge started going downhill, but then he says, “So did the county finally get sick of picking up joints and condoms?”

I laugh nervously, even though him saying the word
condoms
brings another rush of heat to my face. “No, um, it's actually kind of weird. There was a couple from Dothan about three years ago who went down there. Never came back.”

“This is the part where I start humming
The Twilight Zone
music, right?”

“Well, it's not that mysterious. I mean, they found their car but none of their stuff. Everybody thought they just ran away together. But it was still enough of a big deal that the county decided to close off access to the bridge.”

Kelley slows as we reach the little dirt road that winds through the woods. There's still a sign that reads,
CATER CREEK BRIDGE: ALABAMA'S LARGEST COVERED BRIDGE
with a fluorescent-white arrow pointing into the trees. Under that, block letters scream,
ACCESS FORBIDDEN. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.

“Why not just take down the sign?” Kelley mutters.

Branches scrape against the roof of the truck, and I bite my lip.
PROSECUTED
blares in my brain. All the happy, euphoric feelings rush out of me, replaced by that awful twisting sensation that's your stomach's way of saying
THIS IS A BAD IDEA
.

But it's not like we can even get to the bridge. They brought in mounds of dirt and clay and piled them into hills about halfway down this road. We'll get to those, Kelley will see that the whole bridge idea is impossible, and then we'll leave. And maybe go somewhere else to make out, although, I have to admit, I'm not much in the kissing mood anymore. There's even a small part of me wishing I'd just gone home with Linds tonight.

But then Kelley takes my hand. It's the first time we've touched (if you don't count a round of duck, duck, goose in second grade), and it sends a pulse through me. Keeping his eyes on the road, Kelley rubs his thumb in little circles on my palm. “You're awfully quiet over there.”

My mouth is dry as I say, “Signs that say ‘forbidden' and ‘prosecuted' tend to freak me out a little, that's all.”

I want him to say something like “Okay, we'll leave then.” Instead, he says, “Where's your sense of adventure?”

But as we pull up to the hills of dirt blocking the road, his grin fades a little. “Whoa.”

I'd expected pretty big piles. Tall enough to discourage people from trying to climb them in trucks or ATVs, but not so high as to make it impossible. But these hills tower over the truck, nearly eight feet high, and steep. Not only that, there are branches, pine straw, and all shapes and sizes of rocks mixed with the dirt, making the mounds seem dangerously unstable.