Some Quiet Place

I sit up, touch the eggshell-colored wall. An idea comes to me. I gaze around, seeing the potential. No one besides Charles ever comes into my room; my parents won’t protest against what they don’t know about.

Making plans for tomorrow, I sit back against the headboard of my bed, hugging my knees to myself. Images dance before me, all my paintings and waking dreams. Trees, darkness, the spray of the ocean, screams. You will forget everything. You did this.

Suddenly, disregarding it all for a moment, I jerk upright. After a moment I jump up and go to my door, opening it just a crack. I poke my head out into the hallway. Tim is downstairs on the couch, and he lets out a long belch as he watches TV. Mom is at her sewing machine in the corner—the steady hum of the needles drifts to my ears.

But this isn’t what makes me so alert, so attentive. The wall inside me is moving again; there’s someone near. Someone with power. A haze at the edge of my consciousness confirms it: the presence from the road is back. Not in the house. Outside.

I close the door and go to my bedroom window. But then I pause, reconsider, walk back to my nightstand, and dig a flashlight out of the drawer. Then, as quietly as possible, I return to the window and slide the glass pane open. Flashlight clamped in my mouth, I straddle the sill and grasp the trunk of the tree that’s only a foot away from the house, positioned slightly on the right. It’s easy to climb down and drop to the ground. Leaves crackle under my weight and I look around. The fields stretch out and I know that the stranger is in there, waiting for me. The power is strong. Without hesitation, I plunge into the dark depths. I wait to switch the light on until the house is out of view.

The air is cool tonight. Ignoring the discomfort of going barefoot, I move stealthily through the corn stalks and focus on the being moving in the trees beyond. I know it’s there because its presence is still an insistent poke in my mind. After a few more yards, I reach the edge of the woods. I start to run, light on my feet. I do make some noise, but the visitor doesn’t disappear at the sound of my approach. Pain suddenly pierces through my heel—I’ve stepped on one of those weeds with prickles decorating its leaves—and I stop, hissing as I exhale. But I attempt to ignore the ache and continue through the trees. The nothingness is thrumming inside me. My mysterious visitor is closer than ever.

When I know for certain that it’s just a couple yards away from me, I halt at the edge of a clearing, tilting my head to listen. My flashlight sweeps the tree line. The presence is still palpable, still nearby, but I see nothing. Is it taunting me? I wait for a sign of its location, gazing around silently, alert. My heel is throbbing.

Finally there’s the sound of a twig snapping—it’s on purpose. This creature wants me to find it. I jerk the flashlight toward the noise, my entire body poised, ready for anything. I finally spot my visitor, a dark shape standing behind a tree just a few feet away from where I am.

“Who are you?” I call. “What do you want?”

For a time there’s no reply, but the stranger is still there. Is it testing me, somehow? I don’t address it again; that’s what it wants. The woods around us thrive with life, time itself seeming to speed up and slow down.

Finally there’s more movement. My senses are at their best, intent only on survival. The stranger finally steps out from behind the tree and into the circle of light. Still tensed, I take in her appearance—and it’s female, without a doubt; even though her sweatpants are baggy and a hooded sweatshirt covers her body and face, the form is willowy. Definitely not male.

“Are you going to answer my questions?” I ask flatly. At this proximity, her essence sweeps over me more than ever before, and I can’t put my finger on it. Is she an Emotion or an Element?

She keeps her head down, using the darkness as a cover. I lower the flashlight to my side so I don’t spook her. “I came here to warn you,” she says. Her voice is rich and deep, but I get the sense that she’s young. Again, there’s an ongoing sense of recognition. Before I can prod for more, she continues. “He’s found you, and you need to try harder to remember.” The words are halting, as if she’s speaking past a pain in her gut.

“Remember what?”

An owl hoots somewhere above, a deceiving sound of normalcy. “What we started,” the stranger replies, taking a step back. She’s nervous. She’s angry. She’s … scared. As if she’s reading my thoughts, she takes another step away from me. Under her long sleeves I suspect she’s clenching her fists.

“You can’t tell me more?” I ask, not bothering to pursue her. If this woman wants to evade, she’s proven that she can do it.

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” she snaps. She takes a third step. A fourth. “You already know. Remember, for both our sakes. And don’t trust … anyone.”

With that, she spins and runs, melting and becoming part of the black beyond. Her tread is almost completely silent, and soon not even the rays of my flashlight can touch her. I wait until I know she’s gone to start for the house.

I’ve only taken a few steps when I see another movement out of the corner of my eye. I stop, every muscle in my body taut, and then I realize that it’s only a deer, standing by a bush. Its ears flick back and forth and its nostrils flare, probably smelling me. I turn my back on this place and its quiet lure. I have more to think about.

And I need to pull the thorns out of my foot.

“No,” she sobs, clutching the boy tight to her chest. Her shirt and skin are saturated with bright red blood. She glares up at the sky, tears of rage and anguish pouring down her cheeks in skinny rivers. She starts to scream at the innocent stars.

When her throat has gone hoarse, she rocks the two of them back and forth, back and forth, sobbing some more, jagged rasps of sound. “No, please. Please, come back,” she whispers, stroking a bright head of blood-smeared hair. “Don’t leave me alone. Please, please, come back. Come back … ” She rests her cheek on the boy’s head, whimpering.

There is no answer, no reply. Not from the boy, at least. “We need to go,” a voice says, somewhere in the trees. The girl doesn’t bother replying, just keeps rocking. She digs her fingers into the boy as if she’ll never let go. She murmurs something—his name—and kisses his forehead. When she pulls away, her lips drip with blood.

“It’s not safe here. We need to—”

“Leave me alone!” the girl shrieks. Her eyes blaze. Just an instant later, though, she’s a moaning hole of pain again. “You can’t leave me all alone. Please, please, please,” she chants. “Come back … ”

But he never will.

My eyes flutter open to embrace the stark and colorless walls of my room, and the first thing I’m aware of is the fact that I can’t move. Pain rips through me, shrieking. I glance down and note the fact that my wrists and ankles are duct-taped to the four posts of the bed. There are numerous cuts on my body—legs, arms, stomach— some deep and still bleeding. Tim stands in a corner, watching me, holding a long, glinting knife in one hand. It still drips with my blood.

I lift my nose and sniff the air. Power fills the room. “I can’t be late for school,” I say, unable to see him, but of course he’s here. I make the mistake of shifting a bit, to get a cramp out of my leg, and wince at the second rush of pain.

“You already have more tardies than everyone else,” Fear says, appearing at my side. “One more isn’t going to hurt.” He sits down and cool air rushes into my face. He smells of dew and sunlight and horror. “Why is that, by the way?” he adds, small wrinkles appearing in his otherwise-smooth forehead. “You’re a robot in every other aspect, but you can never seem to make it to class on time.”

Struggling is pointless, so I try to find a more comfortable position, hurting myself in the process. Fear only watches me; he’s still angry. I’ve injured his pride, and he won’t be able to forget that easily. “Could you at least get rid of part of the illusion?” I ask, nodding to my limbs and torso, where the cuts continue to bleed.

Fear smiles faintly, but it’s not a real smile. “No,” he re-

plies. “I want answers.”

I give up, going completely still. “What could I possibly know?” I ask.

In answer, Fear reaches down and picks up one of my paintings. He must have brought it over from the loft.