Chapter Seven
Familiar Strangers
Headlights sliced through inky blackness. Rachel squinted as the car sped by. Normally, she’d scowl after being bombarded by the stranger’s brights, but tonight her thoughts were on Hilda’s story. Rachel shuttered. Phantom pains spiked in her own legs as she imagined two men beating Hilda’s knees with baseball bats. All the reporter did was plant a seed of doubt, and they crippled her and scared her out of the state.
Rachel felt her heart rate quicken. Spirits of the dead, murderers, and conspiracies, she was in the middle of it. Out of the suffocating fear, Rachel felt… alive. More than she had with her art. Her marriage. It was terrifyingly amazing.
The lights were on her father’s house when she pulled into the driveway at eleven pm.
“I’m home,” Rachel said, unlocking the door.
Brett opened the door for her the rest of way and shut it behind her. “You were gone the whole day.”
“I lost track of time.” Rachel admitted
Brett crossed his arms. “I called you three times.”
Rachel checked her phone. “I know. I was meeting with someone. You wouldn’t believe what I learned--”
“Rachel,” Brett cut her off. “Tell me what’s going on. Your father has gone to bed. It’s just us. ”
Rachel crossed her arms over her chest. “I was about to tell you.”
Brett pursed his lips.
“I’ve been looking into the history of our house. Can you believe that a family of four was murdered there? Mother, father and two kids. The murderers were never found.”
“Does this have to do with the break-in?” Brett asked. “I know it’s scary, but you haven’t been yourself the last few days. You hardly sleep. You don’t finish your plate. You used to be inseparable from your easel and now you won’t look at the thing.”
“Brett, it’s only been a few days. I told you I’m taking a break from my art.” Rachel said, starting to get annoyed.
“That’s fine, but I had to FedEx all of your sold works today because if I hadn’t, you would have lost some key clientele.”
“When did this become about my money?” Rachel asked. “There’s a lot more important things going on right now.”
“Firstly,” Brett said keeping his voice down not wake Liam. “It’s our money and we have a house we need to pay off. Secondly, we need to be establishing ourselves financially, otherwise we’re going to be SOL for the next twenty years?”
Rachel longed to tell him about her encounter in the basement and all the unbelievable things that have happened but, by the look on his flushed face, he would hightail her straight to the mental hospital. Instead, she avoided eye contact and said nothing. She felt like child.
Brett cleaned his glasses on bottom corner of his shirt. “I’m not mad at you.” He said begrudgingly. “I want… I only want things to go back to normal.”
That’s what I’m trying to do.
“If you say that you’re fine and nothing is wrong, I’m going to trust you, Rach. But if that’s not true. Let’s be transparent. That was one of our wedding vows. No BS. We aren’t like the rest of them.”
Rachel locked her bloodshot eyes with his. She spoke calmly, clearly and confidently. “Everything is fine.”
Brett’s frown sunk his entire face. He whispered. “Okay,” and then headed to the bedroom for some sleep.
Rachel stood in the living room, all alone, unsure why she lied to the man she loved. And why it had become so easy to do so. Her mind went to Barnes murders and how she was going to solve them.
Rachel handed the cab driver a twenty and removed herself from the vehicle. Her dark hair brushed across her cheek and small nose at the wind’s cold touch. Dry leaves and locust husks littered the front lawn. The Hadley House stood ominously with its sickly pale green paint and gathering of barren trees on all sides. Wading through inches of leaves, Rachel approached the front door. Brett had gone out to his photoshoot, and her father was at the bowling alley. She’d had a few hours to do what she needed to do: find out those kids.
“Hello?” Her voice carried through hallway and up the stairs.
The soft clicking grandfather clock filled the first floor.
Rachel felt idiotic, talking to empty house. With a long creeeaaakk, she opened the basement door. Memories of flying furniture replayed in her mind. Taking one step at a time, she descended into the abyss with her hand firm around the mag light.
“I want to talk to you.” Rachel said into the darkness, bracing herself for another attack.
Nothing came.
She walked back to where rocking chair, hoping and not hoping that the doll had returned. No. Why wouldn’t they show themselves. None of this made sense. The children would know their killer, right? Couldn’t they help her or is she doomed to restless nights for eternity. Rachel felt a tugging feeling, beckoning her to the darkest corner of the basement. She took a breath and armed herself with a nearby dusty croquet mallet. Cautiously, she slipped by covered furniture and relics from the long dead Barnes family.
One moment, the feeling would stand the hairs on the back of neck and the next, she’d felt nothing. It seemed like she’d been play a sinister game of hot and cold as she navigated the dark of the basement. She reached a place at the back wall where her skin crawled like she was the host to a thousand roaches. She checked herself a few times, making sure that there were no insects on her and then studied the surrounding.
There was nothing particular unique about the drab concrete wall. Still, Rachel stared at the wall like a gallery panting, trying to decipher it’s hidden meaning. Disappointed, she trailed a few feet down, casting the flashlight to and fro until she found a fissure down the running the concrete. It ended at a fist size hole. Taking a knee, Rachel aimed the light within. Dust, dirt, cobwebs and a sort of booklet rolled up like a newspaper inside could be seen inside. Sighing, she shoved her arms inside. Her fingers brushed against dry concrete and then the old paper. It slid out without a hitch. Rachel’s hand and forearms were covered in red scratches. Gifts from the jagged concrete.
With her palm, Rachel brushed away a sheen of dust on the booklet’s face. Barnes is all it read. She flipped through the yellow pages. Numbers, names, addresses. She turned about the basement. Is this what the children wanted her to find?
Upstairs, she booted up her laptop and typed in the addresses. Lumberyards. It’s Reginald’s sales ledger, she realized. Making a few phone calls listed on certain websites and business registries, Rachel confirmed that the yards listed were purchased by Regi and then later bought back by the bank or Lilith Barnes’s parents. According the obituaries Rachel found online, the parents have been dead for over a decade. At least Hilda’s story checked out. That gave her confidence.
Taking the time to sift through the numbers and letters, she caught a detail on a final page. Regi had labeled two lumberyard Sale in Progress. The money he had estimated to purchase was considerably lower than the sales at the start of ledger. Rachel researched the two names. Strong Wood Lumber and Earth Call. Both had become lumber tyrants in the last two decades, but Strong Wood had undergone a name change in 1983 to Prime Cut Lumber. Funny. That’s the same year the Barnes family was murdered.
“I’m going to the art museum today,” Rachel told Brett via a phone call.
“Alright.” He said with hesitance. “See you for dinner.”
“You too.” Rachel hung up. She arrived at the lumber yard forty minutes later. Loud machines, yelling men in hard hats, and walls of timber encapsulated the busy yard. She paid the cabdriver extra to stay while she conducted her amateur investigation. She headed into the main building, a simple rectangle with an A-frame roof, and approached the man seated at the desk. He was of medium build with a healthy grey beard and creased forehead. His hazel eyes had crows feet and his face was long with a strong nose. The man had aged before his time. He was perhap
s in his 50s. He looked up from his computer.
“Can I help you?” He asked politely despite his look of suspicion.
“I’m Rachel,” She shook his hand. “I’m authoring a book about the North Carolina lumber trade, and was wondering if you had a fifteen minutes to talk?”
The man smiled, almost flirtatiously. “Wouldn’t this have been easier to do over the phone?”
“Probably,” Rachel joked. But then I wouldn’t be able to see your face. “I like to get my hands dirty.”
The man smiled agreeably. Rachel could tell he liked her. Good.
“You must be Allen Umber,” Rachel said, recalling the name from the online business registry.
“People actually know my name? I’m honored.” The man joked.
“Only nerds like me, Mr. Umber.” A match. Now it was time to see if this was same individual who owned Strong Wood during the time of the murder.
Allen swiveled his chair and minimized the spreadsheet on his computer, revealing the desktop picture of him hovered over a dead buck. “I suppose I can kill a few minutes.”
“You hunt?” Rachel asked.
“For many years, yeah,” the man said proudly.
Rachel sat down at the chair facing the desk and pulled out her sketchpad. She flipped it to a page labeled Book Notes. In the cab ride, she jotted down some random facts about lumberyards to help support her lie. If you’re going to do something, do it right, she thought.
“Tell me about Prime Cut. What made get you into the trade?”
“Family got me into the business, as they do around these parts, and Prime Cut wasn’t always Prime Cut. Strong Woods was the name my father preferred.”
Rachel nodded. “Your father still around?”
“No. Passed in ‘78.” Allen admitted. “One minute, you’re BSing with the old man. The next, you’re thinking about his legacy and your role in that. Been running it ever since.”
“I’m sure keeping the business alive means a lot to you. Why change the name?”
Allen stared at her for a moment, trying to figure her out. “Marketing.”
Rachel jotted down a useless note. “I know in the seventies and eighties, Reginald Barnes tried to monopolize the surrounding the lumber yards.” She let the statement linger, watching the Allen’s reaction. He was still water. “I’m sure that upset you. Especially since your father had passed away only a few years prior. Almost like you finally settled in and learned the business and then some pretentious stranger comes into town to tear the rug out from underneath you.”
“It’s not a good feeling,” Allen said politely. It was obviously an understatement.
“You had to fight back,” Rachel said. “Make some real sacrifices to keep the business alive.”
“Most of us did,” Allen scratched his beard and didn’t look her in the eyes. “It was a rough time. Is this part of your book?”
“Yeah. The Barnes family massacre particularly. There wasn’t much press on it, and from the records, it seemed like they were murdered before he could finalize the agreement to buy out. Strong Wood. Seems suspicious, don’t you think?”
Allen shifted his jaw. “That was many years ago. I don’t remember much about it.”
“The Barnes family and their children were slaughtered in their own home, Mr. Umber. Almost every lumber company who’d been screwed by Reginald just got their fortunes back in a massive stroke of luck and you know nothing about it?”
“Nothing,” Allen replied. “As I said.”
Rachel felt she was losing her grip on the situation. If she ever had grip to start with it. She had to keep pressing him. “It saved your business. Seems like something you’d remember, almost like you changed your company’s name to distance yourself from the murders.”
Allen glared at her. “I don’t appreciate being accused of something I know little about.”
Rachel stared him down. “I’m only writing a book here, Mr. Umber. I didn’t mean to offend.”
“I’m afraid you did, Rachel…?”
“Harroway,” Rachel replied, using her maiden name. If he looked her up, he’d get her address from eight years ago. Good luck tracking me to the Hadley House.
“I’d prefer if we discuss the lumber trade,” Allen said. “I only have a few minutes free.”
Rachel nodded and asked him some broad, improvised questions about timber, machinery, and his daily routine. It was boring and useless to her investigation. She needed to follow up her other clue. “Hunting is great past time,” She started. “But what do you defend yourself with at home?”
“That’s an odd question,” Allen replied.
“Many of my readers are blue collar gun owners. They like this kind of stuff. You seem like a high caliber type of guy.”
Allen chuckled. “Yes, I am.”
“Forty-five?” Rachel asked.
Allen nodded. “1911. Never let me down.”
Rachel jotted down the note. She remembered the bullet wounds on the children’s bodies. They were .45 caliber, or something similar. Was she really taking to their killer right now? The idea made her stomach churn. All things considered, the guy seemed so… normal.
Closing her notebook, Rachel exited the building and hurried to her cab. She felt a surge of adrenaline as Allen Umber waved her goodbye.
In the back seat of the cab, Rachel chewed her nail. Was she too forward with Umber? She didn’t know. She could only compare her experience to crime serials and serial killer novels. The man was defensive against her accusations. Then again, most people are to any accusation against them. This was going to be a lot more difficult than she thought.
Onward to Rachel next stop, Earth Call Lumber.
The yard’s set-up was similar but more disorganized. Instead of the massive operation Umber ran, there was a splinter team of workers sending lumber logs through massive saw blades. They were a chain smoking, catcalling, dog faced lot. Rachel paid them little mind. She found David Winsler pulling levers in a rusty red outdoor operating cab. Nearby, a shaft of lumber drifted down a loud vibrating conveyor belt into the rectangular lumber house where saws screamed in the wood dust coated the floor like Christmas morning snow.
Winsler was a short, muscular man with a bull-like upper body and a devilishly handsome face that had only gotten more attractive with age. The picture on his website was stoic and years younger.
He raised his index finger at Rachel and launched the last lumber log through the belt. Grumbling to himself, he marched out the cab and wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Blackish grey hair curled out of the sides and back of his trucker hat. He had a sour expression on his clean-shaven, handsome face. “It appears anyone can walk into my yard uninvited these days.”
The afternoon sun beat on Rachel forehead and caused her squint. “I don’t mean to intrude. I’m writing a non-fiction book about the local lumber trade and was hoping you’d have few minutes to spare.”
“Should’ve made an appointment.” Winsler hiked back his thumb to the conveyer belt and shouted over a screaming saw. “I got at least two dozen more logs to get through here by sundown and we’re behind as is.”
“I know my visit is spontaneous. But I think you’ll be interested to hear what I have to say.”
“Probably not.” Winsler replied.
“A large portion of story follows the Barnes’s massacre in ‘83.”
Winsler gave her an evil eye. “What do you know about that?”
“I know Reginald Barnes wasn’t making many friend with his business model. And I know that his passing was only beneficial for the local lumberyard owners.”
“That’s a bold claim.”
“It’s a fact,” Rachel retorted.
The industrial shriek of saw through wood sounded behind them.
“Let me tell you about the Barnes massacre. Regi was no saint. He made enemies in the North East and they came back to collect their dues.”
“Nothing was stole
n from his home,” Rachel replied. “His family was slaughtered.”
Winsler stared her down. “Some dues are only paid in blood. Some sacrifices are there to warn us.”
“You sound like you’re familiar with such practices,” Rachel stated, not realizing until a second after how bold her claim was. Her breath quickened. What if Winsler attacked her right now? How would she defend herself? She is in the middles of the woods on top of a mountain. Her only witness would be a cabdriver who doesn’t know her name. He could’ve gotten bored of touting her around and driven away. From where Rachel stood, the road was completely masked by trees.
“I had this dog once. Beautiful Golden Retriever. Loyal but stupid,” Winsler said, out of left field. “She’d go sniffing around these woods and come back home with a dirty snout and wagging tail. One day, she stuck her face into nesting hole on the ground. The kind with Yellow Jackets in it. Needless to say, she learned real quick about where to stick her nose.”
Rachel pondered the story, but to be honest, the meaning was crystal clear.
Winsler climbed back into the operating cab. “Have good day.” He flipped the switch and set another log to the saw blade.
Rachel chewed her nail and watched at the woods blur by in mix of green and brown. The cabdriver said something about the AC, but Rachel ignored it. Her thoughts stayed on the investigation. If either one or both of these men were the killers, she could try to tail them, but the massacre was thirty years ago. The chance that they’d lead her to something new was dismal at best. Also, she had zero experience tailing someone. It’s as good a time as any to learn. The prospect didn’t inspire her. Similar to her art, she needed to provoke a reaction from the audience. The easiest ways to do that… controversy and publicity. As someone who draws fictional murder victims for a living, Rachel knew how to make her art catchy. To bring that controversy and publicity to the murderers, Rachel needed another Golden Retriever.
“Police station,” She told the driver.
The Highlands’ police bullpen was tightly packed, under trafficked and smelled sterile like a hospital. Hugging the ledger to chest, Rachel approached the older man at the front desk. His glasses had a silver chain at edge of their arms and a magnet that connect the middles of bridge of the frame.
Rachel took a breath. It was her first time in a police station. “I have information regarding the Barnes Murders.”
The receptionist cocked his head.
“In 1983. At the Hadley House,” Rachel clarified.
Rolling back in his chair, the receptionist yelled to a man hunched over a desk. “Peak, you’re up!” The receptionist turned to Rachel. “Go on in.”
Rachel walked back to the desk.
“Detective Jenson Peak,” The man stood from his desk, introducing himself. Peak was a tall man with dark eyes, a long face, sunken cheeks, and pursed lips topped by a head of thick copper brown hair combed to side. A black tie hung from his ash grey collar. He looked Rachel’s age, in his thirties, and had an intensity about him that made it hard for Rachel looked him in the eyes. She did so anyway and told him about the ledger and Hilda’s story. Remembering after she had finished that this was in regards the Barnes murders.
“I read the cold case file a few months back. I don’t have the most social hobbies,” Peak said dryly.
“I draw dead people for a living,” Rachel admitted.
Peak smirked briefly and flipped through the ledger. “This won’t be enough to condemn your gunmen. But I can chase a few leads and give Hilda Kilgore a call.”
“Whatever gets us closer.”
“I don’t want to give you false hope. In cases like these, the killers get away,” Peak said nonchalantly.
“That’s kind of cynical,” Rachel replied.
Peak nodded to himself. “Yeah.”
They stood in quiet for a moment.
“Anything else I can do?” Rachel asked.
“The police will take handle the investigation. Your involvement will be problematic.”
Rachel wasn’t sure why she felt so offended by that. “If you need anything, I live in the Hadley House down--“
“I know. Officer Lynchfield told me all about it.”
“Ah.” It was all Rachel could say.
After a few formalities, Rachel returned to her father’s home. She sighed and headed inside. Patters of lukewarm food set on the table. In the recliner, her father wiped his already polished bowling ball with a soft rag. He still wore his two-tone bowling polo. Brett adjusted the settings on his camera.
“I’m so sorry,” Rachel said. She smelled like sawdust. The three of them set aside their items and sat at the table. Liam said grace, and they ate. After an evening of small talk, Rachel took her shower and climbed into bed with Brett, who had been largely silent throughout the evening. They retired for the evening.
“Do your shoot go well?” Rachel asked as she pulled up the covers.
Brett put aside his glasses and stared at the ceiling. “Well enough. I went to the art gallery today to surprise you with lunch.”
“Brett, I’m sorry.”
He took a deep breath. “What’s going on, Rachel? Let’s not run in circles.”
Rachel paused to think about her response. “I… I have been looking into the murder of Reginald Barnes and his family.”
Brett rolled over to face her. His eyes had dark circles. “Who?”
“He was the previous owner of our house, and a local lumber tycoon. I believe that his competitors killed him and his children to warn to anyone wanting to monopolize the area.”
Brett scratched his head. “Why does this matter?”
“Because I literarily can’t sleep unless if the killers are found,” Rachel replied.
Brett scooted up to the bed’s backboard and turned on the lamp. “Look at me.”
Rachel did so. With a concerned look, Brett brushed his thumb down her cheek. He studied her bloodshot eyes. “When was the last time you slept?”
Rachel shrugged.
“This isn’t good for you. You’re an artist. Not a detective. That’s the police’s job.”
“I know. I turned in what little evidence I had today.”
Brett wrapped his arm around her and gently pulled her close. “I want you to stay at home for the next few days. Is that alright?”
“Brett, I told you that I’m done with the investigation.”
“I know,” Her husband replied. “But your father and I have been discussing your mother and her condition. We don’t want to see history repeating itself.”
Rachel felt like he’d jabbed her with knife, and it hurt worse because she knew there was some kernel of truth to it.
The next morning, after Rachel had slept two hours, Brett and her packed up and returned to the Hadley House. They didn’t discuss the conversation from the night before. Nor did they act like anything was amiss. From an outsider’s perspective, they were just another jolly married couple settling into to their new home. Rachel set back up her easel. She removed the sketches she had no recollection of drawing and tucked them into a cardboard cylinder. Brett and her raked leaves together, washed the car, and sifted through the antiques in the basement. Rachel didn’t fight him on what he wanted to sell. Over three/fourths, he marked up for eBay, but Rachel knew it would be more, by the end of the month.
When they were researching various online markets, they found site dedicated to the Hadley House Massacre. None other than Andrew Shaw, the creep who knocked on Rachel and Brett’s front door nearly a week ago, hosted the website.
“That explained his interest in the place,” Brett said. “Maybe we should sell this crap to him.”
“I’d rather not,” Rachel replied.
The first day back felt slow, despite all they’d gotten done. Rachel couldn’t shake this empty feeling inside. Brett set out in the morning for a photo op. Rachel worked at unpacking the remaining boxes and decorating their selves and dressers with knickknacks and sculptures th
ey’d acquired over the years. As she moved between the downstairs and the master bed, Rachel took a detour into one of the side bedrooms. She opened the massive wardrobe and pushed aside dead Reginald’s moth-eaten clothes. Dark spots stained the back-bottom corner. A sudden chill caused her skin to rise.
“Stop them,” a voice said behind her.
Rachel twisted back.
Bullet riddled and pale, nine years old Amanda Barnes and her brother, Benny, watched Rachel with unblinking eyes.
Rachel stumbled back, knocking into the wardrobe. She let herself breath and forced herself to face the massacred children.
“Stop the bad men,” Amanda said, her arms slack at her side and tears of blood dripping form the wounds on her torso.
“Who are they?” Rachel asked, her head becoming light.
“They wear masks, but it isn’t Halloween.” the boy inclined to plumpness answered.
“I need more than that,” Rachel said.
“We never saw their faces,” Amanda replied. “Never saw anything.”
Rachel glanced about the vacant bedroom. “What about your parents?”
Amanda’s glossy eyes went wide. “They’re angry at you.”
“Why?”
“You haven’t stopped the bad men.”
“I don’t know who they are! How can I stop them?” Rachel shouted.
Amanda and Benny lifeless eyes stared deep inside of her.
“The police will take care of it,” Rachel said trying to calm down.
The shutters outside began to shake violently and clapped against the outer wall. The bedroom door slammed. The floor rocked and creaked and moaned. Rachel held on the wardrobe to keep her balance. With wide eyes, she stared at the kids for help.
“Father’s angry.” Little fat Benny said.
Rachel shut her eyes as tight as she could. It’s a nightmare. It’s all fake. You’re okay. Lies, lies, lies.
Suddenly, the house was still again. Rachel forced herself to look. The bedroom door was open and the shutters unmoved. Rachel lurched over, wanting to vomit. She gagged and spit on the floor. After a moment of rest, she left the room and locked the door behind her. Outside of it, she slid to the floor and hugged her knees close to chest. She wished she had someone to confide with.
Alas, she was alone.
An idea came. She forced herself to her feet and to stacked of unpacked boxes. She picked up the decaying cardboard one on top and pulled it open.
Sitting on the living room floor, she removed old family photo and poems from the old file box. She slid out the cardboard slab separating the her mother’s journal and herb collection from other sentimental items. Rachel picked up the journal and opened the old leather binding. The words of different languages and tongues. Some common, like Spanish and French and others completely incomprehensible. Rachel sifted through the texts of a mad woman, soaking up every understandable work like sponge. The word Orphans appeared many times, followed by the Sense, The Vision, The Gift. None of this made sense and doubt pushed into the front of Rachel’s mind as she read. Her mother was crazy, that was the simple truth of it. Right?
A passage stood out to her. It started in Latin and then became English. “And when the Orphan gazed upon me and our eyes met, I knew I had been Marked. The only way I could free myself was through their redemption.” The passage continued on in Latin.
Another sentence grabbed Rachel a few pages later. “The truth became harder to bare as the days dragged on. No one could see what I saw: the Orphans influences on our world. They’d smash a mirror and only I would see the creaks. They’d lead me to item and only I could touch it. Was I insane? I couldn’t be. It was all so real.”
Rachel paused toward the middle of one of the final pages. She didn’t want to read on. The words. They terrified her. “When my Gift develop. It was violent. The damage became real. Even Liam saw it, though he did not believe. Thankfully, the attacks subsided and I became their sole witness. This changed after She was born. I played coy. The good wife. The good mother. Then I could see the Orphans Marked Rachel. Her imaginary friends where the victims I sought to redeem. Therapy would help her forget. For how long, I did not know.
The rest of the ravings described odd locations like a twisting tree and a bottomless well. Beyond that were pictures of mutilated corpses and crude weapons. In the exact center of the book resided a recipe for an herbal concoction. Rachel recognized some of the ingredients as highly poisonous and extremely rare. Rachel’s world spun. She let the journal fall from her hands.
The memory of her mother’s episode replayed.
“Keep her far from him!” her mother shouted at Liam.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” her father yelled back.
Her mother threw plates across the room. She picked up a shattered shard of glass and lunged at something near Liam. Liam avoided the jagged edge and grappled her. Her elbow knocked his tooth and caused him to spit blood. She ran to Rachel, grabbed her by the wrist and bolted outside, only dressed in her underwear. She screamed at someone Rachel didn’t see. “She’s not yours! She’s mine! Mine! Mine! MINE!” The cops came soon after and forcefully separated Rachel from her mother’s iron grip. They put a towel on her and put her in the back of the cop car. She glared at Rachel as she drove away. Glared at her like she was the spawn of Satan. But was that really her she was glaring at or someone else entirely?
Rachel phoned Brett. “I’m going to visit my mother in Charlotte. It’s only for a day.”
“I thought we talked about staying home for the next few days?” Brett complained. Though Rachel knew that his “we” meant her.
“I know. It has nothing to do with the case or the break ins or anything. I just think that seeing her will help me understand some things. Help me get better.” That last part was painful to say.
Brett was quiet for a good while. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No, I need to do this alone,” Rachel declared.
“Okay. I love you. I’ll let you have the car. Liam can drive me back to the shoot.”
Less than an hour passed before the Escalade arrived and Brett handed her the keys. He gave her a kiss. “I never met your mother.”
“That makes pretty much both of us,” Rachel said honestly.
Brett gave her a pitiful smile. “Drive safe, okay?”
“I will. See you soon, Brett.” They kissed again. Almost as a final farewell.
The mental hospital wasn’t much different from any other medical facility, two stories, clean and objective in its design. Rachel arrived and stepped inside, recalling every horrific of a sanatorium she’d ever seen in works of fiction. Though this place juxtaposed those terrifying images of dark halls and screaming patients, it still provoked the same feeling of dread down in the pit of Rachel’s heart. The kind nurse led her the visiting area and had her find a seat. Through the fortified window, patients played in the fence in yard. An elderly woman tossed a basketball and missed horribly. A bald fat man giggled to himself while rocking back and forth. Rachel didn’t judge them. She pitied them and wondered what it must be like to spend the rest of your days in the walls of place like this. Whether the staff was nice or not, you were caged. At least that’s how Rachel felt. She wasn’t quite sure if that was wrong or right of her to think such things.
The nurse returned and, with her, the strange woman. Rachel stood from the chair at the round table and kept herself from gawking. The woman’s hair was frizzy and short, her nose was tiny and her eyes seemed empty. The patient scrub hung to her bony arms and legs like burlap sack. She shambled toward Rachel at the behest of the nurse and took a seat beside Rachel.
“She took her medication and may be a bit drowsy, she been very good these last few months. We no longer have to use the straitjacket” The kind nurse said with her tiny voice. She smiled softly at the woman. “Look, Mrs. Sanders. You have a guest.”
The woman’s hair was grey like the ash and charred wood
. Rachel could see herself in the woman’s face. Their eyes were same shape and the same shade of green. They shared the same lips and nose.
“Mom?” Rachel said as the nurse stepped away, but stayed in the room.
Sarah Sanders said nothing. Drool trickled hung to the corner of her mouth.
“It’s me. Rachel.” Rachel fought back tears. Why I am crying? I don’t know this woman. “I’m your daughter.”
Sarah’s hollow eyes stayed on the white tile floor.
“Do you remember this book?” Rachel asked.
Sarah didn’t react to the letter bound journal place before her.
“Please. Look at it.”
Her mother turned to the journal, her face completely devoid of emotion. Rachel didn’t know if this was her medication or her normal demeanor. Both explanations frightened Rachel.
“Talk to me, mom. Say something,” Rachel commanded.
The woman turned her gaze from the book back to the tile floor. Rachel leaned back her chair and crossed her arms. She reminded herself what she was dealing with and that helped calm her.
“Please, mom.” Rachel begged. “I need your help. Something is happening to me. I’m seeing things. What you call Orphans.”
Sarah’s iron grip constricted Rachel’s wrist. Her dead eyes became suddenly full of fury. Just like the Barnes Children, she stared deep into Rachel in way that violated. The husk of the woman was gone and what stared at Rachel was something far more terrifying. Her voice was rough and dangerous. “You have it, cursed child.”
Rachel tried to pull from her mother’s grip. Her mother’s finger nails pierced Rachel’s flesh.
“You have the Gift,” Her mother said.
“Let go,” Rachel whispered, trying not to make a scene in front of the nurse.
Sarah’s eyes widened. “They’ve Marked you. I can see it.”
“Please, mom. Let go of me.”
Suddenly, the woman’s tight grasp released. Rachel pulled her arms back and rubbed her red wrist.
Tears trickled down Sarah’s face. “She has it. Yes… just like me.”
It took Rachel a moment to realize that her mother wasn’t talking to her, but someone else. Someone unseen.
“Who is it?” Rachel asked, unsure what else to say.
Sarah ignored her. Turned her ear up to ceiling and nodded in agreement to something Rachel never heard.
“What does it mean to Marked? What is the Gift?”
Sarah turned back to Rachel. She looked both ways and got low to table, gesturing Rachel to do the same. Hesitant, she obeyed. Sarah whispered, careful not to let the nurse hear her. “The Gift is a blessing. A curse. A joke. It feels the Orphans; feels their remains with the Sense. It tugs at you, when they are close. When danger comes.”
“I’ve felt that,” Rachel said, her eyes glossing over. “In the basement.”
Sarah ignored her or refused to listen, and kept on. “The Gift is three. The Sight. The Vision. That opens them up to you. Opens them up to Mark you. Yes… Then there’s the Reality— You witness their death. You taste it in your mouth just as the Orphan did and you join them in their special place.”
“I think I’ve used the Sense and Vision,” Rachel couldn’t believe her own words. She felt just as crazed as her mother. “How do I stop it?”
Sarah cried and sniffled. “You don’t, my dear.”
“There has to be way,” Rachel argued. “I can’t live like this.”
Sarah wiped her tears away and looked at Rachel like mother giving her daughter the most important advice in the world. “Find their killer. Give them rest. Then they leave. Only you can do this. Only you, Rachel Harroway. It’s your burden now.”
Just as fast as the life returned to her mother’s eyes, it left and Rachel sat before the hollow shell of a woman.
The woman Rachel feared she’d become one day.