Darkness (39 page)

A man, so old he seemed barely alive at all. His hair, only a few thin wisps, hung limply from his scalp, which was covered with bleeding sores. His eyes—pale blue, shot through with reddish veins—fixed greedily on her, and when his lips curled back in an evil smile, she could see his rotting teeth, worn nearly away, crumbling from his gums.

He reached for her, clawlike fingers ending in jagged, torn nails, touching the skin of her face.

“No!” The word choked in her throat. With a valiant effort she tried to jerk away from the specter’s touch, tried to wrest herself free from the constricting vines.

It was the effort of that final struggle before the man grasped her that finally woke Jenny, and now she did cry out, her voice a strangled scream as the last vestiges of the dream still held her in their grip.

Her eyes opened and she tried to sit up, but the thick straps that bound her to the bed held fast, and at last, her eyes filling with tears, she gave up.

She had no idea what time it was, nor how long she’d been here.

There were no windows in the room, nor was it ever dark. Always, when she woke up from the horrible nightmares that seized her whenever she fell asleep, the lights were on.

She wasn’t alone in the room. It was filled with cribs, four of which had babies in them. If she turned her head, she could see one of them, and now, as the dream released her from its terrifying grip, she gazed over at the tiny form.

The baby was also awake, looking back at her, its small eyes fixed on her as if it knew how frightened she was.

“It’s all right, baby,” Jenny whispered softly, the sound of her own voice comforting her, if only slightly. “It was just a dream, and my mommy says dreams can’t hurt you.”

Her mommy.

Why didn’t her mommy come for her?

Over and over she’d begged Dr. Phillips to let her see her parents, but he always told her the same thing. “When you’re better. You don’t want to make your mommy and daddy sick, too, do you?”

She heard a door open, and turned her head the other way. Sometimes it was the woman who came in, the silent woman who never said a word, no matter how much Jenny begged.

But this time it was Dr. Phillips, and when he came over to the bed to look down at her, smiling, she started crying.

“I had the dream again,” she said. “The man—the old man who looks like he’s dead.”

“It was just a bad dream, Jenny. You mustn’t let it scare you,” she heard the doctor tell her.

“But it
does
scare me,” Jenny wailed. “I want my mother. Why can’t I have my mother?”

“Because you’re sick,” Phillips explained. “And that’s why I’m here. To take care of you. Haven’t I always taken care of you?”

Jenny hesitated, but finally nodded. She’d known Dr. Phillips as long as she could remember, and he’d never hurt her, not really. Sometimes, when he gave her shots, it stung a little, but after he took the needle out of her arm, he always gave her a lollipop and she always felt better.

Except this time she kept feeling worse every time she woke up.

It was a funny kind of feeling. Every time she went to sleep, she hoped she’d feel better when she woke up, but she didn’t. She always woke up feeling empty, as if something inside of her was slowly draining out. She felt all cold inside, and when she thought about her
mother and father, and even Michael, something was different.

She still wished they’d come and see her, and take her away from this place, but each time she woke up, the ache inside her when she thought about them didn’t hurt as much.

Instead, that strange icy lump inside seemed to get a little bit bigger each day, numbing her.

Jenny silently wondered if she was dying, and if she was, what being dead would be like. But she was afraid she already knew—it would be like being in the dream again, with the man coming after her, reaching for her, wanting something from her.

But if she was dead, she wouldn’t wake up from the dream, and it would just go on and on and on.

The thought made her gasp, and Dr. Phillips frowned down at her, his eyes leaving the bottle that hung on the rack above her, dripping clear liquid that she had been told was food into a tube that went into her arm.

There was another tube, coming from a big needle that was in her chest, held in place with a piece of tape. That needle hurt, and the tape itched, but she couldn’t scratch it because of the straps that bound her to the bed, which were only undone when she had to go to the bathroom.

“Are you all right? Does something hurt?” Dr. Phillips asked.

Jenny shook her head. “What are you doing?”

“I’m just adding something to your food.”

“What?”

Phillips smiled at her. “Something to make you sleep,” he told her. “Haven’t you been telling Lavinia that you can’t sleep?”

Lavinia. That was the name of the woman who came to take her to the bathroom, and change the babies’ diapers, and sat with her sometimes, even holding her hand, though she never said a word. “I don’t want to sleep,” she complained. “If I go to sleep, the dream will come back.”

“No, it won’t,” Dr. Phillips promised. “I’m putting something in your food to make it go away, and when you go to sleep, it won’t be there at all.”

Jenny looked up at him, her eyes wide with apprehension. “Promise?”

“Promise,” Phillips repeated. He finished attaching the morphine vial to the IV, and turned the valve that switched the feeder tube from the glucose solution to the narcotic. “Go to sleep, Jenny,” he said. “Just let yourself drift away.”

He stayed with her, waiting for the narcotic to take effect. Only when she had fallen once more into a deathlike coma did he unstrap her bonds and carefully remove the needles that had been inserted in her body. Finally he picked her up, carrying her out of the room, then up the stairs to the main floor of his isolated house. He stepped out into the darkness, glancing to the east, but there was no sign yet of the rising sun.

It had been three days since he’d brought Jenny here. Each day he’d brought her up from the subterranean chambers before dawn and taken her back to Villejeune, where she’d lain all day in her coffin, deep in a narcotic-induced coma, her life apparently over. And each night, after dark, he’d taken her back to the laboratory beneath his house, bringing her out of the deathlike sleep.

Each day, he’d drained a little more of the priceless fluid from her thymus.

Stolen her youth, to prolong his own.

Stolen her soul to stave off his own mortality.

But this would be the last time he would take her into Villejeune, for today was a very special day for Jenny Sheffield.

Today was the day of her funeral.

Just a few more minutes, Barbara told herself. Just a few more minutes, and then I’ll be alone with Craig and Michael, and I can let go.

She was sitting in the small darkened alcove to the right of the altar in the chapel of the Childress Funeral Home. Though a gauzy curtain separated her and her husband and son from the rest of the people who had come to Jenny’s funeral, she could see their faces clearly enough, see the confusion they were feeling as they listened to the eulogy for the little girl whose body lay in the coffin in front of the altar.

A funeral for a child.

It was wrong—children don’t have funerals; they have parties. Birthday parties, and graduation parties, and parties after proms, and finally wedding parties.

But not funerals.

What would they say to her when it was finally over and they had to take her hand and try to soothe the pain she was feeling? With an aged parent, especially one who had been ill, it was simple enough.

“It’s a blessing, Barbara.”

“I know it’s hard, Barbara, but at least your mother’s pain is over.”

“It’s better this way, Barbara.”

She’d heard it all, first at her father’s funeral ten years ago, and then at her mother’s two years later.

But there was no blessing in losing your six-year-old daughter.

Jenny had had no pain, rarely suffered so much as a day in her life.

And she hadn’t wanted to die.

Barbara had tried not to think about it during the last three days, tried to keep her mind from focusing on her little girl, slipping on the muddy edge of the canal, tumbling into the water and then struggling to get out.

Struggling, and calling, with no one to hear her or to help her.

Her hands, resting tensely in her lap, clenched the handkerchief that was soaked through from her tears, and she resolutely pushed the image out of her mind.

It won’t change anything, she told herself. It won’t bring her back.

She forced herself to gaze through the filmy curtain once again, but found herself unable to look at Jenny’s coffin. Instead, she scanned the faces of her friends and neighbors—people she had known for years—and wondered yet again what they would say to her after this ordeal was over.

Would they—
could
they—find any words of comfort?

Suddenly the organ began to play, and the gathering of mourners rose to its feet as the first strains of Jenny’s favorite hymn began to sound.

“Away in a Manger.”

As Barbara, too, rose shakily to her feet, she could almost hear Jenny’s piping voice as she sang in the Christmas pageant last year, looking like a tiny angel in the costume Barbara had spent three days working on.

The costume she was being buried in today.

Barbara tried to imagine her entering into heaven, dressed as the angel she had already become.

She raised the handkerchief to her eyes, dabbing once more at the tears she was powerless to control.

The last chords of the hymn died away, the final prayer was softly uttered by the minister who had christened Jenny only six short years ago, and then the service was over. The curtain was raised, and Barbara felt Craig’s hand on her arm, steadying her as he led her toward the altar to look at her daughter’s face for the last time.

Sleeping, she thought as she gazed into Jenny’s gentle countenance a moment later.

She looks as though she’s sleeping.

As Craig’s grip tightened on her elbow, she turned away and let him guide her up the aisle and out of the chapel.

Michael paused in front of his sister’s coffin, his eyes searching her face for some sign of life. And yet he’d
seen her each day as she’d lain in the viewing room, and each day she’d looked the same.

Her eyes closed, her face expressionless.

At last he reached down to touch her, resting his hand on her own much smaller ones, which were folded on her breast, holding a flower.

He squeezed her hands gently and was about to withdraw his fingers from her when he thought he felt a movement.

He froze, his hand remaining where it was, waiting for it to come again.

But no.

He’d only imagined it.

And yet as he, too, turned away from the coffin, he still couldn’t bring himself to believe that Jenny was really gone, that he’d never see her again.

Something inside him, something he didn’t quite understand, told him that she was still alive, that she wasn’t dead at all, that she was still a part of his life.

“I feel the same way,” his father had told him last night when he’d finally confessed the strange feeling he had. “We all feel like that. It’s so hard to accept the finality of death, especially with someone like Jenny. I still expect her to come running in, climb into my lap, and plant one of those wet kisses on my cheek. Sometimes I wake up in the night and think I hear her crying. It’s part of mourning, Michael. I know it all seems impossible, but it’s happened. We have to accept it.”

But for Michael it was different. Each morning, when he woke up, the feeling that Jenny was alive was stronger.

It was as if she was reaching out to him, calling to him, crying out for him to help her.

He moved down the aisle, searching the crowd for Kelly Anderson, and finally spotted her sitting with her parents and grandfather. As their eyes met, she nodded at him, not in greeting, but as if they shared some unspoken secret.

He understood.

She had the same feeling he had.

She had it, and recognized it in him.