Echoes of Darkness (7 page)

“Valerie?”

The terrible jaw cracked open, just a touch. Air hissed through that forest of fangs, an audible intake of breath as someone might make before speaking, preparing themselves for delivering bad news or telling a hard truth. The thing’s weight shifted, feet moving just a bit, as if beginning to take a step. One arm rose, half reaching toward her, and Hillary saw not a hand at the end of the arm but a claw, fingers far too long and with an extra knuckle each, tipped with talons curved like a fish hooks and just as sharp.

She saw all this in a moment; then two things happened simultaneously.

One was that Hillary took a half-step back, jerking away from that rising claw, fear slamming her against the dumpster once more, air rushing into her lungs in a mighty gasp.

The other was that a sound came from out in the alley proper, penetrating the silent bubble that had enveloped their horrid little cave, cutting through the shock fogging Hillary’s mind and bringing back the drama unfolding in the alley where Mrs. Redfern was trying to save them all: the slap of flesh striking flesh and a woman’s voice crying out in pain.

The thing that had been Valerie whirled to face the sound, moving so fast spittle flew from its half-open mouth, spraying the air in an arc before it. Hillary could see now just how far the thing’s muzzle protruded—an inhuman profile. Dropping into a crouch, it flexed shoulders that strained the seams of Valerie’s sweatshirt, thick and humped with so much muscle the head was thrust forward on its powerful neck. Those black lips, already skinned back, now peeled all the way to the dark flaring nostrils, baring fangs as long as Hillary’s fingers: a full nightmare’s-worth of teeth.

The thing loosed a growl, the sound reaching out to tickle the base of Hillary’s spine with fingers of ice. She might have whimpered in fear, but there wasn’t time. The rumble deep within its chest exploded into a roar as the thing launched itself into motion, so fluid and fast that one instant it was there, the next it was gone. Hillary caught a glimpse of its sock-clad feet, the cotton shockingly white under the bright security lamp, disappearing from view as the thing leapt out into the alley.

Distracted as she was by the black spots flicking in front of her eyes, she noticed the thing’s toes had burst through the socks, just as long and taloned as those crooked fingers. She stared at the scratches the hooked claws had left in the cement; just stared and listened to the sounds of the beast roaring and men screaming, one of them fading into the distance while the other remained somewhere close by, shrieking again and again until the sound cut off with the finality of a slamming door. The scratch marks grew closer as the dumpster slid up her back, those flicking black spots multiplying until they finally blocked out the world, and she let herself fall into their embrace.

Hillary woke to a sound; a noise she knew she should recognize, but her head was filled with fog, and she couldn’t quite connect the dots.

She also felt cement against her face. She pushed herself up from the ground, looking around bleary-eyed, finding nothing but dumpsters.

Dumpsters?

It all came back, a splash of cold water to the face—the movie, the men, the running . . . and then Valerie. Valerie going away and that terrible
thing
taking her place, that thing that had worn Valerie’s clothes, had stood in Valerie’s place like it was . . . like it was . . .

 . . . like it
was
Valerie?

The last thing she remembered was the Valerie-thing leaping, the men screaming—and she suddenly recognized the sound. Somewhere nearby, a young girl was crying. Weeping like her heart was breaking in two and she wasn’t sure yet whether she’d survive. Someone was murmuring quiet words of comfort. Hillary could make out nothing of the words, but recognized the voice of the girl doing the sobbing—and was surprised. It was a voice she’d heard laughing, being tough, being funny, but never crying. Not even once, no matter how mean the other kids were at school. It sounded like—

“Valerie?”

The word was a croak, her mouth too dry. She worked her tongue, trying to dredge up some moisture. The rough cement bit her palms, then her bruised and painful knees as she slowly got to her feet, her voice coming as saliva found her mouth.

“Valerie?”

Louder, but there was still no response. She looked out into the open and her eye was caught by something she hadn’t noticed before: boots, large and black, lying on the tarmac. Jeans-clad legs sprouted from the boots, sprawling across the ground past the edge of one of the dumpsters sheltering her and out of sight. Her voice came a third time, a mere whisper pulled from her through reflex, unconsciously responding to her best friend’s voice. Hillary stepped out into the alley. The jeans-clad legs led up to a man. She was unsteady, felt . . . disconnected. There was a soft buzzing in her ears, and the world around her was foggy. If she concentrated, though, she could make just a little bit of the world clear again.

Hillary focused, her eyes following the man’s form. Knees, bent this way and that, as if he were a doll cast aside by a careless child. The jacket thrown open, shirt pulled up to expose a bulge of hairy white belly. Beside the man, one of his hands clutched the ground. She noticed the way his fingernails had shattered against the blacktop, ragged chunks of nail and skin mixing with the blood that trailed along the ground for about a half a foot before pooling beneath his ruined fingers.

That looks like it hurt,
she thought.
A lot.
A part of her somewhere was trying to tell her that yes, it did hurt a lot, and it was
important
, but that part seemed far away, and she just didn’t want to listen right now. The wordless torrent of sorrow sounded closer, and she could make out some of the comforting words being murmured in response.

“. . . Not your fault . . . none of this . . . sorry, honey, so sorry, but . . .”

Hillary’s gaze wandered higher, crossing the man’s chest to his twisted shoulders, then higher still, expecting to see a face; but her curious stare ground to a halt before getting that far, riveted by the man’s throat.

Or where his throat was
supposed
to be.

Where his throat was supposed to be was a ragged open hole filled with mush, stringy things and bits, all of it reminding her of the first time she’d opened the top of a pumpkin to make a jack-o’-lantern. She’d been grossed out at the mess of
stuff
she’d seen inside, like the pumpkin was half melting, or gone bad already, with seeds and strings and
goo
, all slimy and disgusting; but this stuff here wasn’t orange like the inside of a pumpkin: it was red, bright red and dark red and just red because it wasn’t the inside of a
pumpkin
, but the inside of a
person
and—

This was the real Hillary doing the talking now, the part that had been trying to warn her that the splintered hand
was
important, that had started so far away but had fought its way closer every second until now it was so loud she couldn’t ignore it; and though she tried not to look at the messy hole where the man’s throat used to be, she
did
look, understanding what she was seeing although she wanted so much to just ignore that too, understanding that this man was dead—

She vomited: hot popcorn, soda, and the chicken she’d had for dinner (
that seemed so long ago now was it
really
just earlier tonight?
) spraying against the green dumpster with enough force to bounce off, spattering her sneakers. Her stomach clenched so hard she fell, slivers of pain driving deep into her battered knees, nearly landing in the puddle of her own mess.

“Baby, I’m so sorry.”

The voice was louder, clearer now that Hillary had come back to herself and the foggy feeling had blown away. She recognized Mrs. Redfern’s voice, shaking with emotion, a slight hitch in the word
sorry
stretching the two syllables into three, giving the impression the woman was crying. The pavement bit into her knees even more than the cement dumpster pad had, and the moist stink of the dumpster’s contents mingled with that of the hot puddle between her hands in a way that made her stomach lurch again, the painful twitch of an already abused abdomen. She forced herself to her feet, the green metal cool beneath one hand as she leaned against it for support and turned to face the crying woman.

They sat there, at the head of the man lying torn open on the ground, Mrs. Redfern sitting tailor-fashion, Valerie in her lap. The woman was comforting her daughter, cuddling her like a toddler, rocking her back and forth as Valerie cried. Hillary watched as sobs wracked her friend, her body shuddering with such strength her mother’s frame shook as well.

“I’m sorry . . . I know you tried, honey, I know . . . I’m sorry it has to be this way.”

Hillary took an unsteady step. The fog might have been gone from her vision, but a touch of it remained inside her head. She could see, tottering closer, it wasn’t Valerie’s crying that shook her mother so, but the sobbing of the woman herself. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she consoled her daughter.

Hillary couldn’t figure out what was so wrong. The bad man who’d chased them, who had hurt Valerie’s mom, was dead, and that was yucky and awfully scary, but they were safe. The scary thing that had taken Valerie’s place was gone—and they were
safe
! She desperately wanted to go home, but Valerie and her mom were still crying
so
much . . .

“Valerie,” she said. “You okay?”

Her friend’s sobbing paused, just for a second, then resumed even harder. Mrs. Redfern spoke without lifting her cheek from her daughter’s hair. “She’s fine, dear.”

“Why is she crying? Aren’t we safe now? I just . . . I just want to go home.”

Mrs. Redfern’s back stiffened, but she still spoke in gentle tones, still pressed her face to the side of Valerie’s.

“She’s crying because she’s sad, Hillary. She’s very, very sad.”

“Because of him?” Hillary pointed toward the man, though neither of them looked at her.

“Sort of, yes. This is my fault. Just . . . all my fault. The full moon was almost here. Not quite, but close. I checked, I double-checked, I mean, everything should have been okay. Then
they
had to come along. There was too much stress, it was all too close, and she couldn’t cope. She tried.”

She leaned back, a hand stroking Val’s small dark head, smoothing the hair back from her face. Hillary could see Mrs. Redfern in profile, could see her smiling despite her tears. Her voice lowered to a broken whisper.

“You tried so hard.”

“But . . .” Hillary was confused. She didn’t know what to say, what to ask.

“But,” Mrs. Redfern raised her voice, addressing Hillary, though she still stared into her daughter’s face. “She knows how it has to be. She tried, and she did
so
well, but she knows how things
have
to be.”

“Is it the . . . that
thing
? Is that why she’s crying?”

Mrs. Redfern was silent, the only sound in the alley the sobs still coming from Valerie. Quieter now, but still coming.

“That thing is gone,” Hillary pointed out, starting to cry herself. She was exhausted, frightened, and she just wanted to be home in bed where her own mother would smooth her hair and tell her things would be all right. “And those guys are gone. You said we’d be safe. We’re safe, right? They can’t hurt us any more. Can we go home now?”

Mrs. Redfern eased her daughter off her lap, sliding her gently to the ground.

“Yes—that
thing
—that’s why she’s crying. I was supposed to lead those men away from you two. She tried
so
hard to stay calm. But she couldn’t.”

Valerie sat facing away from Hillary, shoulders shaking. Her mother rose smoothly to her feet, standing over the girl on the ground as if talking to her, though her words were still directed at Hillary.

“She was supposed to keep that thing away, but she didn’t.”

“But that thing saved us,” Hillary said. “It was all scary and everything, but it
saved
us! They can’t hurt us any more, right? Why can’t we just go home?”