Pieces of Hope (31 page)

“Yes, of
course . . .” He chuckled as he heard me. “Well, the depraved are far more
capable than that.” His eyes darted to
Creesie
, who
seemed to agree that Gus was on the right track. “They have the uncanny ability
to materialize into anything—living or not.” I was taken aback as he sent me
images of broken benches, bits of moldy plaster, ominous-looking smoke, a
derelict man with the back of his head missing, and a bloody, identical version
of myself at the scene of my accident.

“All
those were . . . were . . . ?”

“Yes,
I’m afraid so.” Gus wore a look of disgust. “The depraved can literally become
anything, but fortunately, they don’t have that great of imaginations. In fact,
they’re so unimaginative that they’ll steal the thoughts of whoever is
near—unpeeling the layers of one’s soul until they’re able to extract that
person’s greatest fear, or become their heart’s most burning desire.”

“Oh!” I
looked away, mortified. No wonder Ethan had appeared to me.

“Stinking
parasites,” Cat muttered under her breath.

Gus
hesitated, looking briefly to
Creesie
who inclined
her head again. “Because of their deteriorated state, they don’t do much
traveling, and believe me, that’s a good thing. In the living realm, they’re
much more dangerous.”

More
dangerous? Surely Gus was
exaggerating.
 

“What do
you mean?” I squeaked. “They’re pretty scary already, don’t you think?”

Creesie
broke in pleasantly, “Hold tight, everyone. I
believe this is our stop.”

The
elevator slammed to a halt. Glancing around, I saw that the walls were pristine
again, the carved figures fully upright and joyful. And the air smelled
delicious—like sweet things baking. I’d been so preoccupied with Gus that I
hadn’t paid attention to much else. I saw that everyone had changed back into
their casual clothing, appearing nearly unaffected by our trip. Everyone except
for Charlotte.
Her copper-colored mane was sticking up in odd places, and her eyes seemed out
of focus. In a word, she looked shell-shocked. Either she hadn’t been fully
aware of what awaited us at that other Station, or it was just now hitting her
where we had been. I had to agree; it was a lot for a person to take in—even a
dead one.

Lagging
behind in the elevator, I waited an extra two seconds as Charlotte pulled herself together. As she
closed her eyes, I watched her frazzled hair smooth, her clothing morph into a golden-green
ensemble that nearly duplicated Ethan’s eyes—which really
 
made me miss him and feel terrible all over
again—and finally, I watched her expression slip into something more happy and
Charlotte-like.

They
were waiting for us in the sunny room just outside the elevator. The yellow
glow shining down from the top of the endless ceiling was warm on my face.
 

“All
right, let’s get this over with,” Cat heaved with resignation. “I could tell
you the actual story of the first cat that curiosity killed, but I’m certain
that wouldn’t stop you. It certainly didn’t stop the cat!” Beside her, Mac
chuckled under his breath, trying to fake it as a cough. “Whatever you wish to
know regarding our recent travels, you should speak now—or forever, as they
say, hold your peace. We’ll not be carrying any of this nonsense back into the
Station. Lord knows, there’s enough gossip without adding all this to it!”

Mac (now
over his laughing/coughing fit) said in a helpful tone, “Since she has so many
questions, dear Cat, shouldn’t we make ourselves comfortable?”

But I
hadn’t said a word. I’d not even allowed myself to think of questions, or so I
had thought. Free rein? Open forum? This was too much to ask!

Creesie
, Cat, and Mac arranged themselves shoulder-width
apart in a straight line and then bent in unison at the knees as though about
to take a seat. I thought they had all drifted into senility; after all, who
knew how old they really were? But, as their thighs bent at ninety-degree
angle, a couch appeared beneath them, preventing them from falling to the
floor.

A
second, cushy, floral couch faced theirs, both of them situated in front of a
wide, sunny window that looked into a flower-filled yard. A blond-colored
coffee table squatted between the sofas. We were in someone’s living room.
Pictures of family filled the walls—three young girls, and their mother and
father. I easily recognized one of the faces.

“I’ve
missed this place,”
Creesie
said as she nestled into
the cushions. “Lived here for nearly sixty years with my husband, Joseph. It’s
not fancy, but it’s home.”

“I’ll
get drinks,” Cat said, still sounding a little huffy. “The rest of you should find
seats.” As she stomped off, a kitchen materialized adjacent to the cozy living
room. Floral wallpaper, a sink with a small window above it, and the front of a
refrigerator were all that was visible through the doorway. At Cat’s urging,
Rin
, Gus, and I collapsed on the opposite couch as Charlotte sank onto a
flowered ottoman.

“Joseph
used to tease that he wouldn’t bother with flowers at my funeral,”
Creesie
said, alluding to the décor. “By the time I died,
he thought I’d be sick of them. Oh, but he was so wrong!” She laughed happily.
“How could I tire of such lovely little faces?”

I smiled
at her. Mom had loved flowers the same way. She often told me that they spoke
to her. I was never brave enough to ask her what they said. I wished I had.

“Looks
like there’s water and sun-tea in here,” Cat called, her head muffled by the
refrigerator door. “Any preferences?”

She must
have been eavesdropping on our thoughts because I heard the sound of ice
clinking, cabinets banging, and before any of us could reply, Cat hustled in
with two trays. One held seven iced teas, the other an assortment of sweets.

“This is
delightful, Cat,”
Creesie
took a nibble off a small
cake and set her glass on a side table. “Coasters, please, everyone.”

I drank a
huge gulp of my sugary tea, nearly downing it all in one swallow. It calmed and
energized me. Holding the ice-cold glass between my knees, I avoided the whole
coaster issue, and wondered with a growing impatience if they were ever going
to get around to my countless questions.

Creesie
took another nibble off her cake, then dipped her
head my way. With a snort, she said, “Go ahead, my dear. Ask away. Believe it
or not, I can actually hear them rattling around in your head.”

Cat tossed
in, “Youth really is wasted on the young.”

Statements
like that always threw me for a loop, especially when everyone around me looked
my age or younger. But given that I hadn’t any idea what that meant—and this
was true far too often—I simply ignored it, and Cat as well.

I
pressed ahead. “Gus said they were more dangerous in the living realm than here
at the Station. Why is that?”
 

“You’re
referring to the depraved?”
Creesie
mumbled,
distracted by her cake.

I nodded
sharply.
Who else? A band of marauding
Santa Clauses?

This
tickled
Creesie
. As if I couldn’t hear her, she
mumbled to Mac, “She’s a bit of a comedian, isn’t she?”

“Told
you so,” Mac chuckled, nudging Cat. Cat looked nearly as annoyed as I did,
though I wasn’t sure why. Maybe she didn’t think I was quite so funny.

I
cleared my throat. “Could we focus, please? I’ll be dead by the time you answer
me.” I hadn’t meant it the way it sounded, but Cat made a terrible face.

“Sorry,
my dear. I suppose the fact that you’re here safe and sound has left me a tad
giddy.”
Creesie
placed her cake on a small end table
and gave me her full attention. “Getting back to your question, I suppose you
could say the depraved aren’t the sort you would ever want to come across in a
dark alley . . .”

“Or even
a well-lit one for that matter.” Mac chuckled. As Cat glared at him, the sound
died in his throat. I felt a variety of emotions around me—all but one in
agreement with Mac.
Rin
was still in car-accident awe.

“In the
living realm, they’re especially frightening because . . .”
Creesie
wavered. “Oh, I don’t know how to explain it without showing you, but they do
seem to get a jolt of depraved enjoyment from leaping into living things and
temporarily taking over their bodies.”

I nearly
picked my jaw off the floor. Just the thought it made my skin crawl. “And why
would they do that?”
 

Creesie
picked up her cake again. “I suppose it makes them
feel alive.”

“But
that doesn’t make sense.” My living mind struggled to make the connection.
“None of you even act like you’re dead.” Then I wondered, “Do the dead feel
dead?”

Rin
looked offended. “I certainly don’t.”

Then a
soft voice said, “I suppose it depends on who you ask, Hope.”

Creesie
nodded. “Yes, Charlotte,
that’s true. But if we’re speaking of dark beings, it would be safe to assume
they haven’t felt alive for a very long time . . . possibly even when they were
living. It’s difficult to explain to someone who has lived a full and happy
life, but that doesn’t make it any less true.”

“Show me
how they do it,” I told
Creesie
. “I want to get the
full effect.”

The cake
Cat was eating flew out of her hand. She looked like she wanted to turn me over
her knee and spank me. In my mind, I heard assorted shrieks and grumblings.

“Why are
you guys so literal about everything?” I frowned. “I meant show me in my head!
Do you think I’m a total loser?”

With a
smirk I realized that Cat might think so. But not about this subject. She had
to know that the mere idea of anything controlling me sounded like a waking
nightmare. I could barely tolerate my parents telling me what to do—let alone a
dark being invading my soul. And when it came to experiencing another person’s
emotions? Forget it. Just
passing through
the living was traumatic enough. How overwhelming must it feel to stay inside
of one for any length of time? How could any being—evil or otherwise—possibly
enjoy that?

“Strictly
for demonstration purposes,”
Creesie
said, not
looking as serene as I had thought she should. “This will at least give you a
general idea.” And before she had even finished her sentence, I was thrust into
an instant and dramatic scene that I now became a part of.
 

Before
me was a rushing river. I saw the back of a wet head hurrying past me, arms
flailing. I couldn’t tell my precise location but I seemed to be above the
river, following the dark-headed boy downstream. It was late afternoon, the sun
was drifting down, and I could smell the crisp scent of the pines that
encroached on the river’s edge. With my heightened senses, it was easy to take
in every detail at once.
 

The boy
continued to struggle against the strong current, but he was swiftly losing the
battle. After some time, he drifted to a large rock near the water’s edge—weak
but still alive. I saw what looked like a dark, filmy being hovering above the
boy as he lay gasping for air. Suddenly, and strangely, my scope of vision
narrowed. It was similar to the way a camera lens narrows when the photographer
hits
zoom
. From my limited scope of
vision, I watched as the
shadowbeing
transformed into
a solid human form—male, barefooted, and wearing jeans—and though I could only
see the being from the waist down, I knew that it had duplicated the shape and
size of the unconscious boy.

Now,
with a rising wave of anxiety, I looked on helplessly as the seemingly solid
 
being walked closer to the boy, questioning
all the while the familiarity in its easy stroll. And as it knelt beside the
boy’s still body, I stifled a scream as it—without any sense of hesitation or
provocation—
fell inside the boy!

Suddenly,
the boy began thrashing and flailing. Then, after a while, he got very quiet. Lying
face down on the smooth boulder, I envisioned the dark being inside him,
adjusting to its new form . . . gaining control. Then the boy began to move
again, alert and renewed, as if nothing had transpired. And just before the boy
lifted his head so that I could see his face, the tape abruptly ended.

Extracted
from the scene, I looked around at the six of them, slightly disoriented.

“The
depraved have a tendency to prey on the defenseless,”
Creesie
began, hearing my unspoken question. She motioned for Gus to get me some cake. “Being
in a weakened state . . . illness, grief, near death”—my spine stiffened as she
said this—“makes you an easier target.”

As I
flashed back on the details of my encounter with the depraved, hot shame pulsed
through me.
Why hadn’t I fought back
?
Pleasure and pain, ecstasy and dread . . . I should have acted sooner and yet I
had done nothing—nothing until I’d feared more for Daniel’s safety than for my
own.

And then
I thought of the boy again, and the haunting images shown to me—and I couldn’t
help but think that my experience had been different. I distinctly remembered
the sensation of my heart being strangled. Of the being who resembled my
beautiful Ethan extending his hand deep into my chest and squeezing. And yet I
hadn’t struggled! All the while as my life ebbed out of me, I hadn’t any desire
to break its hold, nor had I breathed a breath of dissent. This seemed contrary
to all that I stood for. I was a fighter! I used to be, anyway. Why hadn’t I
fought to save myself?