White Space

As if responding to some signal, the birds lifted as one in a broad, ebony curtain and shot toward some spot high above, leaving behind shredded clothing and a tumble of stained bone. The birds massed—and then seemed to melt into the ceiling. They fell utterly silent without even so much as a rustle. Yet they were there; their beetle-bright eyes studded the ceiling in an alien galaxy, a splash of eerie starlight.

That was when Emma realized something else: she could see herself. Not from their eyes; she wasn’t in the birds’ heads, thank God. But she saw herself, as well as Casey and Eric, reflected from the rock high above, at their feet, and all around. They went on and on, another Emma/Eric/Casey and yet another Emma/Eric/Casey and another and another and another: an infinite number of Emmas and Erics and Caseys marching away to the end of time.

The cave was an immense black-mirror sphere.

“Emma,” Eric said, and pointed. “Look. Inside that circle of candles.”

She followed his gaze, and a blast of horror swept through her body.

“No.” Casey’s voice was an anguished whisper. “No.”

2

RIMA SWAYED. HER body glistened, as if she’d been dipped in red paint. More blood dribbled in crimson rills from her mouth, her ears, her shredded wrists, and a thousand rips in her skin. Her shirt was a bib of purple gore, and Emma gasped as fresh blood blossomed in a dark rose over Rima’s stomach. Blood leaked through tiny fissures in her skin to form rivulets that ran down her legs and dripped from her fingers to puddle on the rock with a sodden, dull puh-puh-puh-puh. Rima looked like a porcelain doll done in a fine crackle-glaze: a leaky vessel through which her life’s blood seeped and would soon drain away completely.

“We’re too late.” Casey was trembling. “We’re too late; it’s got her.”

“Good for you, Casey!” Rima boomed, although the voice was not hers, or the whisper-man’s either, the one Emma had heard in her blinks of Madison and that asylum. Definitely a man’s voice, though.

Beside her, she heard Eric suck in a breath. “What?” she asked. Eric’s skin had gone white as salt. “Eric?”

“Oh God.” Eric’s face was a mask of horror. “God, no, please don’t do this.”

“No.” Casey tensed, and he might have sprung into the circle if Eric hadn’t snatched his brother’s arm. “No, no!” Casey was crying, trying to fight his way free. “It’s not right, it’s not right!”

“Now, Casey. Son.” The monster wearing Rima made a tsk-tsk. “Is that any way to talk to Dear Old Dad?”

ERIC My Nightmare

THIS IS MYfault. Beneath his hands, Eric could feel Casey shuddering, a vessel under pressure, ready to explode. We’re in my nightmare now.

“You’re dead!” Casey’s hands knotted to fists. “You’re dead!”

“Why, Son.” The thing in Rima, the monster with Big Earl’s voice, pulled a pout. A huge, ruby-red tear trickled down her cheek. “That hurts my feelings, it really does.”

“I’m not your son!” The cords stood out in Casey’s neck. “Don’t call me that!”

“Don’t, Casey. That’s what it wants,” Eric said. Big Earl had been a big man with a large man’s bluster, but this was like being caught in an echo chamber. His dead father’s voice battered his brain. Eric’s mouth filled with a taste of clean steel, and he grabbed onto his hate, hugged it as tightly as he held his weeping, raging brother. Good, stay angry; anger was something he could use. He willed his mind to diamond-bright clarity. This is the enemy. No matter what its face, it always has been. “Don’t give it any more power.”

“Oooh,” the whisper-man boomed in Big Earl’s voice, “you always were a smart boy, Eric. I guess Emma was a good teacher, huh?”

Emma let go of some small sound, almost the whimper of a trapped animal, but Eric kept his gaze screwed to the whisper-man. “Leave her out of this. She’s got nothing to say to you. She’s got nothing to do with you.”

“Oh now, Son, you’d be surprised.” The whisper-man threw Eric a wink. “Because she’s got everything to do with you.”

The words barely registered. This thing might have his father’s voice and Rima’s face; it might enjoy and feed upon this kind of sadistic play, but take away the bluster and it was clear: this thing needed them for something. Not only that: Eric knew, instinctively, that they must be willing to give it up. Otherwise, it would have taken what it wanted already, the same way it had snatched Rima and Lizzie.

And where is Lizzie? He risked a quick glance left and right; saw both the ravaged body of what he thought must’ve been a woman and a lumpy heap of bones, stringy flesh, and bloody clothing reduced to tatters. The skeletonized body seemed small but still too large for a little girl. What’s it done with her?

“Stop playing games. You need something from us,” Eric said. “What is it? Where’s Lizzie?”