Chapter 8, continued
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Don didn't blink. He didn't move. He had not expected this sudden change in direction. He'd been hoping for a description of the culprit, or even a clue to how he'd entered the house, but. . . ghosts? Something stirred in his memory, like a vision in the corner of his eye, but before he could grasp it, it had vanished. He cleared his throat to stall for time, the girl was still watching him, her cheeks blushing pink, but her jaw serious and set. He cleared his throat a second time, "Ghosts?" he said, raising his eyebrows and attempting to look disbelieving, like a parent catching his child in a lie.
But Mara only nodded, her eyes still darting back and forth, looking for his answer in his face. Slowly and just as quietly she repeated, "do you believe in them?"
Don frowned, the thing in his memory was stirring more vigorously now, but still his hand continued to close one moment too soon. He could not catch it. He thought of his dream and the invisible screaming girl and the doll laying at home on his kitchen floor. Starnge, but not ghosts, he knew. He thought about his early childhood and campfire ghost stories. But even the vivid, horrific pictures that they had brought to his mind did not fit in his current category of ghosts. The truth was, he didn't know what fit his category of ghosts, or even what had formed such a category in his mind. "I don't know," he said truthfully, "I think I used to. . ." he trailed off, he didn't even know what he meant.
He sighed and looked up, studying the girl once more. She too had furrowed her brows and appeared to be thinking hard. Don could almost see her thoughts playing across her face. To lie or not to lie, that was the question. Of all things, what this case did not need was a lie to confuse matters more. He evaluated Mara and his frown deepened. "Tell me the truth, Mara," he said, his voice no longer the business-tone but instead his own deep timber.
She seemed to evaluate him in turn, running a shaky hand through her hair. She closed her eyes and spoke, "I don't remember being attacked," she said, her voice trembling slightly.
Don watched her, taking in every movement of her body, every waver in her voice. She was not restating the past, she was telling him something new. Something strange. Something very, very unhelpful to his case. "What do you remember?" he asked.
At this, Mara opened her eyes, they were red and filled with tears. Whether they were tears of fright, tears of worry, or tears of pain Don did not know. If he had had to guess, he would have said all three. Mara licked her lips slowly, now she was stalling. . . biding her time. "I. . ." she began and trailed off. "When- when I opened the attic door, Chailyn was there. Standing in front of this big mirror. . . She told me to go away. . .but it didn't sound like her voice. . . It was weird. And I told her I was sorry, but she just said to go back, and. . . and then it was like I was hit by a big gust of wind and I was sort of thrown out of the room. I started to run to go get my mom, but. . . but when I got into Chailyn's room she was there- I don't know how- but she was there, covered in blood and- and. . . and bite marks. I thought she was dead and I screamed, but then she sat up and said �Give up' and fell down again. I was. . . I was so sure she was dead, and so scared. . . I fainted. I just blacked out right there, no one ever touched me. I know it."
Don was speechless. His heart was racing, his breath coming in short little wisps of air. It didn't make any sense, it just could be possible. There were pictures of bruises, shaped like fists. There was evidence that a human had beaten them. But he looked at Mara. Tears had carved streaky trails down her face. Her knuckles were white and shook around the blankets clutched in her hands. Little beads of sweat clung to the baby hairs on her forehead. She believed everything she'd said with absolute certainty. And hadn't he felt something strange about that mirror? . . But it just couldn't be--
"There's something else," she whispered, breaking into his thoughts. "I've been there."
"What? Where?" Don asked, "What are you talking about?" But he wasn't sure he wanted to know.
"To wherever it happened to Chailyn. There are these two boys. . . "
The thing in Don's memory stirred again, faster and harder than ever. It was beginning to form a vague picture. . .
". . . and they have some kind of-- of monster," Mara went on.
Don's hand reached.
"I go when I pass out," she whispered, a new tear rolling down her cheek. "I try to save Chay, but I can't. It's dark, and hot, and it's in this. . . it's in this. . . this--"
"forest," they said together, Don's hand had finally grabbed the racing memory. Mara gasped, and Don felt sick. He felt so sick. . . he was going to lose it at any second.
"No. . ." he mumbled, tears suddenly forming in his eyes, "No. . . not again."
He stood and turned to face the door, everything but his thoughts evaporated. This could not possibly be happening. He walked through the hospital to his car-- not pausing when Mara, cried "wait," behind him; not slowing when Kate clutched at his arm. He moved like a man about to die who has finally realized that it's the end.
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