Unbroken Page 5

  It had been an accident. She was sure of that. Still, her friend Billy Carroll had died that night. She hadn’t caused his death in any way. She still believed that, but what made it worse was knowing she hadn’t done anything about it, not before or after. She had been there when Billy died, and she hadn’t reported it to the police like she knew she should have. She had told Jon they had to report it, even if it was anonymously, but they hadn’t.

  Instead, she had gone along with what Jon had said and done. They didn’t leave Billy where he had died for someone else to find him. They had done something much worse, and she had lived with the guilt ever since.

  What if that’s why this is happening? she thought as rushes of panic boiled up inside her.

  What if Billy’s ghost has come back? . . . What if he’s haunting me because I was there when he died?

  On a rational level, she knew none of this made any sense.

  Why would it be happening now, after more than twenty-five years?

  But Kiera thought she knew the answer to that.

  It was because Jon had moved back to Stratford.

  Maybe it’s not me, she thought, trying to push away these irrational thoughts. If it’s really Billy’s ghost, maybe he’s come back because Jon’s back . . . They’re the ones who are connected . . . not me . . . because Jon—

  She didn’t finish the thought. She couldn’t. She had tried to broach the subject with Jon earlier today, and he had dismissed it outright, telling her to forget all about it and not to worry.

  But she couldn’t stop worrying as she lay there in the darkness, listening to her husband’s steady breathing as he slept . . . the soft sighing of the wind outside . . . and the light rasping of the curtains as they scuffed against the windowsill.

  She couldn’t stop remembering that horrible night, and she cringed whenever she recalled the figure she had seen inside the line of white light that streaked across her vision. The figure was silhouetted against a bright glare of light—like headlights—and if it was at all real, it had to be the ghost of Billy Carroll, come back to haunt both her and Jon because of what they had done . . .

  And what they hadn’t done.

  Kiera whimpered softly and covered her mouth with one hand to stifle the scream that was building up inside her. Cold sweat broke out across her skin and ran in small, tickling streams down both sides of her neck. It wasn’t just because the night was humid. The wind, wafting through the open windows, blew across her face like the gentle touch of unseen hands, and all too easily she could imagine the hands touching her were skeletal hands . . . insubstantial hands that were moldering with rot as they materialized like vapors and reached out of the darkness to touch her . . . to clench her throat . . . to drive pain into her head . . . to choke off her life . . .

  With a sudden roaring gasp, Kiera bolted upright in bed, her hands covering her chest as she looked, wide-eyed, around the room. Nate was awake in an instant.

  “Jesus! What is it?” he cried out.

  His weight shifted on the bed as he fumbled for the light switch. When he knocked something onto the floor, he swore softly under his breath.

  “Don’t turn on the lights!” she cried out, covering her eyes, afraid the sudden blast of light would trigger another migraine.

  “Christ! Are you all right?” Nate sounded calmer now. His hand slapped the bed as he reached out for her. When he touched her side, instead of finding it reassuring, she shrank away from him.

  “I’m fine . . . I . . . I must have been dreaming . . .”

  It was a lie. There was no way she had fallen asleep, but she wasn’t about to tell him what she had been thinking. She wasn’t sure she could recapture her train of thought, and she definitely didn’t want to. An unsettled feeling churned her stomach as a sour taste filled the back of her throat. She thought she might throw up.

  “Must’ve been a doozy,” Nate said softly.

  He ran his hand up her side to her shoulder, but his touch wasn’t at all reassuring. Kiera shied away from him, sighing as she wiped her face with her forearm. The sweat on her forehead felt like a thin coating of oil. Her pulse was rushing so fast in her ears it throbbed in her neck and wrists.

  “Wanna tell me about it?” Nate asked as he settled back down in the bed. His hand still rested lightly on her arm, patting her.

  “I can’t really remember,” she said, cringing at the lie. The problem was, she could remember all too well what she’d been thinking, and even now, the idea that the ghost of Billy Carroll was in the room—unseen and unheard as it watched them—terrified her. And she knew—if Billy was in the room with them—he knew she was lying.

  And I’m living a lie, she thought, twisting inside with guilt.

  “Want a glass of water?” Nate asked.

  Kiera shook her head and whispered, “No, I’ll be all right. I just . . .”

  Moving slowly, she lay back down in bed and took a long, slow breath, hoping to calm herself. The darkness of the room pressed down on her like a heavy blanket. She still felt as though she couldn’t get any air deep enough into her lungs. Spinning spots of white light trailed across her vision, hissing softly in the darkness.

  “You sure?” Nate asked, sounding sleepy now.

  “Yeah . . . I’m sure,” Kiera said, but as she lay on her side, her back to her husband, her eyes were wide open as she stared into the throbbing darkness.

  I know you’re there, Billy . . . she thought, shivering as she hugged herself. She felt terribly alone as tears spilled from her eyes and ran in warm tracks down her face before soaking into her pillow.

  I know you’ve come back to torment me because of what we did . . .

  4

  That thought was still echoing in her mind the next morning when, unable to sleep, she got out of bed earlier than usual—around five thirty—and went downstairs. It felt good to be alone. The sun was just starting to come up, and the house was filled with a dense, peaceful quiet. She cringed whenever she broke the silence. Even her bare feet scuffing on the linoleum or the sounds she made as she filled the coffee carafe with water and started making coffee set her on edge. While the coffee was brewing, she sat at the kitchen table and tried to sort out what had been on her mind last night.

  Her clearest thought—what she really wanted to believe—was that she had been so worn out after everything that had happened yesterday that she had overreacted. Lying in bed unable to sleep and worrying about having a brain tumor or losing her mind—or that the ghost of Billy Carroll was haunting her—seemed slightly ridiculous now.

  The coffeepot steamed and snapped as hot water trickled through the grounds. Kiera sighed and, leaning forward, rubbed her face with the flats of her hands, trying to decide if she really would follow through and make an appointment with her doctor today.

  It didn’t seem worth the bother now.

  She wanted to convince herself that she had overreacted, but the memory of that frozen band of white light and the silhouette inside it came back, filling her with an uneasy feeling. Resting both elbows on the table, she glanced at the wall phone. She could see the little red cross that designated the speed dial number for Dr. Schwartz’s office.

  It was too early to call now. All she’d get would be his answering service, and she knew, no matter what she felt or thought about what had happened—what was happening—this wasn’t an emergency. She was determined to have her coffee, make breakfast for her and Nate, and see how she felt later.

  Nate would sleep late today. He was taking advantage of the last few days of summer vacation before the school year started. And Trista wouldn’t show up until noon—if then. She sighed as she got up from the table and set about preparing breakfast for herself.

  The day was already warm, even this early in the morning. The thunderstorm that had threatened had never materialized to break the humidity. Once her breakfast was ready—toast with blueberry jam, coffee, and orange juice—Kiera walked out onto the back deck and sat down at the met
al picnic table after wiping the dew off the chair. The sun looked like a huge orange ball through the morning haze, lighting the dew that sprinkled the lawn and making it sparkle. Twisting shreds of mist rose like smoke from the woods behind the house. The sound of birdsong filled the woods, almost loud enough to be irritating instead of soothing.

  Kiera raised her cup of coffee to her mouth and blew on the steam. She knew what she was doing wasn’t healthy. Marsha, her best friend who’d had her own battles with alcohol and was now in recovery, had told her this was called “taking inventory.” It wasn’t healthy for her just to sit here, stewing about what was or could be wrong with her. She should be active and do something about it.

  Maybe Jon and Liz or Alex would want to have an early game of tennis to make up for breaking off the game early yesterday.

  As much as she liked the idea, she simply didn’t have the motivation to do that or anything else. It was so much easier just to sit here and space out as the sunlight angled across the yard and drove back the darkness and damp of night.

  But as she sat there staring off into the woods, she realized she had been focused on something . . . a shape in the foliage that didn’t look quite right.

  A shiver uncoiled up her back as she slowly lowered her coffee cup to the table and leaned forward. Her eyes were wide as she strained to make out what she was looking at.

  Was there really a person in the woods?

  There was no wind, not even the hint of a breeze, so the leaves and branches were perfectly still. Even the loud chatter of birdsong seemed to have died down as though the birds had fled the immediate area. The sun was higher now, but the gauzy shadows under the trees appeared all the darker, like splashes of ink.

  Kiera shivered in spite of the warm day and the coffee she’d drunk. As she stared at the woods, trying to see if what she was seeing was real or just a trick of the eye, she experienced a curious sensation. Her eyes widened as she tried to pierce the shadows, but another feeling slowly took hold of her. She had the odd feeling that—somehow—she was crouching in the woods, watching herself on the deck.

  This strange feeling of duality grew stronger, sweeping over her in fast, intense rushes. The sharp contrast of light and shadow, of sunlit greens and shaded brown and black deeper in the woods was vibrating with frightening intensity. Kiera let out a frightened whimper as she sat poised, waiting for the streak of white light to slash across her vision. Thankfully, it didn’t come . . .

  Not yet, anyway.

  The light was a precursor of pain, so if she didn’t see the light, maybe she wouldn’t get a migraine today.

  Why is this happening to me? she wanted to scream as the feeling of dissociation got steadily stronger.

  It was easy to imagine that she was out there in the woods, crouching on hands and knees on the damp soil, clinging to the shadows as she watched this . . . this stranger sitting on her back deck.

  She inhaled sharply and smelled the rich, damp aroma of rotting vegetation. Her shoulders tensed, and when she clenched her hands into fists, she could almost feel the squishy, black mulch of the forest floor ooze between her fingers. She shivered as the cool, damp touch of shadows from the branches rippled like water across her back, and she felt her knees pressing into the soft, yielding soil . . .

  No! . . . Stop it! . . . Stop it now, she told herself, but the dense, humid air felt too thick to breathe. It muffled her voice as a dense heaviness pressed down on her. For an instant, she felt as though she was drifting helplessly underwater, being sucked down into dark, unknown depths. Her eyes were wide open and staring as she looked at the stretch of lawn between her and the woods. The air was roiling with heavy, gray clots, even though she knew there was no breeze.

  Frantic desperation rose up inside her, but she just sat there paralyzed, with no idea what to do. She wanted to get up and run just to do something to dispel this panicky feeling but, at the same time, she was riveted to her seat, her body frozen with fear. She wished she could clear her throat and call out to Nate. The bedroom window was open. He should hear her. But she couldn’t make the tiniest sound. She didn’t dare even to try to form a word because she was afraid of what might come out.

  Would it be a cry for help or a scream?

  Kiera knew, no matter what sound she tried to make, when she opened her mouth nothing would come out except—maybe—one faint, final gasp.

  You’re having a panic attack, she told herself, surprised by such a clear, rational thought in the midst of such mounting fear. That’s all it is. Just relax. It will pass.

  But the feeling was more than that.

  She tore her gaze away from the woods and looked down at her hands, which were clasped tightly in her lap. The intensity of her sight scared her even more. Every vein and tendon shifted beneath her skin at the slightest twitch. Every hair on the back of her hands, every skin pore, every wrinkle and blemish stood out with near psychedelic brilliance. The feeling of dissociation got so strong she knew she had to cry out or get up from her chair and do something if only to keep moving.

  Worst of all, she was convinced, now, that she was being watched, but she couldn’t distinguish if she was sitting on her deck being watched by someone in the woods, or if—somehow—she was lurking in the woods, watching someone else—or herself—on the deck.

  Slowly, she got to her feet. Her knee knocked the underside of table hard enough to spill her coffee. The cup hit the deck floor, rolled away, and fell off the deck onto the lawn. She heard it hit with a dull thump.

  Her shoulders were hunched, and her hands were clenched as she turned her head from side to side, trying to get her bearings. The sense of unreality was too much. Waves of vertigo swept over her. She staggered and would have fallen if she hadn’t caught hold of the deck railing and gripped it tightly. Glancing down at her hand supporting her, she was surprised and terrified to see how thin and fragile it appeared.

  Like a skeleton’s hand, she thought as her panic spiked even higher.

  The instant she turned and started back to the house, her legs gave out and she dropped to the deck. Hard. It happened so fast she was barely aware she was falling until the impact jolted her, making her teeth clack together so hard she nipped the tip of her tongue. The metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth as her vision darkened.

  At least there’s no white lightning, she thought, and she almost laughed out loud before hawking up some saliva and spitting. The spit was flecked with blood, but she didn’t connect that it was her blood. Her pulse thumped in her ears, making her vision jump with every beat.

  She was on her hands and knees, but she didn’t have the strength to get back up. It felt like it was happening to someone else. Her joints and muscles were as loose as a stack of old clothes. She was aware of the solidity of the deck planking, but she felt like she was on a boat that was pitching wildly from side to side. The swells of vertigo kept coming faster and faster, lifting her up and then dropping her down . . .

  Up and down . . .

  Still on her hands and knees, she scrambled toward the door, but when she looked at it, her vision telescoped, and it looked impossibly far away. She’d never get there. When she looked down at her hands again, she had the terrifying thought that they—or the deck—were too insubstantial to hold her up much longer. Either the deck or she was going to disappear, and she would plunge down into . . .

  Nothing.

  “. . . Nate . . .”

  That single word, almost unrecognizable, came from somewhere deep inside her, but her voice was as light as the whisper of an extinguished candle flame. Her stomach was churning, and she knew she was going to vomit. The feeling that she was being watched hadn’t gone away, but even if someone was watching her from the woods, it didn’t matter. Her only thought was that she had to get back into the house where she’d be safe.

  The pressure crushing down on her became intolerable. Her arms and legs buckled. As she crawled, her hands and knees thudded when they hit the wooden deck, bu
t she had no sense of motion. Everything around her—the deck, the house, the yard—was spinning crazily, and she was the still point, the unmovable axis.

  She might have been closer to the door, but no matter how hard she tried, safety kept slipping away from her. The metal frame and screen door towered above her, expanding and bulging outward as though pressure inside the house was building and about to explode outward. She shied away from it but still struggled toward it.

  A loud humming sound filled her ears. She hadn’t noticed when it had started. It seemed as though it had always been there, humming below her awareness, and only now was she consciously aware of it. Once she knew it was there, it filled her head like the maddened buzzing of a beehive. It blocked out every other sound.

  Where are the birds? she wondered. Why can’t I hear the birds singing?

  It was a mundane thought that struck her as pathetic, almost funny, because she realized and accepted that she might be dying. She must be having a stroke . . . or else the tumor inside her head had exploded . . . Whatever it was, she knew she was dying. Her senses were closing down, shutting off, and she was falling into a dark, backward spin. The only other time she had felt like this was when she had given birth to Trista seventeen years ago. The birth had been long and hard, and toward the end, she remembered her senses had narrowed down until all she had left was a single pinpoint of concentration to get that baby out of her.

  Why is this happening to me? . . . I don’t want to die!

  Her panic was so strong now it blotted out everything else. She couldn’t even remember what she had been trying to do. When she looked up and saw the screen door in front of her, she no longer remembered that she was trying to get to it. The heaviness pressing her down was too much to bear. Her elbows buckled, and with a long-drawn-out groan, she collapsed face-first onto the deck. Darkness surged over her as she finally gave up the struggle. She spread her arms out wide across the deck floor as if to embrace the darkness that was pulling her down like a powerful undertow she couldn’t possibly resist.