Fifteen
Tracey woke cold and aching. Even the slightest of movements sent sharp pains through her body. Light filtered through small holes in the top of the bad spot. Tracey tried to remember how to get back outside, which tunnels and turns to follow—but it was as if the path fell apart in her mind. She buried her face in her hands and cried frustrated, angry tears.
Tracey’s head snapped upward at the dense sound of footsteps above her. She swiped at her tears, took a deep breath, and held it. A shadow cast over the light, and Tracey’s heart jumped.
“Tracey, Mummy’s here,” her voice was cheerful. “Are you ready to come out of the bad spot? Have you decided to listen to Mummy and be a good girl?” she asked.
Tracey let out a whoosh of breath and pleaded frantically, “Yes! Yes! Please!” Her voice cracked. “Please take me out. I’ll be a good girl! I’ll listen! I won’t fight anymore!” she declared, and she meant every word she said.
“Okay, just a sec,” Mummy said.
Tracey could hear Mummy brush at the dirt with her feet. She covered her head with her hands and closed her eyes tightly. She remained still, hoping she was really going to be rescued from the bad spot. Dirt spilled through the hole and onto her arms. The sounds of the shovel scratching and scraping against the wood brought her hope. Her captor lifted the wood and Tracey saw her smiling face. Tears of happiness sprang from her eyes. She knew crying made Mummy mad, so she squeezed her eyes shut and tried her hardest to stop. All she wanted was to get out of the bad spot, make Mummy happy, and be a good girl.
“I’m almost there, sweetie, hold on one more minute,” she said, as she lifted the tangled twigs.
Tracey reached her arms eagerly for Mummy to grab them. She held on as tight as she could and stood slowly, flinching from the pains that immobility had wrought. Mummy lifted her out of the hole, and Tracey collapsed into her warmth, pushing as far away from the bad spot as she was able. She took comfort in the safety of the arms of her captor. In her relief upon being freed from the bad spot, Tracey said through her tears, “I’m so sorry, Mummy. I promise to be good!”
Mummy leaned back from Tracey, her firm grip softened, her eyes serious. “Tracey, I put you there for your own good, but you see that Mummy came and got you, right?” she smiled and pulled her close again. “Let’s get you out of those wet stinky clothes and clean you up a bit, huh?”
Tracey smiled. She was relieved to be out of the bad spot, comforted to be with another person, and thankful to be alive. She held Mummy’s hand on the way back to their bathing place, happy to be taken care of again. Her crying subsided, replaced with acceptance—acceptance of her new life—and her new mummy.
Sixteen
Molly approached the rear of the dark house warily, the dogs pulled in the direction of the cellar doors, whining. Just as Molly felt at her wits’ end, about to scream at the dogs and drag them by their fur if need be, she glanced down. A chill ran along her spine as she noticed the faintest ribbon of light beneath the cellar doors. A second later, it was gone. Molly froze, panicked. Her hands released the leashes, though the dogs remained by her side, alert, standing guard. Molly lowered her trembling body and peered beneath the doors. She reached her hands past the shiny lock, and tentatively touched the peeling paint of the old, wooden doors. Molly’s vision instantly went black and images filled her mind, flashing erratically: a man being beaten, huddling, cowering, and chanting; the same man sitting cross-legged on a dirt floor rocking back and forth. Pressure grew against her hands—pressure of a man’s thick, rough palms against her own. Molly shuddered. A second later the sensation was gone. Her eyes darted wildly as she grabbed the dogs’ leashes and sprinted toward the driveway, literally dragging them behind her.
It wasn’t until she started driving that she noticed the parking ticket. Her eyes stung with tears of fatigue and frustration. She cursed loudly into the dark night.
Molly tried to calm her mind as she stripped off her dirty clothes and pulled a t-shirt from the dryer. If it weren’t for the bandage, she would have forgotten the wound on her hand. She peeled the dirty bandage off and replaced it with a clean one. The dogs followed her into the den, where Molly flicked on her computer and was surprised to see the time: six-thirty A.M. She moved foggily to the kitchen and made coffee, thinking about the strange night she had been through and remembering that she still had yet to discover why the ground had been hot where Hannah had knelt in the woods. That location, she decided, would be her destination for the morning—after her trip to the police station to talk her way out of that damn ticket—and maybe a nap. She rubbed her eyes as Cole walked in, dressed and ready for work. “Couldn’t sleep, huh?” he asked, absently. “Mm-hmm. I keep seeing Tracey. It’s driving me crazy.” Cole looked at her sharply, disbelief spread across his face.
“I’m not crazy, Cole,” she said, annoyed. “I took the dogs for a drive, but then I saw Pastor Lett—at four o’clock in the morning! She was rowing her canoe out from one of the inlets—the one by the Perkinson House that Newton Carr was talking about.” She poured Cole a cup of coffee, added cream and Sweet ’n Low, and filled a glass with water for herself.
Cole went to the front of the house to retrieve the newspaper, returned, and sat silently at the table, reading.
“Cole,” Molly continued, “I know what you think of my visions. I don’t know what’s going on, but something is really wrong with...with...well, with everything right now.” She leaned against the counter.
Cole lowered the newspaper. He looked at her, but Molly couldn’t tell whether it was a look of pity or concern.
“Babe,” he said, “I don’t know what to think, but I can only suppose that you believe there’s something going on. I’m worried about you. I thought the therapy really helped when we were in Philly. Maybe you should try that again, or talk to Pastor Lett, she helped you before.”
Molly felt a strong need to validate what she had seen. “Cole, I got this weird note, and then I went to the Perkinson House, and saw, I don’t know, something.” She paused, thoughtfully, “There’s something in the cellar.” She rubbed her eyes, pulled away from him. “I think there might be someone in the cellar.”
“Molly,” Cole’s tone was dismissive, “do you even hear what you’re saying?”
“Cole, listen!” she pleaded, speaking quickly, as if she had to tell him before he could disparage her again. She told him about the visions she’d had in the early morning and the ones she’d had at the cellar doors.
Surprisingly, he said, in a very serious tone, “Well, Mol, it looks like you have something going on with you, though I don’t know what.” He looked across the table at her disheveled hair, the dark circles under her eyes. “Are you sure you aren’t just exhausted?” he reached across the table and placed his hand upon hers. “Your curiosity working overtime, maybe? You know, Mol,” he softened his voice, “you’re OCD could cause you to dream about all of this, dredging up the past.”
Molly smirked, inwardly chiding him for blaming OCD—an easy scapegoat for a person who needed hard, tangible facts in order to believe in things.
He quickly recovered. “I’m not saying it is causing the dreams. I’m just saying it could be, in combination with…well, you know, that’s all.” He sat calmly sipping his coffee—far too calm for Molly’s racing mind.
“Don’t you think I’ve thought of that?” she asked sharply. “I know she’s not Amanda, and I don’t think that I’d have such distinct visions if it were just my OCD. I mean,” she fiddled with the castaway section of the newspaper that lay on the table, “if it were just OCD, I don’t think I would’ve felt the man’s palms on mine or seen with such clarity the area in the woods where I could feel her.”