CHAPTER THREE
The doorbell of the apartment was a shrill, annoying sound, and since it was interrupting the football game on television, Alan was forced to get up and answer the door. "I'm coming, I'm coming…keep your pants on…" he grumbled.
He opened the door to find an unusually tall black woman standing there, her wide, handsome face seeming to shine from a light that didn't physically exist. She held out her hand, the faintest trace of a smile on her lips.
"Mr. Thornton?"
"What do you want?" Alan sneered.
"I'm here to ask you about Mark. He's…"
"Wait a sec. Who're you?"
"I'm the high school's psychologist. I've been seeing Mark everyday for the past week, but when he missed the last two days…"
Alan's eyes widened and his mouth twisted into an ugly frown. "You've been seeing Mark? Why wasn't I notified of this?"
Ms. Lawry returned his gaze steadily. "These meetings have a strict confidentiality code, Mr. Thornton. If we believe one of our students has a problem at home, it's our job to deal with it in the best way possible. I was informed by an employee of the school that Mark was carrying signs of abuse. I thought it could be related to the fact that he was recently involved in a tragic accident and now was in the care of two people with whom, prior to the death of his mother, he had never been acquainted."
"You think I hurt him." It wasn't a question; it was a statement, and an accusatory one at that.
"Listen, sir, I'm required by law to step in when a child exhibits signs of abuse. Teenagers typically don't receive bruises on their arms and necks from falling out of trees or playing sports!"
"Get out of my home." Alan said, his voice dangerously low.
"I'll leave when you give me some answers, Mr. Thornton. Now then, if you didn't hurt Mark, who did?" The snarl on Alan's face deepened. Ms. Lawry glanced around his massive shoulders. "Where is Mark, anyway? I came to speak to him in the first place."
Alan pursed his lips. "Not here. The little bastard left Saturday."
"Left?" Ms. Lawry said in shock. "Why?"
Glaring at her, he cocked his eyebrow. "How should I know? The kid's a nut. Threatening me with a knife, taking my money…"
Ms. Lawry's eyes narrowed. "Your money?" she sneered. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Mr. Thornton, but I believe that fifty grand is Mark's to begin with."
Alan gave her a smirk and said, "I don't know what you're talking about."
Ms. Lawry frowned. "I think you do."
The smirk disappeared and was replaced by a scowl. "It's my word against his. What kind of judge, or jury for that matter, would believe that kid anyway?"
"How about I just show them the bruises on his neck and let them decide for themselves how he got them?"
Alan took a menacing step towards her. The vein on his temple stood out, pulsing, and a muscle on his forehead twitched slightly. His arm shot out suddenly and grabbed her wrist. "Get out of my house or I'll wring your neck with one hand," he snarled.
Ms. Lawry's eyes burned holes into Alan's face. "Not until I find out what's going on around here, Mr. Thornton." She yanked herself free of his grasp and strode inside.
"Get back here!" Alan growled. You can't just barge into someone's house like this without a warrant!" He stomped after her and, with one quick movement, blocked her path with his body.
"You let me by, or I'll have you arrested for assault and battery, not to mention child abuse," she hissed. She was about to try and push him out of the way when something on the table next to her caught her eye: an envelope addressed to Mark. She picked it up slowly.
"That came a day before he left," said a raspy voice from behind her. Ms. Lawry turned and saw a woman in the doorway of the apartment. "He went to live with his grandmother." The woman took a few steps toward her.
Joyce reached out and plucked the envelope from Ms. Lawry's grasp. She held it up and pointed to the top left-hand corner. "You'll find him at that address." Ms. Lawry gazed down into Joyce's dark eyes. They were glazed and shiny with a treacherous anger.
"Go next door to the Mason's. Ask to use their phone…tell them it's an emergency. Call the police and have them come here." Joyce's voice became strained and higher. "Have them come here and take him away." She stretched out one long, bony finger and turned it to Alan. "Tell them what he did to Mark."
Alan bolted to the other side of the room and opened a drawer beneath the coffee table. Inside was a hand gun. He snatched it up and held it before him, pointing it at Joyce with a shaking hand.
Joyce opened her mouth and began to scream with laughter, a horrible cackle that rang through the apartment. "Going to shoot me, sweetie?" Alan clutched the gun with two hands.
"Go ahead. Right here." She placed a clenched fist over the left side of chest, her eyes gleaming as she stared at Alan with an insane eagerness.
"Pull the trigger, darling."
Alan took a step backwards, sweat dripping down his face like water from a leaky faucet.
"Pull it."
Ms. Lawry had backed up against the wall, the envelope clutched in her hand. She was slowly edging along the wall towards the door.
"PULL IT!"
There was a tremendous crack like a whip, and time seemed to stand still. Joyce stood frozen in the middle of the room, eyes wide and glassy. A smile crept onto her lips, and she crumpled to the floor. Blood seeped from a hole in the center of her chest, creating a dark scarlet pool on the carpet.
"Ohhh…"
Ms. Lawry gave a low moan, unable to move. Both she and Alan remained motionless, rooted to the spot. Then Alan straightened up and turned to face her, gun still in hand.
Swiftly, Ms. Lawry dashed out the door. Alan rushed after her, but by the time he got out of the apartment, she was a floor beneath him and rapidly descending the rest of the stairs.
"If I ever see your face again," Alan shouted down to her, "you'll end up worse than her! And if you say anything to the police…" he screamed in emphasis, "your precious little Mark will wind up with his head on backwards, just like his mother!" He spun around furiously and turned back to see something fluttering to the floor of the apartment.
The envelope lay crumpled in the doorway.
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"Where is it?" Mark muttered under his breath, searching frantically through his messenger bag, flashlight tucked under his chin.
Grant took his eyes off the road and glanced down at him. "Where's what, bro?"
"The envelope." He threw a pair of baggy jeans to the floor of the car. "I need that envelope so I know where the heck we're going!"
"Calm down, man. When did you notice you didn't have it?"
"When we passed that sign back there…" He looked back at the setting sun behind them.
Mark hadn't thought of checking for the envelope before leaving because honestly, he had forgotten about it. He had left in such a rush that he hadn't made sure he had brought everything.
Then they had crossed the Derry County line.
'Salem's Lot was located in the northern section of Derry, a very forested and remote part of eastern Maine. The few towns that existed in Derry were small and separated from each other by wide mountains and lakes so large one could not see the other shore. The familiarity of the Maine landscape flooded back to him as they had passed under that bold green "Derry Exit" sign.
Grant went up over a hill, a great feat for his 1982 Horizon. Then they came to the mountain that surrounded a large portion of 'Salem's Lot. At approximately three thousand feet above sea level, Glower's Range was the physical barrier that almost isolated 'Salem's Lot from just about everything else. The town, however, was located almost five miles inward, enclosed within a thick forest and wide fields.
Thump, thump, thump-thump. The car was having a few technical difficulties. "C'mon, old girl, only a couple miles to go. You can do it…it's just an itty-bitty hill…" Grant patted the dashboard of his car. It gave a low rumble and shuddered in response. Mark glanced at the speedometer: They were rapidly losing speed. Forty miles an hour…thirty…twenty-five…twenty…fifteen…
At the top of the mountain, the Horizon gave one last thump and died. Grant pounded on the steering wheel. "No, no, no! Shit…" He had hit his knuckle against the corner between the dashboard and the glass, and his hand had a small gash. A trickle of blood dripped down the back of his hand.
Mark looked over at Grant's wound. "You have to learn to control your temper, bud," he said, grinning.
Grant looked over at him stonily. "Ha, ha. I think I have some napkins or tissues in the back of the car. Get them for me before I bleed to death." Mark turned around and clambered over the seat, reaching down into Grant's backpack, while Grant got out of the car and checked under the hood.
Crack. A twig snapped outside of the car in the woods next to the road. Mark twisted his head around to look out the window. Blackness stared back, enfolding him. Straining his eyes, he thought he could almost make out two indistinct white orbs, like eyes, in the distance. They were wavering there, moving ever so slightly. Then they suddenly vanished, like lightning, and rematerialized ten yards closer to the car. The moonlight illuminated the owner of the eyes for a moment before again disappearing into the night.
Mark gasped in horror. He unrolled Grant's window manually. "There's someone out…" he began to shout; then he froze. A figure stood motionless by the side of the road. It appeared to be human, yet not human. The body shape was right, but somehow its appearance, the movements of the creature made Mark believe it was…something more. And its eyes, its eyes were the color of the moon, shining without any light. Then, suddenly, it was hunched over outside the car, right next to Mark. It looked up at him and gave a twisted, evil grin.
Without any hesitation, Mark's hand dove into his pocket and retrieved the cross-shaped gravestone that he had carried every day for the past two years. He pressed it against the window, and a moan escaped his lips. The creature crossed its arms against its face in terror, then, hissing, retreated into the woods. Mark watched it flee, his heart pounding painfully fast.
"Did you get the tissues?" Grant asked, climbing back into the car.
Mark, who's breathing was still labored, turned to stare at him. "Didn't you see that?" he whispered hoarsely.
Grant looked over at him, confused. "See what?"
"That thing outside the window…"
Grant followed Mark's gaze to the outside of the car. "No, man, I think you're just tired. I think I fixed car, though!" He turned the key in the ignition and there was a loud rumbling. It grew stronger and stronger until the engine clicked and the headlights popped on.
"See? Told you! I had to do it all one-handed, though, 'cause somebody didn't get me my band-aid…Luckily, I'm a ambidextrous…" Grant pressed the gas pedal and shot off into the night.
'Maybe I am just tired…or hallucinating…' Mark thought to himself. Familiar surroundings can bring about some pretty bizarre memories and mirages. But that thing…it looked so real…and it looked familiar, yet not. It brought about a distinct feeling of de ja vu.
As they continued down the mountain, clouds began gathering around the moon, casting eerie shadows across Mark's dark eyes. The hills became fields mixed with patches of wooded areas, and in the distance, Mark could just make out the outline of some buildings. There were no lights shining from the town, though, and as they passed into the Lot, Mark became increasingly aware that the vicinity seemed deserted. There were no cars, no lights, no…nothing.
"See anything? Like a hotel, or people…?" he asked Grant.
"That would be a negative…wait." Grant took his foot off the acceleration. He leaned forward in his seat, straining his eyes. "I think that says something about a boarding house." He pointed to a sign about twenty yards away. They drove a little closer. "Yeah, it is! It says, 'Eva's Rooms for Rent'."
Mark's mouth dropped as he squinted at the sign. "Eva's Rooms for Rent? But…but that was here when I lived in the Lot." His brow furrowed. "Maybe it wasn't totally destroyed and they rebuilt it…" Mark turned to Grant. "Is that possible?"
Grant shrugged. "Sure, whatever, dude. Let's just go inside and get a room, alright?" They climbed out of the car and grabbed their things from the trunk. Ascending the stairs that led to the front door, Grant turned the knob and strode inside. "Hello?" he called.
A robed figure stepped out of the kitchen and, for a moment, Mark thought it was Eva Prunier, the owner of the first Eva's Rooms for Rent. Rationale overpowered this first impression for two reasons: First, Eva Prunier had died (or been burned as a vampire) the night that Mark and Ben had set fire to the Lot. Second, this woman looked nothing like Eva. She was short and dumpy, with messy brown-gray hair and long rectangular glasses perched at the tip of her nose that covered deep bags under her eyes. Scowling, she flipped on the lights. "Can I help you?" she asked in a high voice rich with a heavy German accent.
"Uh, yeah, I hope so…" Grant began. He extended his hand. The woman glared at him, hesitated, then shook it quickly. Grant took no notice to the brevity of the greeting. "Hi, I'm Grant, and this is Mark." He stepped back and pointed to Mark, his voice sounding overly-cheerful. "We just came from California and we need a room." He gave the woman a big grin.
"We have a few," she said icily. "Lucky for you, it's our off season. No one comes up here this time of year." She pushed between Grant and Mark and started up the stairs. Mark glanced over at Grant, who was totally oblivious to the cold, standoffish tone the woman was putting on. "Come on, then, we don't have all night," she called.
They picked up their bags and followed her up the stairs where they found her standing next to the door of the first room on the left. "Our rates are nightly, but fairly cheap considering the season. Here's your key." She handed Grant a small bronze key that looked fifty years old. "Breakfast is promptly at nine. We won't hold it for you."
She turned on heel and was about to leave when Mark asked, "Is this place named after Eva Prunier, the woman who owned this building a few years ago?"
The woman turned back, looking puzzled and slightly offended. "Of course not. I'm Eva, Eva Günter. I'm the only one who's ever owned this place in the two years it's been in the Lot. Any more questions?" she asked, staring hard at Mark. He shook his head and stared at the ground. "Good. I'll see you at nine sharp." Eva spun on heel and stomped down the stairs.
Grant unlocked the door and carried the bags inside. Mark slung his messenger bag over his shoulder and followed him. There were two single beds on opposite ends of the room with a coffee table between them. A large bay window was in the middle of the wall on the far side, across from the door. Grant carried his bags to the wardrobe that sat next to the bed on the right and began unpacking. Mark threw his things on the other bed and sat down.
Gazing out the window, it took Mark a moment for him to realize what he was staring at. There was a large house that sat atop a hill directly behind them. It was completely dark with the exception for a single orange glow that came from the top left-hand window. Skeletal trees grew in the yard, reaching out to the blackened sky. It was a house that had haunted his nightmares for two years.
The Marsten House.
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Ms. Lawry fully believed Murphy's Law: Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong. Optimism is not an option when working with troubled teenagers and their abusive parents.
Of course, after realizing that she had left the envelope, the only clue she had to Mark's whereabouts, in Alan Thornton's apartment, Ms. Lawry had made no attempt of retrieving it. She considered herself a bold woman, but that particular plan of action was not based on valor; it was based on stupidity. Once again, she had found herself at a dead end.
Then, she had remembered the pages and pages of notes she had taken on Mark and his dilemmas. Surely he had mentioned the name of his hometown at some point during their meetings. But, of course, by the time she had made it to her office, even the school janitors had gone home for the evening. Luckily, the next day was a Wednesday and a school day.
The thunderstorm hadn't helped her efforts. The town was thrown into darkness that night due to a major power failure. School was then cancelled. In one desperate attempt to make it to her office, she found a single truck parked in the school parking lot. A janitor had come that day to retrieve his wallet, which he had left in the cafeteria. After showing him her identification as a school employee, she was allowed into her office.
Ms. Lawry sat, huddled in the back of her room, scanning paper after paper of detailed insights into Mark Petrie's life. She paused, questioning her intentions. Why, she wondered, was she so desperate to help this boy? He hadn't been the easiest subject she had interviewed, or the most well-mannered. But this Mark Petrie, he pulled on a certain heartstring. Perhaps it was because he reminded her of herself at his age. His unwillingness to be contained and silenced, along with his struggle against his own flesh and blood, touched her. Even moved her.
So now, as she poured over her many documented conversations with him, a single tear made its way out of the corner of her eye and spilt silently down her cheek. She reread one of the lines she had recorded on Monday: "Yeah, my uncle's a little tough. But it could be worse. I mean, I'm still here, aren't I?'
She browsed the papers, as if skipping back through time, witnessing discussions and stories they had shared. Then she found it: Tuesday of the week before. She had kept very specific details on that day, because he had been in a less hostile mood, though a little reluctant in sharing information. He had even been willing to confide in her the way in which he had inherited all his money.
Ms. Lawry read the document methodically, careful not to miss and words. Then, the name of the town jumped out at her, as if in bold and italic print: Jerusalem's Lot. 'Salem's Lot for short. Derry, Maine. She practically jumped out of her seat in joy and utter astonishment that she had actually found it. Then, a question arose in the back of her mind: What would she say when she got there? Come back, Mark, I can help you… There are just a few more legal problems we have to get straightened out…
Smiling to herself, she imagined what his reaction would be to the latter statement. Doubtless, it would be something along the lines of, 'Legal problems? Hell, no!' This made-up response thoroughly amused her. In fact, Mark Petrie himself thoroughly amused her. Perhaps that was the reason she wanted to find him: He was exactly the kind young man she always dreamed of helping. She imagined herself fixing his life in just a few days, and he would grow up to be the doctor who discovered a cure for cancer, or a politician who negotiated peace in the Middle East…someone who would improve the world drastically.
Her daydreaming was interrupted by an incessant banging on her door. "Hey, lady, I gotta get home now. Time to pack it up!" the janitor called through the glass. Startled, Ms. Lawry looked down at her watch: 5:30 PM. Had she really stayed that late? 'Time flies when you're having fun,' she thought sarcastically. She threw the file into her briefcase and strode to the door. Upon opening it, she found the janitor had already begun his long trek to the front of the school, his short bowl legs waddling as quickly as they could across the newly-washed linoleum. A few seconds of leisurely jogging allowed her to catch up with him.
She glanced down at his arm, which was cradled around a roll of newspapers. Craning her neck, she was able to catch a glimpse at one of the articles: BODY DISCOVERED IN EMPTY APARTMENT BUILDING, SUSPECT MISSING. "Can I look at one of these?" Ms. Lawry asked quickly, indicating the newspapers.
"Sure, I just gotta recycle 'em at the end o' the day. Extras from the teacher's lounge," he muttered gruffly.
"Thanks," she said distractedly. She flipped to the article:
"Forty-three year old Mrs. Joyce Ann Thornton, as she was later identified, was found dead from a bullet wound in her apartment late last night. The ring finger on her left hand had also been cut off, and her wedding band was missing. Neighbors testified hearing a gun shot somewhere between six and seven o'clock yesterday evening, but it was failed to be reported until around ten later that night. Police say she had been drinking no less than an hour before she was killed, and her alcohol level was fairly high. The main suspect, her husband, Alan Thornton, seems to have fled the scene shortly after the crime. No weapon was recovered. Fingerprints of an unknown person were discovered in the apartment, but authorities have yet to find the owner of the prints."
Suspect missing, along with the victim's wedding ring and finger. Ms. Lawry exhaled slowly in short puffs. She had left the envelope in Alan's apartment…Is it possible that he went after Mark? Ms. Lawry shuddered involuntarily. If so, Alan had a day's head start on her. If he took a plane, then he would probably already be there by now…
She mentally shook herself. Of course he didn't take a plane; he didn't have the resources. Mark had taken all the money. Silently, she applauded him. But even if Alan was unable to pay for a ticket, she would have to book one on the next available flight as soon as possible. Mark needed to be told…
As they made their way out of the school and into the rain, a bolt of lightning momentarily illuminated the sky with all its glory. The clouds remained an impenetrable black, but the sky itself turned a deep gray-red for a few seconds, then darkened once again. Ms. Lawry turned to the janitor and thanked him, putting on a face of the sincerest gratitude.
"No problem, ma'am. Juss doin' ma job." He took off his coat and held it over his head as he ran to the rusty old pick-up truck that sat at the far end of the parking lot. She watched him for a moment, then shielded her eyes from the rain with her hand as she too sprinted to her car. When she drew nearer, she noticed she had left her windows of her car open a crack.
Sighing angrily to herself, Ms. Lawry dug her keys out of her pockets and pressed the "unlock" button twice. Her headlights of her 1998 Honda blinked and she opened the door to her car. Sliding inside, she was about to toss her briefcase to the floor when something shiny caught her eye on the passenger seat beside her.
It was Joyce's wedding band, still in place on her blood-covered ring finger.
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Something was amiss.
Mark could feel it.
But what exactly that was, he wasn't sure. Call it a hunch, Mark could tell something was wrong with the town.
They sat around the counter, eating in a dark and disquieting silence. Eva stood by the stove, hunched over, grilling bacon. Grant and Mark sat at the far end of the room, while a few old men glared at them from the other side. There had been no conversation, no noise, even…not so much of a sneeze. Finally, Mark grew impatient.
"That house behind here, up on the hill…" he began. "Does it have a name or anything?"
Eva glanced over her shoulder, and for a moment, Mark thought he caught her cheeks paling. But he blinked and was sure he had imagined it. "A name? Why would we name a house? It's just 'the House on the Hill'. Nothing more." She returned to her cooking. Mark looked across from him at the three other guests. They all looked remarkably similar: dark misty eyes, gray-white hair that sprouted out from under their trucker caps, and cavernous wrinkles that seemed to pop up from their brows and forehead. And they all had the same deep frowns that appeared to have been carved on their faces permanently.
"The city councilman lives there, but we 'ardly ever see 'im," said the man on the left. He had wide bifocals that made him eyes look as if they were four times as large as they really were. Rubbing his grizzled hand across his unshaven chin and over his bushy gray mustache, he muttered, "S'matter o' fact, when was the last time we sawed 'im, Ern?" He turned to the man on his right.
Ernie reached into the back pocket of his overalls and pulled out a red and white checkered handkerchief. He blew his nose in it loudly, then returned it to his pouch. "Ya know, I dunno, Jake."
Mark nodded politely, only half-listening. He was thinking about his grandmother. What was her name? Suzette Marie…something. He glanced up at Ernie, Jake, and their friend, who were bickering about the councilman. "I think I just saw 'im a few nights ago when I was at the bar…"
"Do any of you know a Suzette Marie?" Mark asked suddenly.
The three men furrowed their brows simultaneously. "Suzette Marie?" Jake asked. "No, can't say I recall one…and that's unusual, 'cause there ain't too many folks that I don' know in this here town." Ernie shook his head. The other man didn't say anything, but his eyes made their way around the room nervously. He had a long, pale face that was drenched in sweat.
Grant looked over at Eva. "Well, thank you for breakfast, ma'am. Do you know any places a couple of guys like us could go to for fun or anything…?"
Eva pursed her lips. "'Salem's Lot isn't exactly a resort town. A few shops, nothing more. I'd just look around, if I were you…and thank heavens I'm not…" She muttered the last part under her breath.
Grant, unlike Mark, didn't hear the last part. "Thanks again, ma'am. We'll be shoving off now." He pushed his chair back noisily, and Mark followed. They stepped out of the Boarding House and into the shadowy, overcast day. Like the night before, there were no lights anywhere. With the sun hiding behind the black clouds, it was almost as dark as when they had arrived. As they got into Grant's car, a light rain began to coat the sidewalks and streets, dimming the mood of the town even more.
By the time they reached the center of the town, the road was barely visible. Mark stared out the window, trying to see people or houses. All he was capable of seeing was the dark outline of buildings. When Grant stopped at a red light, he rolled down his window, sending a wave of water over Mark.
Grinning, Grant apologetically said, "Oops. Sorry 'bout that." Leaning his head out the window, Grant squinted through the rain. "I think there's a coffee shop over there."
Mark sighed. "Grant, we just had breakfast."
"Yeah, but her coffee was decaffeinated. I can't function without my caffeine." Grant pulled his sopping wet head back into the car. "Come on, I'll only be a minute. Besides, what else is there to do?"
Grant parked the car as best he could with zero visibility. He got out, and Mark reluctantly followed. Throwing his coat over his head, Mark ran blindly after Grant. They went inside and were instantly relieved to find the place heated. Mark looked around, confused. The shop was so familiar…
He turned and looked out the window. A sign was painted on the glass. Even though it was backwards to Mark, he could still read it.
Norton's Café.
The breath caught in Mark's throat. "I got to go…" he croaked to Grant.
"But we just got here…!"
"You can stay…I'm leaving." Mark ran out the door, ignoring Grant's shouts and the uncontrollable shivers that ran up and down his spine. The pounding rain began to slow to a light drizzle, and Mark was able to look around clearly at the town for the first time.
Everything was exactly the same as it had been three years ago. The police station, the high school, the hospital. Same names, same structures. Even the cracks in the sidewalk looked identical, although Mark knew they couldn't be. He looked up at the road signs: Terrace Avenue and Jacob Road. Mark turned and ran down Terrace Avenue, following a route that he had memorized as a boy. A left on Maple, two streets down, a right onto Colchester. Third house on the right. He stopped in front of it, mouth open, breathing labored. It was his house, the house he had grown up in. Exactly as it was the night he had left Maine with Ben.
Jerusalem's Lot hadn't been reconstructed.
It had been cloned.
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The young man standing in front of her house looked very familiar, but Robyn Evanoff couldn't place it exactly. She watched him intently as he stared at her house, feeling increasingly more uncomfortable. What did he want? She strained her eyes, studying his messy brown hair and deep, penetrating eyes. How could she forget those eyes…? Then it clicked: the guy from the gas station in California. The one from 'Salem's Lot. Mark Petrie.
What was he doing here?
Mark had said he was from 'Salem's Lot, but that was a long time ago. Okay, maybe he's visiting some old friends. No, wait…they're all dead. He was just standing there, looking at her house. She could tell from his expression that something was wrong.
Robyn had become a bit uneasy, even fearful, after her family had left her at the house by herself. But it had been her proposal to stay, after all. "We'll only be gone for two weeks, dear," her mother had promised. "Are you sure you don't want to come with us? We'd have lots of fun…"
Fun? Fun was not going all the way back to California just to see some ADHD specialist for the little brother. Robyn's mother was a difficult person to persuade, but Roby was a convincing debater. She just reminded her parents that she was a reliable, trustworthy fifteen-year-old who would never, ever get into any trouble. And Jerusalem's Lot was a safe, unexciting town. At least, that was what her parents had believed.
But after they left, the number of people gone had tripled. First, it had been Mrs. Arnold from the coffee shop. Now it was Madison Baker's twin sister and that elderly man who lived down the street who were reported missing. The list was starting to get frighteningly long. In an undersized town like Jerusalem's Lot, three people gone in a week's time was big news. Not to mention the unusually high mortality rate that was sweeping the area; the doctors were starting to talk about some strange virus going around…
And now Mark Petrie was back in town.
"Did it all happen at once, or did people just start to disappear?"
"One by one. Slowly."
He had said she wouldn't believe him. Now, in her fear, she was willing to accept anything. Roby turned away from the window. "Hey, Sydney!" she shouted. No answer. "Syd?" 'Oh, God, it's happened again…' she thought desperately to herself. "Sydney! Where are you?"
Robyn sprinted upstairs to the guest room. A short, sandy brunette girl lay on the bed. "Sydney?" She tapped her on the shoulder nervously.
Sydney removed the earphones from her head and beamed up at Robyn. Her grin faltered when she saw the beads of perspiration dripping off of Robyn's forehead. "Roby? Are you alright? You look like you saw a ghost or something. I mean, you're so… pale…"
"You weren't answering me. I thought…" Robyn waved away her thoughts. "Never mind. Listen, I'm going outside for a few moments. I'll be right back." She turned and rushed out the door, then poked her head in the doorway one last time. "Don't go anywhere."
Sydney was Robyn's neighbor, and one year her senior. Her being at Robyn's house was part of her parents' negotiation: If she was to stay at home without them, she would have to be accompanied by a friend. "Just in case," they had said. Sydney was loud and boisterous, quite the opposite of down-to-earth Robyn. Frankly, she even intimidated Robyn. But Sydney could drive, and that definitely balanced out the pros and cons for her job as "babysitter."
Hurrying down the stairs, Robyn glanced out the large bay window in the living room. Mark Petrie was still there, now sitting on the curb across the street. His hands were folded underneath his chin, and his eyes were glazed and unfocused. Hair fell in front of his face and he didn't bother to brush it away. It appeared that he was lost in thought.
"You wouldn't believe me even if I told you…"
"I'll believe whatever you have to say now. No matter how crazy it sounds," she muttered under her breath. Roby studied him from the security of her own home. His look was so intense, at that moment she would have given virtually anything just to find out what was on his mind.
"What do you know about this town, Mark Petrie?" she whispered, her hand pressed against the glass.
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In just three years, Mark had forgotten how much California's and Maine's weather patterns differentiated. The light drizzle of rain had transformed into a dusting snow in two seconds flat. Now, large chunks of ice were falling from the skies at alarming rates. Mark shivered and clutched his jacket closer to his body.
Quickly making up his mind, he got up off the curb and jogged over to the front door of his house…or the house that looked exactly like his house. Resisting the urge to just walk inside, Mark lifted his fist to knock on the door when it swung open abruptly.
A tall redhead stood in the doorway, looking up at him with an expression of suspicion on her face. "What's going on around here, Mark? I know you know," she demanded, her green eyes glowing from an unseen fire.
He gaped at her, unsure of what to say. "How…I mean, do I know…?"
"Gas station in California, remember?"
Of course; she was the redhead who brought him the news of reconstruction. "You bought my house?" he asked in shock.
Robyn's distrustful glare swiftly changed into one of confusion. "Your house? Your house burned down three years ago, Mark Petrie."
There was a flicker of pain in Mark's eyes, and his face grew cloudy with emotion. "I don't need to be reminded, Miss…uh…"
"Evanoff. Robyn Evanoff." Her expression became less harsh, and she turned her gaze to the street behind him that was slowly turning white from the snow. "Do you want to come inside?" she asked, meeting his eyes again.
Mark gave her a small smile and shrugged. "Sure."
She led him through the door and into the foyer, but he already knew the way. They stepped into the dining room, and for a moment, Mark half-expected to see his mother's decaying body lying in the kitchen, blank eyes staring up at him.
Robyn turned to him, her face once again reflecting an uncomfortable trepidation. Mark thought he saw a glimmer of something like concern in her eyes, but a second later it was gone. "Why did you come here? I mean, why now?" she asked, hands folded across her chest.
Mark stared at her, debating with himself. He exhaled slowly, his breath making a whistling noise as it passed his lips. "Apparently, my grandmother has been looking for me. She said she lives here, so I came to find her."
Her eyes narrowed, and she considered him carefully. "Do you know anything about what's been going on around here, Mark Petrie?" He shook his head, eyebrows furrowed. "People have been…disappearing."
The color drained from Mark's face. He took a step backwards, eyes wide. "What do you mean, disappearing?" he whispered hoarsely.
Roby walked towards him, leaning forward apprehensively. "Do you know what's going on?"
"N…no…" He glanced out of the window at the snow that had now blanketed the street, covering the cars and sidewalk. "At least, I hope not…"
"Roby? Is that you?" Sydney yelled from upstairs. "Who are you talking to?"
"Just…somebody, Sydney. Go back to whatever you were doing," Roby called, her eyes still glued to Mark. A few seconds later, they both heard the thud, thud, thud of footsteps descending the stairs.
Sydney waltzed into the kitchen, nose held high. She turned to Mark, who was now unusually pale and sweating bullets, and studied him. "Who's your new friend, Roby?" she asked in a sing-song voice, grinning at him.
Robyn cast a weary eye at Mark. "He's…he's new in town. I'm just showing him around."
Raising her eyebrows at her, Sydney asked, "Then why aren't you in town?"
A few awkward seconds of silence passed by. "Uh…because it's snowing," Mark said, glancing from Robyn to Sydney. "I was going to leave when it stops."
"Didn't you hear the news? The snow will just keep getting harder until tomorrow morning at the earliest." She shrugged her shoulders, smirking ever so slightly. "I guess you'll just have to stay for the night…"
Robyn rolled her eyes. "You just have to call somebody so they can come pick you up." She reached for the phone, held it to her ear for a moment, and then slowly replaced it onto the receiver. Turning to him, she met his eyes carefully. "The line's dead."
-----------------------------------------
Glass was shattering all around him. A few shreds scratched Mark across the cheek, and he ducked for cover, hands over his face. He looked over at his mother and Callahan, who were staring at the ceiling in horror. Mark turned around slowly and saw a man lying, suspended on his back, above him. Mark stumbled backwards, hands reaching blindly for his mother. The man on the ceiling began crawling towards them, and Mark's mother pushed him behind her. Suddenly, he felt her being lifted off the ground next to him. There was a snap like a twig, and the man threw her aside like a rag doll…
He was on his hands and knees, yelling at his mother. "Get up!" he cried, shaking her body. Suddenly, he was no longer next to his mother, but up in the air. Hands were on his neck, squeezing, squeezing the life out of him…fangs bared, ready to bite…
"He killed my attendant; he can replace him…"
Mark wasn't sure what woke him first: his nightmare or the loud crash upstairs, directly above him. All he could remember was waking suddenly, drenched in a cold sweat. Blinking, he strained his eyes, trying to see where he was. 'Home. I'm home. Hey, Mom, why am I downstairs?'
He swung his legs over the side of the couch and stepped silently into the kitchen. 'Something's different…wait…' Mark paused. Then it hit him: This wasn't his house anymore. Overwhelming disappointment seized him, the sensation physically excruciating, like a dagger digging into his chest. No, this wasn't his home. He crossed the kitchen and was about to go up the stairs when he saw a flashlight sitting on the counter. He grabbed it and flicked it on to see if it worked. A soft beam of light clicked on, illuminating his barefoot feet and the long plaid pajama pants that belonged to Robyn's father. It flickered a few times, signaling Mark that it was almost out of batteries.
He started for the staircase, ascending them carefully. When he reached the ninth step, he stepped over it without thinking. Before, when Mark lived in here, that specific stair squeaked noisily and Mark had become accustomed to jumping over it. Realizing what he did, he stepped down on it slowly. There was a low groan, followed by a squeal. A second later, another moan of floorboards sounded from a room upstairs. He continued up the steps, searching for the source of the sound. Once he reached the second floor, Mark peered down the darkened hallway. He strained his eyes, wanting desperately to see his mother coming out of the room at the end of the hall, dressed for work.
There was the muffled sound of footsteps from the room next to him. Mark ran his hand down the panel of the door. "This was my room…" he murmured to himself quietly.
He knocked quietly. "Robyn?" No answer. "Sydney?" The groan of a floorboard came from inside. Mark grasped the doorknob with a sweaty hand and twisted it, pushing the door open slowly.
At first, the room appeared to be empty except for Sydney, who lay, motionless, on the bed. Mark shone the flashlight inside, the beam moving over Sydney to the dresser, then to the shattered window and finally the empty corner on the right side of the room.
A man sat in the fetal position, eyes narrowly fixed on the two of them, his body rocking back and forth slowly. For a moment, Mark thought it was a burglar. Then he saw the shining silver eyes and long pointed fangs dripping with a deep red liquid. It snarled, mouth twisting back grotesquely, and Mark let out a low moan. He reached into his pocket and grabbed his cross. It slipped in and out of his sweaty fingers, and he tightened his grasp.
The creature's eyes narrowed dangerously, as if it sensed this new weapon that Mark now acquired. Slowly, it took a hesitant step towards him. Summing up a courage he hadn't thought he had possessed, Mark took three long strides into the room and held the cross out in front of him like a shield. Snarling, the being lifted off the ground and dove at him, teeth bared. Just as it was about to bite, Mark pressed the cross against its forehead, and the creature let out an inhuman shriek. As it tumbled backwards, Mark thought he saw something familiar about the creature's face… It spun around and flew through the window, hissing and spitting like an angry cat. A few moments later, it had disappeared into the night.
Mark turned back to see Robyn standing in the doorway, staring at Mark while shaking uncontrollably in her tank-top and pajama pants from the cold. She crossed the room and sat next to Sydney's body. Turning to look at him, Mark saw shock and fear visible in her eyes. As he stared at Sydney, the moonlight played with the illusion of transparency in her milk-white skin, creating an eerie glowing effect. Kneeling next to Robyn, he lightly traced the two pinpricks on the side of Sydney's neck with his finger. A few bits of dried blood crumbled off onto his finger. "I think she's dead, Mark," Robyn moaned quietly, tears sliding down her cheek. He glanced at the two holes on Sydney's neck again, horror numbing his mind.
Somehow, he didn't think she was.