Retrospection is a Bummer
Beth was watching with bated breath, abruptly ripped from the scene playing out before her by the unseen force shoving her back. Everything faded away and the metallic doors slid shut in front of her as she stumbled to regain her balance inside the elevator.
She was still shaken from what she'd seen, and jarred from being torn away so quickly, but also from the realization that was passing over her: Dale had been Philip Blake's alibi.
Philip had blackmailed Dale. He'd held the only things that mattered over the older man's head and forced him to cross his own moral boundaries.
No wonder Dale was so damn ashamed. No wonder he refused to speak of it. He just wanted to forget it had ever happened.
But as Beth knew all too well… he couldn't. And he never would. He still recalled every single detail.
She could only imagine how it must've kept him up at night all these years. How heavily it must've weighed on his conscience for the last three decades.
She couldn't imagine for too long, though. It seemed that even the briefest moment of empathy and retrospection had left her vulnerable for something else.
The elevator shook around her and shot upward. Beth lost her balance from the force and crumpled to the ground. The classical music sped up to such a pace that it sounded otherworldly. She looked up and saw the panel of buttons flickering and flashing, the '333' button at the top blinking bright red. The digital display above the doors was running through all different assortments of letters and numbers, as though it were malfunctioning.
'No. Can't let yourself get caught off-guard,' she reminded herself. She wanted to panic, but as soon as the fear began to well up inside her, she shoved it back down. The tentacle-vines writhed and squirmed within her core, and it felt like they were somehow devouring all of her fear. 'Remain diligent. Intent. Purpose. Control. Remember who you are.'
She stood to her feet and reached out, struggling to retain her balance while leaning against the cold metal, and pressed the next button on the panel purposefully.
All the while, she was repeatedly thinking: 'Philip Blake. Dale Horvath. The Governor. The Governor. The Governor.'
The elevator slowed and came to a halt. The '333' button stopped flashing and went dark. The digital display above the doors returned to normal and showed 'AD1986D9.' The music resumed its normal pace for no more than a second before the doors slid open.
Ding!
The music stopped and Beth stepped over the threshold. Shadowed shapes began to form and the familiar sound of Dale's inner thoughts urged her forward. She took another step, exiting the elevator entirely.
She found herself inside Senoia Sanctuary Insurance once again. The Halloween decorations were still up. It was the day after the previous memory. Philip was here.
And so were the police.
It hadn't been terribly difficult to convince everyone in the office that Philip was innocent. They all trusted Dale. They'd grown fond of him, and over half of them had known him well before working with him here at the insurance company—whether through church or school or just from being neighbors. So it was simply a matter of putting on his most convincing face and lying through his teeth. To the people he'd known for most of his life. To the folks he'd grown up with. To everyone who trusted him and respected him.
The whole experience had made him sick to his stomach, but he kept reminding himself that Irma depended on him. And he'd already practiced these lies with her the night before. He figured he'd better explain why the police were showing up to his work and interviewing him and all of his colleagues before word got back to her through someone else.
Lying to his coworkers was nowhere near as painful as lying to his wife. It was one hell of a challenge to look the love of his life in the face and be blatantly deceitful, and telling himself that it was somehow for her benefit was a whole other obstacle. He wanted nothing more than to pour his heart out and confess to how awful and cowardly he'd been.
But no one else knew what Philip Blake was truly capable of. How much malice he held in his heart. Irma would never understand. None of them would.
Once he'd convinced Irma that he was telling the truth and that Philip was nothing more than a naively ambitious young man with no knowledge of the Senoia locals, he knew he'd be able to convince Frank. That was his next real challenge.
And just as he'd expected, Frank had been hesitant. Unsure. Doubtful. Especially after the last conversation they'd had pertaining to Philip. He'd eyeballed Dale in a way that Dale had never expected his boss to eyeball him. For a moment, he was pretty sure Frank would flat-out refuse to believe him.
He didn't, though. After ten or fifteen minutes of explanations and little white lies, Dale had brought Frank over to the side of "reason" and "logic." Hesitantly, Frank agreed.
Although Dale knew… Frank would take any reason he could get to claim ignorance of the whole situation. He had just as much at stake here. And Dale was pretty sure that Frank didn't have a moral compass that was quite as strong as his own. He wasn't the type to feel bad about "looking the other way," so long as it meant saving his own ass. So it was just a case of playing on Frank's better interests. Giving him a believable alibi.
Jesus. Dale had truly lost himself, hadn't he?
He couldn't ruminate on that right now, though. The police had shown up a little over an hour after everyone arrived for work—just minutes after Dale had finished convincing his colleagues of Philip's innocence—and now they were pulling people into Frank's office one by one, interviewing them for five to ten minutes at a time. They spent a little longer with Mike and Stella and, obviously, Frank.
Then came Dale's turn. Seventeen long and torturous minutes of sitting inside a small room with four very intimidating law enforcement officials, answering questions and trying not to trip over his own words. He sweated profusely and laughed nervously a few too many times. He got some suspicious side-eyes from a couple of the officers, and though he tried to get a peek of what the interviewing officer was jotting down in his little notepad, Dale couldn't figure out if they actually believed him or not.
When he stepped out of the office, all eyes were on him. He returned to his desk with a queasy stomach and a pale face. He glanced over at Philip, but the younger man was sitting and staring at a wall, completely emotionless.
A short while later, Philip was taken away with the officers to be interviewed at the Sheriff's Department. And as soon as the cop cars were pulling away down the street, everyone in the office erupted into nervous and excited chatter.
But Dale remained at his desk, pale-faced and shaken. Nauseous. Trembling from his head to his toes.
Would Philip return? Or would he be locked away? Was it only a matter of time before the police showed up to put Dale in cuffs and drive him to the Sheriff's Department, as well? Would he be getting a cell right next to The Governor's?
He went to the restroom and vomited as quietly as he could. Then he cleaned up and splashed some water on his face. By the time he stepped back out, Frank was standing at the front of the room and calmly telling everyone that they could all call it an early day if they so pleased—due to the "emotional turmoil" they'd experienced over the last two hours. Of course, everyone took him up on the offer. They were all too eager to rush home and gossip with their friends and partners about the unfolding investigation and their personal parts in the whole debacle.
However, Dale remained at his desk for well over an hour after everyone left. Frank was the last one to leave. He didn't even glance back when he muttered for Dale to "turn the lights off and lock up whenever you finally go home."
Dale couldn't seem to stand up. He could barely comprehend Frank's parting words. He sat in his chair and stared down in a blank fog for what felt like hours.
The sun rose high into the sky and shone down with high noon brightness, and still, he didn't move. For the first time in his life, he dreaded going home.
He wasn't sure he'd ever be able to face Irma again. Or himself.
Would Philip really get away with this? Would Will Dixon get away with murdering his own wife and trying to murder his youngest child? Would Leanne ever get the justice she deserved? Would little Daryl make it to adulthood when his only living parent so clearly wanted him dead? And what about when Merle inevitably came home and found out what happened?
What had Dale done…?
He finally rose from his seat on unsteady feet and, in a numb haze, strode across the aisle to Philip's desk. He crouched down and opened the bottom drawer, pulling out stacks of paperwork and pastel-colored folders.
But there was nothing at the bottom. No hardback journal. No little black book.
He opened the other two drawers of the desk and shuffled through them, searching for Philip's darkly incriminating diary. But no such luck.
It was gone. Probably at home, stored away in one of those numerous boxes he kept. Or burned—just like Leanne's body. Just in case.
Dale sat on the floor, surrounded by Philip Blake's paperwork and color-coordinated files, for several minutes. And though he kept asking God why he would be tested like this… he got no response.
Not even a fucking hint.
"The Lord works in mysterious ways," Dale mumbled out to an empty office. Then he scoffed. "If you're up there, Ma… I think you mighta been full of shit."
The scene began to fade away and Beth took a step back before the unseen force could shove her into the elevator. It was less jarring this time due to her willingness to leave, and she didn't stumble as the doors slid shut and the elevator music resumed around her.
She looked over to see the panel of buttons mostly lit up. All but three of the buttons had been pressed and visited. The next one in the sequence was blinking at her, and she reached out and pressed it.
The lift shifted and ascended. The display over the doors changed from 'AD1986D9' to 'AD1997D1.'
The elevator stopped. The music paused. A loud ding! rang out around her. The doors opened.
Beth stepped forward and watched the silhouettes take form, colors filling the darkness like bright paint being poured upon a black canvas. The film-like haze remained over everything. Dale's inner thoughts called out to her.
She emerged from the elevator and found herself inside Senoia Sanctuary Insurance. Except it was vastly different this time.
The desks were newer, and they all had computers. Big, bulky machines that Beth had only ever seen in photos. The partitions were smaller. All but maybe four of the employees were different. Even the carpeting and wallpaper had been redone. Stella's desk was occupied by someone new, but Mike was still there, though he'd aged by ten years. And there were holiday decorations scattered around—they were much more discreet than previous memories, like tiny cut-out American flags pasted on the walls and several American flag-themed knick-knacks sitting upon the desks, but nothing too prominent. Everyone was dressed in summer clothing, and the general fashion and hairstyles were very mid-90s chic.
The one thing that had remained the same was where Dale and Philip sat. Their desks were still merely ten feet apart, barely different from the previous memories besides the computers that now occupied their workspaces. And the two men looked older, but not much. Dale's hairline was receding more prominently, finally showing hints of gray, and Philip was just beginning to show signs of aging around his mouth and eyes.
Dale was watching the younger man from his periphery. Philip was packing up a small cardboard box with all the things he'd kept in his drawers. The analog clock on the wall ticked down to 5:00. Everyone else was working or chatting amongst their own small groups. No one seemed to be taking notice of Philip or Dale.
Then it was five and like clockwork, Frank emerged from his office to announce the end of the workday. Everyone packed up and bid their goodbyes. But Dale remained in his seat, pretending to work diligently while he kept a discreet eye on Philip.
A few minutes later, two of the newer coworkers had stopped to cordially shake Philip's hand and wish him well on his future endeavors. The third and final person was Frank, who shook Philip's hand a little stiffer than usual and gave an obviously forced smile. For the sake of professionalism, Dale knew. Because Frank hadn't looked at Philip the same in over a decade.
Nor had he looked at Dale the same.
Everyone else filtered out quietly or in small groups, and Philip trailed out a moment after the last person had exited. He carried a single cardboard box in his arms, filled with everything that had been inside or atop his desk. And he didn't shoot Dale so much as a parting glance as the door fell shut behind him.
Dale stayed behind for several minutes. He stared over at Philip's empty desk, asking himself if this was really the end. Wondering how long it would take for him to finally forget that Philip Blake had existed. Questioning whether the next person to fill that desk would be a decent human being or… just another monster.
That's what Philip Blake was. He was not a man. He was a monster. He was Satan Incarnate.
Ten years… For ten years, Dale had kept quiet.
To be fair though, so had Philip. He'd become more reclusive than ever in the years following the Dixon fire. Everyone in town gave him odd looks and generally avoided him once the investigation concluded so abruptly and all the rumors started. And that didn't change for quite a while. Not even when Will Dixon disappeared. The memory remained for everyone. All of Senoia knew how Leanne Dixon had really died. They all knew about the mysterious insurance plan behind the whole thing, all the sketchy circumstances that led directly back to Will and Philip. Word had gotten around and no one wanted anything to do with a possible murderer.
Nonetheless, Will and Philip had gotten away with it. Philip's alibi was so solid that he didn't even get booked into custody. Will spent a couple nights in jail, but never actually went to trial due to a lack of sufficient evidence. Everything that could've put those men in prison had been burned up. Destroyed. There were too many legal loopholes for them to happily weave through.
The last time Will Dixon had been spotted anywhere around Senoia was a few weeks after the fire. And then it was like he'd never existed. His young son was pulled out of school and never seen again. Everyone had their theories, sharing rumors and tall tales here and there. The most likely was that Will had gone off-the-grid. Those who drank with him down at The Dirty Penny knew that he'd always dreamt of moving out to the holler and bootlegging his own moonshine, living off the land and whatnot. And he'd always been notorious for illegally hunting and fishing, among other things. Law enforcement didn't try very hard to track him down for truancy after he and Daryl disappeared. There was way too much Georgia countryside to scour just for one kid, and they had more important things to spend their funding on.
And then it was almost like it had never happened. People seemed to forget. The employees of Senoia Sanctuary Insurance gradually changed, and eventually, the only people left who knew about the Dixon fire investigation and Philip's odd involvement were Dale, Frank, and Mike. And they sure as hell didn't talk about it anymore. Not even amongst each other. No one in Senoia did. It was too damn sad to remember.
However, Philip kept to himself. He never stayed a moment past quitting time, never spoke to his colleagues unless it was directly work related, never responded to invitations for gatherings or social events, never so much as made eye contact with anyone. No one knew what he did in his off time because they never saw him around town. By the time ten years had passed, there was only a small handful of employees who still attempted to speak to Philip. And they were all young or from out of town. None of them knew a damn thing about the part he'd played in a woman's death.
In the past year or so, Dale had caught wind that Merle Dixon was done with his time in the Service and back in town. Rumor had it, he'd been spotted running around with a teenaged Daryl. Causing trouble, of course. Possibly selling drugs and bootleg moonshine. Dale wasn't sure how true it was, but a part of him felt relieved. At least little Daryl had survived to adulthood. At least he had his big brother to rely on, who'd miraculously survived two or three Tours overseas. And if Merle hadn't come for Philip's head yet, then that must've meant Will was either dead or irrelevant. Those boys must've finally slipped out from beneath the boot of their mean old daddy.
That didn't bring Leanne back, though. That didn't erase the lifelong trauma Daryl surely suffered.
Yet for ten years—a full decade—Dale had lied to himself. He'd lied to his wife, and lied to everyone he knew.
For ten years, he'd been wishing that he would wake up from this nightmare.
He just wanted to go to work and not have to look at Philip Blake's face. He just wanted to forget that The Governor ever existed, that he ever could exist. Dale wanted his life back. He wanted his peaceful sleep and his clear conscience and his self-certainty that he was a good person.
But Philip Blake had stolen that from him. And he'd continued stealing it for the last ten years.
Yet now… he was finally gone.
Philip had decided to leave Senoia. According to Frank, Philip had put in his two-week notice because he landed a better-paying insurance job in Fayetteville. It wasn't associated with Senoia Sanctuary Insurance, so it was like a clean slate for the young man. He was picking up and moving there and everything. Less than 20 miles away, sure. But it was still a whole new town.
This meant Dale could finally move on. Right? This was it. He'd made it. Maybe not with his dignity, but with his livelihood and his soulmate and the house he was still paying off. And he wasn't locked up in some cold, dark cell. So that had to count for something… right?
Philip was going to be someone else's problem. If he ever hurt anyone again, it wouldn't be someone Dale knew or cared about. And that was kinda the whole point… wasn't it?
But Dale's stomach was churning. And even though Philip Blake's desk was empty, it still felt like he was there. Like he would always be there.
How could Dale ever escape the mortal grasp of The Governor?
He wouldn't, he decided. He would go to his grave with this secret locked away tightly within his chest. He would suffer for all of eternity for the part he took in Leanne Dixon's death. He wasn't even the one who had to pay the consequences; it was her innocent children. Merle and Daryl. The boys who suffered at Will's hand. The boys who Dale essentially sacrificed for the sake of his own well-being.
How would he ever atone for these sins?
He wouldn't. He would simply have to keep it to himself. Hide it away and try to forget it like the shameful memory that it was.
Philip Blake was nothing more than a memory, after all. A bad dream. The Governor wasn't real. Just another delusion created by a sad and lonely young man.
Dale would forget this. And eventually, he would even forgive Philip. As was the Christian thing to do.
But would Dale ever forgive himself?
No. He already knew. That was impossible.
Several minutes later, he packed up his things and left the office, locking the door tightly behind him. He strolled down the sidewalk to the parking lot, approaching his car with a blank look and a foggy haze clouding his mind.
He didn't notice the note waiting for him until he'd already sat down. It was the crinkling of the paper beneath his bottom that got his attention. He reached down and pulled out a piece of folded-up paper. It seemed to have been slipped through the tiny crack of his driver's side window, landing in the driver's seat.
Somehow, he already knew who it was from.
He glanced around warily first, assuring himself that he was alone in the parking lot. There were no other cars in sight and definitely no people. But he'd been caught off-guard before.
Dale tossed the paper aside and started up his car, pulling out of the parking lot and speeding away much faster than usual. He kept glancing in his rearview mirror and eyeballing the other vehicles on the road.
Yet he made it all the way to his driveway without any incidents. And only then did he dare to shut off his headlights and pick up the paper.
With trembling hands, he unfolded it and read the note. It was scrawled in a terrifyingly familiar handwriting that he'd only seen once before… inside of a certain hardback journal.
"Erase me from your memory.
I will do the same.
Speak my name and I will appear.
You are not an island.
—The Governor"
Dale stood on his front lawn and burned the note with the lighter from his glove compartment. Then he left the ashes in the grass and retreated inside to spend a peaceful evening with his wife.
Beth was shoved back into the elevator as the sight of Dale's house in 1997 faded away. The shiny metal doors slid shut before her and the elevator music started up again.
The buttons on the panel were no longer blinking. But there were still two buttons left to press. She couldn't contain her curiosity. She reached out and pressed the next button in the sequence, preparing herself right before the metallic lift shifted and ascended beneath her feet.
Had Dale heard about the incident that finally sent Philip to prison? And if he had, what were his thoughts on the matter? Was it possible that he had any idea who Caesar Martinez was? She wanted to know, even if it was irrelevant to the rest of her journey. She'd become so damn caught up in this dramatic sequence of memories and how she was miraculously Gifted with seeing it all through Dale's own eyes.
But when the elevator music stopped and the loud ding! rang out around her and the doors opened, she glanced up just in time to see that the digital display had changed to 'AD2013D6.' She chose to view it optimistically and stepped forward without hesitation.
The silhouettes and blurry forms took shape, slow and gradual. Dale's inner thoughts were harder to hear, more mumbled whispers than discernible statements. Beth took another step forward, then another one. Until she was looking around and realizing that she was inside Dale and Irma's bedroom.
Irma was lying in the big king-sized bed, a light blanket over her tiny form. She was old. And so was Dale; he was at her side, sitting in a chair scooted up close to the bed, leaning over and grasping his wife's dainty hand between both of his. The Horvaths had white-gray hair and prominent signs of aging, though Irma looked much older. But that was because she was sick.
Beth recognized it immediately: Irma was on her deathbed.
Yet for some reason, Beth couldn't tear her eyes away from the scene playing out before her. Even though she already knew how it ended. She'd been invited to the funeral, after all.
Irma was obviously delirious. Dale clutched her hand and wept silently at her side, trying and failing to put on a brave face for what he knew were his soulmate's last moments on earth. She was pale and almost ghostly, withered down to barely more than loose skin hanging over frail bones. She wasn't very present outside of her delusional state, rapidly drifting in and out of consciousness.
Beth felt the heaviness inside her chest just from looking at Irma. The sight was all too similar to how Annette had looked in her final days.
There was no one else. There was a dim lamp lit and the curtains were drawn, yet the moonlight peeked through, bright and invasive. The room was silent and empty save for Irma's labored breathing and Dale's stifled sobs. Tears poured down his cheeks silently. His lower lip trembled, but he kept his hands steady around his wife's.
'No,' Beth thought. 'I shouldn't be here. This is private.'
Yet she couldn't seem to force her feet to step away.
Dale sniffled and leaned in close to plant a gentle kiss on Irma's cheek. Her eyelids fluttered and she smiled weakly, gazing at him as though she might recognize him for a moment. She squeezed his hand and he squeezed back.
He'd already professed his eternal, undying love a thousand times over. As well as all of his regrets and apologies. But there was still something he hadn't confessed. And he simply couldn't live with himself if he didn't come clean. Even if it was on her deathbed.
"My love, I'm a bad man," he wept, clutching her hand between his and leaning farther over the bed to hang his head in shame. "I lied to you for years. I helped an evil person get away with evil things… I didn't tell you the whole truth. I'll never forgive myself, but I wish you could forgive me…"
Irma let out a soft chuckle, which startled Dale to lift his head and look at her with confusion. When he met her eyes, he saw the woman he loved.
Completely present. Completely aware.
But for how long this time?
She smiled and spoke hoarsely, her throat dry and cracked, "Dale, I already knew. You helped Barb…" She paused and turned her head to cough, but her smile remained. "She needed it. She an' that boy of hers… they needed someone like you… the man I married." Her smile grew wider. Almost wistful.
Dale's stomach churned and he clutched her hand a little harder. "No, honey… I did… so much worse. And I kept it from you. Like the coward I am. I was so terrified to lose you…"
Irma shook her head. Very weakly, but a shake all the same. Then she croaked out, "You tried to help that Philip boy. But I knew what really happened, baby. You've never been a very good liar." She smiled, chuckling softly, and went on, "I know… You just wanted to help. A coward wouldn't have tried. But not even a saint like you could save a lost soul like his. And sometimes, darlin'… that's just how the game plays out."
Dale looked at Irma with wide eyes, his bottom lip trembling even more. Tears continued to pour down his face. "Irma, honey… I wanted to tell you so badly, but I—"
He stopped when he felt her squeeze his hand. Then she smiled again.
"Dale Horvath… you're a good man. Nothin' in this cruel world could ever change that. And that's why I love you. That's why I'll always love you."
Dale wanted to burst into tears. But he didn't. He swallowed back his sobs and grasped his dying wife's hand a little tighter, nodding in understanding.
He certainly wasn't going to argue with her or try to convince her otherwise. He'd only wanted her forgiveness.
"You…" He stopped and cleared his throat, glancing away for a second. "You forgive me? Truly?"
But when he met her gaze again, something had changed. Her smile faded and her focus shifted. She turned her head and looked off towards the closed bedroom door at the other side of the room. A dreamy expression crossed her face.
She was a million miles away.
He choked back another sob and regained his composure, putting on a pleasant smile. For her sake.
"Dale," Irma said, a grin breaking out on her face. "Do you hear that?"
Dale furrowed his brows, struggling to contain his sadness. He kept up the plastered-on smile and asked quietly, "What is it, sweetheart? What d'you hear?"
She was still grinning, gazing off at the closed door like she saw something he couldn't. "It's a baby… crying. It's—"
Then she let out a laugh. Dale choked back a sob.
"Dale, it's Annabeth," she said, looking to him with pure glee. "I can hear her. She's cryin' for her mama. I—I think she's hungry."
Her eyes darted back to the closed bedroom door before growing wide. Her lips parted in awe, and she clutched Dale's hand with more strength than he'd felt from her in the last month.
"Oh Dale, honey—d'you see her? There she is. She's so beautiful. She's got your hair. And my eyes. It—it's our daughter…"
Irma let out another laugh. So gleeful. So careless.
Dale glanced back to search for what his wife was seeing, but just as he'd expected, there was nothing to be seen.
Regardless, he turned back to Irma and forced a smile. "Yes, sweetheart. I always knew she'd be beautiful. She took after her mama, didn't she?"
He could feel Irma's pulse against his palms. And as it faded, so did her smile. Her eyelids fell shut and she let out one more soft chuckle.
Then she went Away.
Dale clutched her hands and whispered out, "I love you both so much."
He felt her heartbeats slowing… thu-ump, thuu-ump, thu-uump, thuu-uump… until they stopped altogether.
Her chest was no longer rising and falling. Her body went still, completely limp.
And just like that… she was gone.
Dale burst into tears and wept, grasping Irma's lifeless hand so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His shoulders shook and his whole body wracked with sobs. His grief was so palpable, so heavy in the air and radiating outwards from every pore of his being, that it was overwhelming.
Beth wanted to jump back and retreat to the safety of the elevator. Yet she couldn't. She simply could not tear herself away. It felt like the soles of her boots were glued to the floor. All the while, the tentacle-vines within her core were writhing wildly, desperate to reach out and wriggle their way across the carpeted past.
Everything around her suddenly jolted and skipped, like a malfunctioning VHS tape. The scene skipped and the hazy film that had settled over everything became more prominent, more out-of-place. The film strip was ripping. Then the entire room shifted, just like the elevator when it was taking her to another level.
Beth lost her balance and fell to the floor, catching herself with her hands and hurriedly pushing herself back up to her feet. But she was still unsteady. Confused. She looked around and saw the distorted vision of Dale and Irma's bedroom, yet she couldn't hear Dale's sobs.
And then she saw it…
Irma was rising from the bed. Her body didn't move, though. It was her soul that was escaping, leaking out from her skull and standing up from the bed. Youthful and happy, smiling and laughing. No gray hair or wrinkles or sagging skin. Completely unaware of the husband who was grieving at her side.
Beth glanced over towards the closed bedroom door and finally saw what Irma had been talking about: a little girl. She was standing in the doorway, smiling. She had Dale's chin and dark hair color, and Irma's eyes and high forehead. Dressed in a pristine white dress with a glowing aura surrounding her. And she was holding her hand out, gesturing for Irma to join her.
Of course, Irma rushed forward and grasped the little girl's hand. But just as they were stepping out the door and leaving the bedroom, Beth felt a cold shiver run down her spine.
A deep, Haitian-accented voice boomed from behind, "Ya know, you're really starting to get on my nerves."
She whipped her head around and found none other than Papa Legba standing beside her. Barely an arm's reach away. All charcoal skin and long dreads and red eyes, baring his gleaming white teeth in a mischievous grin. The hem of his trenchcoat swaying in a non-existent breeze. Both dark hands clasped around his skullhead cane.
Her fear brought him great pleasure. His low and ominous laughter filled her ears and she took a step backward. She wanted to tell him to fuck off, but she couldn't seem to summon her own voice.
"This should be considered cheating, Sunshine Girl," Papa Legba drawled.
His red eyes flashed to crimson and Beth felt another shiver course through her entire body.
She turned and ran.
She didn't stop until she was safely inside the elevator. The metal doors slid shut and the elevator music started up again. She glanced at the panel of buttons and suddenly realized that she had no goddamn idea how to get back.
A faint and familiar voice echoed inside her head: "You gotta know how ta get where ya need to go and get back. That's the important part—ya hear? Getting back."
Merle. Daryl. Maggie. Shawn. Daddy.
They were all relying on her. She had to get back.
But how?
She spun around inside the elevator, examining the small confinement and searching for a way out. But everything was sealed up tight. The digital display above the doors had gone blank. The buttons on the panel were no longer blinking, though all the floors she'd visited were lit up. All except two: the very top red button and the very bottom button. But she couldn't risk pressing either of them. She didn't want to be flung into another private memory of Dale's. And she sure as hell didn't want to be shot down to Papa Legba.
Then she remembered: "There are countless doors that can only be opened by you, but you must want to open them."
Right… Intent. Purpose. Control. Remembering who she was. All that stuff.
'Okay,' Beth thought, staring at the panel of buttons and willing them to change. 'I want to go home. I need to get back. Take me back.'
She kept staring. Kept waiting. But nothing happened.
She tried to remember everything the Witch of Youghal had told her, anything that might give her an idea of what to do now. Maybe she had no choice but to press the final button and hope for the best…?
And then, as if she'd just put on a pair of glasses, a detail caught her eye that she'd somehow missed this whole time: the red light of the '333' button was shining through something. Like there was a splotch of misplaced ink on the button.
Without thinking, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the white handkerchief Florence had given her. How had it gotten here? She didn't know, but she didn't care either. She was just glad to have it.
She reached up and lightly ran the satin cloth across the button. Sure enough, the ink smudged away. The '333' looked to have been crudely painted on. When she pulled the handkerchief away, she found that the button was indeed red underneath, but it was labelled with a symbol she actually recognized.
A tiny triangle sitting atop a tiny square. And she knew it meant home.
Of course. Papa Legba was a liar. He'd been trying to deceive her this whole time. He was practically inescapable.
Not for Beth, though.
She shoved the handkerchief back into her pocket before reaching out and pressing the red button, silently chanting, 'Take me home. Take me home. Take me home.'
The elevator shifted so hard that she nearly lost her balance. She reached out and leaned against the metallic wall for support. Then, instead of ascending farther upwards, it began to descend. A second later, it was shooting down rapidly.
Beth focused on her slow-motion heartbeat, praying to God and anyone else who was listening that when the doors finally opened, she'd be back inside Dale's present-day little office. Where Daryl and Merle and Rick were waiting for her.
The elevator came to an abrupt halt, jarring her once more. It settled. She took a step back, staring ahead at the shiny silver doors and waiting for them to open. The display above was still blank.
Ding!
The elevator music stopped. The doors slowly slid open.
The light was blinding. Beth walked towards it.
to be continued…
A/N: I didn't include this exact information but I tried to give context clues: Irma's pregnancy that we saw in Dale's first memory from 1984 ended in a premature stillbirth, and they named the baby Annabeth. But obviously, Dale doesn't go around talking about it and it was a very painful and private matter for both him and his wife.
