XVI Whither Must I Wander?

Home no more home to me, whither must I wander?

Hunger my driver, I go where I must.

Cold blows the winter wind over hill and heather;

Thick drives the rain, and my roof is in the dust.

Loved of wise men was the shade of my roof-tree.

The true word of welcome was spoken in the door –

Dear days of old, with the faces in the firelight,

Kind folks of old, you come again no more.

Home was home then, my dear, full of kindly faces,

Home was home then, my dear, happy for the child.

Fire and the windows bright glittered on the moorland;

Song, tuneful song, built a palace in the wild.

Now, when day dawns on the brow of the moorland,

Lone stands the house, and the chimney-stone is cold.

Lone let it stand, now the friends are all departed,

The kind hearts, the true hearts, that loved the place of old.

Spring shall come, come again, calling up the moorfowl,

Spring shall bring the sun and rain, bring the bees and flowers;

Red shall the heather bloom over hill and valley,

Soft flow the stream through the even-flowing hours;

Fair the day shine as it shone on my childhood –

Fair shine the day on the house with open door;

Birds come and cry there and twitter in the chimney –

But I go for ever and come again no more.

xXx

I hate this dollhouse now. When Jenny and I were kids, it was our "happy place". We would play with it for hours, absorbed in our world of make-believe.

Little did I know.

I would have hurled it into the street, right in front of an oncoming semi truck.

Probably would have gotten into trouble for doing it, but still.

(Even though Jenny and I found the dollhouse.)

If I had known then...

It is my prison.

It is my hell.

I never want to see the color pink again.

I now know every inch of this place. I try to avoid the younger versions of my sister and myself. They're not terribly helpful anymore.

To be honest, they kind of creep me out.

(Kind of = very much.)

I have lost track of the days. There is no day, no night, no way to mark the passage of time.

It is always dark. Always seems like night, but there is no moon, no stars.

I used to look out of the windows when I grew weary of my pink plastic prison.

I don't anymore. The sights outside are far more disturbing than the ones inside. All those lost souls. Damaged people, who were once human, now doomed to this existence for an unspecified amount of time. They are horrible to behold, but they are even more horrible to ponder.

Once, as I gazed out, I tried to amuse myself by playing "Guess the Sin".

Bad idea.

I wound up feeling worse. Like, inappropriate. Wrong. Dirty.

Now, I mainly sit on the least-uncomfortable seat in the house, keeping to myself.

Sometimes, he comes lurking. Skulking. Prowling. Banging.

Moloch.

I am safe from him here, but I am no less a prisoner.

Which is better? Trapped and alive or free and in constant danger?

Or, free and dead?

He wants my soul. Why? I do not know, but he wants it. Wants it so badly he has manipulated all of us to get me here.

And Henry, holy hell. Jeremy. I can't even imagine what awful things he may be doing up there.

(Out there? Over there? I have no idea.)

Sometimes, I sleep, but it is out of sheer boredom. I don't feel tired. Or hungry. No need to pee, or shower, or... anything.

No need to do anything except sit here and stew in my thoughts.

When I do sleep, the dreams are strange and troubling.

I dream that the creatures outside, those poor, tortured souls, infiltrate the house and drag me out, pulling and pushing at me until I am one of them. A deformed, hideous abomination with too many legs or not enough eyes or scales or a tail. Or all of those things.

I dream I am home, back in the world. Things are normal. I've gone to Quantico and this whole Witness thing never existed. Interestingly, that was one of the worst dreams. Because I woke up and found I was still here.

I dream about my parents. About Jenny.

I dream about Crane. I dream things regarding my partner I never imagined I'd dream.

Horrible things. Abusive, hurtful, hateful things.

But, not always.

Sometimes, my dreams about Crane involve other things.

Things that make me wake up flushed, frustrated, and bewildered; things that I'd only read about in the smutty Harlequin romance books my mom used to leave lying around. Things that will make it very difficult to look my fellow witness in the eye when I see him again.

(If I see him again.)

(When I see him again.)

I dream Moloch tears the roof off the dollhouse, plucks me out, and carries me off to some sort of lair, where he...

No.

No. Do not relive that one.

I do not sleep any more. After the series of sex dreams (yes, series) with Crane and the Moloch nightmare, I decided I was Done.

I only hope they do not continue when I return to the world.

(If I return.)

(When I return.)

It's getting more difficult to stay positive.

Time has no meaning.

I have no way of knowing how long I've been gone.

Time may not even pass the same way here as it does there. A year could have passed already. Or, a day.

To what, exactly, will I return?

(Will I return?)

(Shut up.)

(He promised.)

I can't even begin to think about the possibilities. Not knowing when I'll get back is a hindrance.

How will Jenny react when she finds out I stayed here?

Will Crane and Katrina return to being a happily married couple?

(Not sure I trust her.)

If so, will I feel like the third wheel? How will it affect my relationship with Crane?

And what about Henry? Jeremy? What kind of Hell is he unleashing?

And—

BANG.

Shit.

BANG BANG.

Time to hide.

"Lieutenant!"

Crane?

(Another trick.)

(Not him.)

"Lieutenant! Miss Mills!"

BANG.

No, Legs, don't take me to the door.

Damn it, if you're trying to walk, stop shaking.

"Miss... Mills!"

BANG. Creak.

Is he breaking through? That had damn well better be Crane.

(It isn't.)

It looks like him. I can see him through the cheap plastic window.

"Abbie!"

I can sense Little Me and Little Jenny hovering in the background. Watching.

BANG BANG.

Creak.

"I have returned for you as I promised!"

BANG.

CRACK.

"Prove it!"

I don't remember the last time I spoke aloud.

"Somehow I..." BANG "think a..." BANG "fist-bump..." BANG "will not suffice... BANG "this time..." BANG.

CRACK.

He's dented the door, and it's splitting.

"You got that right."

Stillness.

"Doughnut holes. The outrageous ten-percent levy on baked goods. I thought only horses slept standing up. Cousin... ugh... Steve. Skinny jeans."

I can hear the sneer in his voice.

(Am I smiling a little? I had forgotten what it felt like.)

"I still choose to forge my fate with you, Abbie. Despite what I've done that may have contradicted my words."

"I can't open the door. It won't let me."

BANG. BANG. BANG!

(Moloch is going to hear this.)

CRACK.

"Abbie."

His eyes are haunted.

"Ichabod."