The Secret Circle:
Out of the Darkness
The Secret Circle and its characters aren't mine – they belong to L. J. Smith and HarperCollins Publishers.
Chapter Seven
It was the next afternoon. Sean was only half listening to the chatter of the others as the group – more than half of the Circle – rode down the hill past the school. The wind was strong today, whistling through the trees, pushing them gently on their way. Bicycle tires whispered against the pavement. The unmistakable click of a chain rubbing on a not-quite-adjusted cog as someone shifted gears and the quiet rub of an untrue wheel catching on a brake pad told him that at least a few of the bikes needed some attention.
They were riding slowly, easily, talking as they rode. Doug, Chris, and Deborah were arguing about the relative merits of a Fender Stratocaster and a Gibson Les Paul; Laurel was earnestly telling Cassie and Adam, Diana, and Melanie why the Club – or somebody – really should plant trees and low-growing groundcovers on the steep hill beside the school to replace the grass.
"We could plant apple trees, and pears, and cherries, and dogwoods and cedars for the birds – so we'd be growing food on the hill. Right now there's nothing there but grass. The maintenance crew mows it all summer long, every year – and do you know how much pollution a gasoline-powered lawn mower causes?"
But the grass hadn't been mowed in a while – not at the bottom of the hill. The grass was tall there, and goldenrod and wild asters were blooming among the grasses. Sumac and hazel and juniper grew there too – almost hiding the body lying there on the grass, at the bottom of the hill, its neck bent unnaturally, its sweater bright red – brighter than blood.
Sean blinked, trying to force the image from his mind.
He tried to focus on the narrow tires of Doug's Cannondale, rolling over the pavement just in front of him; the black sneakers pedaling around and around; Doug and Chris and Deborah, riding in front of him, still arguing about their favorite guitars as if nothing had happened – as if Black John had never come. As if Kori were still alive. As if he had never –
No – don't think about that! Sean looked away, at the trees – maple and sumac, hickory and cedar and oak; at the deep, brilliant turquoise of the ocean just past the bluffs – an enormous granite boulder teetering precariously above them – and then falling, falling, pushing smaller rocks along, landing with a horrible sound he'd never forget – and then a clatter as the other rocks and stones came to rest – a human hand peeking out from beneath –
He had to get away.
He jumped into a sprint, standing on the pedals as he passed Doug, and Deborah, and then Chris, and then sitting, crouching over the handlebars, hands in the drops, pedaling as hard and fast as he could. The Bianchi responded perfectly, springing forward each time he increased his cadence or shifted up to a higher gear.
But still he saw Kori's body lying, unmoving, far, far below. And Jeffrey's vacant eyes seemed to glare accusingly at him as his body swung above, back and forth, back and forth; the boulder teetered, passing its point of equilibrium and falling, pushing smaller boulders before it – falling toward the man standing far below, looking up, open-mouthed, unable to move during the eternity it took the boulder to land, crushing him below – only a hand visible from beneath the rubble.
Sean pedaled faster. He was already gasping for breath; his heart was pounding in his chest; his head and eye and chest were throbbing again – but he didn't slow.
"Hey, Sean!" Chris yelled. "Wait up!"
Sean kept going, over the rise near the elementary school, around the bend, and down the hill toward Main Street. There was traffic along the road now – the evening rush of people heading home from work or making their final deliveries. An eighteen-wheeler rounded the bend, several vehicles passing it as its heavy load slowed its ascent up the steadily increasing grade of the hill.
A broken body at the foot of the hill – his hand pushing her down – unable to stop it – his fingers tying the rope, looping it over Jeffrey's neck, tossing the other end over the pipe, pulling up, up – feet swinging – his hand pushing the boulder – the boulder falling, falling …
He heard the others calling him, distantly.
But the memories wouldn't stop. No matter where he went, no matter what he did, he couldn't get them out of his head. They were everywhere – at the hill in front of school, in his classes, in his sleep – and now even on his bike. But he couldn't keep watching their deaths – their murders. He just couldn't cope with that. He had to make them stop. But he didn't know how.
The truck was gaining speed as the road leveled and began its descent. It was approaching the intersection – and so was he. He was going too fast to stop, even if he tried.
The truck would hit him.
Or he would hit it.
And then the memories would stop.
Sean shifted up to the bike's highest gear and pedaled as fast as he could.
"Sean – stop!" Cassie's yell echoed in his head.
"Noooo!" he yelled, but her mental command was as irresistible as Black John's had been. He grabbed the brakes hard and let go. The bike slowed – a little – as it reached the road. Sean pulled the handlebars hard to the left, and then the right, throwing the bike almost horizontal into the turn. An airhorn blasted at him from not more than three or four feet away as the big truck roared past. He jerked away – but he caught his balance and pulled the bike upright before the reaction set in.
His body started to shake. His heart was pounding. He could hear his own ragged breathing struggling too fast for air. Calm down, he commanded himself, with no more success than he'd had before.
Momentum carried the bike along for another minute, maybe two, before the bike slowed to a stop. Sean pulled his feet out of the straps on the pedals and tried to dismount. Someone caught him before he could fall. Someone led him away from the road, helped him sit.
"Hey. You're all right. Just calm down." Deborah's voice.
"It's okay, Sean. You're okay now." That was Laurel.
Sean blinked and looked around. Deborah, Laurel, Adam, Cassie, Diana, Melanie, Chris, Doug … more than half the Circle stood around him. Surrounding him. All of their eyes were on him, watching him – and condemning him. Kori was there too; her puzzled eyes begged him to tell her why he'd betrayed her. Mr. Fogle stood beside her, his eyes wide with terror as a boulder teetered and fell, crushing him instantly. An accusatory hand reached out from below the pile of rocks, pointing toward Sean. Jeffrey stood beside the principal, his unseeing eyes somehow seeming to glare at Sean.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Sean yelled, his voice shrill and terrified. His breathing was still too fast, too shallow; his heart was pounding as if it were trying to escape the confines of his body.
He stared wildly around him, desperately searching for a way to escape the images – the memories – but he was surrounded. There was nowhere to go. And he couldn't move. He couldn't breathe.
And then he heard Diana's voice, clear and sweet, ring out. "Guardians of the East, Powers of the Earth, I call on thee," she said.
It's a ceremony, he thought irrelevantly. I've got to be there.
He still couldn't move, or focus on what Diana were saying, but he caught words here and there; she was calling the directions, and casting the circle.
The Circle was calling on the Earth, asking for strength and endurance. Sean could feel its energy – the immensely patient, tolerant, enduring strength of granite or basalt – surrounding him. He closed his eyes and focused on the soil beneath the carpet of fallen leaves, on the rocks below. Distantly, he heard the Circle continue the ceremony.
Slowly, his terror dissipated. His shuddering ceased. His breathing steadied and slowed; his heart slowed. He opened his eyes. The Circle surrounded him protectively. Deborah was trying to scratch her arm beneath its cast. Raj stood just outside the circle, whining softly.
"Sean?" Diana asked after a moment. Her voice was gentle. "Are you okay?"
He shrugged.
"What's wrong?"
Sean shook his head. He didn't want to talk. He didn't think he could. He closed his eyes.
The wind whistled through the trees. Traffic roared by. Chickadees called to each other from the shrubs nearby. A rustling came from the pines as squirrels, blue jays, cardinals and juncos searched for food beneath the fallen needles.
No one spoke.
Sean could feel their eyes, watching him.
"I can't get them out of my head," he said, after a long silence, to no one in particular.
"Who?" Laurel asked.
"All of them."
There was silence.
Finally Deborah spoke up. "You mean Black John? And the night of the hurricane?"
He shrugged.
"Sean, you need to tell us," Laurel said gently. "We can't help you if we don't know what's bothering you."
Sean shook his head. "I can't," he whispered.
"You have to."
"No!"
"He means Kori," Chris said suddenly.
"What? I thought he couldn't remember …" Diana's voice trailed off.
"He does now," Adam said. "Now that Black John's gone. Don't you, Sean?"
Sean didn't answer.
"Don't you?" Adam was sitting directly in front of Sean, staring at him, his steel-grey eyes glowing, compelling … a pressure was creeping into his mind ... just like before …
Sean cringed. He closed his eyes – and the pressure in his mind was gone.
"Adam, leave him be," Diana was saying.
"Sean, you need to talk about what happened." Laurel's voice was gentle.
He shook his head. "No."
"You have to."
"No!"
"You need to talk about what happened, to remember what happened …"
"I do remember what happened!" Sean yelled at Laurel. "Every time I pass the front of the school she's standing there at the top of the hill, and that voice – Black John's voice – is inside my head and it's telling me to … to … to push her – and I try to stop and I can't stop and I push her and I can't even tell her to run away and she just looks at me – not like I betrayed her, but like what on Earth am I doing – and then the voice tells me to push her again and I do, and she falls, and I can't stop her, and she's lying there at the bottom of the hill and she's … she's … her neck's broken and she's dead. And … and … and Adam and Doug and Nick are dragging me inside and they're not letting me go and they're taking off my belt and my sweater and I can't get away and everyone's staring at me and they're saying that I … that I ... I killed her. And Jeffrey Lovejoy. And Mr. Fogle. And … and I'm in the boiler room and there's water dripping somewhere and I'm dropping a noose around Jeffrey Lovejoy's neck and I tighten the rope and drag him past the furnace and he can't breathe and he can't get the rope off and I throw it over the pipe and pull him up and he's … he's … he's cyanotic … and his eyes are staring at me but he doesn't see anything and he just swings, like a … a pendulum, back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. And there's a rock up high – a big boulder – it's teetering at the edge, and I … I make it fall and it takes a bunch of smaller rocks and dirt and stuff with it and it falls and Mr. Fogle – he's underneath and he's looking up and watching it fall but he's not moving and he's crushed under the rocks and his hand … his hand is … I can still see his hand. And it's blue too, just like Jeffrey's face, and … and …"
And the Circle was there, and they were surrounding him with the calm, peaceful energy of the Earth. Kori's and Mr. Fogle's and Jeffrey's bodies were gone, and it was just the Circle there with him. All of their eyes were on him, but no one – not even Adam or Melanie – was condemning him.
Their silence seemed to thicken, pressing in on him, drowning out the sounds of birds and squirrels and traffic and his own ragged breathing. Finally Sean spoke. "I-I-I … I should … I should – you know. Turn myself in. To the … to the police. You know, if I … if I …" he couldn't continue.
They looked at each other.
"Sean," Laurel said gently. "It wasn't you."
"But –"
"You didn't kill anyone. Black John did. Yes, he used your body, but it wasn't you who killed those people. You would never kill anybody – you couldn't."
"But I did." His voice was just a whisper, and he couldn't meet anyone's eyes. "It was me. It was my fault."
"No. It wasn't. Besides, even if you tried to turn yourself in, nobody would believe you. Because there is no possible way that you could have killed those people."
Sean stared at Laurel, wanting desperately to believe her.
"Think about it, Sean," she said. "Jeffrey was twice your size! There's no way you could have hanged him from that pipe by yourself – even if you could've reached the pipe – which you couldn't."
"I didn't need to reach the pipe. I threw the rope over it," he muttered. Nobody seemed to hear him.
Diana was nodding. "And Kori was one of us. She was a friend. You would never have even thought about hurting her."
"And Mr. Fogle – you were more scared of him – or at least of being sent to his office – than he was of you," Laurel said. "You never talked to him. Ever. You'd never have been able to get him under that rock by yourself, even if you could have made the rock fall."
He nodded, hesitantly. He knew that they were right. He couldn't have killed anybody by himself, and nobody – no outsider, anyway – would believe that he could have killed Jeffrey. But what did it matter what anybody believed? He did kill them. And it was his fault Mrs. Howard had died, too; he hadn't told anybody what had happened after he killed Kori and the others. If he had told the Circle, maybe they could have stopped the dark energy and Black John before Black John killed anyone else.
"They're right," Deborah said. "Besides, what good would it do to turn yourself in? It wouldn't change anything."
Sean looked away. She was right. Nothing he could do would change anything. Nothing would bring back Kori. Or the others.
"I know," he said softly. "It just seems … wrong … if I … if I … you know – for me to just go free."
"You didn't do anything wrong, Sean," Diana said, just as softly. "And you're not really free, are you? You're punishing yourself more than the police or the justice system ever would."
Laurel was nodding. "Diana's right." Her voice was barely audible. "Sean, I think you're … I don't think you are remembering the … the deaths. Not exactly. You're – it's more like you're reliving them, whenever something reminds you of … what happened. Like a flashback or something."
He shrugged. "I guess so."
"And you can't stop yourself from reliving it?"
"No. I … I can't."
"You need to be able to remember what happened without reliving it, so you –"
"No! I don't want to remember it."
"Okay. Not tonight. Tomorrow. We'll have a ceremony tomorrow." Diana's voice was firm.
Sean shook his head. "No! I don't want a ceremony. And I don't want to remember!"
"You'd prefer to keep reliving their deaths? So Cassie will have to make you stop to keep you from bicycling under the wheels of eighteen-wheelers?" Deborah asked fiercely.
"I … I …" his voice trailed off. He shook his head vaguely. He felt completely drained; too tired to even think.
The voices of the Circle melded together.
He heard someone calling his name, as if from far away.
He felt hands pulling him up, leading him to the road, helping him into a car. Then the car was moving down the street. It stopped. Somebody carried him inside a house and lifted him onto a bed.
He didn't know how long he lay there, neither asleep nor fully awake.
Voices drifted in and out. The light dimmed and faded into darkness.
He drifted off to sleep. A restless sleep, troubled by vague images and disjointed memories.
It was still dark when he woke, his heart pounding with terror, staring around wildly in the darkness, looking for … he didn't know. He couldn't remember what he had dreamed. If he had dreamed at all.