Beyond the Grave (2 page)

“They were real! You have to believe me!”

“Of course we believe you,” I said. “Tell us what the voices said.”

Pate's face burned bright red. He wiped at his forehead with the back of his hand. “They were whispering to me. They said no. Then they said
out.
” He groaned. “They want us to leave!” He scrambled to his feet, knocking over the metal chair. “I'm getting out of here.”

“We need a few minutes to take down our equipment,” Shane said. We were in no rush. The debunker in me thought that Pate had probably overheard the wind. When the four of us had first entered the execution chamber, I had noticed small cracks in the concrete bricks. When I'd put my hand over one of them I'd felt a trickle of cool air. It wouldn't take much for a freaked-out imagination to interpret the whistle of wind as a voice. Besides, Pate had heard only two words, and simple ones at that. If he'd heard a sentence, I might reconsider the possibility that irate inmates were demanding his immediate departure.

Pate was still red and sweaty. “I never experienced nothin' in this place before,” he said, his voice shaky. “I heard the stories but that's all they were. And then your family—” he
pointed a chubby finger at me “—they come in here last year and now there's voices telling me to get out.”

Noah stepped in front of Pate. “You might want to reconsider pointing at her like that.” His voice was low and deadly serious, almost a growl. I'd never heard him sound like that, as if he was ready to punch someone.

“Okay, okay.” Shane put his hand on Noah's shoulder. “Sorry, Mr. Pate. I know you've had a bad experience. We'll hurry up and be out of here in five minutes.”

Noah stared hard until Pate looked away. “Five minutes,” he mumbled. “I'll wait outside.” He lumbered off, his heavy footsteps echoing through the hallway.

We automatically began the task of taking everything down. I knew Shane was upset by Noah's outburst—he considered it unprofessional to display a temper to anyone outside of the team—but he said nothing.

As Noah took down the tripod in the execution chamber, I asked him what was wrong. “I don't think I've ever seen you so angry,” I said.

“I've had enough of that guy.” He shook his head. “Let's get this done and get out of here.”

We worked quickly to finish the job. It wasn't fast enough, though, because Pate began bellowing at us from inside the front door. “Hurry up or I'm locking y'all inside!”

Shane handed me a case of cable and the small monitor. “Why don't you head out so he knows we're making progress?”

“Sure.” I lugged the equipment down the dark halls. The prison didn't scare me, but there was something undeniably creepy about the walls, which were moldy and covered with satanic-themed graffiti. I was happy to reach the front doors and step outside into the bright August afternoon. From the outside, the prison resembled an ancient mansion, complete
with stone walls and narrow turrets. A barbed-wire fence enclosed the back of the property, but in the front, a graceful wrought-iron gate greeted visitors. The delicate curves of the iron provided an ironic contrast to what lay behind them.

Pate leaned against a wall and watched me as I slid open the van door and carefully placed the monitor and cables inside. I took my time, hoping Pate would get bored or that Shane and Noah would join me. Neither happened. Instead, Pate ambled over and peered inside the van.

“Fancy,” he remarked. It was clear by his tone that “fancy” was not a compliment.

“The others will be here in a minute.” I touched my bracelet and tried to push back the discomfort I felt at having Pate stand so close to me. He was still breathing hard and obviously did not use mouthwash. Or deodorant.

“Never shoulda let you people in here,” Pate said. I kept my eyes down and pretended I was securing the monitor. “Everything was just fine. Never heard no voices before. But you roused 'em up, didn't you? You and all that fancy equipment.”

He moved closer to me and I stepped to the side. “Nothing was roused up, sir.” I kept my voice quiet and tried not to further agitate him.

“Don't you tell me lies, girl.” I felt his finger jab me in the shoulder and I winced. Where were Noah and Shane? I was two seconds away from kicking this guy in the crotch.

“Mr. Pate, I'm very sorry you thought you heard something in there,” I began.

“I don't
think,
girl. I
know.
Just like I know you got something to do with all this. Your family's cursed, and a curse attracts the spirits.”

A drop of spittle landed on my cheek when he said “spirits.” I felt my rage grow like a heat inside my chest and gripped the van's bumper.

“And another thing.” He poked me again. Before he could say anything else, Noah was there, shoving Pate with both hands.

“Don't touch her!” he yelled.

Pate stumbled backward and landed on the pavement. Shane ran out of the building, his cameras left behind on the front steps. The wide wooden door of the prison was open, but it slowly began to close. As Shane pulled Noah off Pate, who was kicking his legs wildly as he lay on the ground, the door slammed shut, creating a cracking sound that reverberated in the air. Noah and Shane froze and looked at me. Pate scrambled to get on his feet.

The noise hung in the air, an echo that wouldn't die. I became dizzy and had trouble breathing. I tried to say Noah's name, but I couldn't. Black dots swam in front of my eyes, the world around me began to go dark, and the last thing I remembered before passing out was the sensation of falling—and of Noah catching me before I hit the ground.

For our final dinner together before Annalise returned to college, I displayed my culinary talents by throwing a bunch of stuff into a bowl. It had been almost a full week since the visit to Pate's prison, a week I had tried to fill by spending time with my sister, texting Avery at college and struggling to find moments for Noah and me.

“Is that parsley?” Annalise wrinkled her nose. “You're putting parsley in the salad?”

“It's green, isn't it?” I tossed in chopped walnuts, apple wedges and sliced carrots. If it had been sitting in the crisper drawer of the fridge, it was now part of my experimental dish.

A timer went off, and Annalise opened the oven to inspect her lasagna. “A couple more minutes, I think.”

“I'm impressed, you know.” I opened a bag of store-bought rolls. “I never knew you could cook.”

“Mills and I took a couple's cooking class together last semester.”

I liked my sister's boyfriend. He'd been so kind to me after Mom's injury, often staying up with me as I'd sat next to her
hospital bed. We had talked a lot over the past few months, and he was starting to feel like family.

Annalise frowned as I arranged the rolls on a plate and shoved them into the microwave. “Maybe we should pop those in the oven,” she suggested.

“No time.” I pointed to the clock. “Everyone will be here soon.”

Our guest list for the evening included Shane, Trisha and Noah. It occurred to me that out of the group, Dad would be the only one who had no idea that I had been having panic attacks.

Four months had passed since I'd witnessed the attack on my parents. Four months, one week and three days. And during that time I'd experienced six panic attacks, each one brought on by the sound of something cracking, each one jamming my mind with the agonizing echo of a metal fire poker smashing my mother's skull.

The first one had occurred when I was at home by myself. The second time, I'd been grocery shopping with Noah. A little kid had bumped into a display of canned vegetables, and the sound of the cans crashing had caused me to double over. Noah had practically carried me to the car, leaving our shopping cart behind as he'd whispered, “Please be okay, please be okay.”

I understood the cause of the panic attacks, but I had no idea how to stop them. Annalise thought it was a classic case of post-traumatic stress syndrome. She consulted her former roommate, a psychology major, through daily emails and forced me to participate in annoying mental health exercises. I complained about it constantly to my best friend.

“She's your sister,” Avery said as we sat in her room one day, organizing the things she was going to take with her to college. “She feels helpless and wants to do something for you.
Let her. She'll feel better and maybe she'll find something that helps you, too.”

“I had to draw a picture of sadness for her.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Okay, that's bad. What'd you draw?”

“A crying clown.”

We burst into giggles. It felt good to laugh, especially with Avery. She was going to be leaving soon for college, and I couldn't bear to think about saying goodbye. It would be another absence to adjust to. We planned to call and email and stay in close touch, but I knew it was easy to make promises like that. Once she started school and her busy new life, would she have time for our long-distance friendship?

Satisfied that my salad was complete, I pulled the steaming rolls from the microwave. Dad walked into the kitchen and clapped his hands together. “Smells great!” I winced at his forced enthusiasm. Without Mom, he was miserable, but he tried to keep up a positive front for everyone. It had to be exhausting to pretend so much.

“It's all Annalise,” I said, knowing that I was pretending, too.

My sister smiled. “Charlotte made the salad.”

I couldn't tell if she was trying to warn Dad or give me credit for helping with dinner.

“Shane called,” Dad said. “They're running a few minutes behind. Trisha got a call from Ryan as they were leaving.”

Ryan was Trisha's oldest son. He was serving in Afghanistan, and a call from him was a big deal. She hadn't seen him in over a year, but he was finally coming back this summer. So was Jeff, Trisha's other son, who was also serving in the military. Trisha was planning her wedding to Shane around her sons' return so that all three of her kids would be there for the big event. “I don't care if it rains or snows or the recep
tion hall catches fire,” she told us. “As long as I have Shane and my boys there, it will be perfect.”

Also as long as Mom was there, I wanted to add. It couldn't be perfect without her. But the doctors had warned us that she might never wake up. Then they spoke to Dad in hushed voices, advising him of the “options.” I knew what that word meant—it meant pulling out the feeding tube and wires that kept Mom alive. It meant giving up and letting her die.

Dad said no. After Mom was transferred to the long-term care facility, he had to endure more kind yet firm speeches from a new team of doctors. They somehow convinced him that if Mom didn't show any brain activity within the next six months, they would need to “reevaluate the options.” Six months, and there would be no options left. It was a death sentence, like pleasant words wrapped in shiny paper. Mom had until January to get better, even if it was only minor improvement.

For now, our lives were on hold, and that included the wedding. Shane had promised me that. “She'll be there no matter what,” he'd said after the engagement was announced. “We won't have the ceremony without her.”

It was a promise I was going to make him keep, although I wondered what he meant by “no matter what.” At first, I thought he meant that she would be there even if we had to push her in a wheelchair. But maybe not. Maybe Shane didn't think she would come out of the coma. Maybe he thought Mom would be there in spirit, not in person.

“You haven't given up on her, have you?” I asked him.

The question earned me a look of sad shock. “No,” he said, pulling me into a hug. “I have not given up. And don't you give up, either. Keep hoping. It's all we can do.”

Maybe it was all
he
could do, but I had other plans. Despite my fear of accidentally triggering the Watcher, I was deter
mined to help my mom. I was the reason, the
main
reason why she was lying in a hospital bed, which meant that I had to try my best to get her out of it.

Annalise checked on her lasagna and turned the heat down on the oven. “I can keep this warm until they get here. Any idea how long that will be?”

“Soon.” Dad peered at my salad. “This is very colorful, Charlotte.”

He sounded apprehensive, but I knew he would like it. Annalise had given me a foolproof job. How could I mess up salad?

“Have you guys given any more thought to your living arrangements?” Annalise asked. She tried to sound casual, but I could hear the worry in her voice.

“I thought we'd settled all that,” Dad said. “Shane will be staying here with Charlotte while I'm gone. In fact, he's moving out of his apartment next week.”

Annalise busied herself with selecting a salad dressing from the fridge. Her lack of response made it clear that she was not happy with Dad's decision, a decision he had made weeks ago but one my sister was hoping could be reversed through persistent questions.

It had begun after Mom was transferred to the long-term care facility near Charleston. It was the best place for her to heal and recover, but the distance meant that Dad would need to commute over an hour each way. He decided that he wanted to stay with Mom in her room during the week. Annalise would be able to visit often, as well, and promised that when Dad wasn't there, she would be.

Then there was me. My plans for the future had changed overnight. I deferred acceptance to college and instead decided to take courses at the local community college. I talked with an admissions officer, who told me as long as I got C's in my
classes, the credits would transfer. I was staying home for at least one more year and filling my schedule with the basics: English 101, Calculus 101, Biology 102. I reasoned that my schedule would let me begin at a university as a sophomore and I could take the interesting electives there. Dad didn't protest too much when I told him my new college plan. He barely said anything at all.

Annalise, however, had a lot to say. “You can't stop living!” she cried when I told her about my revised educational plan. “Mom would want you to move forward.”

“I
am
moving forward.” I appreciated my sister's concern, even if it seemed a tad too dramatic, but she was beginning to border on the controlling. I was eighteen now. I didn't need permission from her to live at home. I changed my tactic. “Dad needs me,” I said. “I can take care of the house. Do you really want him to be stressed about that?”

She backed down. “No. No, that's not what I want.” She sighed. “I worry, though. Dad's so withdrawn and you're having panic attacks and if you need me I'll be hours away.”

“You'll be a phone call away.”

“It's not the same.”

It wasn't, but it was all we had for now. I did not want to move to Charleston, which was Annalise's first suggestion. So much had happened in such a short amount of time that I decided I would not willingly make any more changes for a while, so when my sister came up with the idea that we should sell the house and relocate to a town closer to the treatment facility, I bristled. So did Dad, and I wondered if it was for the same reason: moving toward Mom meant that we were giving up on her ever getting better. And she had to get better. Although doctors couldn't tell us when, or how, or anything other than that she was stable, we believed that she was strong enough to come out of it.

“Charlotte and I have no plans to move,” Dad told Annalise now. He looked over at me, and I nodded to show that, yes, I absolutely agreed with him. I wasn't going anywhere. My sister leaned against the fridge and folded her arms across her chest.

“But this can't be healthy, living in the same place you were attacked.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Mom wouldn't want this. She wouldn't want you to live like this.”

Dad averted his gaze. I knew it was difficult for him to look at her. Annalise looked so much like our mother. They shared the same clear eyes, the same wavy black hair. It was probably harder for him to look at his oldest daughter than it was to look at Mom, pale and motionless in her hospital bed.

“This is her home,” Dad finally said. “This is where we're going to bring her when she recovers. I'm not leaving.”

I nodded. “Neither am I.”

The doorbell rang, and a moment later Shane's voice boomed from the foyer. “We're here!”

We turned to greet our guests with the happy smiles we'd all perfected. I didn't have to fake mine so much when I saw Noah. While everyone else helped bring food to the table, Noah and I hung behind. “You look great,” he whispered.

I looked down at my jeans and white T-shirt. “I'm not wearing anything special.” Except the bracelet. I always wore that.

“Doesn't matter. You still look great.”

“If you really want to flatter me, you'll try my salad.”

He kissed my ear, sending a little shiver down my back. “I'm sure it's fantastic.”

Dinner was filled with bright conversation about Trisha's phone call with her son, Annalise's upcoming semester and the courses she would be taking, and how Noah would be starting school as a senior in a few weeks. I watched as everyone
sampled my cuisine, taking careful bites and picking out the random unwanted fruit or vegetable. Noah ate three servings, so I was happy.

Trisha also talked about the wedding. “I know we don't have a firm date yet, but I want everything to be in order,” she said. “When we have a date that accommodates everyone, I want to move forward with lightning speed.”

I looked at Shane, who nodded. He was keeping his promise.

After everyone left, Dad retreated to the living room to watch TV while Annalise and I washed the dishes. “How do you do it?” she asked. My hands were immersed in soapy water and at first, I had no idea what she was talking about.

“I use the scrubber sponge.” I rinsed a plate and handed it to Annalise to dry. We had a dishwasher, but I actually liked washing dishes sometimes. The warm, bubbly water and simple repetition of the chore relaxed me.

“I'm not talking about dishes.” Annalise sighed. “I mean, how do you live in this house? How do you pass by the dining room every single day and not think about what happened there? I wasn't even here, and I think about it constantly.”

“I do think about it.” I held a fork to the light so I could make sure I had thoroughly cleaned it, then dumped it back into the hot water for one more rinse. “But if I didn't live here, I'd still think about it. At least here, I can face it. I'm not running from anything, and I think Mom would be proud of that.” Again, I could almost hear her voice:
Don't let fear make your decisions for you.

“Maybe.” Annalise had been drying the same plate for a while now, rubbing it slowly with the dish towel. I put my hand on hers and she looked up, startled. “I don't want to leave tomorrow,” she whispered. “If I go, I don't know how I'll be able to come back here again.”

“You can come back with Mom.” I hoped she believed me. I wasn't sure I trusted my own words, but if Annalise did, maybe they could be real.

“At least you'll be able to drive yourself to school,” she said as she put away the small stack of clean plates.

“You're not mad about that, are you?” My eighteenth birth day in June had almost completely escaped my mind, the first time I could ever remember not being excited about the day. In fact, when I'd realized it was coming up, I'd cried. It was the first birthday without Mom, and after enduring the torture of graduation without her face in the crowd, I was not ready to tackle another milestone so soon.