Diary of the Gone (7 page)

As we entered the mossy labyrinth,
narrow beams of light came to life one by one, bouncing up and
down, ripping through the gloom to the left and right of me. The
chief walked nearby, occasionally asking me for directions. Whether
he wanted to take my mind off the matter at hand or not, he asked
if my sister was doing okay at school (his son and Bev shared some
classes), if the headmaster’s son had stopped bullying me (probably
everyone already knew about it), to which I nodded my head without
saying anything. Questions that would make me cringe on a regular
day, but tonight I just told my well-rehearsed lies, unable to
erase the image of Greg’s limbs sticking out of the loose
soil.

It was going to be a third time this
week I’d visit the Swamps. An unbidden guest at first, I already
had an affinity with this place.

It was raining a bit harder, as if
nature was chiding us for our intention to bother its child
sleeping restlessly in his shallow grave, buried without respect by
some morbid-minded jerk.

Cold fear slithered down my spine at
the realization that the killer might still be here, a few paces
away, lurking in the shadows and watching us get closer to Greg’s
body.

Water squelched under my boots, the
farther I went. Men’s shouts sliced through my brain. Perhaps some
of them still thought I’d lied about the body. I wished that were
true. But with each step my hopes faded replaced by
despair.

Even in the dark I could discern the
familiar shapes. Nothing had changed since my last visit to this
place. The fallen tree that I’d jumped over and sprained my ankle.
Then the blood, the leaves and the loose soil. And the smeared
trail leading to the impromptu grave.

I halted, pointing my flashlight where
the body lay.

“
It’s here!” the chief
called, waving frantically for the others to go our way. All the
torchlight beams merged with mine, and I squinted at the intense
flaring. The hand and leg sticking out of the ground cast haunting
shadows over the wet leaves. I stood rooted to the spot as everyone
bustled around me.

Donned in plastic gloves, the scene
techs and medical examiners did their jobs with swiftness of
surgeons. The chief put his hand around my shoulder then called to
one of the policemen, a paunchy man with a thick mustache. “Swen,
it’s going to take a while so I’d appreciate it if you could take
Callum home.”

“
I’d like to stay,” I said
with as much finality as my voice could muster.

The chief lowered his black eyes at
me. “Are you sure?”

I nodded once, then the chief turned
to Swen and said, “Okay, I’ll take care of him.” The policeman
shrugged and nodded, then stepped aside.

I stood still with a hood over my head
to keep raindrops from saturating my face. I watched the men
looking for clues, taking pictures of the scene. Then they started
extracting the body from the ground. I winced every time they
thrust their spades into the ground. I thought it took them an
eternity to drag a rigid body out of its grave.

“
Holy Mother of God!” one
of the villagers cried when they turned the body face
up.

I set myself in motion, weaving my way
among the men, then peered into the placid features of the boy
lying there. If it weren’t for the dirt clinging to his face and a
slight bruise blemishing his right cheek, I’d think he was
sleeping.

“
This is Greg Thornby,”
the chief confirmed, his lips forming a thin, grim line. “What the
hell is this?”

He rolled the sleeves of his shirt up,
and I noticed the strange patterns cut into Greg’s right hand:
circles, triangles and number 2/7. I didn’t get what the numbers
meant, but the rest of the symbols looked the same way I’d seen in
the Shadow.

I went rigid; my stomach turned and I
gripped it, retreating into the dark, away from the group and the
boy. I threw up, clutching with one hand at the wet ground while
the other clung to my stomach. With my eyes closed, I squatted,
taking short breaths, but it didn’t make me feel better.

Bushes rustled out there in the
darkness; I jerked up my head, cold fear sliding down my back. A
figure stood in the underbrush, not moving, but whoever it was,
they were watching me. Fear constricted my throat, breathing
suddenly an impossible task. Was it my imagination conjuring the
image? I couldn’t move, like prey that spotted a hunter. My heart
stuttered, my mouth too parched to utter a sound.

It’s just a tree,
that’s it,
a voice in my head pacified
me.

Yet I didn’t move a muscle, peering
into the dark. The chief came up to me from behind and tapped me on
the shoulder. “Here you are, boy. You all right?”

I gave a nod, taking my eyes off the
underbrush.

“
Time to go home,” the
chief said. “You had a rough day.” He helped me up with his strong
hands.

When I looked back into the dark, the
figure was gone.

What if it was Mrs. Palmer, the
raven-like librarian?

I didn’t remember much of the trip
back, lost in thought about who might have been lurking among the
trees.

Stars shimmered like diamonds in the
skies. The rain had stopped, crickets chirping their incessant
songs in the stillness. An owl hooted nearby joining the insects’
nocturnal performance. A translucent moon guided us out of the
woods.

As I entered the yard the tension
inside me eased a bit. There was still hope of Nathan being alive.
Until he’d be found, I needed to believe he was okay.

When I stepped over the threshold I
heard voices and laughter in the living room. It felt so weird to
hear it after what’d just happened in the Swamps. I peered into the
room to see the TV working and Mum sleeping on the couch. I tiptoed
to her and covered her with a blanket, then punched the remote, and
the screen went black. I moved straight to my room and was
surprised to meet Bev on the way. She was sitting next to my room
like a yogi, a book in her lap. She raised her eyes at me, and I
could see that her sarcastic attitude from the morning was gone,
replaced by worry. She pushed herself up from the floor, then
hugged me. I could swear it had to be the first time ever when she
did this voluntarily. After three Mississippis she let go of
me.

“
Have you found him?” she
asked.

“
Yes,” I said.

Her eyes flickered with wild hunger
for more news.

“
It was Greg.” I quenched
her curiosity—perhaps the reason she’s stayed up, not because she
was worried about me. She cupped her mouth, shock etched in her
wide-open black eyes.

“
Oh, my god!” she
whispered at last, then looked away.

There wasn’t much else to talk about
so I wished her good night and shut the door behind me.

I went straight to my bed to search
for the diary. At first I thought it had fallen somewhere my hand
couldn’t reach.

I pushed the bed away from the wall—it
scraped against the floor too loudly, but at least I could take a
proper look behind it. There was no diary there.

I could see where it used to be; only
now there was a rectangular-shaped imprint and the rest of the
floor covered with a layer of dust.

I rummaged the whole room, running my
hand under the mattress, even in places where I’d never put it.
Giving up, I plopped onto my bed, fear of what that might mean
hitting me like a sledgehammer.

Someone’s been
here,
I told myself.
What if it was the one from the Swamps?

*

It was still dark when I woke up from
my restless sleep. I heard movement outside my room, someone’s
shuffling, the stairs creaking under their weight.

Maybe it was that girl? Or
Greg?

There was no diary for me to write
about them to chase them away.

I’d forgotten to lock the door, not
that it really helped. A locked door wouldn’t be a problem for the
girl or any other spirit. The doorknob turned slowly, and the door
opened a crack. My heart pumped blood through my veins at an
increased rate.

I even stopped breathing, but then Mom
peeked inside and looked at me. I relaxed, letting out a sigh of
relief, my chest deflating like a punctured balloon.

“
Did I wake you?” she
whispered. “I wanted to make sure everything’s all
right.”

“
I couldn’t sleep anyway,”
I said so that she wouldn’t feel bad. As the streetlight bathing my
room in blue silver fell on her face I saw baggy skin below her
eyes rimmed with lines of tiredness. Her hair was all messed-up,
piled untidily in curly tangles. She sat down beside me on the
bed.

“
Bev told me you were
home. How are you?” She combed my hair with her lithe fingers from
left to right, the way I never combed it, but I enjoyed the
soothing effect it produced.

“
Okay.” I didn’t know if
words could describe the dread I’d gone through. I stooped my head
trying to forget the visions filling my mind.

“
What are you thinking
about?” she asked.

“
About Nathan,” I
said.

“
He’s going to be okay.
He’s strong.”

“
You think?” My voice was
feeble, but she heard me.

“
Yes.”

“
There in the forest,” I
started, then realized I should have kept it to myself, but it was
too late.

“
Yes?” Mom raised her
eyebrows.

“
I think I saw someone in
the dark. Watching us at a distance.”

Mom stopped combing my hair, but
didn’t ask questions, just sat there with me. The wind picked up,
the tree branches swaying near my window, their shadows dancing on
the wall.

“
Maybe it was just another
tree?” she said. “Sleep. You need to have some rest,” she
said.

I was glad she didn’t ask questions,
although part of me was disappointed that she didn’t react to it
the way I did.

Planting a kiss on my forehead, she
awkwardly got up and walked to the door. Before closing it, she
muttered, “Good night.”

“
Night,” I responded,
burying my head in the pillow and closing my eyes.

Now that I’d woken up I couldn’t get
back to sleep. I tossed and turned in bed, tangled in the sheets.
The mystery of my missing diary kept me awake. The dead decided not
to bother me tonight, as if scared away by the intruder who’d
visited my room while I was out.

The room stifled me; it felt like the
walls were closing in. When my eyelids drooped Greg stared at me
with eyes that had only whites in them. His neck was still
purple-bruised. His hands sliced with symbols that I didn’t
get.

I squirmed at the image in my head,
feeling too hot. I couldn’t stay in the room anymore. I remembered
well what Mom had told me about grounding me if I left for a night
walk, but it seemed I had no choice.

Hurriedly, I struggled into my jeans,
opened the shutters, pushed them down leaving a small crack, then
slunk down the tile towards the thickest branch.

Practice makes
perfect,
I thought, climbing down in
swift, calculated movements.

I walked briskly down the street,
haloed lamplights guiding my way. I didn’t know where I was heading
or why I accelerated my pace—like I was late for something
important that was about to happen—but I was sure I needed to move
faster. I turned left and suddenly broke into a run, my heart
thumping louder and louder.

I ran for a couple of minutes, then I
realized I had to run either past Mrs. Palmer’s house or through
the graveyard, and I took the latter route. The humid air sent a
prickling sensation to my lungs as I weaved my way among tombstones
so old that they jutted out of the ground in different directions.
This place didn’t bother me. Graveyards never did. They were the
only places where I would never come across a Shadow.

Only when the stitches in my side
burned like hot iron did I slow down. I bent down, panting, my
hands gripping my knees for support. I looked up to see I’d reached
the outskirts of the town, the rickety sign of Olden Cross creaking
slightly in the wind, illuminated by the light of the last
lamppost. Beyond, only darkness remained.

That was the part of
the town I’d rarely visited.
Why did I
even run this way?
I asked myself. I
didn’t fancy the idea of going farther, yet something spurred
me.
Go into the dark,
a voice tempted me.

“
No,” I said aloud,
turning to leave. “Enough of this crap.”

To prove me wrong, a scream sliced
through the dark. It was a girl screaming out there.

A horrifying scream. Chilling blood in
my veins.

Chapter 7

Entry #21

September 24

Today I had a fight with
Mom. She keeps making her stupid warnings that if I leave home one
more time, she’ll have my windows barred.