Rising Fears (5 page)

The only people that she hoped would notice her now were the children. And to them - and them alone - she could come alive. She could show herself to them because, quite simply, at eight years old they were too young to hurt her, or even to threaten her.

Of course, thoughts of hurt and threat immediately brought back memories that she would just as soon leave pressed deep within her. But almost worse for the moment were the more immediate thoughts, the more immediate reality: little Sean was dead.

She found herself standing in front of his desk, and was quite unsure how he had gotten there. But she knew that she would have to deal with this moment sooner or later. It had been more than a week, and she was perfectly aware what was being whispered over the counter at the general store and behind closed doors in every house in Rising. She knew what every parent was telling their child as they ordered them to come in early, to keep close, to stay within eyesight: the Rand boy was gone. There had been no ransom demand, no sign of him.

And, from what she had heard, there had been far too much blood in the Rands' basement to leave any hope that Sean had survived.

Even so, she had obstinately refused to clean out the boy's desk; had clung to a vain hope that the evil that wandered the world had
not
come to Rising, had
not
found its way so close to her.

Had
not
killed little Sean.

Still, now that the funeral had happened....

She reached into Sean's desk and began pulling papers out of it. They were drawings, crayon pictures mostly, each one proudly marked "by Sean Rand, 8" in the lower left corner. She touched each one with her hands as she removed it, knowing that this was as close as she was willing to come to saying goodbye, fighting back the tears that burnt her eyes and threatened to ruin her hard-fought composure.

Then she almost screamed as a voice said, "Excuse me."

She didn't scream, though, the part of her that was in charge of
not
screaming managing to successfully assert itself at the last possible moment. Instead she swiveled around and saw who it was. She wasn't surprised; had been expecting him to come by at some point, and had been wondering what to do when it happened.

"Sheriff," she said. "You scared me."

"Sorry," Sheriff Meeks answered. "Didn't mean to." He looked embarrassed, more like one of her students after a good chastising for failing to do his homework than one of the most important men in the small town of Rising. She knew why, too: a few years ago a mutual friend had determined that they would be a cute couple, and had invited them both to a movie, failing to mention to either that there would be a third party. Both she and the sheriff had been visibly mortified, though she was sure it was for different reasons. She knew that once she had been pretty, had been beautiful even. But that had been...
before
that one night;
before
she had lost what had once made her into a graceful and beautiful creature. Now, she was just plain old Lenore, struggling to stay anonymous, and was both angry that her friend had tried to set her up with Rising's most interesting bachelor, and terrified that Sheriff Meeks would tell off that same friend for trying to set him up with someone so obviously beneath him.

For his part, at least the sheriff had the courtesy not to tell her to her face what a huge mistake had been made. He was even gracious, trying to pretend he didn't find her to be an odious,
used
piece of trash that wasn't worth his time. He pretended to be interested in her, asking several basic questions before at last lapsing into a coma-like silence that had lasted the rest of the night. He had actually taken the trouble to pretend she was worth his time, and that both made him infinitely more interesting and attractive
and
served to highlight the vast gap between their relative social standings and relative worth as human beings.

She became aware that the sheriff was waiting for her to respond to his last words, but for the life of her could not remember what those words had been.

He had beautiful eyes.

She pulled herself away from that thought. It didn't lead anywhere useful or even remotely possible anyway, so she just said, lamely, "I thought I was here by myself."

"You were," answered the sheriff. Then, looking around the empty classroom, he said, "Isn't today a school day?"

"They let the lower grades have the day off. The mayor himself gave the order. For the funeral." She paused for a moment, then said, "I guess you've heard what happened."

Sheriff Meeks nodded. "That's why I'm here, actually. Wanted to look through Sean's things."

Lenore felt herself grow instantly protective. She had no children of her own, so these children who wandered temporarily into her care, each to stay only for a year before moving on to greener pastures, were as close as she would probably ever come to having offspring. Not children of her loins, but of her mind, of her heart. So the fact that anyone, even someone as clearly caring and good as Sheriff Meeks, was asking about Sean made her instantly alert and careful.

"Why do you want to see his things?" she asked.

"Because in spite of the memorial service, I haven't seen enough to believe he's dead," answered the sheriff. "So I'm going to find him."

Of course, true to what she felt about him, the sheriff had come up with exactly the right answer. Lenore nodded and gestured for him to look at the desk she was standing by. Instead, though, Sheriff Meeks held out his hand. She gave him the papers that she was holding immediately.

Their hands touched when she did it.

She almost felt a spark leap across the gap between them; came close to gasping before quelling the urge, before reminding herself who he was and more importantly who and what
she
was and so realizing that no matter what she felt, there was no way that the sheriff could possibly reciprocate her interest.

The pictures that he leafed through were all mostly the same: picture after picture of a cute stick figure with his hand leaning against a crude wall.

"What are all these of?" asked the sheriff.

"We read the story of the little boy and the dam last week," said Lenore. Sheriff Meeks shrugged, clearly communicating that he had never heard of it. "The one about the little Dutch boy," prompted Lenore, dropping automatically into her Teacher Mode. And seeing that the sheriff still didn't know the story, she continued, "The boy sees a crack in a dam by his village. He wants to get help, but knows that before he can tell anyone, the crack will grow and split the dam open and everyone he knows and loves will die."

"So what does he do?" asked the sheriff.

Lenore indicated the pictures that the man was holding. "He puts his finger in the crack. Plugs the hole. Saves the town."

Sheriff Meeks nodded and kept looking through the pictures, Lenore watching as he did so. They were all the same. "He must have really liked the story," observed the sheriff.

"He did."

Then the sheriff stopped suddenly. It was the second-to-last of the drawings that he held in his hand, and it was one that Lenore didn't remember ever seeing. It was the same subject, the same basic stick figure with its hand in the wall, but this time the color scheme was a bit darker, the lines a bit sloppier and more hurried, as though the young artist had been gripped by a frenzy of inspiration.

Or fear.

And underneath it all, in thick black crayon, were four words, written in childish, almost panicky scrawl:

cRak IN tHe DAm.

Lenore felt a tentacle of unease tickle the base of her spine, toying with her, bringing back not only her fears for Sean Rand, but also the ever-present threat of her memories...of
him
.

Thankfully the sheriff turned to the last page, and the dry death rattle of the pages turning was enough to draw her away from that line of thought.

This page held no picture. The tentacle of fear at the base of Lenore's back was joined by another, and then a third, a full-grown monster that threatened in an instant to take her away from the carefully constructed bulwarks that protected her sanity.

The last page was four words. Four more words in thick black crayon, four more words drawn in large, panicky strokes:

I wiL be FiRSt.

The words were simple; meaningless. But in spite of that, they were clearly something to fear; something
of
fear. Something made of that same flat nameless terror that had accompanied humanity as it walked out of the sludge of time and brought with it fear that would follow it through eternity.

"What do these pages mean?" asked Sheriff Meeks.

Lenore frowned, rubbing her arms as though she were chilled, which she was, though the day was warm enough. "I don't know, Sheriff," she answered.

Sheriff Meeks pocketed that last page without asking, and Lenore did not mind. She was grateful to have the strange four words gone from her class, as though their presence would call down doom upon any who might cross the room's threshold.

Then the sheriff tipped his hat politely - always polite, always gallant was the sheriff - and left without another word.

Lenore looked at the pictures that the sheriff had left behind. Particularly at the last one, the dark one. It was drawn not as a child's fairy tale version of a beloved story like the others had been, but rather like an attempt to draw something out of nightmare.

Lenore knew about nightmares.

She shuddered again.

cRak IN tHe DAm.

I wiL be FiRSt.

***

***

Jason pulled up in front of the Rand house and took a moment to get himself under control. He knew he would have to talk to Lenore at some point in all this - she was Sean's teacher, after all - but the interaction had affected him more than he liked to think of. Indeed, it had shaken him to the core. In his loneliest nights in his house outside of town, he remembered their night together, that lovely night when they had been mutually tricked into something that was as close to a date as Jason had had for over a decade.

He immediately felt guilty, as he always did, for remembering the night. As though to remember it with anything approaching pleasure would be to dishonor the memory of his wife and child.

Still, he couldn't help remember it. Lenore had been so sweet, so clearly beautiful beneath the layers of shapeless clothing that she for some reason preferred. So smart, so warm.

So alive.

He had hardly been able to speak to her the whole night, so stricken had he been by her beauty, both the visible kind and the kind that she simply carried about within her soul.

Jason shook himself, trying to physically disengage himself from the memory. There was no way such a woman would ever be interested in someone like him.

And what if she were? he couldn't help but think. What would you do then?

The answer was as obvious as it was depressing: nothing. He would do nothing, would feel nothing, because to feel would be to live, and he had stopped living the same day his family had.

So he put his truck into park and got out.

He had been at the Rand house before, just as he had been at most of the houses in Rising for some reason or another. But he didn't remember it seeming so...so....

Ominous
. That was the word. Ominous. Forbidding. Strange.

Alive.

It looked like a dark beast that had awakened and claimed its first victim. But only its first.

Jason walked to the front door and put out a hand. Just as Ron Rand had stated would be the case, the door was unlocked and opened to his touch. The door swung open, outside light slashing into the darkness beyond like a laser, then that same light disappearing as he entered the house and closed the door behind him.

He went straight to the kitchen. It was dark, like the rest of the house. He turned on a light. His eyes were drawn as though by a remote control to the basement door. The door and doorjamb showed signs of extreme violence, splintered and concussed.

And beyond the door, all was dark, a preternatural blackness that seemed to begin like a wall at the very point where the door had been, like the event horizon of a tiny black hole that lived in the basement; like the point beyond which nothing, not even light, would be able to escape.

Jason took a few steps toward that dark maw, then stopped abruptly as he noticed something.

The Rands' microwave oven sat on a small stand near the sink. It had a clock built in, only the clock was now unreadable. The numbers were blurred, as though out of focus, and Jason was suddenly reminded of Amy-Lynn. He remembered her at the funeral, the way she had shrieked and gone momentarily crazy at the funeral of her son. More than that, he remembered the horrific way she had spoken - that gravelly voice that was hers but somehow not hers, was as though someone or some
thing
was speaking through her. Something that had spoken about clocks.

What had she said? he wondered, then remembered:

"The dark. The clocks. Time slows down. And you're all alone."

He blinked at the memory, feeling an odd sense of disquiet as he looked again at the clock built into the microwave.

"The clocks...."