Chapter 14: That Which Follows
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When I ask for food, the woman behind the bar gives me a look like I’ve gone crazy.
“You alright, sweetheart?”
I insist that I am. It’s obvious she’s not convinced, but she’s gracious enough to slide me a bowl of saltines and pretzels mixed together, then says: “There’s a McDonald's nearby, next exit. You know, in case you want something more substantial.”
I mumble my thanks, then tuck into my improvised trail mix.
The bar has that old musty sort of smell that manages to come off as comforting, somehow. The origin of the phrase ‘lived in.’ There’s a dart board on the far wall next to a chalk board that says ‘High Score Winner: Elmer Graves, 160 points!’ When I entered, I noticed there were only four other people in the room: two of them appear to be a couple, schmoozing in a back corner. The other two sit at opposite sides of the bar. One’s a woman with long black hair and striking dark eyes. The lighting is poor, but I can tell she has flawless bronze skin and the sort of symmetrical features made for magazines. When she looks at me, I feel compelled to incline my head.
The only other patron has situated himself in a back corner. Wedged, really, like he wants to look at everyone at once. His eyes dart about this way and that, and I instantly assume he’s either drunk or something worse. Probably mixing substances. Not really rare in towns like this one.
“Listen, sweetheart,” the bartender says. I’m still hunched over my bowl, tempted to lick the salt off of my fingers. “You want me to call someone for you?” She searches my face. “Did you run away from home or something?” She leans one round hip against the counter, giving me a maternal smile. “Speaking as a mom, whatever it is, your folks will forgive you. There ain’t nothing you can’t work out.”
I blink at her. I guess I’ve been mistaken for younger than I am before - it’s the height, I think, more than anything - but her words make a ball form in my throat. Because, well-meaning as she is, it sends me spiraling right back to those thoughts again. Of being alone. Of having no one to turn to.
I quickly clear my throat and chuckle. “Oh, no. Just had a rough night. Hey, speaking of, can I get a beer?” I fumble around in my pocket, find my ID, and set it on the bar before her. She picks it up and gives it a once-over, then shoots me an apologetic glance.
“Woops. Sorry. When you get to be my age, everyone looks younger than they are.”
I laugh. “Don’t worry about it. Thank you, really. I appreciate the thoughtfulness.”
She nods, turning away and shuffling further down the bar to get my drink.
I drum my fingers on the counter. It’s in rough shape - probably the result of generations of bar fights - but there’s not so much as a shred of sticky residue. Clearly the woman running the joint has pride in her work. I turn my head idly, glancing again at the occupants of the bar. The couple is walking over to the bartender, card in hand, obviously getting ready to close out their tab. The striking woman I’d seen when I walked in is still situated with her back to the door, and I realize her gaze is fixed with strange intensity on the man in the corner.
I follow her gaze, find him again, and see that his eyes are boring into me.
I can get a better look at him now. His eyes are sunken in his head, and his cheeks have the too-sharp look of someone who needs a burger. Or ten. I wait for a moment, meeting his gaze, figuring he’ll realize his staring is awkward and look away.
But he doesn’t. He just keeps staring, and the longer I look at him, the more I get a looming feeling of hunger. Hunger and something else. Something deep, dark, and unknowable.
I’m the first to look away. The couple has struck up a conversation with the bartender - they’re clearly locals. Talking about family drama and an upcoming potluck. I can still feel the man staring at me. His gaze feels cold. So incredibly cold. I swear the temperature in the room has dropped ten degrees at least, and I suppress a shiver.
Please, I think. Please just leave me alone. I can’t take it. I just need a moment of normal.
He gets up, smooths out his shirt, and from the corner of my eye I see him walk towards me. There’s the sound of a barstool scooting against the ground as he takes a seat by my side.
“Hey,” he murmurs. His voice is raw like broken glass, and there’s a smell that comes with it - a rancid odor. Rotting and unpleasantly fishy, like he just stepped out of the ocean. When I don’t respond, he says it again, in the exact same cadence. “Hey.”
“Not interested,” I say. I’m too fed up to be nice about it. “Please leave me alone.”
He licks his lips, and his tongue looks overly red. Like it’s stained with something. He’s got a cap pulled down around his ears, one of those trapper hats meant for extreme cold. He speaks again. The same voice. The same word. “Hey.”
His fingers brush along my wrist, and they’re so cold they send a chill right up my arm and into my heart.
I stand. More than frightened, I’m pissed now. I’m exhausted, physically, emotionally, spiritually. Grabbing a handful of what’s left in my bowl, I shove the snack in my pocket and leave five bucks on the counter. Then I fix the man with whatever glare I have the energy to muster.
“Fuck you,” I snap at him, and then turn heel to storm out of the bar.
I don’t look back. Tucking my hands underneath my arms, I begin stomping down the street. I have no idea where I’m even going. Back to William? I’m not ready for that yet. I’m not ready to face him. Hell, I’m scared to even try. I really thought we were making a connection in the car. I know he’s been through so much pain, so much trauma, but he’s bottling that up from me too. What else is he lying about? And how can I trust him when he won’t confide the truth in me?
Yeah, I think. Because you would have reacted so well to ‘I suck the life out of people.’ That’s a conversation that would go swimmingly.
And then another thought, right on the heels of the first:
Why didn’t he kill the girl?
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It takes me a moment to recognize the sound of footsteps behind me. I whirl, teeth bared, ready to rip into the guy from the bar, vent all of my rage at him.
But it’s not him. It’s the woman. She’s even more striking under the light of the moon. Dark eyes, full lips. She’s strong, I can tell just by looking at the shape of her shoulders beneath her leather jacket. She smiles at me, and I instantly dial down my expression.
“Sorry,” I say. “Thought you were someone else.”
She shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it.”
I keep walking. I’m not concerned at first. It’s a girl thing, I’ll admit it. Look, I’m not saying women can’t be bad - trust me, they can be evil as hell - but there’s a certain girl camaraderie when it comes to walking alone at night. Even though she stays behind me, I’m not worried about it. I don’t assume she’s following me. Frankly I’m glad. I figure if some weirdo comes out of the woodwork, at least I’ve got someone to call for help or dial 911.
Still. I’m being aimless here. Completely aimless. I don’t have anywhere to go. I’m heading in the general direction of the WalMart - it sticks out like a sore thumb at the end of the street, all shiny and new and mega-corporation compared to everything else - but it’s not really my goal. I’m just walking around, trying to find my head. Trying to figure things out.
So when I turn off the beaten path, get a couple yards down the street, and she keeps following me, I start getting antsy.
I know I shouldn’t. She probably lives here. I mean, hell, between the two of us, I’m the weird one. This is a small town, right? She’s no doubt wondering why this weirdo is flailing about after midnight, puttering around with a crunchy pocketful of bar snacks. She’s probably even worried about me. Making sure I’m alright.
I sneak a glance at her over my shoulder and notice that she’s scanning the houses around us. No, scratch that. She’s scanning the dark spaces between them. I start getting a bad feeling then. What’s she looking for? Witnesses?
Is she working with the guy from the bar?
“Lydia.”
I stop cold in my tracks. The voice has a very familiar lilt to it. William’s voice. I jerk my head this way and that, trying to triangulate where it came from.
“Lydia,” he says again.
There’s something strange about it. I struggle to figure out what it is. Then it hits me: it sounds exactly the same way he said it the first time. Same notes, inflection, volume. Everything.
“Lydia.”
This time I know it’s coming from the direction of the houses to my left. The street lights are sparse here, and I can see a tall figure standing in the darkness between them. The outline of his shape is hard to make out in the dimness. I can’t see his face: his head is downturned, shrouded in shadow.
“Hey,” he says. “I’m not going to hurt you, Lydia Grace.”
I stare at the figure. Goosebumps rise on my arms, and I begin backing away from it slowly, one foot after the other. Something isn’t right. Something about him isn’t right. I…
He tilts his head to the side, peering at me from beneath the rim of that weird hat. “Lydia,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”
That’s when I know. The words - I’ve heard them before. In this exact pattern, with the same pauses and lilts. He’s said them to me before, in precisely the same way, when I first woke up after the ritual in the woods. As if he’s playing the memory on repeat.
“Whoever you think that is,” the woman says to me softly, “It isn’t him.”
I swing my gaze to her. I’d forgotten about her already, faced with whatever is still staring at me from the shadows. She’s come closer to me now. I’d guess she’s maybe in her late thirties. She’s got a self-possession that instantly makes me feel better. I open my mouth to speak to her, relief washing through me, ready to ask what the hell is going on.
“When I tell you to,” she whispers, before I can speak. “You run.”
The man steps further into the street, and the lights catch him now. I can see more of his features. His gaze is fixed on me and me alone - it’s like the woman at my side is invisible. As I watch, his throat begins to undulate slightly - moving and shifting as if something is clicking into place. It reminds me of videos I’ve seen of snakes swallowing mice whole.
When he speaks again, it’s not William I hear.
It’s Nathan.
“Soooo.” His head tilts to the side, and I hear an audible crack. “Introductions, anyone?”
I take another step back, eyes wide with horror. As I watch, the creature moves forward into the light. When I look into the thing’s face, I swear that its features have become sharper. Its eyes glint in the dark, similar to a cat’s, and a thought runs through my mind. Predator. Eyes like a nocturnal predator.
Then it takes the hat off of its head, and my heart launches into my throat. There, smack in the middle of its brow, is another eye. It’s different than his other two, larger, and almost entirely black. I stare at it, finding it impossible to breathe. I become aware of a strange wriggling feeling, as though something is working its way into my brain. Probing and searching, looking for something to latch onto…
“Do not look at it,” the woman snaps. But I can’t not look. I’m frozen in place. It feels like there’s a vise on my chest, crushing the breath out of me. It takes a step closer, and I can hear more crunching sounds, bones snapping and mending, twisting and elongating. It smiles at me, and I see a row of razor teeth. Its throat moves again, and this time, when it speaks, I hear my mother.
“You were a mistake,” she croons. “I gave up my life for you. I didn’t want you.” It runs that bloody tongue along its jaw, and I see the gleam of spittle left in its wake. “I didn’t want you. Want you. Want. Want. WANT. WANT!”
There’s a final snap. It’s contorted now, as if someone stretched it out on a rack, its clothing in tatters along is malformed body. I feel my mind twisting, turning on itself. There are tears on my cheeks. The woman isn’t beside me anymore - I can’t feel anything but an intense wrongness,
Then, springing with a speed made for breaking bones, it launches itself at me.
As a chill settles over me, as the words worm their way into my marrow, I close my eyes and wait for death to come.
Right before the night erupts in light and fire.
My eyes snap open again. The fire is so hot that it steals whatever breath I had left from me, flaring close enough that it singes my clothing. The cinders burn my skin, and still I cannot move. The creature is screaming, screaming in animal agony. Five feet away, doused in a stream of roiling flame. And the source of that flame, her hair cast back from her face, her arm thrust out and her sleeve pulled back from her wrist, is the woman from the bar.
She turns her gaze towards me, her lips drawn back from her teeth, and snarls:
“Run.”
I run. I wheel around and I run for it, my limbs unlocking, blind terror blotting out every other thought. My still-wet shoes slap against the asphalt hard enough to send pain up into my legs, but I keep running. A niggling thought tries to get me to look back - the thought that I shouldn’t leave her there alone. I should help her. I should…
She’s beside me in an instant, catching up to me with ease, then slapping a hand against my back.
“Faster!” She bellows. “That won’t hold it off for long!”
Her sleeve is still drawn up from her wrist, and I see that there’s a device mounted there. She has a fucking wrist-mounted flamethrower. What the hell?!
The creature screams somewhere behind us. “Lydia!” It shrieks. “Lydia! Lydia! Don’t leave me, Lydia! I gave up everything for you, you ungrateful girl!”
“Ignore it,” the woman says. “Don’t listen to it.”
I don’t answer. I can’t find any words. I feel each and every thing the creature says pound right into my soul, tearing at it, leeching off it. I can already feel myself flagging, falling behind her, adrenaline not enough to keep me going. Rather than shower me with words of encouragement, she turns her head, looks me hard in the eye, and says:
“Don’t make me leave you behind.”
To be honest, I think that did it more than any pep talk could have.
I pick up the pace, faster, chest heaving. Behind us, I can hear the rasping of the thing from the bar picking up pace, and then an abrupt silence - for a split second, I wonder if it left, wonder if it decided to go chase something else.
But then the woman whirls and flicks a button in her palm with a middle finger, and a gout of flame pours forth once more. It hits the creature mid-leap, catching it before it can fall upon me. There are more shrieks, desperate and awful, and I wonder how in the hell it hasn’t woken up the whole neighborhood. Falling back to the ground, it twitches violently, patches of its skin blackened and burned. I wonder if she’s managed to kill it.
“Do not stop,” she says, already running forward without me. I follow, but not before I see new skin already regrowing over the old, fresh and grayish pink. Not before I hear my mother’s voice again, cooing out of its malformed throat.
“Lydia,” it whispers. “I hate you, Lydia. I hate you.”
I spin around and chase after my savior, my breath fogging the night air, sobs stealing what air I have left to give.