CHAPTER 17
It’s a long and unpleasant night for me. I keep tossing and turning in bed, sweating with fear. Nightmares keep changing, never-ending, and even though the story is different, it always boils down to the same thing, to the same enemy. I’m running away, trying to escape, but I’m never fast enough. The faceless, nameless horror always catches up with me, and I know the punishment for what I’ve done will be swift.
I wake up drenched in sweat. I can feel my nightgown is all wet. My back is soaked with sweat, too. I rake my fingers through my messy, entangled hair. I really need to wash it today. I remember the times when I’d go visit my hairdresser on a regular basis. Now, I’m lucky if I do it once a year.
“Fuck!”
I jump out of bed when I see that it’s past 8 am. I’m still a little dizzy. The leftover sensations of fear take longer to disperse. But, the sunlight is a powerful enemy of night time terrors. A few moments later, once my heart has regained its normal beating rhythm, I run downstairs.
“Dom?” I shout his name, but only the empty house replies. “Dom, are you here?”
No reply. I glance over at the kitchen, and then I see a little message pinned to the fridge with one of our little fridge magnets.
Mom,
Adrian came and got me. I let you sleep in. Had breakfast, don’t worry.
Love,
D.
I sigh with relief. It’s good to know I’ve got a self-sufficient kid, if nothing else. I drag my feet across the wooden floor, over to the kitchen. Thin strips of sunlight are oozing through the window. My fears are completely gone, but not forgotten. They’re always with me, in the back of my head, ready to awaken at any given moment. I open the curtains, letting more sunlight inside.
There is an empty bowl on the table, with the spoon still inside.
“He actually made himself porridge for breakfast,” I smirk as I take the bowl and soak it in the sink. “Well, I’ll be.”
I turn around again, feeling a little peacocky-ish. Now, I don’t feel so bad for sleeping in. I could have done without those horrible nightmares, but OK. You win some, you lose some.
I head over to the coffee machine and start making some coffee, but the sound of the doorbell interrupts me. My hand hangs in the air, indecisive.
“Who could that be on a Sunday morning?” I ask myself, unable to offer a reply.
I walk over to the door, and for some reason, I hesitate for a moment. I smile to myself, assuring my brain that there’s nothing to be afraid of any longer. The nightmare is over. There’s no boogeyman under my bed or in my closet. I’ve checked there already. We’re safe. I’m being jumpy for no reason.
Following this logic, my hand extends to the doorknob and it twists it open. I see Gordon, the mail boy. He’s been over at our place a few times, as Dominick and he go to the same class.
“Good morning, Mrs. Brunswick,” he tells me, his unruly red hair spiking in all directions. I’ve seen that he inherited it from his mother, who’s got the same red curls and a kind looking face full of freckles.
“Good morning, Gordon,” I smile at him. He’s dressed in blue overalls and there’s a bucket and a fishing rod in his hands. He reminds me of Tom Sawyer. I see his bike is leaning against my fence. “Dom isn’t here,” I continue, thinking he must be here for Dominick.
“Oh, I’m not here for him,” he tells me, shaking his head from one side to the other so strongly that his red curls skipped on his head. “I’m here to drop this off.” He reaches into his back pocket and extracts a letter. “This is for you.” He offers it to me almost ceremoniously.
I look at the letter, and the typed out name and address that seem to belong to me. I don’t recognize the handwriting. Also, I’m not expecting any letters, apart from bills. And, I know what they’re supposed to look like.
“I didn’t know you delivered mail on Sunday,” I wonder, accepting the letter a little hesitantly.
“Oh, we don’t,” he shakes his head, and I realize only now that he’s got chewing gum in his mouth, which he is now trying to blow up into a balloon, but unsuccessfully. “But, Mr. Porter told me that someone paid to have this letter delivered on a Sunday morning. Said it couldn’t wait for Monday.”
“Oh, really?” I eye the letter in my hand suspiciously. Apart from the usual bills and occasional ad, I haven’t received a single letter yet. “Thank you, Gordon.”
“Have a nice day, Mrs. Brunswick. Say hi to Dom!”
“I will, thank you,” I reply, waving back, watching as he pushes his bicycle down the road, and jumps on it in motion, catching the downward wave. I look up at the sky. Looks like it’s going to be a nice, sunny day. Gordon will have a nice time fishing. I hope he’s put on sunscreen. The sun can be so treacherous these days.
I close the door, still clutching the letter. It’s probably nothing. Just a letter. My mind is trying to remain calm, but it’s hard. People get letters all the time.
“I know!” I shout out loud to no one really. But, the sound that filled the house comforted me, if only for a moment.
Just open it and you’ll see it’s nothing. Just an ad or one of those pesky phone companies trying to get you to change your plan and pay more than you really need to.
These thoughts calm me down. I’m probably overreacting. I’m definitely overreacting.
I sit on the sofa in the living room, with no more thoughts of that morning coffee. I’m wide awake now. My fingers are trembling as I fumble with the opening. I’ve already seen that there is no sender information on the other side. Only my name and address and a vast, empty whiteness. When I open it, I unfold the piece of paper I found inside.
I blink heavily a few times, trying to clear my vision. But, when I stare at the paper in front of me, it’s still the same. It’s still empty. There is nothing written on it. It’s just a damn piece of paper.
I swallow heavily. I jump up from the sofa, and look around me, expecting someone to lunge at me from the darkest corner of the room, from the kitchen, from upstairs. I wait, expectant. Ready to act, like a cocked gun. But, there is no one. The house is still empty and silent, save for the beating of my terrified heart.
I run upstairs and change into a dress, throwing my wet nightgown onto the floor. I don’t bother to pick it up. I run back downstairs, stopping only to grab my car keys from the little bowl, and my purse. I fumble with the keys in my trembling hand as I try to lock the door. It takes me twice as long now.
When I get into the car, I blink heavily again. I see dark stars, twisting and turning. Dark mushrooms bloom somewhere in the distance, and I feel like I’m on some heavy LSD trip. I try to breathe slowly, but nothing works. It’s the same shit, both with my eyes closed and open. I’m equally terrified. I’m equally unable to do anything to make myself feel better.
It takes me a few moments to realize that I’m out of the house. I’m in the street. If anything happens to me, the neighbors will see it. They will rush to help me. At least, I hope they will. That thought manages to calm down my distorted nerves a little.
I convince myself that the best course of action is to go see Mr. Porter and ask him who sent the letter, and when. Then, I can run and pick up Dominick, and we can get the heck out of here. We won’t have time to pack. I know he’ll hate me for it, but it’s better to have him hate me alive, then love me dead or for him to be taken away from me.
I drive like a maniac through the still sleepy streets of Swallow Springs. Luckily, there are very few people out, and I reach Mr. Porter’s house without an incident. I get out of the car and run to his door. I knock with a full fist, heavy, like thunder. I repeat the sound several times.
“Alright, alright,” I hear from inside.
First, footsteps, then the heavy door opening, with a creaking sound.
“What in the name of… oh, it’s you, Mrs. Brunswick!” His expression changes the moment he sees me, but there is still a perplexing look on his face.
“I’m really sorry to bother you so early on a Sunday morning, Mr. Porter,” I tell him quickly and out of breath, “but, you need to tell me who mailed this letter.”
I show him the letter in my hand. He takes it, and inspects it for just a moment, then he offers it back.
“We found it in the big mailbox yesterday morning,” he adjusts his thick-rimmed glasses as he replies. “With it, there was a $10 bill and instructions to deliver it by hand first thing Sunday morning. I asked Gordon if he’d seen anyone, but neither of us know who mailed it,” he ended his explanation with an indifferent shrug of his shoulders. “Is there a problem?”
“No, no, everything’s fine,” I manage to smile, crumpling the letter in my hand and stuffing it back into my purse. “I’m sorry again.”
He says something else, but I’m already half-across the street, and unlocking my car. When I sit back inside, my whole body starts to shake. Tears start rolling down my face, and I know I can’t stop them. I know I can’t stop him. The only thing I can do is just keep on running, like I’ve been doing so far. Unable to do anything else, I bury my face into my hands, and just let the tears flow.
I have no idea how long I was sitting like that, but once the tears stopped, I felt better. I’m able to breathe again, to think again. I even regained a bit of my courage. The moment I’m about to put the key in the ignition, I hear the revving of a familiar motorcycle. I turn to my left and see Wagner.
I roll down the window, and he leans over, with a smile.
“Early morning?” he asks me.
Somehow, seeing him calms me down a little. But, not enough.
“Helluva morning,” I nod.
“Everything OK?” I hear worry in his voice. For a moment, I’m tempted to tell him everything.
“Yeah, just… you know… running errands,” I say stupidly, unable to come up with a more plausible excuse.
“On a Sunday morning?” he frowns.
“Well, those who don’t do what they’re supposed to during the week, need to wrap it up on the weekends.”
“Aha,” he nods, but he doesn’t sound convinced. “You wanna tell me what’s really going on?”
This time, he gets off his bike and rests his elbows on my open car window. He’s shifted his glasses to his forehead. His eyes are dark, you’re not sure if he’s to be trusted. But, there’s something about him that tells you that he’ll keep you safe. If he wants to, of course. Would he?
“I need to get my son and leave this place,” I tell him, sounding broken.
“Wait, what?” he exclaims, opening the door, and almost dragging me out of the car. “What are you talking about, Danica?”
“This,” I shove the letter in his hand.
He opens it, looks at it, and then lifts his gaze to meet mine. He doesn’t understand. Of course he doesn’t. But, I believe he can guess.
“What are you running from?” he asks me again.
“He will find me,” I whisper, looking around.
The usually pleasant and calm little town of Swallow Springs looks ominous now. Every tree hides a shadow, every bush is large enough for a man to conceal in it. Even the sun seems to have found a cloud to shield itself from what will undoubtedly happen.
“Who will find you?” Wagner asks me.
I can feel his hands on my shoulders, squeezing me gently. He’s standing in front of me, like he’s guarding me. I want to lay my head on his chest, and fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat. I want to listen to Adrian read me excerpts from Dracula. I want Mason to be his macho self and make me laugh, as we banter playfully. I want them to keep me and Dominick safe, but can they? Can anyone? Or, am I just involving everyone in grave danger?
“I need to go,” I extract myself from his grasp, unwilling to go, but forcing myself.
“You’re not going anywhere until you tell me exactly what’s going on,” I hear determination in his voice and I know he means it. “We promised we’d keep you safe, and we all meant it.”
“I know,” I look down at my feet, biting my lower lip.
He wraps his arms around me. I feel like a tiny little cave at the bottom of an enormous mountain. A cave that knows it’s protected as long as it remains there, safely nestled in the boulders.
“Let’s head over to your house,” I tell him.
“Alright,” he agrees immediately. “You know the way?”
I just nod. He jumps on the bike, and I start right after him. I need to get to Dominick. Fast. The thought that Dominick might be in danger sends shivers down my spine. I step on the gas pedal and rush past Wagner. My baby might need me.
Hold on, sweetie. Momma’s coming.