Chapter 2
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS EARLIER
“You’re not going to like what I have to say.” The medium across from me sighs. Her nails tap a frustrating rhythm that speeds up the pounding in my head. We’ve been sitting here for nearly an hour, and the whole time I’ve been absorbing the impatient vexation of the spirit at my back.
“I’m used to disappointment.” The truth of it sticks to me like the cloying heat from all these candles crowding the small space. “Go ahead, tell me.” Beneath the table, I tap my fingers in counts of two as a means of channeling my anxious energy somewhere she can’t see.
“You say you’ve seen upwards of a dozen mediums?”
“Mediums, witches, spiritual doctors…really anyone who claims to have any knowledge of spirit attachments,” I correct.
“Mmm.” She nods while her gaze dances from me to said spirit attachment. “This is a stubborn one. Powerful, too. Not just him, but your bond.”
“Right. Hence why I’m here,” I snap and immediately regret it. “Sorry, I’m—”
“No need to apologize. I know these sessions can be challenging with all the residual resentment they tend to project onto you.”
I just nod, my energy fading as this conversation drags on.
“My point is that yes, this is a strong attachment. The majority of spirits aren’t so…adamant about remaining with the individual, more so, what they represent. But with you, it’s more than that. This spirit…well, it wants you.”
I nod again, trying not to show my frustration as she tells me more things I already know. She comes highly recommended; there has to be some value to gain here.
“But it also appears that it holds this attachment to you with conviction, entitlement even. I’ll be honest, this connection between the two of you is unlike anything I’ve seen.” She leans back in her chair, deep in thought as she studies me. “Can I ask you something?”
“Yes,” I answer immediately, even though a voice inside me revolts at the idea.
The woman’s brow furrows as if in a wince of pain, eyes shutting tightly as she channels whatever message my unwanted passenger is trying to communicate. “Did you enter into this…relationship…willingly?”
I want to angrily refute the implied accusation, but I can’t. “Yes.”
The answer is so much more complicated than that, but it’s not her problem—or her business, frankly. I’m not one to share my sob story. I’m not looking for sympathy. I made my choice, now I live with it.
When she opens her eyes, they’re heavy with apology. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
It doesn’t surprise me, but that damning confirmation of my greatest fear, the one I’ve been desperately trying to deny—away from the comforts of home and the arms of the man I love and into the discomfort of constant travel, skeevy motels, and the haze of alcohol-altered nights—hits me like a punch to the gut.
I have to press the back of my hand to my mouth to suppress the sob that attempts to climb out. My emotional instability isn’t her problem. I paid her for answers, and, against all odds, a solution that’s evaded me for the better part of two decades.
It’s an effort to summon a rational sentence. “Well, I guess that’s it then.” I stall, my words getting lost in the fog of overwhelm of conflicting thoughts and muddy feelings. “Thanks for your time.”
The medium sits up straighter, her eyes narrowing. “After all the searching, all the money you’ve poured into answers, you accept it just like that?”
“So many people have tried to help me. It was a waste of their time and mine.” I bristle at the assumption, no longer trying to curb the bite in my words. I promised myself this was the last time I put myself through the roller coaster of hope and disappointment, and I meant it.
“I didn’t say there was no chance, just that I can’t help you.”
“Seems like nobody can.” I stand, the wood of the chair suddenly becoming too hard, the room too small, the air too stagnant.
“Maybe so, maybe not. There are others who are more experienced than me, who have a wider breadth of knowledge, but you must know that yours is a rare situation.”
“All I know is I can’t put myself through this anymore.”
She reaches for me across the table too quickly for me to evade her touch. “If you give up, it’ll cost you your life.”
I’m counting on it.
“No disrespect, but you have no idea how hard I’ve tried.
I’m not giving up; I’m accepting my circumstances.
” The arches of my feet ache, my knuckles are covered in invisible calluses and scars.
All I’ve done is fight. But not just for my freedom.
For the future I desperately wanted, with the man who loved me, unlike anyone else.
She nods and looks away from me as an ocean of regret swells in her eyes.
“I understand. Some of us are dealt an ugly hand. The damned always seem to find each other. Don’t we?
” As if summoned, a figure appears behind her.
Dark. Heavy. Possessive. When our gazes meet again, I recognize the same defeat painted in dismal strokes.
There’s nothing more to say between us. I pull the stack of bills from my purse and set it in front of her, then turn to the door. “Thank you for your time.”
“I’m sorry,” she utters as a goodbye.
Stepping out into the cool relief of the evening air does nothing to dispel the sickening dread that clings to me. The walk to the car is a death march.
I don’t even register the girl on the porch until she calls out to me. “There’s a man behind you.” There’s an undercurrent of fear in her voice as she snatches at the lace that trails from my sleeve.
When I look down at her, our resemblance stops me in my tracks.
It still surprises me how you can find such a simple kinship in just setting your sights on someone.
I know that curious terror that reflects in her wide brown eyes, but more than that, I see a younger version of myself standing in front of me.
The familiarity is in her thick brown hair, in her full cheeks, in the straightness of her lashes that are now coated with the dew of terror as she stares behind me, looking into the eyes of the man who’s taken so much from me.
I glance over my shoulder, meeting those cold blue eyes.
The frigid stare I send his way returns to me in a full-body chill as he watches us, watches her.
I’d bet she’s not yet thirteen, much younger than even I was when he found me.
I didn’t think it was possible, but my hatred for the vile entity intensifies.
But it also reaffirms what I know: this has to end. I won’t let anyone else suffer his existence.
“Don’t worry. He won’t hurt you.”
“I know. I’ve seen things like him before.” But the worry in her expression only intensifies. “He only wants to hurt you.” She doesn’t taunt me; she only speaks the truth.
“Take care of yourself.”
“You too.” She means it, but the awareness of her mother’s similar plight dampens the expression.
If I speak, the grief might consume me. Despite the suffocating weight of my burden wrapping itself around my limbs, I manage to pull forward the familiar mask of a soft smile and nod my acknowledgment.
Tightness grips my chest as I stumble to the beat-up car parked just a few feet away.
I’m helpless to do anything but lean against the driver’s side door as I’m sent down a spiral where the memories of that fateful night wait for me.
The chanting voices of teens and the droning monotony of the highway.
Light as a feather, stiff as a board.
Light as a feather, stiff as a board.
Light as a feather, stiff as a board.
It all comes back to those eight words that held no significant meaning until they changed everything. A silly chant, just a game, until it became all too real, until it altered the course of our lives.
Groaning, I lean forward and clutch my head in my hands as the chanting grows louder and louder until it drives away clear thoughts, any sense of time, and my hold on my composure.
I manage to crawl into the driver’s seat with great effort, cold sweat slick against my skin as I pass the back of my hand across my forehead.
Memories paint over the reality of the present, oil pooling on pavement and distorting what’s underneath.
In horrific iridescence, I see the dizzying promenade of those who reside on the other side of the veil.
Disoriented by my displacement, everything is a bit stretched, a little blurry, not quite right. At the center of it all is Ivan.
“Wake up, Little Dove,” he whispers in my ear.
Jerking in revulsion at the pet name, I hit my knee on the steering wheel.
An indecipherable conversation rumbles from the speakers, the car vibrating with power.
Instead of the sun-eaten sign of the medium’s storefront, my rearview mirror shows the motel I’ve been staying at, its bold and bright sign winking at me.
“How did we get back here?” My voice is unsteady with fear.
This is the worst blackout I’ve had in a long time.
It’s a miracle that I’ve made it here in one piece.
In a hurry, I jump out, checking the car for damage, any signs that I might have harmed someone else in my dissociative state. But everything is as it was.
Scrubbing a hand over my face, I attempt to ground myself in my body once again. With deep breaths, I gather myself enough to turn off the car and grab my belongings. The door to my room feels like it’s a mile away on legs that tremble with adrenaline.
Shutting the door to my motel room behind me, I slump against it.
I’m so goddamn tired. Tired of reliving the same memories.
Tired of feeling the same sense of failure.
Tired of existing like this. My mind, body, and soul are aching for rest. And not the kind I’ll find by locking myself in the cold solitude of my room.