Chapter 24
The Storm
Aloud crack of thunder filled the air as I opened the door, hurrying inside to close and lock it behind me.
My head began to throb. I wasn’t sure if it was caused by the sound of the wind that had escalated to high-pitched screams, the numerous glasses of champagne, or the self-imposed torment.
I grabbed a glass of water and shot down two Tylenol, then headed to my room, pulled on pajamas, and flicked on a round pink night-light I’d purchased in Two Peaks—with the tale that it was for my niece.
I turned off the main light and crawled into bed, snuggling under the warm covers as the roof shuddered above me.
I took off my ring, placing it on the bedside table, and closed my eyes. Despite the wind, the alcohol had one positive effect—I fell asleep quickly.
“Amelia, where are you going?” My mother laughed, jogging behind me as I ran into the woods ahead of her. The sky was blue, the air warm. “Ammeeelllia,” she sang out, “where are you?”
I giggled, peeping my childishly round face out from the big green bush I hid behind. Not far away, something tap, tapped, tapped—like a woodpecker on a tree. My mom didn’t see me; instead, she froze and was focused on something in the distance. The smile collapsed from her face, and she frowned.
“Amelia!” she called, looking around wildly.
I looked up, and the sky had become dark.
A black, shadowy cloud floated above, rolling and tumbling slowly, threateningly, down towards us.
Pinpricks rose on the nape of my neck. Confusion racked my brain; it was unlike any cloud I’d seen before.
Clouds didn’t roll downwards; clouds were not that black.
I didn’t know what was in the cloud, but I knew if its dark, shadowy haze hit us, something bad, something terrible would happen.
My throat tightened, and I tried to cry out for my mother, but all I could manage was a rasped breath.
“Amelia! Amelia, wake up!”
I dragged my eyelids open. The dim night-light leaked a pale glaze across the room, just enough so I could see. My heart arched in my chest. My breath caught in my throat.
In front of me was a figure. Not just any figure.
My mother—my dead mother.
My whole body felt like it was carved of ice.
She was dressed in the blue dress we’d buried her in.
Her hair was pulled into a neat ponytail.
There was no sign of blood on her face, no smashed cheekbone.
She looked just how I remembered her each morning when she would kiss my head as I ate breakfast before she headed out the door for work.
Except now, incredulously, she hovered above my body, floating as if suspended by strings above my bed.
But the wild look in her eyes struck like a blow to the chest, my heart flayed open, the threads of a distant, vaguely familiar memory scorching under my skin. She was afraid. Terribly afraid.
She wasn’t here, this wasn’t real. It was just a dream
Something tap, tap, tapped. The noise didn’t make sense, just like my vision of her didn’t make sense. I squeezed my eyes shut, and when I opened them again, she would be gone. It was just a dream. I cracked my lids open, and inexplicably, my mother still hovered in front of my eyes.
“Amelia, get up,” she said, her voice so urgent, it sent shivers down my spine. “You have to get up.”
My chest tightened. The breath left my lungs.
“Mom,” I whispered. Instinctively, I reached out to touch her.
Her image dissolved between my outstretched fingers into the darkness of the night.
I blinked into the empty space. I should have expected that.
My mother, my dead-and-buried mother, was never here, but the voice had sounded so real, and she had looked so real.
I closed my eyes, my chest hitching with a sob of emotion.
Tap, tap, tap.
The wind was roaring, the sound of it unlike anything I’d ever heard before.
I turned my head. A raven was madly pecking on the glass pane like it wanted to get in.
I was still dreaming; dead mothers didn’t appear, and ravens didn’t tap on windows.
The wind seemed to be getting louder, as if a jet was coming closer and closer.
Dread rolled down my spine. I was dreaming—that had to be it.
Tap, tap, tap.
Beady black eyes gleamed in.
The smell of smoke filled my nose and seeped into my lungs. Wait—you couldn’t smell when you dreamed. My lungs thickened, and I coughed, which jerked me from my hazy stupor.
Realization dawned on me with a shocking thud.
The cabin was on fire. A cloudy haze of smoke swirled all around the room, and it filled my lungs with its choking, acrid smell.
I jerked my forearm over my mouth, jumped from the bed, and bolted towards the safety of outside. I opened the front door and the noise was deafening. The air was jet black with thick, smoldering smoke, twisting and swirling with such ferocity I couldn’t see more than a foot in front of my face.
I stumbled down the stairs and ran in the direction of the lake, the wind-whipped air was scorching hot. The heat of the flames clawed at my back. My skin broke out in a sweat. My lungs screamed for fresh air.
I paused to get my bearings and looked around, horror crawling through my mind. Orange flames clawed at the night sky, reaching out and engulfing everything unlucky enough to be in their path. The cabin wasn’t on fire.
The forest was.
Everywhere I looked was burning or choked by black curling fists. I couldn’t see the Miller’s house or the Toronto’s place. All I could see was darkness; broiling, angry smoke; and spitting, flaming death.
The smoke seared my eyes and lungs. I heaved, coughing violently, trying to rid the soot that settled like glue on the inside of my mouth, throat, and stomach.
I gasped in air, desperate to draw enough oxygen to fill my chest. Overcome with dizziness, I dropped to my hands and knees and scrambled across the gravel toward the safety of the lake.
Pebbles scraped my skin, but at least I was lower to the ground, and the smoke was less dense.
Burning embers hit my arms, legs, and torso.
They hurt like a bitch, but I gritted my teeth and kept crawling.
I’d made it several more feet when I realized I wasn’t wearing my mother’s ring—it was still on the bedside table.
I turned back to my cabin; the fire had already begun its devastation against the wood.
I had two choices: continue to the lake, or retrieve the only thing I had left of my mother, to remind me I was loved. I knew I should keep heading for the lake, the smoke could kill me, and the fire was traveling at startling speed. But the ring—I couldn’t leave it.
I sucked in a deep breath. That was a mistake, and it sent my body into a fit of coughing as I staggered to my feet. I ran—choking, thunder screaming through my ears, eyes streaming—toward the cabin.
The blazing wind was horrendous. It tore at my skin as embers sizzled in my hair and stung my face.
I tilted my head to the gravel, brought up a hand to try and protect my eyes, and held my breath as I ran.
It seemed to take forever, but it was probably only seconds until I reached the porch.
The cabin broke the wind at least, but the heat was nearly unbearable.
Bang, bang, bang.
Timber exploded, the sound rupturing through the flames, sharp as grenades. I entered the burning cabin, and it was like walking into a dragon’s fiery breath. The smoke was thick and black, and scorching hot. Sweat rolled down my face, and my lungs cried out for air.
I stumbled in the direction of the bedroom.
The smoke burned my eyes, rivulets running silently down my cheeks.
Instinctively I squeezed them shut. Darkness, pitch-black darkness.
I opened them again to a hellscape of orange daggers roaring from the mouth of a dragon.
From the layers of darkness and flame, the bedroom door appeared.
I slowed, staggering into the smoke-filled room.
The bed whacked my thigh. Fighting against the urge to cry out and draw a breath, I trailed around the end with my hands until I reached the bedside table.
My fingers fumbled against its wooden top, lungs screaming for air, until finally I grasped the ring.
My head spun wildly. My chest felt like it wanted to explode. I didn’t want to, but I had to take a ravaged breath.
The smoke that filled my lungs choked me. I coughed and coughed. The floor wobbled, the room seemed to crash in all around me, and I dropped to my knees. A wave of sickness roiled through my stomach. I was overcome by dizziness, and my eyes burned like the fire itself seared my retinas.
Clutching the ring tightly in one hand, coughing and heaving, I crawled frantically toward the front door.
The world tilted underneath me, and I hovered between light and dark, perched on the cusp of passing out.
I collapsed to the ground. The heat seemed to cut right through my skin, through my muscles, to the marrow of my bones; it felt like I was being baked alive.
“Move, Amy, move!” The voice came from a place outside myself and sounded so much like my mother.
Fighting the blur, fighting the dizziness, I clawed at the wooden floors and dragged myself forward.
Just as I thought I could go no further, I felt the sides of the door frame.
I gritted my teeth and heaved myself through.
I crawled down the stairs, toward the safety of the lake.
My mind reeled, and I couldn’t think—couldn’t breathe—as a drowsy haze rolled over my body.
I wanted to close my eyes and sleep. I tucked the ring to my chest, the symbol of love I so desperately needed, and closed my eyes.
Blackness caved in around the edges of my mind.
“I’m sorry mom,” I whispered, “I’m so sorry.”
Something sharp thumped down on my left leg.
Searing pain ripped through it, jolting me back.
I howled. The putrid smell of my own burning flesh entered my nostrils.
I reached back with my left hand, clutching a burning branch, and hot coals shot agony up my fingers.
With a ragged cry, I flung the source of the pain away.
The world faded. The sounds of the fire dimmed. I fought hard, clawing along the graveled earth toward the lake, but the blackness won.