Father ran his hand through his hair. “Now, the question is, just what did Mrs. Carter do to make her husband so upset? Did he see something? Did you see something, champ?”
He spoke the words so fast, they took me by surprise.
The breath seized in my throat, and when I tried to speak, nothing wanted to come out. I shook my head and finally said, “I don’t think so, Father.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t think so?”
To this I said nothing. My tongue felt like it was swelling in my mouth, blocking the words that wanted to come out. Father stared at me intently. There was no anger in his gaze, but he read every blink of my eyes and every twitch of my nose. I did not look away, for he would surely take that as a sign of forthcoming lies. “I meant I don’t think he saw anything, Father. I certainly haven’t.”
He tilted his head and stared at me for a long while. Finally, he smiled and patted my hand. “Well, the truth will come out soon enough. It always does, and at that point I will deal with the situation posthaste. For now, though, the sun is shining, the air is alive, and I do not intend to waste such a glorious summer day.”
I reached across the table for a piece of toast. It wasn’t hot anymore, but it was good to get something in my stomach.
“How’s your head?”
I realized that my headache had nearly retreated, gone now but for a dull thump behind my left eye. The queasiness too. “Much better!”
He reached over and ruffled my hair. “There you go. Eat up. When you’re done, I want you to take a plate downstairs to our guest. Perhaps a glass of orange juice as well. I imagine she’s worked up quite an appetite. I’m going to take a walk over to the Carter house and straighten up a bit. I think I’ll pack her a bag. Best if it looks like they went on a little road trip, should someone take it upon themselves to check in on them.”
“Maybe you should move their car,” I suggested, nibbling on my toast.
He ruffled my hair again. “You sure are a chip off the old block, aren’t you?”
I grinned.
32
Emory
Day 1 ? 5:00 p.m.
The music stopped.
Just like that.
One second, “Sweet Home Alabama” beat at her head with the ferocity of a storm shutter caught in a hurricane, then nothing.
The room wasn’t silent, though. A loud ringing had replaced the music, and although Emory knew the tone existed only in her mind, it might as well have been blaring from the largest of speakers. The tone didn’t increase or decrease in volume; it remained steady.
Tinnitus.
Ms. Burrow had taught her all about the dangers of loud noises nearly three years earlier before sending her off to her first concert, Jack’s Mannequin at the Metro. She’d wanted to scare her; looking back, Emory could see that that was obvious. Ms. Burrow had told her how easily prolonged exposure to loud music might lead to permanent problems, particularly in a closed environment. Something about the tiny hairs in your ear getting damaged like frayed wires, causing your brain to perceive sound that wasn’t there. Most of the time the condition was temporary.
Most of the time.
When Ms. Burrow handed her a pair of earplugs, she gladly accepted them before heading out the door. She hadn’t used them, of course. She refused to let her friends see her with those silly pink things sticking out of her head. Instead, they remained in her pocket, and she had finished the night with a ringing in her ears much like now.
That was nothing like now, sweetie. Don’t you remember? That was barely audible and only lasted a little bit. After all, the concert wasn’t loud, not long, either. Not like the barrage you were just subjected to. How long did that music blare? Five hours? Ten? You’re down one ear already. I’m sure that doesn’t help.
“Shut up!” Emory tried to shout. Instead, the words came out in a muffled garble, her dry throat protesting each syllable.
I’m only saying, an earplug might do you some good. The one side is wrapped up good and tight. If that dreadful music comes back, you should consider taking a little piece of that bandage and shoving a wad into the ear canal. Better safe than sorry, right? If you get out of this pickle, you’ll be a one-eared Jane—best you keep the other one in tip-top working order, don’t you think? You know what’s worse than a girl with one ear? Do you?
“Please be quiet.”
Do you know what’s worse?
Emory closed her eyes, plunging from black to blacker, and began to sing “It’s My Party” by Jessie J.
The only thing worse than a girl with one ear is a girl with one ear and no eyes. I think that may be the next stop on your little journey, my love, because if the music stopped, that means somebody stopped it.
Emory’s breath caught in her throat, and her head swiveled quickly from right to left, then back again, as she peered at the wall of darkness.
Her eyes tried to adjust to the black, but they were losing the battle. Emory sat perched atop the gurney with her knees pulled up tight against her chest, and she couldn’t even make out her own feet. The shiny silver of the gurney appeared to be nothing more than a dim blur. That didn’t mean there was no movement, though. Things moved all around her. The dark swirled in waves, floating through the air with a murky thickness she could almost taste.
He might be in the room with her right now, and she wouldn’t know. He might be standing a foot or two away with a knife in hand, ready to plunge the tip into her eyes and pop them out with a twist. She wouldn’t have time to react or fight him off, not until after he began to carve the sight from her.
Emory continued to sing, but the rhythm and cadence of the song were all wrong.
“I keep da-dancing alone, da-dancing,” she sang softly. “Da-dancing till I say stop.” She reached her free arm out in front of her and slowly swiped back and forth, groping at the darkness. “Are . . . are you there?”
In her mind’s eye, she saw him. A tall, thin man leaning against the far wall with a knife in one hand and a spoon in the other. His fingers flexed against the handle of the knife as he ran the blade against the edge of the spoon. Both were caked with dried blood, remnants of those who had come before her. Even through the darkness, she knew he could see her. He could see her perfectly. A white box rested on the floor at his feet, a black string waiting at its side. With his right hand, he spread his index finger and middle finger in the shape of a V, pointed at his eyes, then pointed at hers, a grin edging his lips—chapped lips all dry and cracked from lack of water. His tongue ran across them, slow and deliberate. “There’s nothing left worth seeing,” he told her in a low voice. “Your young eyes have been tainted by the evil in the world, and they need to come out. It’s the only way to unsee—the only way to cleanse you, make you pure.”
Emory backed up, scooting closer to the wall. “You’re not real,” she told herself. “I’m alone in here.”
She wanted the music to come back.