I jumped to my feet. It was Sammy.
He slipped away, his shape dissolving into the darkness as my eyes trained hard, tried to ferret him out.
I ran toward the headstone. In a little grove of trees, something moved. I sprinted into the trees, glimpsed his face from the shadows, his brown eyes sparkling in the moonlight.
“Sammy, please,” I gasped, a stitch clutching my side.
A creek ran along the back of the cemetery. Thick trees arched over the running water, blotting the light. I perceived movement. He’d gone there. He was hiding near the stream bank.
I stumbled through sharp branches, sliding in the slick leaves along the bank. My shoes stuck in mud and I almost lost one, wrenching it out before the damp earth swallowed it.
“Gorey…” I heard my pet name whispered from his lips.
My heart spasmed at the sound, and I cried out, searching. I crashed down the bank into the river, the water icy as it swirled up to my thighs. I pushed through the stream - slow, cold. For an instant I saw his reflection in the moonlit water. I whipped my head around, but he was not behind me. I stood, panting, listening, but the presence had gone.
I was alone in the night once again.
CHAPTER 8
Then
Corrie
“I had a bizarre death dream last night,” Sammy announced, grabbing the box of donuts Sarah had arrived with. “Yes! Apple fritters.”
“A death dream?” Sarah asked, frowning. “Corrie, I got you blueberry, and a chocolate with sprinkles for Isis.”
I smiled and shook my head.
“No donut for me yet. I need at least two cups of coffee before I can disrupt my perfect caffeine buzz with sugar.”
“Corrie doesn’t play with the white wizards until after ten a.m.,” Sammy said, taking a huge bite and rolling his eyes with pleasure. “Ugh, yes, come on dopamine, have your way with me.”
“The white wizards?” Sarah laughed. “Death dreams and white wizards. You guys think Kerry Manor is getting to you?”
“The white wizards,” Sammy continued, winking at me, “are sugar and salt. We call them that because, well,” he gestured at the donut. “Need I say more? The death dream was…” He paused, scratching the back of his neck. “Freaky. I was covered in blood and my life was fading. It didn’t hurt, but I was staring up into a starry sky and watching the world recede into a pinhole, and I knew when it went black, I would be gone, over, poof!” He wiggled his fingers.
“But you didn’t die, right?” Sarah demanded.
“Nope, woke up just before.”
“Why do you say it like that?” I asked her.
“Because if you die in a dream, you die in real life,” she said, pulling a glazed donut from the box. “At least that’s what we always believed growing up.”
Sammy grinned.
“Thanks to Grandma Fiona, who liked to tell us stories about the Wolf Man and Sasquatch and fifty different tales from her childhood. She was a master of horror and didn’t even know it”
“I’m sure we have Grandma Fiona to thank for Sammy’s obsession with monsters,” Sarah said, grimacing as she traced a finger over the crown molding surrounding the doorway. “The house is overkill.”
“Grandma Fiona bought me my first ever horror comic,” Sammy beamed.
“What happened to her?” I asked.
I had heard references to Fiona over the years, but she died before I met Sammy.
“Lung cancer,” Sarah explained. “She smoked a pack of day from the time she was twelve years old. At least, that’s our mother’s story.”
“A nasty way to go,” Sammy said, grimacing. “I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”
Sarah nodded.
“Where’s Isis?” she asked.
“Playing in the great room. Sammy found an old dollhouse in the crawl space beneath the house. Isis has claimed it.”
“Sounds gross. Was it cloaked in spiderwebs?”
“Yep, but otherwise in perfect condition. It’s weird. Most of the stuff down there is molded, but this dollhouse is flawless. Come check it out.” Sammy stood, stuffing the rest of the fritter in his mouth.
“Can I take one to Isis?” Sarah asked, plucking the chocolate donut from the box.
I would normally say no. I preferred Isis not play with the white wizards in the morning either, but I nodded instead. She would squeal with glee when she saw Sarah approaching with a donut.
Isis sat on a shag rug in front of the fire, gazing into the dollhouse. We had brought the rug from our house, and though it didn’t fit the decor, Isis often napped on it, so it was a must-have item.
“It’s huge,” Sarah marveled.
The house stood a good two feet above Isis sitting on the floor.
“Sawah,” Isis yelled, standing and running to her aunt.
Sarah lifted the chocolate donut, and Isis slid to a stop on the wood floor. “Choc-it!”
She grabbed the donut and took a bite before looking back at me for permission. I nodded at her.
“Play,” she mumbled through the donut, dragging Sarah to the dollhouse.
“Gothic Revival with some personal touches,” Sarah said, touching the gabled roof on the dollhouse. “Even a little widow’s walk. I bet this thing is worth a fortune.”
“We’d have to sell our daughter along with it, I’m afraid,” Sammy told her, leaning over and taking a bite from Isis’s donut.
“Daddy!” she shrieked, swatting him away.
He settled on the couch next to me, and we watched Sarah plop next to Isis on the rug, peering at the old-fashioned furnishings arranged in the tiny rooms.
“WHAT’S YOUR BOOK ABOUT?” Sarah asked, picking a red crayon from the box next to Isis and coloring in a flower.
“Mine,” Isis announced, snatching the crayon from Sarah’s hand. “Please,” she added in the same abrupt tone.
“Isis, remember what we talked about?” I asked her, gently removing the crayon from her hand. “If you want people to color with you, you have to share. You can’t just snatch the crayon away.”
She stared at the crayon, reaching out, but I held it away.
“Please?” she asked a second time, looking at Sarah.
“Sure, go ahead, Icy, but I’m coloring the grass with this green one. Okay?”
Isis bit her lip, staring enviously at the green crayon. Finally she huffed and accepted the red crayon, scrawling red streaks across Sarah’s newly colored grass.
I grinned and shook my head.
“Toddlers. Why is everything more wonderful if someone else has it?”
Sarah looked up and laughed.
“I’m afraid that problem extends way beyond the toddler years.”
“True enough,” I sighed and pushed my hands through my hair, knowing I still hadn’t answered the question. “In my mind it’s about a woman who…” I paused, searching for the words.
Sarah set the crayon aside.
“Joins the circus? Is looking for her long-lost love? Has a sex change?”
“Ugh.” I pressed my hands into my face. “Is it terrible if I’m still not sure what it’s about?”
“No, you’ll get there. Just keep at it, Corrie.”
“Maybe I’m having a midlife crisis,” I complained, stretching and wincing on the hard little sofa. “I’d like to know who designed this furniture. It’s clearly not someone who considered comfort a high priority.”
“I’d extend that question to this whole house,” Sarah remarked. “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the craftsmanship, but why on earth did anyone want to revive Gothic to begin with? I saw black wallpaper in the dining room. Black! As far as living here – no, thanks. You must really love my brother,” she laughed.