Page 26 of Some Kind of Haunted

Chapter Ten

Jack is waiting with obvious impatience at the entrance to the diner when Logan and I limp up. He’s probably been waiting a while, and I decide I like that for him. Logan helped me walk along on my tiptoes so I didn’t do any more damage to my feet, but it was slow going, and the whole time I kept wondering how it would have been if Jack had just picked me up. Like I’m sure he’d been about to do before Logan appeared.

I tell myself I’m thinking about this purely from a deep concern for the length of time it took us to catch up with him.

Because there could be no other reason to keep thinking about it.

Jack says nothing as we approach. He just turns and leads us inside the dark of the diner. Logan and I both hesitate as we cross the threshold, but Jack doesn’t concern himself with us. He disappears into the dark. This is about to be creepy—

Until, after a few seconds, the lights pop on.

Logan and I share a glance.

“If this was real and not a dream, I’d be pretty sure he’s going to kill us,” I tell Logan. Because I need him to know, even in this dream, that I’m not messed up enough to think any of this is real.

I know what happens if I start believing in my own delusions. All the hard-won masks slip and everyone looks at me with pity or fear. Nothing good comes from entertaining the things that have haunted me all my life.

Case in point, Logan rolls his eyes and tugs me forward with him.

Jack is walking back through the diner and into the little hallway I walked through yesterday. The one that leads to the antique store. Logan pulls me along the same path.

I already know I shouldn’t look, but of course, I don’t have that kind of control. I glance out the hallway window as we pass it.

Still in perfect frame, lit up and glowing, is that freaky clock tower. It cracks something in me. All this desperate holding on to how this has to be one of my very realistic dreams. I can’t hold on to it looking at the clock tower, and it’s just me and Logan right now.

Logan, the only one who’s never turned away.

“Am I dreaming, Logan?” I hear myself whisper as Logan pulls me into the antique store. “Or am I really finally losing it?”

He doesn’t answer—again—and that’s starting to freak me out. Logan always has answers, if not always verbally. Tonight he keeps leading me into the dark. This isn’t exactly comforting, either. We’ve lost Jack somewhere along the way, so we stop. Or that’s why I stop. There’s a light from deeper in the shop and no doubt we should move toward it, but neither of us seems to want to.

Everything is worse in the dark. I swear the dolls are glowing and the shadows are shifting, moving, undulating. I hold on to my brother for dear life. I’d feel silly about it, but he’s holding me right back. Is this the equivalent of going into the woods in horror movies? Are we both about to end up pursued by hideous creatures—I think of the forked tongue and dead eyes I’ve seen already—or lured into a witch’s oven?

I’m mixing up my horror movies and those creepy fairy tales I read as a kid, but the creep factor remains.

“Sorry to wake you, Grandpa,” we hear Jack say, right before another light flicks on, illuminating the room we’re in.

That doesn’t make the doll situation any better, I note immediately. And I want to be relieved Harrison is involved, because he was nice yesterday. But what if it’s an act and they’re tag-team murderers, and I’ve brought Logan here to die?

After all, I thought Harrison was luring me to my death by antiques at first. Maybe I was right.

Except it’s a dream, I remind myself, knowing it’s the only way to get through this. To remind myself I’ve felt this lucid and sure before, and it’s never been real. And maybe this is more, but it isn’t different.

That actually is comforting because any and all deaths will just be dream deaths and when I can figure out how to wake up, everyone will be hale, hearty, and alive, and I’ll be able to laugh it off or pretend it away like I always do.

I order myself to breathe.

Harrison is leaning heavily on his cane as he emerges from the dark. He sends Jack a bit of a wave as if to tell him not to worry as he moves toward us, leaving Jack to trail behind him. While Jack is as scowly as ever, Harrison has a pleasant expression on his ancient face. It feels welcoming.

After the rest of this bizarre dream, I feel the relief of that wash over me like some kind of happy spell.

“She was on the flood wall,” Jack says.

“So,” Harrison says, as if that answers a question I didn’t hear asked. “It begins.”

“They don’t know anything,” Jack says. Accusingly, to my ear. Which isn’t fair, even though he’s right. We clearly don’t.

Harrison doesn’t react to Jack’s tone. His kind smile morphs into something like concern as he reaches us. “No, this won’t do,” he says, looking down at my battered feet. “We need to get you cleaned up. Come on now, sweetheart. Have a seat here.” He pats a chair, and I find I actually like being called sweetheart by someone’s grandpa. “I’ll go see what I’ve got to bandage you up.”