aura,” Via added cheerfully. “Did you know that? Bright blue. Why don’t you come with me to the Station? You can meet the others. We’re going to the city tonight.”
Cassie’s thought processes seemed to grind like a series of cogs. Her eyes were fixed on Via’s wrist—and the open slit held together by crude black stitches. She could see dried blood in the wound, as if it hadn’t healed.
But now Via was looking back just as strangely.
At Cassie’s wrist.
“That’s impossible,” she whispered. She grabbed Cassie’s wrist and looked at the similar scar, similar only in that it denoted the same intent. But Cassie’s scar was—
“Healed,” Via muttered. “It’s healed.” Then her darkly mascara’d eyes looked stupefied into Cassie’s.
“Oh my God,” Via said. “You’re not dead, are you?”
In spite of the compounding strangeness, Cassie blurted a laugh. “What kind of a ridiculous thing is that to say? Of course I’m not dead.”
“Well I sure as hell am!” Via exclaimed and ran away down the hill.
Chapter Three
(I)
Delusion. Hallucination.
What else could it be? At the hospital, they’d told her that some of the psych drugs could produce such side effects. She’d stopped taking them rather abruptly; perhaps hallucinosis was the result.
Either that or I’m just going nuts. I’m going schizo.
Memory of the incident clung to her, unpleasant as the day’s humidity. Had she fallen asleep in the woods and dreamed it?
No. It felt too real.
“Hi, honey!” her father had called out from the spacious living room. “I was getting a little worried.”
“I ... got a little lost coming back from town,” she’d fabricated an excuse. She’d gasped when she opened the refrigerator and saw the hook-line full of catfish. It reminded her of the awful story Roy had told.
That’s what this tall guy had... only it was a hook-line full of babies, and he was draggin’ ’em up the stairs.
“Damn, sorry,” her father said, hustling into the kitchen. “I forgot to clean the fish.” He retrieved the weighty hook-line, thunked it in the sink.
She smelled remnant cigarette smoke, but didn’t say anything. She turned away at the wet grisly sounds of him gutting the fish. She needed to get her mind off her own musings: Via, the story Roy had told, Blackwell and the babies.
But she felt more like an automaton as she turned on the stove and prepared to cook dinner.
Via’s words slipped back: We stay at that big ugly-ass house on the hill.
There is no Via, she told herself.
“So you checked out town today?” her father asked.
She clunked around in the cupboard for the right pan. “Yeah. It’s not really even a town. Just a few old stores on the strip.”
“Well, I know it’s dull around here. Maybe we’ll drive to Pulaski this weekend, do some shopping.”
“Cool,” she said, unenthused.
Her father had piled the fresh catfish fillets on a plate. “You’re awful quiet tonight. Are you okay?”
Peachy, Dad. Today I found out that the guy who used to live here sacrificed infants to Satan. I also met a dead girl named Via. Oh, she lives in the house with her friends.
“Just tired, I guess. I must’ve been out in the sun too long.”
“Go lie down. I’ll cook dinner.”
“I’m fine, really. I want to do it. Go watch your sports stuff.”
“You sure?”
“Sure. Two people in the kitchen is one too many. Makes me bitchy.”
Her father laughed, retreating back to the family room.
Cassie poached the fish in soy sauce and fresh-ground horseradish. But when they ate, she barely tasted it. “This is great!” her father complimented. “You could be a chef!”
Cassie picked through her food, still bothered. Of course, what she’d seen today—Via—had been her imagination, minor heat-stroke or something.
It had to be.
She looked blankly at the huge television: a pre-season football game. Nothing seemed more pointless in the world than grown men running back
Cassie’s thought processes seemed to grind like a series of cogs. Her eyes were fixed on Via’s wrist—and the open slit held together by crude black stitches. She could see dried blood in the wound, as if it hadn’t healed.
But now Via was looking back just as strangely.
At Cassie’s wrist.
“That’s impossible,” she whispered. She grabbed Cassie’s wrist and looked at the similar scar, similar only in that it denoted the same intent. But Cassie’s scar was—
“Healed,” Via muttered. “It’s healed.” Then her darkly mascara’d eyes looked stupefied into Cassie’s.
“Oh my God,” Via said. “You’re not dead, are you?”
In spite of the compounding strangeness, Cassie blurted a laugh. “What kind of a ridiculous thing is that to say? Of course I’m not dead.”
“Well I sure as hell am!” Via exclaimed and ran away down the hill.
Chapter Three
(I)
Delusion. Hallucination.
What else could it be? At the hospital, they’d told her that some of the psych drugs could produce such side effects. She’d stopped taking them rather abruptly; perhaps hallucinosis was the result.
Either that or I’m just going nuts. I’m going schizo.
Memory of the incident clung to her, unpleasant as the day’s humidity. Had she fallen asleep in the woods and dreamed it?
No. It felt too real.
“Hi, honey!” her father had called out from the spacious living room. “I was getting a little worried.”
“I ... got a little lost coming back from town,” she’d fabricated an excuse. She’d gasped when she opened the refrigerator and saw the hook-line full of catfish. It reminded her of the awful story Roy had told.
That’s what this tall guy had... only it was a hook-line full of babies, and he was draggin’ ’em up the stairs.
“Damn, sorry,” her father said, hustling into the kitchen. “I forgot to clean the fish.” He retrieved the weighty hook-line, thunked it in the sink.
She smelled remnant cigarette smoke, but didn’t say anything. She turned away at the wet grisly sounds of him gutting the fish. She needed to get her mind off her own musings: Via, the story Roy had told, Blackwell and the babies.
But she felt more like an automaton as she turned on the stove and prepared to cook dinner.
Via’s words slipped back: We stay at that big ugly-ass house on the hill.
There is no Via, she told herself.
“So you checked out town today?” her father asked.
She clunked around in the cupboard for the right pan. “Yeah. It’s not really even a town. Just a few old stores on the strip.”
“Well, I know it’s dull around here. Maybe we’ll drive to Pulaski this weekend, do some shopping.”
“Cool,” she said, unenthused.
Her father had piled the fresh catfish fillets on a plate. “You’re awful quiet tonight. Are you okay?”
Peachy, Dad. Today I found out that the guy who used to live here sacrificed infants to Satan. I also met a dead girl named Via. Oh, she lives in the house with her friends.
“Just tired, I guess. I must’ve been out in the sun too long.”
“Go lie down. I’ll cook dinner.”
“I’m fine, really. I want to do it. Go watch your sports stuff.”
“You sure?”
“Sure. Two people in the kitchen is one too many. Makes me bitchy.”
Her father laughed, retreating back to the family room.
Cassie poached the fish in soy sauce and fresh-ground horseradish. But when they ate, she barely tasted it. “This is great!” her father complimented. “You could be a chef!”
Cassie picked through her food, still bothered. Of course, what she’d seen today—Via—had been her imagination, minor heat-stroke or something.
It had to be.
She looked blankly at the huge television: a pre-season football game. Nothing seemed more pointless in the world than grown men running back
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