The Awakening. Amanda Stevens
He glanced up. “Something wrung its neck.”
I suppressed another shiver as I quickly scanned the gloomy landscape. “I don’t see how it could have just died. I’ve been here for several minutes and I didn’t see anything.”
He held the bird out to me. “Feel it for yourself.”
“No, that’s okay. I believe you. I’m just wondering what could have happened to the poor thing.” I found my gaze flashing back to the place where the dead girl had vanished. I fancied I could still hear the echo of her taunting laughter.
My hand went to my throat again before I remembered that Rose’s key had gone missing. “I’ve lost my necklace. If you find a ribbon with a key attached—”
“This one?” He shifted the dead bird to his left hand and reached out with his right to unsnag the ribbon from underneath the hood of the crib. How it had gotten there, I had no idea, unless the ribbon had been caught when I bent over the monument to study the photograph.
“Looks old,” he said, dangling the key in the air in much the same way he’d displayed the dead crow. “A good-luck charm?”
“Something like that.” I held out my hand.
He eyed the key for a moment longer before dropping it in my palm. “Better hang on to it then. A corpse bird isn’t just any old sign. It’s a death omen. Finding that dead crow likely means someone else is about to pass.”
That night I had the most disturbing dream, undoubtedly triggered by the ghost child’s manifestation and by Prosper Lamb’s death prophesy. I found myself walking through Woodbine Cemetery, a thick mist swirling around my legs as I searched for all those nameless headstones. I felt an urgency to find them. It seemed imperative that I visit each grave to let the dead know they hadn’t been forgotten.
As I entered one of the ornate fences surrounding a plot, I saw my mother and my aunt Lynrose in wicker rockers drinking sweet tea at the edge of an open grave. They were dressed in summer finery, florals and pastels, rather than in heavy mourning attire. I could hear the murmur of their soft drawls as they peered down into the abyss. As I came upon them, Aunt Lynrose looked up with a stern admonishment. “Mind your manners, chile. Don’t you go poking your nose in places it doesn’t belong.”
“Leave her be, Lyn,” my mother scolded. “We should have tended to this business years ago. Now it’s up to Amelia to find out the truth.”
My aunt worried the gold locket at her throat as she returned her attention to the open grave. “You should know by now, dear sister, that some secrets are best left buried.”
I left them muttering to each other as I traveled on through a sea of headstones. Just when I thought I must be hopelessly lost, the mist thinned and I could see the willow trees that lined the riverbank. As I neared the water, the scent of woodbine deepened and I heard the distant tinkle of a wind chime. The haunting melody drew me deeper into the copse, where Prosper Lamb reclined against the stone cradle. He eyed me curiously as I came through the trees.
“That one there...she’s a strange one,” he warned. “A bad seed, you might say.”
I turned to find the ghost child glowering at me from the shadows. She didn’t taunt or try to play as she’d done before. Her anger was palpable. I could see blood on her hands and on the white drop-waist dress she wore. She stood upright, but her head dangled at an odd angle like that of the corpse bird she clutched to her chest.
As I started toward her, a powerful wind knocked me back. Struggling to remain upright, I called out to her. “Please stop. You’ll hurt me.”
Her surly expression never changed, but suddenly she lifted a finger to point at something in the mist over my shoulder. I thought Prosper Lamb must have come up behind me. Still battling that terrible wind, I turned in alarm but my feet tangled in a vine and I hit the ground hard, tumbling over and over as if rolling down a long hill.
I awakened before I hit the bottom, my heart pounding. For a moment I could have sworn I saw the dead child’s face hovering over me in the dark, but nothing was there, ghost or otherwise. The night was calm and my dog, Angus, slept peacefully in his bed beneath the window. If he’d sensed an intruder, living or dead, he would have alerted me.
Clutching Rose’s key to my breast, I settled back against the pillow. It had only been a dream. I was safe and sound in my own bed, protected from ghosts by the hallowed ground on which the house had been built, and from living intruders by the alarm system I’d recently installed. I was safe. Nothing could get to me here.
Yet my heart wouldn’t be still. I checked the time on my phone, noting that it was straight-up midnight. I turned on my side and nestled under the covers, exhausted from the day’s work but too unnerved to doze back off. No point in trying to analyze or dissect the disturbing visions. Likely, they didn’t mean anything. But I couldn’t bring myself to believe that. Dreams were often portents, and I couldn’t forget Mama and Aunt Lynrose gazing down into that open grave or Prosper Lamb’s warning that the ghost was a bad seed. I didn’t believe that, either. A child wasn’t inherently evil. Something must have happened in her short life to cause all that pent-up rage.
Outside I could hear the wind in the trees as I lay there sorting through my churning thoughts. I rolled restlessly onto my back and watched shadows flail across the ceiling as the chimes in the back garden jangled. I listened intently to that distant sound, dread seeping down into my bones. The discordant notes melded into a distinctive melody, one that I had heard in Woodbine Cemetery that very day.
I tried to ignore the haunting descant, drawing the quilt up over my ears. I wouldn’t get up from my warm bed to go explore. I would not. It was the wind stirring the chimes and nothing more. But the melancholy strands floated through the house, luring me from under the covers and down the hallway to my office. I stood on bare feet at one of the long windows, arms hugging my waist as I peered out into the nocturnal landscape. I’d had security lights installed along with the alarm system and now I could peer into almost every corner. I trailed my gaze along the snowy beds of sweet alyssum, through the camellias and up into the tea olives. The leaves fluttered in the breeze, but no one was about. Nothing was amiss.
Go back to bed, Amelia. Stop borrowing trouble.
But I couldn’t turn away from the window. I couldn’t turn my back on the night. Something was wrong. I could feel it with every fiber of my being.
As I stood watching the shadows, something crashed into the window directly in front of me. I stumbled back, hand to my heart. At first I thought it must be a night bird disoriented by the reflection of moonlight on glass, but I hadn’t seen so much as a darting shadow.
The sound came again and again. It was rhythmic and jarring, a steady bam, bam, bam that made me think of a ball being bounced against the window. And that made me think of the ball that had rolled to my feet in Woodbine Cemetery. Had the ghost child followed me home? Had she manifested in my garden? I couldn’t see her. I couldn’t yet feel her cold, but I sensed she was near.
The banging against the window increased, a hard, rapid volley that rattled the glass and set off my security alarm. Angus started barking and did not let up even when I hurried down the hall to deactivate the system. I returned to the window, my heart hammering a painful staccato as I stared out into the empty backyard. This was not a playful taunting; this was malevolent. I feared the ghost wouldn’t relent until the glass shattered into a million pieces.
“Please stop,” I pleaded.
Mercy, came the silent rejoinder.
“You’ll break the glass. You’ll hurt me.”
Mercy, the ghost demanded.
“Mercy,” I whispered.
The pounding stopped. Angus fell silent. The wind died away, leaving an unholy stillness in the garden.