Sleep No More
Page 57
And Smith is here with me.
He scrambles to his feet and starts running and it takes me only a second to realize he’s heading for the door at the edge of my reflective floor. The one he claimed to have no knowledge of.
And another second to understand: he’s been here before.
He sprints and for some reason the door doesn’t recede for him—and as long as I’m on his tail, it doesn’t for me either.
He’s faster than I am—he reaches it first and for a second I wonder what he thinks he’s going to do. It’s locked. But he doesn’t even hesitate as he grasps the doorknob, pulls it open, and disappears through it.
“No!” I scream, and dive for the door as it’s closing.
I’m too late and I slam into the hard surface, but my fingers close around the doorknob, forcing the door to stay close to me.
It’s locked.
Locked to me.
It’s Smith’s door. It’s always been his. The depth of his lies makes me feel angry and stupid all at the same time. I grip the knob like my life depends on it—and I suspect it might—and realize it’s changed again. Almost the entire door is a pane of glass, with only a thin wood frame around it. I can see clearly into it now, but the knob still won’t turn.
I have to get in there. I have to find Smith and keep him from getting out of my second sight or he’ll be able to control his physical body again and get away.
And leave me lying there, unseeing.
I stare through the beveled glass at the shadowed room that lies behind it and fume. This is my world and I most certainly did not invite Smith to even enter, much less make his own pocket within it. I need . . . I need . . .
A hammer. Something like a hammer.
I’m supposed to be able to control this world—why shouldn’t I be able to summon one? I try to picture a hammer appearing in my hand, but that’s too easy and somehow I knew it was. I try to think like an Oracle. To reflect back on what I’ve learned during my nights here.
I consider the scene with Linden the first night I reached the door. The way it just appeared. It must have been Smith, trying to distract me from the door.
Well, if he created a future for me, then I can certainly create one for myself.
I look up at the dome and picture the very near future and a lighted scene starts rolling my way. It’s going to be tricky—I need to step only halfway into the scene while still holding onto the doorknob—but I pull the near-future frame very close. It’s not a full scene. It’s simply me, standing in the darkness, holding not a hammer, exactly, more like a bat or one of those nightsticks cops always have on TV. It’ll work. I put one foot into the scene, and like the night I took my own place in the scene with Linden, I will myself to be the person I’m seeing. And to not let go of the doorknob.
It takes several seconds for the future to reach me, but in a few moments, the stick is in my hand and I swing at the door with all my might.
The glass shatters with a crash that echoes through the entire eternal dome and I plunge into Smith’s domain.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Everything is dark and small. It’s like my supernatural plane in faded miniature—a lesser twin of my own world. I keep the bat clenched in my hand. I don’t know where Smith is or what he’s doing in this little alcove in my brain. I don’t know anything. Even the few things I’d figured out about the supernatural plane are uncertain because of Smith’s lies.
The air darkens even further and I feel my stomach twist as I peer up at the scenes around me. It’s the murders. All of them. Even the ones I didn’t see.
Bethany running from black-clad Smith. He loops an arm around her neck and pulls her against his chest. His knife flashes. Red.
Eddie, Smith standing over him, a short bat in his hand. He swings it above his head like an ax, bringing it down on Eddie’s body with all his strength. Matthew, the back of his head exploding. Nathan . . .
Nathan!
I step toward his scene. There’s a dark figure holding a knife, but I can’t tell if it’s Smith.
Or me.
I run forward, ready to fling myself into the scene, but just as I leap, the dome rolls and a dark chuckle emanates from the space surrounding me.
I trip and fall on a gravelly surface that’s cold, but not snowy. The wind blows my bangs across my forehead as I get to my feet. I’m on the hill beside a freeway bridge overlooking a section of the road near my house. A sinking feeling engulfs my heart as I realize where I am.
I’m standing beside a truck—a light gray Chevy—and I know without looking that its license plate number is AYT 247. My breath comes in gasps as I peer into the driver’s seat at the man I’ve never known and always hated.
He’s not alone. There are two people.
Him.
And Smith.
I watch Smith point up the road and then slip quickly out of the passenger seat. As soon as the heavy truck door slams shut the truck takes off, spraying pebbles that sting against my skin.
I can’t look.
I can’t not look.
My breathing is ragged, as I watch the gray Chevy slam into the white car, which holds my parents, Sierra, and six-year-old me, with a deafening crunch.
I saw this once before in a vision. When I was six. But that time the truck hit the hood of our car, swinging it around to where another vehicle rammed the door closest to Sierra. I watch now, my throat choking, as the gray truck plows into the passenger door, pushing the car around just enough for the passing vehicle to hit the driver’s side door, pinning my parents in a veritable death trap and leaving Sierra and me almost unharmed.
He scrambles to his feet and starts running and it takes me only a second to realize he’s heading for the door at the edge of my reflective floor. The one he claimed to have no knowledge of.
And another second to understand: he’s been here before.
He sprints and for some reason the door doesn’t recede for him—and as long as I’m on his tail, it doesn’t for me either.
He’s faster than I am—he reaches it first and for a second I wonder what he thinks he’s going to do. It’s locked. But he doesn’t even hesitate as he grasps the doorknob, pulls it open, and disappears through it.
“No!” I scream, and dive for the door as it’s closing.
I’m too late and I slam into the hard surface, but my fingers close around the doorknob, forcing the door to stay close to me.
It’s locked.
Locked to me.
It’s Smith’s door. It’s always been his. The depth of his lies makes me feel angry and stupid all at the same time. I grip the knob like my life depends on it—and I suspect it might—and realize it’s changed again. Almost the entire door is a pane of glass, with only a thin wood frame around it. I can see clearly into it now, but the knob still won’t turn.
I have to get in there. I have to find Smith and keep him from getting out of my second sight or he’ll be able to control his physical body again and get away.
And leave me lying there, unseeing.
I stare through the beveled glass at the shadowed room that lies behind it and fume. This is my world and I most certainly did not invite Smith to even enter, much less make his own pocket within it. I need . . . I need . . .
A hammer. Something like a hammer.
I’m supposed to be able to control this world—why shouldn’t I be able to summon one? I try to picture a hammer appearing in my hand, but that’s too easy and somehow I knew it was. I try to think like an Oracle. To reflect back on what I’ve learned during my nights here.
I consider the scene with Linden the first night I reached the door. The way it just appeared. It must have been Smith, trying to distract me from the door.
Well, if he created a future for me, then I can certainly create one for myself.
I look up at the dome and picture the very near future and a lighted scene starts rolling my way. It’s going to be tricky—I need to step only halfway into the scene while still holding onto the doorknob—but I pull the near-future frame very close. It’s not a full scene. It’s simply me, standing in the darkness, holding not a hammer, exactly, more like a bat or one of those nightsticks cops always have on TV. It’ll work. I put one foot into the scene, and like the night I took my own place in the scene with Linden, I will myself to be the person I’m seeing. And to not let go of the doorknob.
It takes several seconds for the future to reach me, but in a few moments, the stick is in my hand and I swing at the door with all my might.
The glass shatters with a crash that echoes through the entire eternal dome and I plunge into Smith’s domain.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Everything is dark and small. It’s like my supernatural plane in faded miniature—a lesser twin of my own world. I keep the bat clenched in my hand. I don’t know where Smith is or what he’s doing in this little alcove in my brain. I don’t know anything. Even the few things I’d figured out about the supernatural plane are uncertain because of Smith’s lies.
The air darkens even further and I feel my stomach twist as I peer up at the scenes around me. It’s the murders. All of them. Even the ones I didn’t see.
Bethany running from black-clad Smith. He loops an arm around her neck and pulls her against his chest. His knife flashes. Red.
Eddie, Smith standing over him, a short bat in his hand. He swings it above his head like an ax, bringing it down on Eddie’s body with all his strength. Matthew, the back of his head exploding. Nathan . . .
Nathan!
I step toward his scene. There’s a dark figure holding a knife, but I can’t tell if it’s Smith.
Or me.
I run forward, ready to fling myself into the scene, but just as I leap, the dome rolls and a dark chuckle emanates from the space surrounding me.
I trip and fall on a gravelly surface that’s cold, but not snowy. The wind blows my bangs across my forehead as I get to my feet. I’m on the hill beside a freeway bridge overlooking a section of the road near my house. A sinking feeling engulfs my heart as I realize where I am.
I’m standing beside a truck—a light gray Chevy—and I know without looking that its license plate number is AYT 247. My breath comes in gasps as I peer into the driver’s seat at the man I’ve never known and always hated.
He’s not alone. There are two people.
Him.
And Smith.
I watch Smith point up the road and then slip quickly out of the passenger seat. As soon as the heavy truck door slams shut the truck takes off, spraying pebbles that sting against my skin.
I can’t look.
I can’t not look.
My breathing is ragged, as I watch the gray Chevy slam into the white car, which holds my parents, Sierra, and six-year-old me, with a deafening crunch.
I saw this once before in a vision. When I was six. But that time the truck hit the hood of our car, swinging it around to where another vehicle rammed the door closest to Sierra. I watch now, my throat choking, as the gray truck plows into the passenger door, pushing the car around just enough for the passing vehicle to hit the driver’s side door, pinning my parents in a veritable death trap and leaving Sierra and me almost unharmed.
