“Try the radio,” she said to Lily. “Maybe we can pick up a station.” She didn’t really believe they’d get anything; it was just a way to keep Lily from freaking out completely and give her some space to think about what to do next. She listened as Lily patiently feathered the knob. FM was nothing but fizzles and pops, which figured. AM wasn’t much better, just static from which only a few broken words surfaced: police … brutal … killings …
“God, I can’t turn on the radio without hearing about that poor little girl. Can you imagine what it was like to find all those bodies? In the basement of her own house?” Lily said.
Murders? Emma had no idea what Lily was talking about. “Anything?”
“No.” Sighing, Lily threw up her hands. “Any other suggestions?”
“Try the weather bands,” Emma said. “Different bands are assigned to different regions. Might give us an idea of where we are.”
There was nothing between channels one to five, but as Lily clicked to channel six, the radio cleared its throat with a loud pffssstt. “There, right there, hold it,” Emma said. She listened as the steel wool of a voice fuzzed: … extremely dangerous storm. Once again, the National Weather Service has issued a severe weather advisory for the following counties: Bayfield, Ashland …
Okay, that was good. Those counties were northwest, which meant—
Taylor, the radio voice said. And peekaboo, I see you, Emma. I’ve got you …
What? Emma gasped. Her heart turned over in her chest. What?
“Emma?” asked Lily.
Emma couldn’t answer. The radio kept jabbering: I’ve got you, so let’s play, Emma. Come down and plaaay, Blood of My Blood, Breath of My Breath, come and plaaay …
The hairs on her neck prickled. Oh my God, that almost sounded like … like Kramer? Yes, she would know that tight-ass Brit’s voice anywhere. But how could that be? And he sounded close, too: not just a sputter seeping from the dashboard radio but coming from directly behind her.
Like the voice is whispering into my right ear. But that’s nuts. There’s no speaker in the ceiling or the headrest. She flicked a glance at her rearview. You’re losing it, kid; you’ve lost it, you’re as crazy as they say you—
Her heart slammed into her throat.
Because, in the mirror, there were …
LIZZIE
Save Dad
HER FATHER TURNS.…
“Ah!” Lizzie flinches, and then her left foot isn’t on the rung anymore. Gasping, she lunges forward, wrapping her arms around the ladder. Her heart thump-thump-thumps so hard she feels it in her throat. She wants to wait, not try getting down until the shakes go away—but she mustn’t, she mustn’t, she mustn’t!
Oh Dad, Dad, Daddy!
Somehow she gets down, half tripping, half slithering, and then she is pelting out of the barn and over the slippery gravel drive. The rock snatches her shoes, and she falls, ripping the knees from her jeans. The pain is strangely good, quick and bright as a firecracker and much better than the acid fear on her tongue. She claws her way up, shivering so hard her teeth go clickity-clickity-clickity-click. But now there is the kitchen and a square of warm yellow light and her mother, framed like an angel in a painting. Lizzie bursts through the kitchen door, the door going bam so the windowpanes complain and the glasses chatter in the cabinets. “Mom, Mom!”
“Lizzie?” Her mother’s eyes probe Lizzie’s face and then she gasps at whatever she’s read. “Stay here, Lizzie, stay right here!” Quick as a whip, Mom is out the door and sprinting for the barn. She doesn’t even bother with a coat.
A stiletto of terror pierces her heart, and Lizzie thinks, Oh, Momma, Momma, be careful, be careful, be careful! Face pressed to the glass, she waits and waits and waits, scrubbing away breath-fog so she can see the moment her parents emerge from the barn, the very second her mother rescues her father.
Hurry, Mom, hurry. The windowpane is going all wobbly, as if her house is starting to melt. Lizzie’s eyes burn, the tears chasing each other down her cheeks so fast they drip-drip-drip from her jaw. “Hurry, Mom,” Lizzie whispers, her voice thinning to a watery squeak. “Save Dad. Pull him out before the whisper-man slides all the way inside and fills him up. Hurry, hurry, hurry.”
But Lizzie, you saw. This is not the monster-doll, but a voice that is calm and reasonable and centered in a clear patch of the storm in her mind. The voice is, in fact, a little like Mom’s that last time Lizzie raised a fuss about lima beans on a Try-It Tuesday: Just try one little no-thank-you bite.
Now, Lizzie, this calm little voice says, you saw, honey, how far he reached? And when he turned?
“No, you’re wrong! I’m not listening to you.” Lizzie presses her hands over her ears. “La-la-la, I can’t hear you. Mom is strong and smart, you’ll see. Mom will beat him, Mom will—”
All of a sudden, across the yard, the barn door crashes open with so much force, the muted smash of wood and metal seeps through the window and into the kitchen. “Yes!” Lizzie’s heart, full to bursting with fear and worry, seems to rocket out of her chest. She is dancing on tiptoe, bouncing up and down. “Yes, Mom, yes, you got him, you …”
But then Lizzie’s voice dies on her tongue, because all she sees
EMMA
Eyes, and Nothing Else
ALL EMMA SAW in the rearview mirror were eyes, and nothing else. The eyes weren’t hers, which were a deep, rich cobalt: an unearthly, glittering blue that almost didn’t look real. Her right eye, with its tiny golden flaw in the iris, was especially strange. A birthmark, the doctors said, but get a few drinks into Jasper and he’d say it was her third eye, which made about as much sense as all his wild talk of Nows and Dark Passages.
These things in the mirror … she’d never seen anything like them. Two were black as stones and smooth as glass, with no whites, no pupils. The third eye was a mercury swirl floating in midair, suspended in a milky cloud. No face, at all, stared back.
No, Emma’s mind gabbled. No, no, no, no! This was worse than a blink. This was like the barrier between her life and someone else’s was breaking down, some freaky parallel universe leaking into hers. I should do what the doctors want. I should take the pills. Dimly, she was aware that the radio was still sputtering about a manhunt: … so far authorities believe at least eight children may have met—
She watched, paralyzed, as that milky cloud in the mirror gathered itself, folded—and then the silvered glass moved.