You forgot about us.
Forgot us, forgotten, oh why?
Eat you down to the bones, you bitch!
Left to rot in the cold, dark ground …
He will lift us up to our rightful place!
We will suck the dreams from your marrow.
Fear us, fear us, fear is us is fear all fear!
We are the Forgotten …
Forgotten no more!
The fog curled up behind Mrs. Bennett and puffed from her mouth like a long, murky snake. “Oh, everything is so clear to me now.”
They’d gotten inside Mrs. Bennett somehow. Miss Headley took a step back. She shook her head. Her voice was weak. “No. No. They’re lying to you, Mrs. Bennett.”
“You’re the liar!” the head nurse screeched, matching the force of the mob.
Hanging on the wall was a long, hooked pole that could be used to secure the tarps. Miss Headley ran for it, only to see the pole fly from its perch with supernatural strength and into Mrs. Bennett’s waiting hand. One by one, the taps squeaked on, filling the baths with scalding water. Steam billowed up, joining the fog. The pole scraped across the tile floor as the head nurse advanced along with the ghostly mob.
Miss Headley put up her hands. “Please, Mrs. Bennett.”
Mrs. Bennett pushed Miss Headley into the tub. She screamed, “Help! Help! Oh, please, someone help!” Faster than her eyes could register, the tarp whipped across the tub, fastening at the sides like a canvas seal, trapping her inside. In horror, the young nurse watched as the tap to her tub prison began its slow turn.
“No. Please,” she cried, drawing her feet close, then screaming and thrashing as the blistering water reached her. Hundreds of whispers filled the room, speaking all at once until the maddening din formed one unearthly voice that burst from Mrs. Bennett’s mouth: “Oh, King of Crows. Show us the way. For we are the Forgotten, forgotten no more.”
The water rose. Under the tarp, Miss Headley’s body twitched and blistered in the hot water. Her eyes rolled up as her body finally stilled. Mrs. Bennett raised the hook high above her own head, bringing it down again and again.
Upstairs, Conor Flynn already knew.
He drew it all.
The world is black and white, gray and red.
White snow. Thin gray smoke. Its acrid smell hurts your nose.
The black: A scorched world. Crisped trees. Smoldering cabins. Charred horses. Bodies.
And red snow, like strange flowers blooming.
The man sinks to his knees. Cries. A great animal howl above the scream of wind.
Red snow shifts, transforms into redbrick church.
The man’s sad face looms above yours.
Feel the warm scratch of wool tucked snugly around you.
He speaks but you cannot hear.
There is loud knocking against the church doors. Light spills out, hard and yellow. Arms reach for you—not the man’s. He is gone. Angels in black and white lift you into light.
You shift in your sleep and the dream shifts with you.
Now it is the room.
The room in the house.
The room in the house near the railroad tracks.
To your left, the open window. Hot wind sucks cheap nylon curtains against the peeling paint of a wood frame. To your right, a chest of drawers: an overturned lamp, lampshade gone, naked bulb exposed. A pink wildflower droops in a small blue vase.
Watch the vase. The wildflower. Don’t look up. Don’t look up. Don’t …
He grabs your chin, roughs your face toward his. His hard, beautiful face.
He is shouting, wet mouth spilling out hateful words on a tide of boozy breath.
Shouting. Purplish veins strain against the anger-red skin of his neck.
Shouting. You ever try to leave me, I’ll kill you first!
Shouting’s over, and the first slap comes stinging across your cheek. It shouldn’t be a surprise to you by now, but it always is. In your ears, a crack like a gunshot and the room goes wavy. Another blow follows. And another. Blood in your mouth like warm, liquid iron. One hand presses against your neck, holds you in place. You cannot see the other. But you hear it working.
The clinking of the belt buckle giving way. The angry rustle of trousers.
And it’s worse than the shouting and the slapping. Your eyes slide toward the rattling chest of drawers bumped by the bed again and again. The flower shakes in the vase. With each thump, petals fall off, drift to the warped floorboards. You drift down with them. You are not here. You are gone. Floating up and away as you’ve taught yourself to do.
The hand at your neck tightens. You cannot speak. Cannot breathe.
No longer floating, you are trapped in your body.
That’s when it starts, deep in your belly.
The world goes black and white, gray and red. Terror. Desperation. Survival. Rage. A twisting, whirring universe of emotion exploding into heat. It rushes through your veins like a brush fire through rain-starved grass. His eyes widen in horror, such horror you want to stop it for yourself as much as for him. You put up a hand, press it to his cheek to anchor yourself, and he screams and screams. The pressure of his palm leaves your neck.
A sound reaches your ears. A voice on the wind. “Theta.”
The vase cracks open on the floor. He falls beside it, hands to his face, still screaming. Inside, the universe keeps exploding. Flames crawl up the wall behind the headboard. The bedsheets are blackened, like the horses, the trees, the cabins, the bodies.
The voice again: “Time to leave, Theta. You don’t want to stay here.”
You look over. He’s standing in the doorway. Henry is talking to you here inside your dream. “Theta, darlin’. You don’t have to stay here.”
“Yes. I do. It’s my fault.”
“No. It’s not. You can leave, Theta. Why don’t you get out?”
“I can’t. Fire. Fire will get me.”
“There’s a door.” He nods to something you can’t see, just over your shoulder. You look, and there it is, shining through the flames, a door. “Go on, darlin’. No reason to stick around here.”
You walk through the door. And then you are running.
Running from the burning house and the beating man.
Running from the broken vase and the broken screams.
Running onto the bright stage, where applause greets you like wildflowers scattered on the wind. But you can never outrun the coiled fever hiding inside you, and the fear that it will return and burn through everything you love.
Theta woke from her dream drenched in sweat and gasping for breath. She threw off her damp sleep mask and looked around wildly, relieved to see that she was in her bedroom in the Bennington and not that other place. Her pajamas were soaked through, but she was burning up inside, so she stumbled to the bathroom and splashed her face and hands with water until her skin cooled. It wasn’t until she returned to her bedroom that she noticed the faint, scorched outlines of her hands imprinted on the sheets: black and white.
Sleep would be impossible now, so Theta made a cup of coffee, lit a cigarette, and sat by the window overlooking the rain-ravaged street. Henry was with David downtown. How she wished he were home so that she could crawl into bed with him, rest her head on his chest, and hear him say, “It’s just a dream, darlin’.” It was like a monster lived inside her, and with each night, it was getting closer to breaking through her skin. Theta couldn’t shut down the worry buzzing around her brain: