Voices in the Night

VOICES IN THE NIGHT

When I was ten, I killed a kid. I thought that was the end of it. He was dead and I wasn’t. So, lucky me, right?

People were okay with it. I wasn’t shunned. I wasn’t ostracized. I wasn’t even blamed. People felt sorry for me. People said that I had no choice. I could live with that.

I did have to attend years of court-ordered therapy, though. Not the worst thing that can happen after someone dies because of you. It helped.

If therapy taught me anything, it was to look forward, and don’t dwell on the past. My therapist, Dr. Sheila Kearns, told me that it was useless to deal with “what-ifs” and “I-should-haves.” She stressed that it was a waste of my time and energy to mire myself in the past—a past I couldn’t change. She said I had to forgive myself, and move on.

So I did.

But, the kid I killed, wasn’t quite so forgiving.

*****

“I want my life back, you little freak!”

My eyes flew open, and I scanned the room. Nothing.

But I’d heard the voice. Clear as if the person was standing beside my head, whispering into my ear. I whipped my head to the left, looking, searching my bedroom.

Alone.

My heart pounded in my chest. I was nauseous. I was hyperventilating. I was that scared. I lay there for the rest of the night, unable to sleep.

What had just happened?

***

I’d been a solitary kid. I liked my own company far more than anyone else’s. I’m sure my family thought that I was weird. My brothers were noisy, boisterous, always clambering for attention, causing all kinds of trouble. There were four of them, plus me. I was the youngest. Both my parents worked full-time, and there wasn’t that much extra time left over after they took care of everything we needed. I think that’s why the boys did the things they did—to capture my parents’ attention. What’s that saying? Negative attention is still attention? My brothers lived by that credo. Misbehaving, suspensions from school, fighting, pranks that went horribly wrong, the police bringing one or all of them home. I think that was their strategy. “Hey, hey, look at me!”

But, because of all the mayhem surrounding them, I sought out quiet places. I loved the library and the librarian, Mrs. Winters. She was warm and caring, and always put the books she thought I would enjoy aside for me. I think the thing that drew me to her was her calm personality. When she talked to me, she was talking to me, and only me. She wasn’t distracted like my mom and dad, one eye always on the boys, trying to prevent the next disaster.

The library was my favourite place, especially in the summer—it was air conditioned and peaceful. I could read to my heart’s content. It wasn’t like my brothers were going to show up, causing mayhem. I don’t even think that they knew where the library was. It was my place.

I’d cloistered myself away in the reading area—a second floor balcony that overlooked the stacks—tucked away in the armchair in the corner, curled up, reading. I could still see Mrs. Winters, but I was mostly hidden from view, reading I was completely engrossed in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, the second book in the series. I’d read The Sorcerer’s Stone, and couldn’t wait to read the entire series when it came out.

I was so wrapped up in the book I didn’t realize that I wasn’t alone anymore—there was someone up on the mezzanine with me. When I heard him snickering I looked up. He was smirking, walking towards me. It was this older kid, Zeke something. I didn’t know him, I only knew his name because he had a beef with my brother Connor. Something about a fight at school, Zeke and Connor both getting suspended. Situation normal for Connor.

He walked up and stood right in front of me. “Well, well, well. Look who it is. Little Miss Bookworm, Connor’s baby sister.” I wasn’t a baby. I was ten years old. But I didn’t say anything. I knew enough not to engage.

Zeke was big and scary. In hindsight, I guess I’d call him menacing, but I didn’t know that word at the time. Black leather jacket even though it was summer and a hundred degrees out, big clunky motorcycle boots, greasy blue jeans, black t-shirt. He smelled like cigarettes and dirty clothes.

He came right up to me and snatched the book out of my hands, and looked at it. “Harry Potter’s for babies.”

I stood up. “Gimme the book back,” I demanded, holding out my hand.

He held the book up over his head, completely out of my reach. “What are you going to do? Call Connor?”

“Gimme the book back,” I repeated.

He just laughed, holding the book away from me. I jumped up, trying to grab his arm. That’s when he touched me. With his free hand, he grabbed the top of my head, and pushed me away. I stumbled backward, and whacked my head on the safety bars across the balcony front. I saw stars.

“Zeke Saunders, you leave Emery Lynn alone, right now. I saw what you did, and have called the police.” Mrs. Winters quickly marched towards me, stepping between me and Zeke.

He turned towards Mrs. Winters, and sneered. “You shouldn’t have done that, old lady.” He threw the book at me, and In two long steps, he was on her, grabbing her arm and twisting it behind her back. She yelped in pain.

“Get your hands off of me!” she yelled trying to squirm out of his grasp. “The police are on the way!”

He pushed her against the safety railing. “You’re going to call them back and say it was all a mistake,” he said. “Tell them that we were just fooling around.” As he spoke, he kept pushing her farther over the balcony front. I was afraid he was going to push her over onto the bookshelves below.

I had four older brothers, and I knew what I had to do—even if Zeke was scary. He was going to hurt Mrs. Winters, the nicest woman in the world, my friend. I couldn’t let that happen.

I leapt at him, landing on his back. He swiped me away, like I was a bug. I landed on my back. He pushed Mrs. Winters away. She stumbled backwards, tripped, falling to the ground. She yelped again, grabbing her arm.

Zeke looked at me. “You’re just as stupid as your brother. I’m gonna do to you what Connor did to me.” He kicked me once, in the ribs, hard. The pain was excruciating. I couldn’t breathe. He lifted his foot, again, aiming for my head.

I reacted, pure adrenaline. I pulled my leg into my chest, and shot it forward, right into his crotch. He flew backwards, howling in pain. I watched him crash into the railing teetering on the edge.

Then he disappeared.

The library was silent. Mrs. Winters was slowly and painfully making her way to sitting.

“Are you alright, Emery?” she asked.

I nodded saying nothing. I just looked at the spot where Zeke had just been. What had I done?

*****

Later, at the hospital, the doctor’s told my parents that I had two broken ribs, a bruised spleen, significant contusions on my side where Zeke had kicked me, and a mild concussion from being shoved into the safety railing. Mrs. Winters had a broken arm, cuts and bruises. We would both be fine, physically.

Zeke had a broken neck. He wasn’t going to be okay. He was dead.

*****

When I told Dr. Kearns about the voice in the middle of the night, she looked thoughtful.

“Maybe, Emery, it’s your brain manifesting your guilt over Zeke’s death, subconsciously.”

I looked at her. Eighteen years of therapy had taught me how to decode the psychiatric double-speak. “So, you think it’s all in head?”

She considered that for a moment. “Not necessarily. If you believe it is true, then, to you, it is true.”

I just looked at her. Then, taking a deep breath, I asked, “If it is a brain ‘manifestation,’ then how do I deal with it?”

She contemplated her answer for a moment. “You don’t give the voice any power. You tell it to leave you alone. Forcefully.”

“And, if that doesn’t work?”

She looked uncomfortable. “Then we can discuss that at our next appointment.”

*****

I thought about the voice I’d heard. Zeke? It had to be. I hadn’t killed anyone else. Was I still plagued with guilt over the death of the guy I who was trying to kill me? Maybe. For almost twenty years it had been the defining event in my life. Had I felt “enough” guilt, though? Probably not.. I didn’t feel good about hi death, but I did think that I would do the same thing again, if the circumstances presented themselves again.

But that was eighteen years ago, so, why now? Why all of a sudden was I being haunted by the kid I’d killed? What had changed?

*****

“I WANT MY LIFE BACK!”

I sat bolt up in bed, sucking in a monstrously large breath.

“YOU KILLED ME! I WANT MY LIKE BACK!”

Okay, okay, okay. Now, whatever-this-is was yelling at me. I looked around the room. Again, alone. Heart pounding, I grabbed my phone, and started a video.

“YOU KILLLLLLLLED ME!”

Holy crap. This was too much. I got out of bed on shaky legs, and fled into the kitchen, turning on every light in the house as I went.

“YOU DESERVE TO DIE!” the voice yelled after me.

I stopped. It was still yelling at me from my bedroom. Wouldn’t my ‘manifestation’ follow me?

When there had been no yelling for a good thirty minutes, I crept back into my room, and started a search. After ten minutes I found it. A small, remote transmitter—much like a speaker—stuck behind my bedside table.

“Who would do this?” I asked my empty house. It didn’t answer me back.

I crept out of my back door, traversed my neighbour’s yard, and entered the street two houses away. There was one car sitting across the road from my house, motor running. I stealthy made my way up to the car, and rapped one the window.

The driver jumped and turned to face me.

“I know you!” I said. “You’re Zeke’s brother ….” I rifled my brain. “Aaron.” He tried to start his car. “Don’t bother. I haven’t called the cops.” I looked at him. “I just want to know why.”

Aaron looked up at me, hatred rolling off of him in a wave. “Our mother died last week. She never had a moment of happiness since you killed Zeke. You went on with your life. She never could. Zeke’s death drove Mom crazy, I thought that I’d return the favour.” He sneered at me.

I looked at him—this man consumed with the need to punish me. “It didn’t work. Zeke died because of me, and nothing you say or do will even change that. I will have to spend the rest of my life knowing that I am responsible for his death”

I turned and walked back to my house. At least I wasn’t crazy.