Chapter One: Monsters
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They say time heals all wounds-whoever “they” are-but it’s been three years and I still hurt. Every morning I wake up and I can feel his nails dragging across my skin, ripping it open. I can feel blood, pouring from my body, seeping through my clothes like water through paper. Even after I stopped having the nightmares every morning was pain, physical pain.
Then the dreams came back and I didn’t know why. The first time it happed I tried to convince myself it was the memories I had pressed down fighting back for reign over my mind. Then it had been two weeks and I was still having them. Every night crimson splatters and maniacal laughter echoed in my unconscious mind. The worst part was when I woke up and I couldn’t remember the dreams, just the feeling of intense terror.
Today was no different. It was pain and fear of the images filling my thoughts.
I rolled over and wiped the tear rolling down my cheek, waiting for my stomach to unclench and my breathing to slow. I stared at the flashing alarm clock until it started screaming at me: time to wake up, and interrupted the eerie silence. There would be no snoozing today. I threw the blankets off and cold October air rushed onto my skin sending shivers through me. I padded barefoot across the icy floorboards to the window. Thrusting the curtains open I saw the pale sun hanging in the gray sky, a thin vapor of cloud dimming its light even more.
I let my eyes wander down and fall on the trees, the miles and miles of trees that stretched all the way into forever. It amazed me how beautiful the woods could look even when they were dying. Their ordinarily green leaves burned red and crisped gold. The wind swept through, shaking the branches and tearing the leaves from where they belonged. They fell dramatically to the ground already littered with the dead remnants of their fellow soldiers. Sometimes I felt like one of those leaves, torn from my tree and left to rot on the ground.
We’d been living on the Parker Estate in Redwood, New York for three years and, even though the land had been in our family for generations, it still didn’t feel like home. The city didn’t feel like home either, just familiar and terrifying. I hadn’t been able to go back since the abduction. It was silly but they’d never caught him and I couldn’t remember what he looked like. He could be anyone-that was what scared me the most. I couldn’t remember much of what happened and I considered that a blessing.
When I woke up in the hospital the Police told me I’d been gone a week. They said he picked me, that I was his type. They said men like him were smart and twisted and sick. I remembered thinking he was perfect; they said he brainwashed me. It was a miracle I escaped, especially with minor injuries. When they told my parents there was a possibility he would come after me again, that the things they found in his house suggested he had an obsession with me, they started packing up our penthouse apartment. My dad retired from our family foods business and passed the torch to the oldest of my three older brothers, Jesse, and we left. They took me straight from the hospital, put me in the car, and we drove until New York City was far behind us. It was better that way because I only had memories of my life in the city from before the abduction. My room, school, friends-they were all untouched by this horrible thing.
The Federal Agent in charge of my case gave me his card and I’ve kept it since. I turned to my antique wooden desk that matched the rest of my furniture and opened the top drawer. Resting inside was my wallet and inside, hidden in a seldom-used zipper compartment, was the contact card. Special Agent Nicholas Roman, FBI. The edges were frayed and the ink faded but just holding the card made me feel better. I knew it was dumb and after all this time I should throw it away, move on, but I couldn’t. I was still scared.
I put the replaced the card and turned back to the window, closing it with a loud click, before starting my morning routine. The mundane motions of taking a shower, getting dressed, doing my hair, and applying my make up helped more than any therapy ever had-especially lately. The routine let my mind be vacant and only focus on the simple tasks, not the nightmares. My body felt sore from two weeks of interrupted sleep so the hot water of the shower was a welcome ten minutes. Reluctantly I turned off the water and stepped onto the tiles, wrapping myself in a towel. As I dried off and dressed everything felt still. I made a noise just to make sure I could, so I could scream if I needed to.
Bypassing the blow dryer I let my brunette waves dry on their own. My arms felt heavy as I lifted them to apply mascara and lip-gloss so my make up was minimal and barely covered the bags under my eyes. Finally finished I stood in front of the full-length mirror, examining myself. Despite being a complete emotional mess I still looked like myself externally, except for the scar. It ran from the tip of my left shoulder and peeked out of the collar of my shirt, stopping in the middle of my chest. The scar remained the only physical evidence of the attack. Everything else, my school, the city, our apartment, was gone. But when I looked in the mirror I didn’t see my blue eyes or long brown hair. I didn’t see the cup size I’d gained in the last year around the bust or the fact that curves were almost visible on my body. I didn’t see the smile all my friends called pretty and I never noticed my clothes these days. All I saw was the scar, the torn flesh that couldn’t quite heal all the way.
I abandoned my reflection, grabbed my backpack and wallet, and headed into the hall for the banister. Upstairs it was still quiet, like a deep breath before I descended into the insanity of the Parker household. When I was abducted the youngest of my older brothers, Scotty, flew from Seattle and he never went back. A few weeks later his publicist/boyfriend, Kevin, followed and declared his undying love for Scotty and refusal to be apart. They lived in a cottage about a mile into the woods, originally meant for servants of the Parker estate but about the size of a very large single-family house. My middle brother, John, lived at the vineyard a few miles north of Redwood that Parker Foods also owned with his wife Angela and their son, Ryan. But in the mornings everyone was at our house, without fail.
Ryan ran up to me, grasping my leg and giggling as I kept walking with him still attached to me. Angela was pulling on her jacket and called him over for a hug and kiss before heading to her job at the wine shop in “downtown” Redwood-not that there was much to the downtown. I passed Scotty and Kevin in the den, Scotty typing away and Kevin barking into his cell phone. Gravitating toward the kitchen, and the smell of food, I found my mom standing at the stove. She had one hand resting on her hip and the other absentmindedly stirring a pot on the stove while her eyes were glued to the small television resting on the granite counter top.
The words “Breaking News” flashed across the screen and caught my attention. A blond news reporter stood on the edge of the woods. Behind her, in the distance, I could see Redwood High, and lots of blue and red flashing lights.
“Early this morning,” she spoke into a microphone that had the R5 symbol on it-the local news station, “police officials received an anonymous tip via fax containing the latitude and longitude for this location,” she motioned behind her and b-roll footage started playing showing half a dozen tarp covered lumps on the crown, hanging from the tree branches above them were six bloody nooses, “where six dogs were found hung and gutted. There are no leads as to who could have done this awful thing, back to you Jim.”
I felt my heart pounding in my chest. Fear spread through me again. Images of vacant yellow eyes and the sound of whimpering dogs overtook me, why did the scene feel so familiar? Slowly, for the first time, I began to remember my dream from the night before. I could see the dogs, trying to lash back at their attacker, only to be silenced by death. My hands started to shake and I jumped when I felt a hand on my shoulder, “Brennan, are you okay?”
I turned to my mom. She had that look on her face, like if she looked away I might disappear again. They all had given me that look at one time or another. Whenever I saw it I felt guilty. Maybe if I hadn’t been so weak none of this ever would have happened.
“I’m fine,” I lied, “that’s just creepy.”
“Honey, you look like you’ve seen a ghost or something,” she held my face in her hands and pulled me down to her eye level, a good six inches lower than mine.
“Ma, I’m fine,” I said, brushing her off.
She gave me a disbelieving look but went back to her pot, flipping the television off, “You hungry?”
“Not really.”
“Well, I’m making hot chocolate for Scotty and Kev, want some for the walk?” she looked back over her shoulder as I nodded my head and grabbed a muffin, ducking through the swinging door into the dining room. My dad and John were at the table, paperwork stretched out across the length of the cherry oak surface.
“Working hard?” I asked.
“Hardly working,” my dad responded with a smile and a stretch. He leaned back in his chair and took his glasses off, leaving them to rest on top of his head of gray hair, “we’re working on the new wine label for Parker Foods. What do you think?” He turned a paper with market figures that he had doodled on towards me.
“Now dad, you know my business advice doesn’t come free. You have to pay top dollar for the best.” I looked back at him to see him staring at me, brows knit together.
“Pumpkin, are you okay?” he asked and I felt near tears. No. I wasn’t okay, not at all. Apparently I was having fortune telling nightmares about murder, but I couldn’t tell him that. I hadn’t told anyone that the dreams were back. My parents would just want to throw me back in therapy and everyone else would start up with that look again. People would start watching their comments even more; rooms would fall silent when I walked in. I couldn’t handle that, not again.
“I’m fine,” I lied again, purposefully nudging John’s elbow, causing him to mess up the line he was highlighting as if it would prove I was my usual, perfectly normal self.
“Isn’t it time for you to go to school?” he asked in an annoyed tone snatching the white out from beside the centerpiece.
“Not before I get my smooch,” my dad said. With an eye roll and a sigh I backtracked around the table and planted one on his cheek, “Thank you. Have a good day at school pumpkin.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I replied and headed into the den.
I found Scotty perched on the edge of the couch, hands hovering over his laptop but his eyes glued to the television. The look on his face was of pure horror. Next to him Kevin sat staring wide-eyed at the screen, steaming coffee mug halfway to his lips, and wrapped up in a blanket his eyes puffy and nose red.
“Did you see this?” Scotty asked me, unwilling to look away from the news.
“Yeah, mom’s watching it in the kitchen, creepy huh?” I replied, keeping my eyes off the television. Trying to keep my hands from shaking I tore a chunk from my muffin and popped it in my mouth.
“Do you know Mr. Whitman?” Kevin asked, his British accent shining through his congestion. I nodded, “His dogs went missing again and I think they’ve just been found.” He motioned at the TV and I shuddered at the thought. Mr. Whitman lived miles deeper into the woods and was at least 100 years old. He was the type you might find lurking in the shadows or cooking up some road kill and he creeped everyone out. I mostly felt bad for him. The only things he really had that loved him were his dogs and as a prank kids from school would sneak out to his house at night and release them into the woods.
“I should use it in my next book, I always thought old Whitman would make a good character,” Scotty said, taking a pen from behind his ear and jotting a note down on a pad of paper resting on the couch. Their whole cottage was covered in notes Scotty had written himself on ideas for his books or changes he needed to make to certain chapters. He was the most disorganized person I knew, and Kevin was the most organized.
“Speaking of books,” I said, happy to change the subject, “is it almost finished?” I was referring to the final book in Scotty’s best selling and wildly popular crime novel series.
“No!” Kevin scolded, turning to Scotty, “and his deadline is only three weeks away!” It was hard to take Kevin so seriously when he sounded like he was holding his nose while he spoke.
“It’ll be finished,” Scotty said before turning to back to me, “it’s just missing something, it’s the ending, I can’t get it right.” He looked past me and I could see an idea forming behind his eyes.
“What’s wrong with you?” Kevin asked, looking up at me, “you look awful.”
“And they say chivalry is dead,” I stuck my tongue out at him, “what’s wrong with you?”
“The damn flu.”
The front door opened and I whipped around to see Hoyt Reed, my best friend, stepping inside in his blue jeans and letterman’s jacket. His tall stature and buff build were topped off with sandy blonde hair and bright green eyes. Still tan from a summer of touch football he stood with his hands shoved in his pockets, and eyes still clinging to the hope of sleep.
“Hoyt!” Scotty and Kevin greeted him and a few moments later my mom and dad were emerging from the kitchen. When we moved to Redwood my dad called Mr. Reed, Hoyt’s father, who he knew from doing business in the city and asked if Hoyt would look out for me. The first day I started back to school Hoyt showed up at my front door and offered to walk me to school, and the rest was history. He’d been looking out for me ever since.
My dad clapped him on the back and they shook hands in that manly fashion, “big game tonight,” he stated, “is your father coming?”
I saw the momentary flash of sadness in Hoyts eyes before he gave an apologetic smile, “he’s got business in the city,” he said. Mr. Reed never came to any of Hoyt’s games, no matter how many awards or scholarship offers he got it was never enough all he wanted was his dad to see him play.
“Well we’ll be there,” my mom said, giving him a hug. My mom had taken to adopting Hoyt as her own, and I think he appreciated it. He towered over he small frame and looked like her might crush her with the hug, “you two be safe,” she said as I pulled on my boots and favorite red jacket and made for the door. Then we started our walk through the forest, my favorite part of the morning.
We walked through the woods and I admired the sheer beauty of the scene. I loved the way the trees were like statues, unique and still. But even more I loved the warm colors of the forest. It almost looked like the whole forest had caught up with some magical, never-ending fire. There was still a little life in the woods but in a few weeks all the signs would be gone and the world would be muffled by snow for the season, my least favorite season. Winter.
The woods connected everything in Redwood, like an underground system. I felt safe in the trees; I always knew where I was going. In the city I was lost before I even stepped out the door, there was too much noise. In the trees everything was peaceful. There were no cold, unfeeling, tall buildings looming over me. There were no reminders of dark ally way he’d kidnapped me in.
“Alright,” Hoyt said, nudging me a little, “what’s up with you?”
“Nothing.” Lying was starting to feel easy again, normal. And I hated that. I hated hiding things from my family and friends-Hoyt especially.
“You’ve been walking around like a zombie the past two weeks, don’t give me that ‘nothing’ shit,” he said, stepping off the dirt path and taking a shortcut we discovered last year.
I sighed, “I just haven’t been sleeping much.”
“Don’t lie to me,” he said, “I will tickle torture the truth out of you.”
I smiled and slugged him on the arm. We hit pavement and the edge of town. Sophie, our other best friend, lived on Main street so we walked past rows of houses until reaching the only road in and out of Redwood that ran right down the middle and led to the high school.
I stood in the driveway while Hoyt jogged up to the front door, ringing the bell. I could see the blue and red flashing a mile down the road. The brick building of Redwood High seemed to burn against the gray sky backdrop.
Sophie popped her head out of her second story bedroom window, “I’ll be right down!” she called, and I could hear her music bumping through the air. Hoyt waited on the porch until she came bouncing out the front door.
“Jesus guys, did you hear?” she asked, “about the dogs I mean? My mom’s over there now. Horrible isn’t it?”
My stomach lurched and I nodded.
By the time we reached the school everyone was buzzing with the news. A small crowd of students had gathered at the edge of the woods but the police were ushering them toward the school. Sophie waved at her mom before we stepped inside.
In the halls I could feel gazes being magnetized to us. Hoyt was heir to the largest estate in New York, which included his father’s billion-dollar company, and a total hunk. Sophie was the sheriff’s daughter, and the prettiest girl at school. And I was the old-new girl, the one who’s abduction made the news. My family had money too, it wasn’t old money like the Reed’s-the servants and sports cars kind, but the Parker Food’s label could be seen on the shelves of every grocery store in town and throughout the state.
It wasn’t that way at my old school. In the Upper East Side everyone is popular, one-way or another. But Redwood was as small town as it gets.
We took our usual back row seats in homeroom and waited for the bell to ring. Mr. Gutterson started passing out the morning announcements and taking roll while Sophie leaned across Hoyt (who was already falling asleep) to say, “I’m so excited for the Fall Ball!” and even though I rolled my eyes I was excited too. The first formal dance of my last year of high school, and my dress was hot.
Then, as if she jinxed it, Mr. Gutterson said, “The Fall Ball is canceled.” An immediate uproar coursed through the class. He put his hands up to silence the class and said, “as well as tonight’s game.” At that Hoyt’s eyes flew open and he joined in with the rest of the moans of anger. Mr. Gutterson continued, “In light of recent events-which I’m sure you’re all aware of, and the close proximity to the school, Redwood PD has asked us to postpone the game and cancel the dance since both are held outside.”
“Can’t they just move it inside?” Sophie asked in the most controlled tone she could manage, her dress was hot too.
“Indoor football seems highly unlikely Ms. Cook. And the only space big enough to have the dance is the gym and the floors won’t be done getting re-finished until next week, it’s cheaper to cancel it. Also all students are forbidden from eating or hanging out outside during lunch or passing periods.” More protests were voiced before Mr. Gutterson got fed up and started the lesson, The Cold War.
Despite the new rules Sophie, Hoyt, and I went to our normal outdoor spot behind the school for lunch. Sophie immediately started relating the outrageous stories people had been telling about the occurrence in the woods, which stretched far from the truth.
“What I don’t get is why they have to cancel the game? The field has lights!” Hoyt asked through a mouthful of ham sandwich.
“It happened pretty close to the school, they’re probably worried students will sneak in and mess with the crime scene,” Sophie said. Hoyt seemed to be satisfied with her answer and chugged down a can of mountain dew before finishing off his sandwich.
I picked at my turkey and provolone sub feeling less hungry by the second when a loud crunching noise disrupted the silence.
“Did you hear that?” I asked, turning to look behind us towards the trees. They seemed still except for the rhythmic sway of the breeze gusting through the half barren branches. Sophie and Hoyt followed my gaze, “You heard that right?” I asked again. My mind went racing to the nightmare. The images of running through trees, my arms scraped and bruised flashed across my brain, the yellow glare of the lifeless dogs.
“It was nothing,” Sophie tried to reassure me, but my heart was already flipping over in my chest.
“But you heard it right?” Our eyes stayed fixed on the empty, fire colored forest.
“Yeah, I heard it,” Hoyt said. His hand hung in the air, halfway to his mouth, a chip clutched in his grasp. He looked ready to stand and fight off anything that came out of the trees.
“Seriously guys, it was probably nothing,” Sophie offered, but she didn’t sound so sure now. We sat for a few more seconds, straining our eyes and ears before another sound came, but not from the trees.
“What the hell are you looking at?” a voice asked.
All of our heads whipped around in unison to see a man standing a few feet away from the us, head cocked to the side. He was tall like Hoyt, but leaner. His hair was a rich brown color and his eyes matched it perfectly. His olive complexion contrasted nicely with the navy pea coat and dark wash jeans he wore.
“Axel?” Sophie said, disbelieving.
The more I looked at him the more I saw the features Hoyt and his brother shared, like their strong bone structure and quirky smile. Their arch of their noses matched and the held themselves the same, shoulders back. But while Hoyt was attractive, Axel was beautiful, like a dark angel.
I’d never met Axel but I wasn’t surprised when Sophie stood and slapped him across the face before grabbing her backpack and stomping back inside. A few months before I moved to Redwood Hoyt and Axel’s mother had an accident leaving her in a coma. No doctor could explain her condition and the town rumor mill propelled itself with speculation about what happened to Winnifred Reed. Their dad spent most of his time in the city, working and looking for a way to revive his wife, who stayed at a private care facility, leaving Hoyt to be his own parent. Hoyt didn’t like to talk about it but after the accident Axel just vanished. He never said bye and never came back, until now.
Hoyt stood and I worried he might punch Axel; he definitely had the height and muscle advantage and would probably knock him out. He just brushed past him, following after Sophie and leaving me to clean up lunch.
“It’s Brennan right, Brennan Parker? My dad told me your family moved here a few years ago.”
I ignored the flips my heart was doing and turned to face him, tossing the last bits of food away, “Yes, almost three years ago.”
“Hoyt probably hasn’t talked about me but I’m Axel,” he extended his hand to me but I didn’t take it.
“I should go check on him,” I said.
Axel smiled, “I’m not all bad Brennan.”
I heard the familiar creak of the door and looked up to see Sophie sticking her head out, “Bren! Come on! The bell just rang and if the Principal catches you out here you’re totally dead!”
I hurried over to Sophie, only glancing back at Axel once.
