Peripheral Vision: A Supernatural Thriller(32)

“Hello? Is someone there?” No response. She listened intently, holding her breath for what seemed like ages, but there was nothing more. She let out her deep, stale breath, took in another, and then slowly walked in the direction of the sound. Sarah tightened her grip on her cell phone and pushed her way through the tree line. Nothing. No one. This made her even more paranoid, but she was still driven. She checked over her shoulder-still nothing, but the chills ran her spine just the same. She picked up the pace, her steps were short, but quick and determined.

She reached into her pocket and looked at her phone. No Service. She stopped, and slowly rolled her head from side to side trying to calm herself. Once a little calmer, she looked around and realized that she didn’t know where she was anymore. Which direction had she come from? Which direction should she be going? She picked the nearest path and starting walking.

The sunlight had now started to grow thinner between the canopy of the towering pine trees that surrounded her. Sarah stubbornly continued to follow what she believed to be the path back to the tunnel, but soon she came to the realization that she was wrong. She now found herself standing in front of a decaying iron fence.

The cold, rusting iron fence surrounded a small round cemetery of old tombstones and small crosses-a small family plot. There was a weathered sign on the gate of the cemetery that read “Gate 17”. A strong flash of familiarity hit Sarah, but she couldn’t place the why or the where. Curiosity, however, got the better of her and she opened the gate. She walked through the wild grass and stepped around the tombstones. Sarah didn’t really know what she was looking for, but it didn’t take her long to find it. She stopped. The last name on all the headstones was the same... BAYARD. Her breath was yanked from her lungs.

Jonathan Bayard

September 23, 1818 - October 17, 1859

James Eric Bayard

March 19, 1844 - April 1, 1889

Peter J. Bayard

December 25, 1870 - November 21, 1900

Eli Marcus Bayard

June 7, 1917 - October 17, 1965

Grace Louisa Bayard

December 3, 1922 - September 25, 1970

Sarah stared at the second to last tombstone. The tomb of Eli Marcus Bayard. There was something to it, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Some connection she wanted to make. I know this answer, she wanted to shout. It was just on the outside of her mind, but the air was too thin here- slippy. It made it hard to think. And then giving in to some deep unknown desire, Sarah reached out and placed her hand on the tombstone. Immediately she was taken by a violent vision. Her body stiffened, and seized up as her hand seemed to be frozen in place.

Her mind was jolted with images of a red river. At the same time, the sounds of gunshots and screams rang inside her head. The vision flipped to the image of a wounded man crossing the vast, empty, grassy plains on the back of a horse. He leaned forward in his saddle, visibly bleeding, and barely clinging to the animal beneath him. He looked miniscule against the massive panoramic view of the grassy hills and blue sky around him. Sarah looked down at her feet, her bare toes wiggled up at her from the tall grass below. She looked back up to the bleeding man, wanting to get a better look at his face, but he was gone.

The edges of this world seemed to grow blurry, and then the vision flipped again. Sarah saw Eli’s tombstone and the date... 1965. Her bare feet were cold as she found herself standing in a very familiar kitchen with butterfly wallpaper. The scattered pieces of a broken blue vase were on the floor to her left. To her right, two bodies were lying on the cold tile of the kitchen, their blood was mixing together into a shallow crimson pool. All at once everything began to shift and turn grey. It was as if this world was being sucked through a small vacuum tube and turned inside out.

And then she was rid of it and back in the graveyard. Her hand still stuck to the tombstone. The force of the ending vision suddenly and violently threw Sarah backwards. The back of her head hit the ground hard, knocking her unconscious. In the darkness of her mind, Sarah heard a woman singing her name in the distance. Follow me… come with me through the trees.

When Sarah came to, she was staring up into the dark canopy of the tall pine trees. It was late. She’d been unconscious for some time, it seemed. She sat up and was shocked to see that she was no longer surrounded by tombstones or the iron fence. In fact, there was no cemetery at all. She was sure she hadn’t dreamt it, she could still feel the cold of the tombstone on her hand- so where was it? Her thoughts were quickly interrupted as she heard the snapping of branches again. Sarah froze, and now there was the sound of muffled voices as well. Sarah picked up on the distinct sense that someone was watching her from the trees. The sensation of eyes upon her was strong and heavy.

We’ve been checking you out, and we like what we see. Sarah’s mind was conjuring up memories of the two animals from the bar. Nick had protected her last night, but now, she was alone and lost in the woods. She began to panic. Sarah jumped to her feet and began to run away from the sounds, cutting through the trees. The branches grasped at her, tearing at her shirt and scratching her face. Sweat ran down her cheeks and mixed with the new stinging cuts on her face. She looked back in the direction of the voices. They were gaining on her. Sarah’s foot hit an old tree root, she stumbled and fell face first, sliding to a stop in a pile of dead leaves. She scrambled awkwardly to get up, but it was too late. Two figures made their way out of the tree line. They were silhouetted against the backdrop of the lowering sun. Sarah’s heart stopped, but then, she started to make out the two figures. They were wearing jogging suits and headbands. The male jogger turned and said something to his female counterpart. Sarah couldn’t make it out, but they were soon at her side.