Henry Franks(41)

Behind a tree, he saw someone walking through the woods, long hair whipping around in the wind. William slipped again, sliding into a tree. The figure turned around at the noise. The person screamed, voice lost in the storm, and then ran.



Showered and warm, Henry pushed the case of pills from one end of his desk to the other, counting out the days until he ran out. Enough for now; nothing else mattered.

His father had come home long enough for fast food burgers before he left the house again. Henry rescued his backpack and his cell phone—no missed calls—and then went back to staring at his pills. Taking them would let him sleep without dreaming, no nightmares and no dead daughter calling out his name. He thought of Justine and put the medicine back, closing the pillbox.

A branch scurried against the glass, trying to claw its way in, and the wind moaned beneath his window as he lay down on his bed, cell phone beside him.



“Victor.” She calls my name, her red-gloved hands resting protectively on her belly, swollen in pregnancy.

I can’t see her eyes, hidden behind layers of red cloth, wrapped around her from head to toe. There are fingers grasping mine, pulling the bandages away from me, and she calls my name. So soft, gentle, these names she calls me.

“Victor.”

And I answer, the words whisper-quiet as I struggle against the bonds holding me down, dripping red cloth from manacles and leather restraints where they keep her hidden away from me, tearing my daughter from my arms.

“Victor.”

But I stopped listening to her long before she told me she was pregnant; even before she died or I killed her or either of us were born. It was there, in the silence that was the loudest noise of all, the single gunshot, between our daughter’s eyes behind those red-gloved hands, resting so protectively against her belly, swollen with pregnancy like an over-ripe melon spoiling in the sun.

That was the final curse. That sun, too hot, even in the rain, creating steam and heat and I can’t remember if I ever saw snow.

“Victor.”

But I remember my name.

I remember my name.

I remember.

“Victor.”

I loaded the stolen gun or stole the loaded gun, I forget. Doesn’t matter now, anyway; it’s just a dream, Elizabeth, go back to sleep. Hush, little one, just a dream, Daddy’s here; it’s just a dream. I love you.

I remember that, at least.

Go back to sleep, sweetheart, Daddy will protect you from the monsters under the bed, the witches in the closet, the ghosts in the attic.

“Victor!”

Even when she screams my name it’s so soft, gentle in the evening breeze, quiet as a whisper shattering with the crack of the bullet against the bone. Who, I ask her as she unwinds the red bandages so I can see her face before she dies, will protect Elizabeth now?

Me. I answer myself. I’ll protect you, Elizabeth. I promise.

And she’s here.

So close I can reach out for her, touch her, hold my daughter in my arms and rock her to sleep.

But when I try, my hands pass right through her. A ghost. A mist. Insubstantial.

I’ll protect you, Elizabeth.

I promise.

And she’s here.

“Elizabeth?” Her name forces its way out of my mouth, as though someone else is speaking through me and I can’t stop the words. Can’t not speak.

She looks at me, her eyes dark as a night without stars.

“What’s your last name?” I ask, but that isn’t my question, not what I was going to say. Where did those words come from?

I’ll protect you, Elizabeth, I wanted to say. I promise. But then different words sounded, in a different voice.

“Ask Victor,” she says.

“I’m Victor.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Can I go now?”

“What’s your last name?”

I’ll protect you, Elizabeth, but the words go unspoken.

“I don’t remember, Daddy,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

I promise.

The voice is silent for a long time before finally speaking words that mean nothing to me.

“What’s Mommy’s name?”

Red bandages cover her, dripping like blood from wounds I can’t see. They twist around her body, covering her mouth, and when her answer comes the voice is mine.

“Alexandra.”

And then she’s gone and my voice is my own again, but there’s no one left alive to hear me.





twenty three




The ringtone on Henry’s cell phone was drowned out by the wind but the vibrations against his fingers woke him from the dream, lingering images less important than the name echoing in his memory.

“Hello?” he said, and then again, louder, “Hello.”

“It’s me.” Justine’s voice was quiet as Henry checked the time on the phone.

“I noticed. It’s past midnight.”

“There’s someone in your backyard, eating the food,” she said.

Henry scrambled out of bed, sliding on bare feet across the floor. He bent the miniblinds away from the window but couldn’t see anything. “What?”

“Looks like a bag lady. She’s scratching at the side of your house like she’s trying to get in. Can’t you hear her?”