Page 29 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
I shove the key in the front door and shoulder the door open. Once inside, I lock the door and press my back against it, breathing hard. I calm down enough to realize that leaving a sharp blade lying unsecured in a windstorm is stupid. It’s a bad idea even if nobody takes it. I unlock the door and hurry outside to retrieve it.
A wind gust blows my hood up over my eyes as I’m running back to the house. As I push the hood back, I swear I see someone behind a screen of evergreen trees. A shape, nothing more. But when I stop and focus, all I see are swaying firs. Still, I take a step closer to the stand of trees, gripping the axe tightly.
“Hello?”
The wind tears my voice from my throat and swallows the sound.
“Get off my property,” I call, louder this time, ignoring how ridiculous I feel shouting into the empty woods.
I stand there a moment longer before I turn back to the house. I force myself to walk at a casual, unbothered pace even though my heart is thumping wildly and I want nothing more than to sprint to the safety of my home.
Back inside, I lock the door and carry the axe with me to the closet, where I hang up my coat and remove my boots. My pulse still races from the glimpse of the person watching me—if someone was even there. But at least my anger toward Emily has cooled.
There’s no good reason for my rage. Yes, she’s married to Tom Weakes’ son, and I hate that fact. But she’s not a threat to me, and I believe her that she didn’t take the axe. She may be harmless, but, based on her reaction to the news of the storm, she’s also likely to be useless if it turns out to be the monster the meteorologists are predicting. Right now, she’s an irritant at worst.
No, I admit, my fury has little to do with Emily Rose. I’m in a tailspin because there is someone out there, watching me. I felt their presence this morning and again, just now. This enrages me. This mountaintop home is supposed to be my sanctuary, my quiet, safe space tucked away at the end of the world. Much like Emily did when I read a few lines of her book, I now feel violated and exposed. And I hate it.
And part of it, I know, is the impending storm. Bad weather has always been a trigger for me, although I’ve worked over the past twenty-one years to deal with the emotions raging inside of me.
It’s as if an external storm activates a very similar internal one. Violent crashing images that I can’t make sense of will flash like lightning in my mind. My thoughts will be thunderous and unstoppable. And my body will seize up with terror.
I rest my palms on the table and fill my lungs. I breathe. I’ll get through this just like I’ve survived every other storm since the night of my attack.
My eyes fall on the axe where I’ve left it on the kitchen counter, and I realize it’s more than the storm. It’s more than Emily Rose having a connection to my past.
The axe being moved calls up memories from before the attack, a time whose memories were not wiped away.
In late January or early February, a month or a month and a half before I was attacked, I started to notice my things were out of place in my apartment. I’d come home from work and throw my keys in the bowl I kept on the table in the entryway, but the bowl wouldn’t be there. It had been moved to the living room. My hairbrush wasn’t where I left it. The light in my pantry was on when I was sure I turned it off. The door to my closet was open, but I knew I’d closed it.
It would’ve been easy to blame a roommate or a cleaning person, but I lived alone and couldn’t afford a housekeeping service.
The disturbances kept happening. They were always little things, but after a few weeks, there were enough of them that I began to doubt my sanity. Then I wondered if I had a medical condition. Was I sleepwalking or blacking out? How early, exactly, could the onset of early-onset Alzheimer’s happen?
I’d eventually been concerned enough to schedule an appointment with the general practitioner in town, but it was flu season, and the earliest appointment I could get was in March. When the appointment finally rolled around, I missed it. I was busy fighting for my life in the ICU.
The axe disappearing from my porch and showing up at the cabin brings the memories of that disorienting, unsettling period rushing back.
Stop.
I have to stay focused and grounded in reality if I want to make it through the coming storm. I can’t allow myself to slip into hysteria based on things that happened over two decades ago.
I pour a glass of water and make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I eat it while I check my email and respond to Robert’s last message. I warn him I’ll probably be without power for the next few days so he won’t worry. I consider calling his brother and sister-in-law to check in. I desperately want to talk to someone who’s not tied to Windy Rock or the events that happened there. But I don’t do it. They’ll know the storm’s bearing down, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to hide the worry in my voice.
I take my plate to the sink and brush the crumbs down the drain, wash and dry the plate, and return it to the cabinet. I head back to the computer to see whether Robert’s responded to my email—unlikely so soon, but possible. He hasn’t, but I see a notification from the Stay Your Way site, so I open the page and navigate to my inbox.
It’s a message from Tristan Rose. He’s concerned about the storm and wants to make sure Emily and I will be okay.
My finger hesitates over the reply button, and I realize I don’t want to respond.
“If he’s really worried, he can call the number I provided when I sent the directions,” I say aloud.
Maybe I’ll have phone service when he calls, and maybe I won’t. I don’t owe Tom Weakes’ son a damned thing. I tell myself this, but it’s not strictly true. I’ve taken his money, and he has the right to know whether his wife is safe. Still, I power off the computer without answering the message. My decision to ignore it sits heavy in my gut, like a rock.
I need to shake off this feeling—all these feelings. I lace up my running shoes, planning to head out for a jog before the storm hits, but as I’m opening the door, the wind rips a board from my abandoned chicken coop and sends it sailing across the yard. I back my way into the house and slam the door shut against the howling wind.
After unlacing my shoes and returning them to their spot in the closet, I can feel my anxiety and restlessness mounting. My mind goes to the whiskey in the liquor cabinet. I check the clock. It’s only one in the afternoon, far too early for a drink.
So I pick up my book, not considering whether the gruesome tale of the serial-killing Harpe brothers is really the best distraction, and head into the living room. I turn on the lamp near the couch and read until my eyes grow heavy. I don’t normally nap, but I was up early, and it’s been a stressful day. I tell myself there’s a good chance it’ll be a dramatic evening and overnight, so I might as well sleep while I can. I switch off the light and pull the blanket down from the back of the couch, snuggling into the pillow. As I drift off, a slightly sweet and spicy scent wafts up from the soft blanket and fills my nostrils. My eyes flutter open as my brain tries to place the smell.
