Page 53 of In Her Wake
“For him to finish his work.For him to understand that his philosophy is just another way of saying he’s afraid.”The mannequin leaned forward, its posture suddenly intense.“He’s just playing with dolls, Sheriff Graves.That’s all he’s doing.”
Jenna took a step closer, reaching out.“Tell me who you are.Tell me whoheis.”
But as her hand neared the mannequin’s shoulder, the cabin began to dissolve around her.The walls became transparent, then vanished entirely.The typewriter melted like candle wax, the pages scattering into butterflies that fluttered away into nothingness.The mannequin remained last, its faceless head turned toward her as the forest itself faded into gray mist.
“Remember—euthanasia, and happiness,” its voice echoed as it too began to dissolve.“Remember...”
Jenna jerked upright in bed, her heart hammering.Her bedroom was dark except for the faint glow of her digital alarm clock—3:17 a.m.The sheets were tangled around her legs, damp with sweat despite the cool air from the open window.For a moment, she remained perfectly still, trying to hold onto the fragments of her dream before they slipped away like water through cupped hands.
The forest.The cabin.The faceless mannequin at the typewriter.
She fumbled for the notepad she kept on her nightstand, flipping it open and scrawling by the dim light of the clock: “Mannequin—typewriter—euthanasia and happiness.”The pen shook in her hand, leaving the words jagged and barely legible.
“Who were you?”she whispered into the darkness of her bedroom.“When did we meet?”
Dawn was still hours away.Jenna lay back down, staring at her ceiling, knowing sleep would be elusive now.The mannequin’s gravelly voice still seemed to hover in the air around her, a presence lingering at the edge of wakefulness.Somewhere beyond her window, an owl called out, its lonely cry mingling with the whispers of her fading dream.
She closed her eyes, trying to recall the mannequin’s face—but there had been no face to remember, just that smooth, blank surface where features should have been.Yet it had known her.Had claimed they’d met before.
Jenna pushed her damp hair back from her forehead.Was this just her subconscious processing the case, building connections between the mannequins they’d found and the nameless dread they’d inspired?Or was it something more—another visitation, like Marjory Powell’s, but from someone she couldn’t quite place?
CHAPTER TWENTY
By the time the digital clock blinked 3:24 a.m., sleep had abandoned Jenna completely, chased away by the mannequin’s words still echoing in her mind.She threw back the tangled sheets and set her bare feet on the cool hardwood floor, letting the chill ground her in reality while the remnants of her dream hovered at the edges of her consciousness.Something about that faceless figure tugged at her memory—not just from the dreamworld, but from her waking life.
“Remember—euthanasia, and happiness,” Jenna whispered, testing the words on her tongue as if their taste might reveal their meaning.She flicked on the lamp, squinting against the sudden brightness.
The notepad she’d scribbled on lay open on her nightstand, the words barely legible in her haste.She picked it up, studying her own handwriting as if it belonged to someone else.“Mannequin—typewriter—euthanasia and happiness.”
What did it mean?And where had they met before?
Jenna padded across the room and began to pace.The wooden floor creaked beneath her weight, a familiar sound in the stillness of early morning.Five steps one way, turn, five steps back.Her mind raced, trying to assemble the puzzle pieces of her dream.
The cabin in the woods.The mannequin at the typewriter.The voice like gravel.
“I thought I was finished with this kind of thing for good,” the mannequin had said.“Thought I could settle down to a solitary life out here in the woods.”
A writer, then.Someone who had retreated from the world.Someone she had met, however briefly.Jenna’s steps quickened as she tried to summon the memory from the depths of her mind.
She halted mid-stride, a flash of recognition stopping her in her tracks.
Five years ago.The old bookstore on Pine Street that had closed down last summer.A signing event she’d attended on a rare day off, drawn by the dark, psychological thrillers that helped her unwind, paradoxically enough.
The book had been...what was it called?Something seasonal.She crossed to her bookshelf, scanning the spines until she reached a dark green cover with gold lettering.
Bloodroot Season, by Dean Alcox.
She pulled the book from the shelf, opening it to the title page where a scrawled signature lurked in the corner.The inscription read simply: “To Sheriff Graves—the darkness always yields to those who walk into it willingly.– D.Alcox.”
She remembered him now—tall, with unruly gray hair and eyes that seemed to look through rather than at people.He’d been gruff, uncomfortable with the attention, answering questions with terse, barely polite responses.When she’d mentioned her profession, however, he’d paused, studying her with sudden interest before penning that oddly personal inscription.
“I met you once, Sheriff Graves,” the mannequin had said.“Just once.”
Dean Alcox was the mannequin in her dream.Dean Alcox, whose latest book she’d seen advertised but hadn’t yet purchased.
She needed coffee for this.
Jenna moved to the kitchen, her thoughts racing ahead of her steps.She filled the reservoir of her ancient coffeemaker, measured grounds, and hit the brew button.The machine gurgled to life, promising caffeine in exchange for patience.
