Chapter 3

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 1:25 A.M.

… But I can't sleep.

It's not the disturbing sound of rusted gears set in motion (though I keep hearing them) or the moving shadows in the upper room of the dredge (I have decided that I hate shadows). What scares me the most is listening to Sarah. I can hear the fear in Sarah's voice. Up until I saw that video I'd never heard her sound like that before.

She just doesn't get scared. When she purchased her first video camera, Sarah interviewed a drifter walking through town. This was a terrible idea. The man was not well-dressed, to say the very least. All of his possessions were tied to his back in black plastic garbage bags and he carried a sign that read Los Angeles, if you please.

Sarah talks to strangers all the time without thinking twice about it. She peers into parked cars, eavesdrops in the café, and occasionally tries to sneak into the bar (for lively conversation, not drinks).

When we were eleven, Sarah convinced me we could climb up a steep ravine to the very top. She was right — we made it — but we couldn't get back down without the help of a park ranger, her father, my father, and half the volunteer fire department (three lumberjacks and a retired police officer). This event preceded my earliest memory of stern fatherly advice: Find some other friends.Try out for football if you want, but stop spending so much time with Sarah. only get you into trouble.

There was the hitchhiking incident, in which Sarah convinced me we needed to visit the metropolis a hundred miles away so that we could "observe city dwellers in their native environment." When night approached and we couldn't find a ride back home, we were forced to call my dad. A second warning was offered on the long ride home. You two had better stop acting like idiots.It's only a matter of time before one of you gets hurt.

There was very little else said.

And then, only a month ago, we were caught trying to break into the library on a Thursday night. It was supposed to be closed and we had hoped to find more old newspapers, but we found Gladys Morgan instead. She was sitting in the dark with a shotgun pointed at the door, reading The Sound and the Fury (one of the dullest books ever written). We were very lucky she recognized us. Otherwise she would have filled us so full of buckshot we'd never set foot in a restaurant again without someone mistaking us for Swiss cheese (her words, not mine). She also told us we were dumber than two bags full of rocks. Then she called our parents.

As you can probably imagine, our two sets of parents have long preferred the idea of us staying as far away from each other as possible. It is this long history of trouble that made them respond so forcefully when something really bad finally did happen.

It's why, if they have their way, Sarah and I will never see each other again.

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 2:00 A.M.

I have just made the mistake of checking my email. This is a bad idea in the middle of the night. I should know better. But there was nothing when I checked for messages earlier, not even a measly welcome home. All day I've been wondering if my parents found something and deleted it. It's hard to tell how closely they're monitoring everything.

But now something's slipped through. And I'll admit — I debated whether or not to open it. Because I knew — the moment Sarah and I were in contact, it would start all over again.

Still, how could I resist? I'd never been able to before.

"Learn from your mistakes," part of me was saying.

"They weren't mistakes," another part of me was saying.

And, of course, curiosity won. Or maybe it was friendship that won.

I opened her email.

I loved that — just drop whatever it is you're doing. Such a Sarah thing to say. Like I hadn't spent the past two weeks glued to a hospital mattress, wondering when the pain was going to go away.

There was a password attached to the bottom of the email. theraven.

I have to say, I don't appreciate her passwords. It's like she's trying to make things even scarier than they already are. Things are creepy enough without bringing Edgar Allan Poe back from the dead. She knew I'd find her message in the middle of the night while my parents were asleep and every shadow looked like something out to get me.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I

pondered weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume

of forgotten lore,

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly

there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping

at my chamber door.

Does she even know about this poem or is she just pulling these passwords out of thin air?

Something happened fifteen nights ago that has changed everything. I'm sure what Sarah wants me to watch has something to do with that night. It's why I'm writing this down, because my lingering fear has turned to constant alarm these past weeks. I have a dreadful feeling someone is watching me all the time, that someone or something will open the creaking door to my room in the cold night and do away with me. I want there to be some kind of record.

If I wondered whether or not I should open the email, now there's no question in my mind.

Once you're in, you're in.

Once you're caught, you're caught.

I have to watch what she sent. I have to watch it right now.

SARAHFINCHER.COM

PASSWORD:

THERAVEN

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 9:00 A.M.

Last night I sort of freaked out. After I watched the video I think I had the second moment of real terror in my life.

The first was having it happen to me.

The second was seeing it. What was Sarah thinking, sending this to me?

I've been scared before — actually, let's be honest, I'm scared most of the time. There's a blind man who sits outside the Rainbow Bar and when I walk by he follows my every move with a clouded white eye — that scares me. At home I hear creaking stairs at night when it should be quiet, and I call out but no one answers. That scares me. The thing living under my bed, Gladys and her shotgun, the woods at night. It all scares me, and it's all like clothes in a dryer that just keep rolling around in my head from one day to the next.

But watching that video last night was different. I couldn't even write. I turned on as many lights as I could reach. I turned on the radio and listened to the church channel until a m

an started talking about spiritual warfare, which sharpened my fear even more.

The reason the video terrified me was because it made me remember that night. Since it happened, I've had only a fragmented memory, little bits and pieces. But now I remember something more about that night. I remember what I saw that made me fall. It was there in the camera lens at the end.

It was watching me.

It's always watching me.

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 10:15 A.M.

I remember waking up in the hospital. What it was like.

One moment I was falling. Then I saw Sarah's face hovering in the dim light but couldn't hear what she was trying to say. It felt like the bones in my leg had exploded.

Then I was out. When I opened my eyes I actually expected to see the ceiling of my room and smell my dad's coffee brewing downstairs. My head lolled to one side and there sat my parents, glassy-eyed from sleeplessness.

I remember asking, "What's going on?" and my mom jumping up and saying, "Ryan! Go get the nurse, Paul — go on!"

My dad smiled at me, opened the door, and ran from the room. I heard the muffled sound of him yelling for a nurse outside the door. Mom leaned over the bed rail and held my hand.

"Where are we?" I asked.

"You had an accident, but you're awake now — you're awake and you're going to be just fine."

"How long have I been asleep?"

"The nurse — she'll bring the doctor, he'll want to talk to you. Just stay awake. No more sleeping until your dad comes back with the nurse. Okay?"

She squeezed my hand pretty hard, as if it might help keep me from drifting off.

At that point, I didn't have any memory of what had happened to me. There were little bits and pieces, but nothing concrete.

When the doctor came in, I asked if I could use the bathroom and he told me that if I wanted to I could just go ahead and pee. Certain embarrassing arrangements had been made when I was admitted.

"How long have I been asleep?"

"According to your chart you were nonresponsive when they found you at 12:45 a.m. So you've been asleep — or, more accurately, you've been in an unconscious state — for about fifty-five hours."

"So you're saying I've been in a coma?"

"If you want to be dramatic, then, yes, you've been in a coma. You took a pretty good fall. It's amazing you're alive and well enough to tell about it."

"Why can't I move my leg?"

"Because we've surrounded it with a Big Bertha — a really big plaster cast. I'm afraid it will be awhile before you can walk on it again."

I began to fall asleep in the hospital bed. My mom shook my shoulders and yelled at me and the smell of old bicycle tires went away. I tried harder to stay awake after that because my head hurt and having my mom shout in my face made it hurt even more.

Eventually they took most of the tubes out of my body (including the one that let me stay in bed to use the bathroom). I took some rides in a wheelchair, and my parents started to talk to me. Talking with them was nice at first, because they were truly happy I was okay. But then I asked about Sarah and they both took deep breaths and got serious on me.

"We don't want you seeing her anymore," Dad said.

"But she's my best friend," I protested.

Mom took one look at me and I could tell what she was thinking: What kind of best friend nearly kills you?

"Then you'll have to find a new friend," Dad said. "We're serious this time, Ryan. If you can't stay away from each other, we'll move. I'll transfer to the city and we'll sell the house.

We don't want to, but we will."

"What are you saying?"

"We're saying you can't see Sarah anymore," said my mother. "You're not to contact her — no email, no phone calls — and she won't be coming around when we go home. Her parents agree with us. It's the best thing for a while."

"The best thing for who?"

"You were out in the woods in the middle of the night, breaking into private property," said my dad. He was talking more than usual and for once I wished he'd shut up. "You nearly fell to your death! I think it's fair to say that keeping her away from you is best for everyone, including you."

"It wasn't her fault this time. It was me — it was my idea."

"All the more reason to keep you two apart." My dad was on a roll. "Both your brains go batty when you're together. There's talk in Skeleton Creek of burning that dredge to the ground. The police spent a whole day down there locking it up tight so no one else tries to get in. That thing is a death trap."

After that, my parents went quiet. Neither of them are talkative folks — no one who lives in Skeleton Creek talks very much. They'd laid down the law about Sarah, and that was that. I had to stay there in the hospital for another ten days. I couldn't get online and my parents wouldn't let me use the phone.

What would they do if they knew Sarah was contacting me? They'd sell the house, that's what they'd do.

But there's something in that dredge. She's recorded it twice now. I can't tell my parents, but who doesn't tell their parents about something like this?

I don't know what I'm going to do.

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 11:00 A.M.

Mom just checked up on me. The computer was safely off.

She has no idea.

Or maybe she does.

I wonder if my mom is sneakier than she looks.

The day after I woke up in the hospital, the police came to my room and asked me a lot of questions. They wanted to know if I was trying to steal anything, who else was involved, why I'd done it, did I remember any details about what happened. I didn't tell them anything they didn't already know or couldn't figure out on their own. I went to the dredge, I fell, I got a serious concussion and shattered my leg. What else was I going to say? That I was looking for a phantom and might have found one? I had a strong feeling if I said anything like that they'd move me out of the hospital and into the psych ward.

As it turns out, my mental health was the very reason why they kept me for so many days. I could have gone home a week earlier, but there was a psychiatrist who kept stopping by. My dad was back at work but my mom was still hanging around. She left the room whenever the psychiatrist came in. She (the psychiatrist) was pretty, in a button-down sort of way. She had red hair and glasses and a notepad. She asked me if I'd been taking any drugs or drinking. She asked what I did with my free time and about Sarah. She wondered if she could read some of my stories, and I politely declined. I didn't want her digging around in my stuff. I was pretty sure it wouldn't look good if she found my paranoid rantings about Skeleton Creek.

When they finally let me go home, I had the distinct feeling I'd barely passed some sort of emotional exam they'd run me through. It felt a little like standardized testing at school, like I'd sort of passed but not really, and anyway, I'd never know for sure how I did because they wouldn't tell me. It was an empty feeling.

Okay, I know I'm avoiding something. I'm writing quickly, but I'm also dodging what I really should be writing about. Now I'm back to the present — can I avoid it any longer? If I get it down on paper, it will make it real. But maybe if I write it down, I'll fear it less. This strategy often works for me when I'm scared. Writing the things I'm scared of — especially if I turn them into a story – makes them feel as if they've been relegated to the page and I can allow myself to worry less about them in real life.

So here goes.

There was a presence upstairs with me in the dredge before it walked in front of Sarah's camera lens. I was examining the rusted gears, trying to imagine how they could possibly spring to life. The rust came off on my fingers. (Days later, Mom would ask me about the orange mark on my pants where I'd wiped the rust off, and I wouldn't have an answer for her. I guess I have one now.)

Just as I wiped my fingers, I turned toward the darkened path of boards that led away from the gears where Old Joe Bush had worked. There was a long, wide belt that ran into the black.

And sitting on the belt was a hand.

It was attached to an arm,

the arm to a body,

and the body was moving toward me.

There was a faint light all around the body as it moved closer to me.

I can see it now.

I am seeing it.

It was a silhouette. All in black, so I couldn't make out a face. But the body was large. Whoever — whatever — this was, it was big and slow. It stepped forward, steadying itself on the wide belt as it came, and it dragged its other leg behind.

I remember now how I realized three things all at once. The first was that I couldn't speak. I don't know if it was some force of darkness that constricted my throat or if it was simply pure terror, but either way, the best I could do was keep breathing. (Even that, I now recall, came with great effort.) The second thing — and this one was worse than the first — was that I found myself trapped. I was backed up against the wooden rail behind the gears, which was a corner section of the dredge that looked out over the bottom level. This thing that was after me had me cornered. The last realization I had — worse than the first two put together — was that all my terrible nightmares had finally come true. In the back of my mind, there had always been this one important fact: None of the monsters I'd imagined over the years had ever really come to get me. But now I saw that it was true — there really was a monster, and it really was going to scare me to death.

When it was close enough to touch me, I saw the shadow of its lips move. It spoke to me from beneath the wide brim of a workman's hat.

"Number forty-two is mine. Stay away from this place. I'm watching you."

And then, all at once, my own voice returned. I screamed, I backed up, and the old wooden rail fell away. I remember

now looking up as I fell and seeing that whatever had stood over me was gone. It had vanished. Or had it been there at all?

Sarah's video of the leg walking past, dragging the other behind it, makes me surer than ever that what I saw that night was real. I can't tell anyone but Sarah or they'll put me in the loony bin. I felt like people were watching me before the accident, but now it's much worse. My parents are watching me. I'm certain they��ll have everyone else in town watching me. Friday, Henry will arrive and he'll be watching. Gladys with her shotgun is watching me. The raven is watching at my window.

And the thing at the dredge — it has to be watching.

Waiting.

Or maybe it's coming to get me.