Invisible Terror Collection Part 16

By 3:00 a.m. her covers were twisted into a knot, her T-s.h.i.+rt was soaked with sweat - and still she dreamed.

Again the gray car crested the hill. Again in stop-frame slow motion, Becka cried out. Again Julie flew over the hood. But this time as Julie turned her head to see Becka, something changed.

It was no longer Julie.

It was Krissi!

Becka gasped. Now it was the group's sweet, super-friendly airhead who looked at Becka in pain and confusion.

The dream s.h.i.+fted and started again. This time Becka was standing in the middle of the road. This time she was struck by the car and sent flying over the hood toward the winds.h.i.+eld.

Another s.h.i.+ft. Krissi was on the road. Krissi was. .h.i.t. But before the cycle completed, there was another s.h.i.+ft. Instead of Krissi flying, it was Becka again. And instead of ending, the dream continued as Becka sailed toward the winds.h.i.+eld. She turned to see Julie and Krissi standing off to the side, watching. She looked back to the winds.h.i.+eld. It was directly in front of her. She tried to cover her face, but there was no time. Then, a split second before hitting the gla.s.s, Becka saw the driver. Stunned disbelief coursed through her. The face looking back at her was ... her own.

She hit the winds.h.i.+eld hard, felt the pain of impact, felt the gla.s.s shattering and wrapping itself around her head. And then she bolted awake.

Her heart pounded wildly as she sat trying to catch her breath.

She reached for the nightstand light and snapped it on. This was no ordinary dream. She and Scott had both had dreams like this before. Something was going on. Something much deeper and more frightening than what appeared on the surface. And by the looks of things, Julie wasn't the only one in danger ... so was Krissi. So was Becka. She glanced at her radio clock.

3:14.

She would not be going back to sleep.

Krissi hated Monday. First there was the usual problem of concentrating on her studies. On good days, this was tough enough.

Now, with one of her friends lying in the hospital, it was impossible. To top it off, it was the day of nominations, when each cla.s.s nominated candidates for next year's student-body offi-cers. Each cla.s.s had to cram together into a single room and choose their vote.

Since the seniors weren't going to be around next year (well, most of them anyway), they got to go home early. That meant the juniors had the library; the soph.o.m.ores, the gymnasium; and the freshmen, the cafeteria. When Krissi arrived at the library, it was hot and stuffy with standing room only. She couldn't do anything about the heat and stuffiness, but she knew how to get a seat. In a matter of seconds, she had managed to smile and flirt some guy into offering up one of the prized chairs. She thanked him graciously and took it.

Krissi really wasn't a user. She just figured it was okay to take advantage of the gifts she had. It wasn't her fault that those gifts happened to be a perfect body, perfect long, dark hair, and a perfect smile ... not to mention killer eyelashes. They were her pride and joy.

Krissi sat down and did her best to pay attention to the end-less stream of "I nominate so-and-so" and "I second such-and-such." She hated politics almost as much as she hated school.

Soon she was reaching down into her bag and pulling out a novel - the type with the handsome hunk in the torn s.h.i.+rt drooling over some babe with even less clothing. But after ten minutes, she closed the book with a sigh and turned back to her handbag for another distraction.

When she and her friends had been at the Hawthorne mansion, a very strange thing had happened: Krissi's hand had written a message all by itself. Back then, losing control like that had been pretty scary, and she had pleaded for it to stop. But lately, over the past day or so, the idea had started to intrigue her. In fact, she actually had begun experimenting to see if she could duplicate the experience.

So far the only words she'd written were "Check him out" and "What a fox," which she suspected came more from watching some college guys working out on the beach than from any supernatural inspiration.

Still, it was worth another try ...

She took out a pen and a spiral tablet, and began doodling.

Nothing fancy. Her artistic skills were even less developed than her mental ones.

She glanced at her watch. Would this period ever end? She leaned her head on her free hand and closed her eyes. Somewhere in the background, she could hear Becka's unsteady voice nominating Julie for something.

Good ol' Rebecca, a friend to the end. Krissi thought it was kind of weird that she and Becka hung out together. But Becka had been Julie's friend, and what was good enough for Julie was good enough for Krissi.

Still, she and Becka couldn't be more opposite if they tried.

Where Krissi knew every beauty trick in the book, Becka didn't even seem to know there was a book. Where Krissi enjoyed being the center of attention, Becka did her best to blend into the wallpaper.

Even so, Krissi liked Becka's sincerity. During all the time they'd spent together, Becka had never made a wisecrack about Krissi's intelligence. She liked that. Oh, sure, Krissi pretended to laugh when everyone teased her about her smarts, but deep inside it hurt. She appreciated never feeling that hurt around Becka. Oh, and there was one other thing Krissi liked: Becka's "ghostbusting" skills. All the extra attention Becka had been drawing didn't hurt their group's reputation one bit. It did bug her that sometimes Becka seemed to be a supernatural know-it-all, but that was a small price to pay for the fame they all were enjoying. Fame that had continued to grow as Krissi spread word about Becka's performance at the mansion Friday night.

The politics droned on. Krissi yawned loudly. Maybe they'd get the hint. Then again, they might consider the source and ignore her.

They did.

Soon her mind drifted to last summer ... then to the beach ... then to the mall ... until her head dropped forward and she started awake.

Mr. Lowry, the cla.s.s sponsor, was reading the final tally and writing the winning names on the board. Krissi looked at them.

It was pretty much as she suspected. Still, she was pleased to see that Ryan had won their cla.s.s's nomination and would be running for president.

She glanced to her watch - 2:27. Three minutes to go. Her eyes drifted to the paper in front of her. It was mostly filled with doodles. But toward the bottom, the doodles had gradually turned to writing. And the writing had turned to names ... names Krissi's hand had written, all by itself, while she was half-asleep, daydreaming.

Krissi looked back to the board as Mr. Lowry finished writing the last couple of winning nominees. She looked back down to the paper. A cold chill of excitement swept through her body.

Excitement mixed with fear.

Her eyes shot back to the board.

The names on her paper were exactly the same as those Mr.

Lowry was writing on the board.

Chapter 3.

Mom sc.r.a.ped the remaining macaroni off a plate and into Muttly's bowl. As usual, the puppy inhaled the leftovers without bothering to chew.

Becka stood at the sink, rinsing the dishes and putting them into the dishwasher. It had not been a good day. First, she still couldn't shake her dreams or her worries about Julie. Then there was Krissi, who, in a single day, had managed to spread word of the mansion showdown throughout the entire school. All day she could feel kids gawking at her, she could hear their whispers or - worse yet - the silence that fell over them as she pa.s.sed.

Becka knew some people would think all this reaction was cool, but she hated being the center of attention. She still remembered that time in eighth grade when she spent the entire evening before an oral book report shouting into her pillow, trying to work up a good case of laryngitis.

At dinner Becka hadn't said much. She didn't have to. Scott could rattle on about anything forever, and he usually did. But she knew her mother sensed something. It was simply a matter of time.

Sure enough, as they did the dishes, the question finally rolled around. "Becka, are you all right?" Rebecca took a deep breath and quietly let it out. She didn't want to get into it. She wasn't ready to get into it.

But her mom wasn't going to let it go. "Beck, what's wrong?" Fortunately, Scott exploded into the room. As usual he was a flurry of ego and energy. And, as usual, he expected the earth to come to a complete stop over his slightest problem. "Are there any chips?" he asked, throwing open the cupboard and searching. "Hey, who ate all the chips?"

"Scotty," Mom reminded him, "you had dinner twenty minutes ago."

"Exactly," he replied.

Mom and Becka exchanged looks. You can't beat that kind of logic.

Scott settled for a bag of pretzels, which he promptly crammed into his sweats.h.i.+rt pocket as he started for the door.

"Where are you going?" Mom asked.

"To see Darryl's cousin, Hubert. He's got this cool computer game."

"You'll be back before ten?"

"Or eleven," he said.

"Ten or you won't be going at all."

"Ten-thirty?"

"Of course, you could stay and help your sister with the dishes."

"Okay, okay. Ten o'clock." He threw open the door, let it slam, and - just like that - the human hurricane was gone.

Now it was just the two women and the silence, except for the sc.r.a.ping and banging of dishes.

"So ... ," Mom finally said, "where were we?" Becka still didn't feel like answering, but she recognized the tone in her mother's voice, the one that said, "We'll-stand-here-all-night-if-you-want-to-but-you're-still-going-to-tell-mewhat'seating-you."

Becka took another breath. "I think ... I think there's more going on with Julie than just the accident."

"Really? Like what?"

"I don't know."

Her mother came to a stop and waited for more. There was none. She persisted. "Beck? What's up, honey?"

"I don't know," Becka repeated, shoving a plate a little too hard into the dish rack. "It's just ... I'm really tired." Mom hesitated a second, then resumed gathering the dishes off the table. The silence piled up on Becka until she had to answer. "When Dad died, when we moved up here from Brazil, I expected to have a halfway normal life. I knew it would be hard, but ..." Her voice trailed off.

"But?"

"Scotty and I were barely here a month before we got sucked into a fight with the Society. Then there was that hypnotist jerk, then those satanists, then the mansion, and now ..." She could feel her throat tighten, but she wasn't sure why. "Who made us the experts, Mom? Why do we always have to be in the middle of the fight?"

Mom remained quiet.

Becka did her best to hold back, but the dam on her emotions was beginning to crack. Maybe it was the tension of nearly losing her best friend. Maybe it was the stares and whispers behind her back. Or maybe it was just everything.

"I'm sixteen!" she finally blurted. "What do I know about this junk!" Tears began burning Becka's eyes. She didn't know why, and that made her all the madder. "I didn't ask for all this spiritual stuff! I just want to be normal, I want to be like everyone else. Is that too much to ask?"

Mom started to reach for her, but Becka pulled away. She gave an angry swipe at her eyes and leaned both hands on the counter for support.

"Beck, what's - "

"I don't know!" she practically shouted. "How am I supposed to know? Everybody looks at me like I'm some sort of expert.

But I don't know anything!"

Mom hesitated, then reached out to touch her daughter's shoulder. That was all it took. Becka turned and allowed herself to be pulled into her mother's embrace. Hot tears spilled onto her cheeks. "I didn't ask for this! I didn't ask to be the freak!

Why can't I be like everybody else?"

Mom continued holding Becka as her tears flowed - tears that had been pent up for the past several days, the past weeks, ever since their first encounter with the Society.

Finally Mom spoke. Her own voice was a little thick with emotion. "Beck ... sweetheart. When you gave your life to the Lord, did you just give him part of it?" Becka didn't answer.

"When you gave him your life, you gave him all of it, didn't you? You didn't keep a part for yourself."

"But I ... I didn't ..."

"I know. You didn't expect this. There are a lot of things we don't expect. I didn't expect your father to die. But isn't that where faith comes in? Isn't that where we have to trust that G.o.d knows best, even when we don't see it?"

Becka took a ragged breath. "But it's so hard."

"I know, I know."

"I just don't think I'm cut out for all of this spiritual warfare stuff."

Mom's voice was soft and gentle, but also firm. "That's not your decision, sweetheart. It's not up to you." She paused briefly, then continued. "And, Beck, if you don't tell people, if you aren't willing to help them ... who will?"

Rebecca chewed on the answer, not sure if she really agreed.

And then the phone rang.

For a moment neither moved. Becka stirred. Part of her wanted to continue to be held, but part of her was embarra.s.sed over the outburst. The embarra.s.sment part won. She pulled away from her mother.

The phone continued ringing.

Without bothering to look at her mother's eyes (she knew they'd be wet too), Becka crossed to the telephone on the wall.

She wiped her face, took a little sniff of composure, then picked up the receiver. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Becka?"

The voice was a raspy whisper, but Rebecca recognized it instantly. "Julie? Julie, is that you?"

"Beck, it was so beautiful."

"Julie, are you all right? How are you feeling?"