Page 32 of Spooked
But how did I get here? If this is a dream, I want to wake up. When pinching myself doesn’t work, I feel panic rising. This house, that seemed so welcoming and familiar just moments ago, has transformed into something foreboding and dark. Trickles of fear like icy water run down my spine, not helpedwhen a splattering of white plaster falls like confetti from the ceiling above.
I turn to move to the door through which I entered, but I feel like I’m walking through molasses, my legs like lead, anchored to the ground. I struggle to take one step, but the exit seems no closer. Blood’s pounding through my veins, and I just want to escape.
Another hard-earned step, but the way ahead seems elongated.
“Maeve?”
It’s the voice of the man who was in my hospital room. The man I was sure I’d met before. The location? In my dreams, which is absurd.
“I’m here, Maeve. Just follow my voice.”
My ears lock onto the direction of the sound, and my legs feel lighter as I gain ground.
“That’s it, come closer. You’re almost here. Reach for my hand.”
Taking another step, I stretch out my fingers, dreading that the sounds of hope are going to prove an illusion once again. But a warm hand clutches mine, pulling me forward and into the light.
“She’s back,” someone announces.
Now my ears hear the beeping of hospital monitors, and my eyes open to see a smiling nurse staring into my eyes. “No need to worry,” her soft voice reassures me. “Your heart rate just became erratic for a moment, your blood pressure dropped, and you passed out.”
I swallow once, then again, trying to moisten my mouth, then I ask in a husky voice, “How long was I unconscious?”
“Only a minute,” the nurse replies.
Though I try to keep my eyes locked on hers, I feel the blackness threatening once more, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it sweeping over me.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MOUSE
Reluctantly, I drive Hound back to the compound. It may be wrong, but I’m questioning leaving Maeve alone when there’s something inside of me that says we should have stayed there to support her. I know Hound’s feeling guilty, blaming himself for telling too much to her, so much that it seemed to cause her heart to stop.
In his mind, he thinks he almost killed her. It’s obvious, he’s drifted off to sleep and is murmuring words that are hard to make out, but enough so I know he’s dreaming about her, shifting restlessly and repeating something like,take my hand, Maeve, I’m here.
Brought up as an all-American boy, I lived in Tucson until I was in my teens and my dad died. My mom was a proud Navajo, but she’d been swept off her feet by a white man. Taken away from the reservation, she’d brought me up with no knowledge of her side of the family. I knew nothing of the conflict within her, only knowing she’d embraced the modern American life, until my dad left us. I went from being a nerd kid who liked nothing more than playing computer games to being uprooted and living on a reservation with the Navajo side of my family, with barely any electricity and no Wi-Fi in sight.
I didn’t fit in. At first, I rebelled, refused to accept my changed life, until I began to learn I was neither white man nor Native, but something in between. Gradually, my new world began to make sense, and I began to marry both halves. Things that Tse, the kid who was brought up in Tucson, would scoff and laugh at started to become second nature to the Tse living with my Navajo relatives. Skinwalkers, a concept I’d first scoffed at, became a reality to me, along with other things we can’t name or even see, but which walk among us. It made more sense to me than the Anglo’s religion.
Unlike white folks, the Navajo encourage visions and place meaning on dreams.
If any other of my Satan’s Devils brothers had heard what Hound had to say, then they’d certainly believe he was simply suffering the effects of his traumatic brain injury. With me, though, the jury’s still out.
I ponder puzzle pieces, loving nothing more than finding snippets of information, and then rearranging them again and again until they form a complete picture. Combine that with my beliefs that there’s more to the world than we could ever imagine, and I didn’t immediately dismiss Hound’s apparent ravings out of hand.
It was when I researched and discovered the truth behind the things he couldn’t possibly have known that I knew I was needed to help and support him.
The module in my truck triggers the gate to automatically open as we approach. In the past, we used to have the prospects man it. Now they do so, but from comfortable surroundings, observing a screen. As normal for anything with four wheels, I pull up behind the shop.
Hound jerks awake as the vehicle stops. Rubbing his eyes, he looks at me apologetically. “Hell, I’m sorry, didn’t mean to drop off.”
“You’re exhausted. No one can blame you.” Glancing at him, concerned, wondering whether I should have driven further up the track, I ask, “You okay to walk from here, Brother?”
“Of course, I fuckin’ am.” As if to prove it, Hound doesn’t wait for me to open his door and help him. He gets out by himself and, balancing on his good leg, manages to get his crutches from the rear seat. It means I end up a pace behind him as he swings and hops his way up the slope.
When it looks like he intends to bypass the clubhouse, I catch up. “Come in, Brother. Get a drink. You don’t want to be alone.”
He pauses, wavers for a moment, takes a longing look up the rest of the incline that leads to his house, then there’s that slow dip and rise of his head that I’m waiting for. Holding the clubroom door open for him, I’m relieved he’s stopping by. Being alone and lost in his head isn’t helpful right now.
