Girl of Nightmares Read Free

fat coin. There’s a symbol carved into one side, something that looks like a modified Celtic knot.
    “A runestone,” I say.
    “It’s pretty,” Carmel says, and Thomas hands it to her. It really is well done. The carving is exact, and he’s polished it so it shines white.
    “It’s a lure.”
    Carmel passes it to me. A rune to lure them out, sort of like ghostly catnip. Very clever, if it works. I turn it over in my hand. It’s cool to the touch and heavy as a hen’s egg.
    “So,” Thomas says, taking the runestone back and pocketing it. “Do you want to try it?”
    I look at the two of them and nod.
    “Let’s get going.”
    *   *   *
    The drive to Grand Marais, Minnesota, is long, and boring in the dark. Boughs of pine trees flicker in and out of the headlights, and watching the dotted line is starting to make me motion-sick. For most of the ride down I try to sleep in the backseat, or at least feign sleep, alternately eavesdropping on and tuning out their conversation. When they whisper, I know they’re talking about Anna, but they never use her name. I hear Carmel say it’s hopeless, that we’ll never find out where she went, and that even if we could, maybe we shouldn’t. Thomas doesn’t argue much; he never does where Carmel is concerned. That kind of talk used to make me angry. Now it’s just commonplace.
    “Turn off,” Thomas says. “I think that might be the road.”
    I crane my head over the seat as Carmel tries to navigate the Audi down something that isn’t so much a road as a mud-rutted four-by-four trail. The car has all-wheel drive, but this still poses a high risk of getting stuck. They must’ve had heavy rain here in the last day or so, and the tracks are covered over with puddles. I’m just about to tell Carmel to forget it, and to try to back out, when something black flashes up in the headlights.
    We skid to a stop. “Is that it?” Carmel asks. “It” is an enormous black barn, standing at the edge of a barren field with dead stalks of plants shooting up like stray hairs. The house that it must have belonged to, along with any other buildings, has long since been torn down. All that remains is the barn, dark and alone, waiting for us in front of a forest of silent trees.
    “Matches the description,” I say.
    “Description nothing,” Thomas says, rooting around in his messenger bag. “We got the sketch, remember?” He pulls it out and Carmel flips on the dome light. I wish she hadn’t. There’s an instant sensation of being watched, like the light just gave away all of our secrets. Carmel’s hand jerks to turn it off, but I put my hand on her shoulder.
    “Too late.”
    Thomas holds the sketch up to the window, comparing it to the shadowy figure of the barn. In my opinion, it isn’t much use. It’s rough, and done in charcoal so everything is just a different shade of black. It came in the mail along with the tip, and is the product of a psychic trance. Somebody drew out his vision while he was having it. He probably should have opened his eyes and looked down at the paper. The sketch has a definite dreamlike quality, a blurring of the edges and lots of harsh lines. It looks like it was done by a four-year-old. But as I compare them, the barn and the sketch start to look more and more similar, like it isn’t really the shape that matters so much as whatever is behind the shape.
    This is stupid. How many times did my father tell me that places can’t be bad? I reach into my backpack and grab the athame, then get out of the car. The puddles reach up to my shoelaces, and my feet are soaked by the time I get to the Audi’s trunk. Both Carmel’s and Thomas’s cars have been outfitted and stocked like survival outposts, with flares and blankets and enough first-aid supplies to satisfy the most paranoid hypochondriac. Thomas is beside me, stepping gingerly through the mud. Carmel pops the trunk, and we grab three flashlights and a camping lantern. We walk together