Voiceless

Chapter Seventeen

A small giggle echoes all around me, taunting me, tearing me apart. The ash-filled air clogs my lungs as I try to run faster, but I know that they would just get further away from me. Gravel crunches underneath my sneakers as I push my aching body to its absolute limit, and I can hear my heart start to burst from overexertion. "Gavin!" As soon as I shout his name, a honeyed voice replaces the sound of his laughter. "It's like losing her all over again..." 

"Lydia?" I stop dead in my tracks. There she is, holding my little brother's hand, long golden hair flowing down her back. Both have their backs turned to me. Warily I take one step forward, and then another. The air thickens as the space between us thins out. "Hello?" Neither of them respond. I stop just inches short of the two and reach my hand out to touch Lydia's shoulder. Her porcelain skin is colder than ice. So I pull her around to face me before reeling back in horror.

She has no face, just an empty canvas where her features should have been. Gavin turns around, but he is even worse than Lydia. My brother has two features in which she is lacking: eyes. Though I'm not sure that I could call the bloody sockets oozing crimson down his face eyes. 

I hear a voice spew from the mouth he doesn't have: "Vera, I'm scared." Something about those words kicks me into action, and I start running. But it's too late. 

It always is.

I wake up with my mouth shaped around a silent scream. Shudders envelope my body, and I curl into the fetal position. Gavin's single sentence rings through my head, carrying some unknown weight. Vera, I'm scared. 

What does it mean? 

I get up, my knee-length white nightgown freeing me from constriction. Splashing water on my face in the bathroom, I begin to focus my worries on Lydia. She's haunted my thoughts ever since I let her go, always creeping around some corner of my mind.

I glance at the time before having to do a double-take. It's already six o'clock. I had assumed it was maybe three in the morning, at the latest. That means there's no chance me curling back into my warm, fluffy bed and passing into gentler dreams.

An unexpected thought grips me.  The picture...where did I put it? I can't remember for the life of me where the photo of Lydia's mom went. The last place I went was the attic, on Grandmother's orders to fetch an old recipe. I guess that's where I should search first.

There's only one problem: the drop-down ladder to the attic is at the end of the hallway, right past the door where my grandmother lays asleep. If I'm going to do this, it'd best be silently.

I take off my socks quickly and place my left foot flush against the side of the wall. I know from experience that the wood won't squeak in certain areas, and as I nimbly hop along these specific planks I feel like I'm in the middle of an elegant ballet. I twirl and land right in front of Grandmother's door, thinking about it too late.

SQUEAK!

I stand stock-still, waiting. Just as I expected, a muffled "Vera?" makes it past the doors. She's coming. I have to hide, I have to-

The door opens, but I'm no longer in front of it. Grandmother's wrinkled face peers out into the darkness, groping for an explanation, but doesn't find one. The door comes to a soft close, and a sigh of relief sweeps out in a whoosh as I come out from my hiding spot along the wall.

Now to find the photo. I ascend the drop-down ladder, which Grandmother installed four months ago. Much quieter than that squeaky old one we used to have. In the attic I cough at the dust, trying to quiet the sound with my white sleeve. A flashlight lies adjacent to me, so I grab it and flick on the switch. Around me is the junk amassed from decades of living, all messily stored in boxes with faint labels. Abandoned. Alone. Just like Lydia.