The Wandering.

Chapter 5

The ghosts of who we are
Are reflections
Of our
Deepest darkest scars

1

Prue Rivers bolted up right, throwing her duvet away from her bed as if it was infected with a life-taking disease. Reality hit her and her nightmare swept away with a sigh of relief.

It was just a nightmare. That's all. Prue had to remind herself several times before her heart rate would finally slow and settle.

Was it just a nightmare? Prue knew she could lie to herself all she wanted, but they were out there. She heard the song, she was sure of it. Or was she dreaming?

Of course, she heard the song in her nightmares every night and she would wake up and Ryan would comfort her and of course, she would fall back to sleep. But yet Ryan's snores came lightly and peacefully - normally if it was a nightmare she'd wake him up from her cries.

Prue watched him sleep, envying his ignorance.

But at the very least, Ryan Rivers understood the skeletons in her closet. He was 5 years older than her - he was in the same year group as Violet Heckle and her name was enough to haunt anyone who had lived in Sachem Bay for the past 20 years.

Each night, Prue would dream about how they would come for her child - her three year old Ben, and she would wake in screams to find Ryan there to comfort her. Before marrying Ryan, Prue swore she'd never have children, not after what this town had experienced. But yet she was an idiot and proved it by birthing little Benny Rivers. Of course, she didn't regret him, but the trepidation of losing him rotted her on the inside.

It was the next day, she would break down in front of the TV, as big red words of MISSING struck across the TV, with young Gracie Davenport's face smiling through the screen.

Ryan comforted her as Ben played with his toys, obvious to the fear that reeked throughout the household.

"It's happening again, isn't it?"

"We don't know that for sure, Honey." Ryan would reply and hold her close to him.

Prue knew she was too young for this mental illness, too young to experience this anxiety - she was 28 yet felt much older.

She thought about Gracie Davenport and then Sadie Davenport and how history was just repeating. It seemed so surreal.

2

Across the other side of Sachem Bay, later that night, Rich Wheeler was thinking the same thing, picking away with his tooth-pick.

"It's happened again." He muttered to Samuel Tenner, his still deputy. "After all these years, that sick motherfucker has to do it all over again."

Samuel Tenner, now in his early forties, nodded silently.

Chief Rich Wheeler had most certainly aged in twenty years. His hair was grey, with wrinkled skin telling a story of pain and alcoholism. As far as Tenner knew, he had never stopped drinking - and the cancer had clasped Mr Wheeler, it seemed he had a few months left.

Samuel saw Wheeler as someone who had been somewhat of a father to him, and everyday it seemed Rich Wheeler would get older every single day, as the cancer kept getting stronger and stronger.

Sometimes he would gasp in pain and hold his back, eyes closed and fist clenched.

Samuel would say, "you okay, sir?"

Rich Wheeler would shake off the pain and take a shot of whiskey and give a reluctant nod and would clear his throat. "As okay as I ever was."

And Samuel believed him. It seemed Rich was slowly dying every day from the day his family died. Of course when Rich lost his family he was a young man in his mid twenties and Samuel was only a young boy. But Samuel knew Wheeler very well, and he was a man with a broken soul.

So it was to no surprise that the next morning, old man Rich Wheeler was found hanging in his lonely house, dead.

3

Rich Wheeler patted Sam on the back as he left the station that night.

"You're a good man. You'll make a fine Chief of Police, Tenner. And if anyone will bring these kids to justice, it'll be you." Rich told his deputy.

Samuel beamed, his faint ageing lines seemed to disappear in appreciation. "Thank you, Mr Wheeler. Carrying on your legacy will be a pleasure some day."

Rich smiled and left the station, sliding into his old battered truck and made his way home for the very last time.

"I'm coming home to my girls. I'll be home soon." Rich Wheeler spoke to the night air as he drove down the road away from the station. He switched on his radio and Bob Seger's Old Time Rock & Roll blasted out instantly. Rich sang along, tapping the dashboard and nodding his head to the music.

Just take those old records off the shelf

Rich poured himself a neat glass of whiskey.

I'll sit and listen to 'em by myself

He downed it in one shot.

Today's music ain't got the same soul

He made his way up the steps. His wife and little girl would be waiting on the other side.

I like that old-time rock 'n' roll

He stood in the doorway, staring at the bed he once shared with his love, but slept in alone for the past thirty years.

Still like that old-time rock 'n' roll

He thought about how him and his wife, in their teens would sit listening to the very song, smoking marijuana and drinking, talking up until late on the front porch.

That kind of music just soothes my soul

He thought about their wedding day, the day they introduced their little girl.

I reminisce about the days of old

He thought about their death in the fire. He shot another glass of whiskey. Drink drink drink.

With that old-time rock 'n' roll

He grabbed the rope and the stool. "I'll be home soon, I'll get to see my favourite girls."

Still like that old-time rock 'n'roll.

The next morning, Rich Wheeler was found hanging, with a note on the floor beside him:

The roses are red, Violet is dead.

He was buried next to his wife and daughter.