The Dark Place by Britney S. Lewis

Author:Britney S. Lewis [Lewis, Britney S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Disney Book Group
Published: 2023-07-10T00:00:00+00:00

The tingling ran down the outside of my arms like I was standing against a cold iron vent. I tied a scarf on my head in preparation for bed, staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, willing myself to stay here. Until I vanished.

Everything vanished.

It was deafening silence and my own heavy breathing.

I tried to exhale, but my insides felt compressed. Like I’d been dropped at the bottom of the undiscovered sea. I was being squeezed, and morphed, and pulled until I was nothing.

And I wanted to be nothing. I wanted so badly to have some control over this menacing reality, and I wanted to cry—my throat so tight I thought my lungs had collapsed.

I landed.

Felt my knees scraping against the rough surface, and the tears came. I fumbled to my butt, my vision not quite there as I found my back pressed against a wall, my head falling into my lap as my ears popped.

Inhale. Exhale.

Then a smell came. Garlic and onions sautéed on a stovetop. Melted cheese cooling on top of a casserole. Hot grease with the smell of Cajun seasoning and paprika.

My stomach woke, making a sound. It was Mama’s cooking. I knew that with absolute certainty, and even with my eyes closed, the saliva in my mouth tripled. I had to be home. And home…it was only a construct now.

Mama loved to cook. She loved experimenting, writing down recipes, watching specials on TV. When Bubba was around, I used to love cooking with her. Tossing the chicken into the seasoned flour. Listening to the way it popped in the hot grease on the stove. Mixing up the cornmeal for cornbread.

We used to be a home, and this smelled like that, but I…

I was afraid.

Too afraid to open my eyes, too afraid to discover where I’d been brought to this time. And I knew it was home, but not really.

Not really home…not really Mama’s cooking.

There was a hush, hush. Mumbled whispers at first. Voices projecting in front of me, but not directly to me. My eyelids quivering. Just open them, I told myself, but I froze.

What if this was all a trick?

A dim light wavered, someone moving nearby, and the voices slid into familiarity. They weren’t talking to me, or even about me, they were talking to each other. And I knew those voices, but they were haunted here. They sounded brittle and breathy, like they’d been speaking for decades but never stopped for water.

Another twitch, and I forced my eyes open. I was in the dark place, at my childhood home. My home. My home. My home.

My everything, all of it, somehow revived again. Though there was light, it was muted. Gray hues painted almost every surface, and darkness spilled from every crack and corner. The shadows inched toward the trim and ceiling like long, bony fingers, stretching like threads of loose hair.

The wooden bed frame to my right grew velvety mold in the spirals. Not quite right. My old blankets on the floor. My

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