Chapter Eight

“Dementia,” Dr. Hennessy said, writing the world in big letters on the whiteboard and underlining it with a flourish. “From the Latin root de-, meaning without, and ment, referring to the mind. Its clinical definition is exactly as one would expect it to be: the loss of certain brain functions. Be sure to write that down, it's very important.”

My fingers flew across the keyboard of my computer, copying down the definition before the professor could continue. That was our lesson today: dementia. Or, as Dr. Hennessy had put it when we walked into class, “the unholy deterioration of the human mind.”

“Dementia in itself is not a disease,” the professor intoned, striding measured paces across the pulpit of the lecture hall. “Rather, it is a syndrome, or a set of signs and symptoms, that is caused by a number of other diseases. Many of you, I'm assuming, have heard of Alzheimer's, the most common cause of dementia. A few others would be Parkinson's, multiple sclerosis, and progressive supranuclear palsy. And, generally, dementia does not occur in people under the age of sixty.

“Patients with dementia experience impaired performance in language, perception, and memory, among other functions. If you read last night, you should know that the main concentration of control for language is in Broca's Area. Perception is affected because, as you should all know, it mainly relies on memory, rather than actual sensory nerve signals. When a person's memory goes, so goes their ability to properly perceive the world around them. Some dementia patients may undergo bouts of hallucinations, delusions, and violent behavior as their brain's deterioration begins to interfere with their sense of proper judgment.”

My ears perked at that, my fingers freezing mid-type as I processed the professor's words. Edith Hummel had dementia, I was certain of it; I had heard the ladies at church conversing on the subject on more than one occasion. With eyes still focused on the front of the room, I reached over and smacked Logan across the arm with the back of my hand.

“Dude,” I hissed, “that's like Mrs. Hummel. She has all those things.”

Logan grunted, and I slapped him again, turning this time. He wasn't even listening to the lecture; his head was down, staring intently at the sketchbook in front of him. Sketched on the page was the lightly penciled face of a familiar girl. Squinting, I leaned in closer.

“Is that...me?” I asked, extending a hand toward the page. When Logan realized that he'd drawn my attention, he slammed the book shut with a muffled thump.

“No,” he said quickly, quietly, his eyes saucers. “Just my assignment—totally random.”

I raised an eyebrow. Since we were much younger, Logan had had a strict policy against drawing people he knew. He always said that he couldn't stand creating art from his life; all of his paintings and drawings were spawned purely from his imagination. In fact, I rarely saw him sketch people at all, but rather strange, hybrid animals and crazy, altered versions of reality. But never simple human beings. And never, ever me.

“All right,” I replied, watching his face go from pink to scarlet. I remembered what Juliette had said the night before, about Logan changing his subject of infatuation from her to me. Was it possible that—but no, of course not. Logan was still hopelessly in love with my next door neighbor, because that's how things had always been, and I had accepted years ago that it's how things would always be. So he was drawing a girl who possessed a striking resemblance to me—so what? That was no crime, nor did it mean a single thing. I was just making a big deal out of nothing.

Not to mention seriously over-thinking it.

I shook my head, clearing it, and cast a small glance over at my best friend. His face had returned to its normal color, but he wasn't looking at me and his sketchbook was clutched tightly both of his hands. Like me, he had his laptop open on the desk before us, opened to a Word document for taking notes. His screen was blank, though mine wasn't much better. The shaggy-haired boy in front of me had filled nearly an entire page.

Swallowing down my confusion, I returned to my notes, intending to throw myself into the lesson and be the stellar student that was buried somewhere beneath all my layers of laziness and procrastination. But after a few more minutes of listening to Dr. Hennessy speak, his voice began to get fuzzy.

I tried and failed to stifle a yawn, swiping a hand over my eyes. Juliette and I hadn't returned home until nearly three in the morning, when the bar finally closed. I doubted she was doing much better than me at school at the moment, but she'd had the advantage of getting at least an hour of shuteye before I'd so rudely awakened her. I'd been awake that whole time, and when I climbed back into my room, I was much too busy fretting over the man in the bar to get more than about ninety minutes of fitful sleep. Combine that with the fact that I was in school, learning, early in the morning, and there was really no hope for me. So, I was forced to do the thing that every teenager must do at least once during their educational career: I went to sleep in the middle of class.

And I certainly didn't expect to dream.

In this dream, the girl was back. It had been a few nights since I'd last seen her, but that hadn't stopped her blurry image from remaining tucked away in the back of my mind. I recognized her immediately by the sound of her voice; the melodic, lilting tone that was high like a child but wise like an adult.

The world was blank when I opened my eyes, and bright, bright white. For the first few seconds, all I heard was her voice. But it wasn't her voice, not really; it was the hum of it, smooth and kind but with no words that I could pick out.

As the seconds passed, my vision cleared, and I found myself in a warmly colored living room. Right in front of me was a lit fireplace; beneath my kneeling legs was a coarse brown carpet. I turned around slowly, feeling the heat of the fire against my back. Seated in a chair merely a few feet away from me was none other than Mrs. Hummel.

Something told me that she was younger here, though it was hard to tell. Perhaps her cheeks were a little less gaunt, or her hair a little less gray, but I had some strange gut instinct insisting that this was the way Edith Hummel looked several years ago.

The girl was beside Mrs. Hummel, perched on the edge of a rickety wooden chair. Her brown hair was twisted into a bun, and through the blur masking her features, I thought I detected a smile. The old woman was smiling too, an expression I never thought I'd see on her face, though it seemed to rest there naturally. She was laughing at something the girl had said, her frail hands raising to her cheeks.

I watched their buzzing exchange without hearing their words, mesmerized and confused by the sight before me. The first time I'd seen the girl, I had been a part of the scene. Now, it appeared that the two people in my dream did not see me; I was merely a spectator. And who was this girl? Why did she feel so familiar, sound so familiar, even though I was certain I had never met her?

The longer I stared at the pair conversing, the more I became certain that I was seeing a memory. This had happened somewhere, sometime, maybe long before I was even born. Obviously, it wasn't my memory. And if it wasn't mine, then who did it belong to?

Just then, as I was beginning to puzzle over the idea, a sharp pain skewered through the center of my skull, streaking my vision black. When I blinked away the sensation, I abruptly realized that the conversation—everything Edith and the girl were saying—was suddenly crystal clear. The words flew into my ears, crisp and sharp, seeming to singe my mind as they entered.

“You are such a wonderful girl,” Mrs. Hummel was saying, “for coming here and sitting with me. Most of the other children are afraid of me.”

The girl laughed, bright and tinkling. “It's no problem, ma'am,” she replied. “In fact, I enjoy your company.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Most of the other children are afraid of me, too.”

A small grin spread across Mrs. Hummel's face, but it disappeared almost instantly. Her mood switched abruptly, her expression slipping into one of quiet despair as she regarded the girl through her sunken eyes.

“Do you sense them in me?” the girl asked softly. The old woman nodded solemnly.

“In you, around you; they are everywhere, darling.” She clasped her hands together in her lap. “They are coming, you know, and coming fast. You may not have much time left.”

The girl sighed, and when she spoke, her voice was a breathy whisper. “I know.”

For a long moment, it was silent. The girl and the woman sat with their heads bowed, and I sat on the carpet and watched them. They both felt so sad. It was if there was an aura of sadness surrounding them, cloaking their bodies in gray light. I didn't know what they were talking about, but whatever it was, it had been powerful enough to reverse their moods completely.

Mrs. Hummel's eyes were closed, but after several stretching seconds, she let them float open. “I'll be here for you, always,” she murmured. “They may not let you go so easily, but neither will I.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hummel,” the girl said, her arms wrapping around her thin body. “You don't know how much that means to me. But please, don't think that you're responsible. This deal was made long ago, and there was nothing either of us could have done to stop it.”

“I know,” the old woman said simply. She reached out creakily to pat the girl's knee, then drew back again, seeming to curl into herself. But before another silence could fall upon the room, she looked up very, very slowly. I gave a start, nearly jumping back into the fire, because I swear, she was staring straight into my eyes. Her lips moved in slow motion, but I was being pulled away, away from the blurring room and back into that white, white place, and it was a moment before her words reached me.

“I only wish that I could save you,” she said.

“Parker,” someone hissed, “Parker, wake up!”

I felt hands on my arm, shaking me, dragging me out of the vivid dream and back into reality. My eyes flew open and I jolted upright, nearly tipping myself back and out of my seat. A strong scent passed across my face, and though it was swept away in an instant, it brought burning tears to my eyes.

“I'm awake!” I announced, much too loudly. Logan was beside me, his hand still on my arm, staring at me in apparent amusement. From down in the pulpit, Dr. Hennessy cleared his throat, the sound echoing through the speakers and bouncing around the room.

“Glad to hear it, Ms. Elway,” he boomed, “though it appears that you've managed to miss the entire lesson.” Turning back to the rest of the class (most of whom were either snickering at me or glancing over in annoyance), he continued, “Read the rest of chapter seven tonight, and make sure you go over your notes. Next week's midterm is fast approaching.”

The majority of the other students had already packed their things, knowing that class was almost over, and they now stood up and began to file out of the aisles. A blonde girl with glasses sitting a few feet away murmured a quiet, “Excuse me,” as she slipped behind my seat.

“Can you send me your notes?” I asked Logan, passing a hand over my eyes as I began to pack my things. With everything going on, I had completely forgotten about the upcoming midterm. But it was mid-November now, and the exam marking the pinnacle of the semester was merely days away. And between the nightmares and everything else that cluttered my mind, I had done a less than substantial amount of studying.

“Sure,” Logan replied quickly, helping me close my notebooks and stuff them into my bag. The room was practically empty now, and I could feel Dr. Hennessy watching me with disapproving eyes. I think that he thought highly of me, but evidently, falling asleep and then shouting out in class was not something most teachers appreciated. On any other day, I would have been perfectly fine to just stay there, because confrontation never bothered me, and I had no problem arguing with adults—even my professors. But at that moment, with fragments of the dream still fresh in my mind, I wanted nothing more to get out of the lecture hall as soon as possible. I had a lot of things to figure out before my next class, and I couldn't do it under the scrutiny of a teacher.

As I stood up, shouldering my backpack, I was struck with a powerful smell. And, I quickly realized, it was the same odor I had noticed after the last time I dreamt about the girl. I froze in place, sniffing the air suspiciously.

“Logan,” I said slowly, “do you smell that?”

My best friend was already heading down the aisle, but he glanced over his shoulder and asked, “Smell what?”

We stared at each other for a second, his green eyes narrowed in confusion, until I anxiously shook my head.

“Never mind,” I muttered, kicking in my chair. “I'm just losing it.”

Logan stayed close to my side as we left, occasionally glancing over in worry. And maybe there was something else in his gaze, but I wasn't about to rot my brain thinking about it. There was only one clear thought in my mind as we left the hall, something that I knew I had to do, even though the prospect frightened me.

I had to visit Edith Hummel.

◙════════════◙

“Are you sure you want to do this, Parker?” Logan asked, probably for the twentieth time in the past ten minutes.

I nodded resolutely, ignoring my churning stomach. “Yeah, absolutely,” I replied. “I'll never be able to sleep at night if I don't get this devil possession business sorted out right now.”

We were parked in front of Mrs. Hummel's home: a small, old, yellow house with stucco exterior and a bright red door. It looked like a faded, abstract interpretation of ketchup and mustard, but surrounded by droopy weeping willows whose boughs bent nearly to the ground.

“I'm picking you up, right?” Logan's hands tapped idly on the steering wheel to the radio's beat, but his brows were furrowed. “I don't want you going anywhere by yourself.”

“Yeah, yeah. Pick me up in like thirty minutes, okay? I don't think I'll be long.” I shook my head as I got out of the car, as if his concern was ludicrous, but in truth I was half terrified to make the trek from the car to Edith's front door. Logan was already worried enough, and that was without knowing about the man in the bar—my anxiety was about double the amount of his.

But, straightening up, I waved at him over my shoulder and forced myself to take even steps up to the crimson entryway. I knocked confidently, feeling reassured by the sound of Logan's engine idling loudly behind me.

“Come in!” screeched a voice: Mrs. Hummel. “The door is o-pen!”

I pushed against the wood, and sure enough, it slid ajar under the pressure. With some trepidation, I edged inside, shutting the door behind me.

I found myself in a hallway with wood paneled walls that led on for about five feet before branching off into two separate corridors. I paused there, at the threshold, taking in the coat rack and umbrella stand next to me as I waited for some divine directions on where to go.

“Go right,” Edith called, her voice looping toward me from the corresponding corridor. I obliged, wincing every time my boots creaked on the hardwood floorboards.

Around the corner, I was struck with a sight that nearly made me fall over, though perhaps it shouldn't have been so surprising. I was in Edith Hummel's living room—the same room that I'd seen in my sleep. There was the brick fireplace; the Monet painting on the wall; there was Mrs. Hummel, her small body sunken into the same patchwork couch she'd occupied in my dream. When I entered, she turned, her lips pursed.

“You've finally come,” she murmured, her eyes distant. “Come, sit; we've been expecting you.”

I automatically glanced around, wondering what we she was talking about, but promptly decided that she was referring to the figures in her mind. Smoothing the front of my plaid dress over my thick woolen tights, I strode into the room and took the same seat that the girl had had in my dream.

As soon as my behind made contact with the plush seat cover, I was overcome with an intense feeling of kindness—almost as if the chair itself was welcoming me into the home. It swaddled me like a second skin, and I relaxed instantaneously.

“She always loved that chair,” Mrs. Hummel said wistfully, clutching the couch fabric in her fists. “Always told her it was uncomfortable, but she wouldn't sit anywhere else.”

“It's lovely,” I said, meaning it, and effectively killing the conversation at the same time. I didn't know what to say next, how to ask about the things I wanted to know, but thankfully, Mrs. Hummel spoke first.

“You want to know about him,” she stated, not at all like a question.

I shifted in the seat (it was uncomfortable, actually), trying my best to keep my head high. “Actually, no,” I contradicted. Chewing on my bottom lip, I tried to phrase my question as best I could without sounding completely ridiculous.

“I-I've been having these dreams,” I began. “Well, I've been having a lot of different dreams, actually, but—anyway, that's not the point. I've been having this specific dream, about a specific girl, and I can't see her face, but she seems really familiar. And in the last dream I had about her—just today, actually—she was here. In this room. With you. And I was wondering if, maybe...you could tell me who she is.”

Much to my surprise, the old woman let out a mighty gasp. “She reached you. She actually reached you.” Those words left her lips again and again, reverently repeated, and Mrs. Hummel began to rock back and forth almost violently.

“Mrs. Hummel?” I squeaked. “Mrs. Hummel, please stop. Are you all right? Mrs. Hummel?”

As suddenly as she had began her fervent movement, the woman stopped. She let out a heavy breath and pressed her hands together.

“Listen to me, girl,” she barked, leaning toward me. I bent toward her as well, my heart hammering in my chest.

“Yes?”

“Your mother made a deal with the devil.” Edith Hummel began to nod furiously. “She made a deal with the devil, and the devil always follows through. He took her. He took her. And now it's time again, now he needs to take you or the deal will break. But she might be able to save you. She might be able to save you, because you cannot save yourself.”

A chill ran from the top my neck all the way to the base of my spine. Old Mrs. Hummel was glancing around the room with crazed eyes, so different from the smiling woman in my dream.

“Mrs. Hummel,” I said solemnly, “can you please tell me who the girl is?”

The woman took a big breath, looking for all the world like she was about to tell me. But when she let out the gust of air, she sunk into silence. I waited as the seconds ticked by on the grandfather clock in the corner, but she said nothing.

Just then, I heard the sound of the front door opening and footsteps entering the house. My initial, paranoid reaction was to dive behind the couch, but I froze when I heard Svana's accented voice.

“Hello, Mrs. Hummel!” she called. “I'm back!”

“Yes, hello, Svana!” Mrs. Hummel replied.

“I'm going to start your lunch, then I'll come and help you change, yeah?”

“That sounds lovely, thank you.”

Svana did not come into the living room, nor did she react when Mrs. Hummel said, aloud, “Svana is really such a dear.” The sound of pots and pans banging came from the kitchen as Svana began to cook. I heard cabinets slam and water begin to run.

I looked to Mrs. Hummel, my mind whirling train tracks over the few words she'd said, but she said no more. And from what she did say, I could glean nothing. Your mother made a deal with the devil. What was that supposed to mean? I was Catholic; I believed in heaven and hell, God and the devil. But I also knew my mother, and as crazy as she was, she would never go against her faith so drastically.

Just I was preparing to ask Mrs. Hummel another question, Svana came hurrying in through the doorway. She took one look at me and her hands flew to her lips, her eyes nearly bugging out of her head.

“Why is she here?” she demanded. “What is the girl doing here?”

Mrs. Hummel tilted her head in confusion. “Svana, she is our guest.”

Svana shook her head wildly. “No, no, Mrs. Hummel,” she cried, “the girl makes you upset! We are not to let her see you!”

The attendant danced frantically across the room, and before I could protest, had grabbed me by the arm and hauled me to my feet. For someone so petite, she was surprisingly strong.

“You must leave, now, before you upset Mrs. Hummel anymore!”

Glancing at Mrs. Hummel, she didn't seem very upset now, but I knew it would be useless to argue with Svana.

“Goodbye!” the old woman called as I was dragged over the room.

“What's your problem?” I demanded, wrenching my arm out of the young woman's grasp once we entered the hallway. Svana whirled on me, her nostrils flaring.

“You are my problem,” she hissed, her accent thick. “Mrs. Hummel is my charge, and I am under strict orders to keep her calm. You upset her. I do not want you anywhere near her.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but Svana simply grabbed my arm and began to pull me forward again. “You are leaving now,” she snapped.

I didn't get to say anything more, because just then, we reached the fork in the corridor. And as we did, I caught an alarmingly potent whiff of something extremely familiar. It was piney, like a forest. It was that scent: the same one I had smelled after dreaming of the girl on Sunday night, the same one I'd just detected in class a few hours before. It was the same smell, and it was here, in Mrs. Hummel's house.

And it was my one chance to figure out what it was.

“What is that smell?” I demanded, pulling free from Svana as she threw open the front door and pushed me out. She ignored me, her eyes bright with fury.

“Out!” she screeched. “I want you out!”

I snarled at her, grabbing her by both shoulders and shaking them.

“Svana, you need to tell me!” I cried hopelessly. “What the hell is that smell?”

The wild desperation in my eyes must have been evident, because it gave Svana pause. She froze for a moment, carefully peeling each of my hands off of her shoulders and stepping back into the threshold of the house. She regarded me through narrowed eyes as I stood there on the front step, waiting.

“It's rosemary,” she said, her voice tilting strangely. “It's Mrs. Hummel's favorite spice.”

She gave me a final calculating look, her gaze suspicious, and slammed the door heavily in my face.

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A/N: okay, so i was visiting my cousins up in northern cali this week, and as we were driving i saw a street called Logan. and then like five minutes later there was a Parker Street and i was just like MY BABIESSSS <3

ahem but yeah sorry all these chapters are so devastatingly long