Enthralled: Paranormal Diversions (Wicked Lovely 5.50)

Something-something “lifeguard stand,”

and I want to run

or swim

or just disappear.

But I stay.

As the next song starts, it’s missing

one voice.

Soft feet thump the sand behind me,

one pair.

I don’t turn,

don’t hope,

don’t dare.

My brother stands beside me,

alone.

He takes a deep, soft breath,

and speaks my name.

Skin Contact

by Kimberly Derting

afe stopped where he was in the middle of the blacktop and stared out ahead of him, straining to see through the darkness. He tried to gauge how far the road stretched before him, tried to calculate how much farther he had to walk.

He really didn’t need to see, though. He knew, even without ever having been there before. He was close now.

He started walking again, counting his paces as the chain that hung from his wallet slapped against his hip in a steady rhythm. Trees rose up from both sides of the narrow stretch of deserted highway, and the sound of gravel crunching beneath his heavy black boots was the only noise he could hear. It seemed too loud, and it reminded him of how alone he was out there, in the dead of the night. He felt like a target, walking down the middle of the road like that.

It had been easy enough to ignore the strange look from the trucker he’d hitched a ride with, when he told the old guy he’d be walking the rest of the way. Rafe knew what he’d been thinking when the rig shuddered to a stop in front of the insignificant mile marker—not even a real exit—with no restaurant or gas station in sight: Walking to where? Where the hell was this kid going, out here in the middle of nowhere?

But it didn’t matter what that grizzled old fart thought; Rafe needed to be here. He had to find out if this was real or not.

From somewhere behind him, he heard a bird—an owl, probably. He’d never actually heard one in real life before, he’d only seen them in cartoons as a kid, but that was exactly what they’d sounded like on TV.

He continued counting his steps and doing the math in his head. Fifty-six down. A hundred and sixteen to go.

A hundred and fifteen . . . fourteen . . .

How do I know that? How can I possibly know how many more steps I have to take till I get there?

He shrugged, feeling the weight of his backpack, heavy on his shoulder. He just did, that’s all. He used to doubt them— his dreams, the ones that came to him like memories—but he was starting to realize that they were rarely wrong. Even when he wanted them to be, like this time. He wanted so badly for this one to be wrong . . . just a plain old stupid fucking dream.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the cell phone he’d bought at the truck stop where he’d hitched his last ride. It was one of those prepaid deals, so no one could track him down, so no one could figure out where he’d gone. He flipped it open to make sure he still had service—way the hell out here. There were three bars left; he shouldn’t have a problem placing the call when the time came.

When he tucked the phone away again, his fingers brushed over the doll Sophie had given him before she’d disappeared, and his chest ached as he rubbed his thumb and forefinger over the woolly hair sticking up from its head. He missed Sophie. He missed holding her, kissing her, arguing with her.