I text a message to Issie, telling her I’m going for a quick run and that we should do some more Internet investigating tomorrow at lunch. Then I text Nick.
Gone running. See you ON ROAD.
There, my bases are covered and I’m going pixie hunting.
Scotophobia
the fear of darkness
My mother is afraid of the dark.
When I was little we had nightlights all over the house, not just in my bedroom and the bathroom. There were two in the upstairs hallway, one in every guest room, one in the kitchen, the dining room, the downstairs bathrooms, the living room, everywhere.
I asked her about it once. We were in the kitchen. I was sitting on the counter, feet dangling, wearing my Elmo pajamas and watching her cook. “Why are you scared of the dark, Mommy?”
She’d been making pancakes, stirring up the batter. She spilled blueberries into the bowl and stirred and stirred.
“I’m not.”
“Then why do we have a million nightlights?”
She banged the spoon against the big ceramic bowl, the one with the two maroon stripes around the rim. “That’s so you don’t get scared.”
“I’m not scared,” I said. “I like the dark.”
“No, you don’t.”
She stared at me, her face hardening into something unrecognizable. She’d stirred the batter too much and broke all the blueberries apart.
“The pancakes are blue,” I told her.
She looked at the bowl, frowning, and let go of the spoon. “Oops!”
“It’s okay. Blue is pretty.”
She kissed me on the nose and said, “Let me tell you something, Zara. Sometimes there are things that people should be afraid of.”
“Like the dark?”
She shook her head. “No, more the absence of light. Understand?”
I nodded, but I didn’t understand, not at all.
I slam out the door and down the steps. I don’t warm up. I don’t stretch. I just start jogging under the light of the moon. Frost crystals form on the windows of the house. The trees seem heavy from the weight of the air.
There is a definite absence of light, but I’ve rigged up one of those headband flashlight things, so I won’t trip as long as I’m careful.
Something about the cold air just rips through my lungs when I run. Every breath is like an ax into my chest. Every breath is a decision I have to make, a decision to live, to go on.
It hurts but I push through it and then the pain numbs. It isn’t like it’s gone, but more like it just isn’t so wrenching anymore. I don’t think there’s any other word for it than wrenching.
Breathing should always be easy, but nothing is easy in Maine. Nothing is easy in the cold. I keep running though; turning out of the driveway and onto the main road. It’s easier to run on the asphalt than it is on the dirt because of foot placement. But it is harder on my joints and scarier too, like something is watching.
My legs stretch out and I pick up the pace, but that feeling comes back. A noise thuds in the dark forest beside me and I keep running. Maine makes me skittish. I’ve never been such a wimp. I ran through all sorts of neighborhoods in Charleston and I never got scared there.
I hate being scared.
“If you can name something, it’s not so scary,” my dad always said. “People are afraid of what they don’t know.”
I turn my head and scan the woods, but all I can make out are trees and shadows. I can’t see anyone in there or anything.
My mind fills with visions of bears and wolves, but the only bears Maine has are black bears, and they’re pretty much terrified of people. The Maine Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife swears that there are no wolves in Maine, just coyotes. I know this because I checked their Web site after I saw the huge paw prints in the snow my first morning. I told Grandma Betty about them. What had she said?
“They’re afraid to admit there are wolves here, but everyone knows it’s true. Anyway, it’s nothing to worry about. Wolves don’t bother people.”
That’s what I tell myself, Wolves don’t bother people. Wolves don’t bother people.
It doesn’t help.
Wolves don’t bother people. Pixies bother people.
That spider-crawly feeling comes back along the palms of my hands.
Then I hear it.
My name.
“Zara.”
I stumble a little, trip over a rock or something that’s in the breakdown lane of the road. Why are there no cars out here? Oh, that’s right. Maine isn’t the most populated state in the country, especially Betty’s part of Maine.
I keep running, picking up the pace, listening. Then I hear it again. It seems to echo off every tree in the forest. It seems to come from both sides of the road, behind me, all around. Still, it is soft. A soft whisper, commanding.
“Zara. Come to me, Zara.”
It sounds so cheesy, so much like a bad musical line, that it’s not really that scary. Oh, that’s a huge lie. I’m totally scared. Crap. Crapcrapcrap.
I wanted this. I wanted to draw him out. But now? Fear pushes my feet faster, makes my heart speed up too fast. It pounds against my chest, trying to escape. But from what? A voice? A shadow? I came out here to find him. He’s found me.
The truth slams into me:
I didn’t imagine that man at the airport.
I didn’t imagine the way my skin felt each time I saw him.
I didn’t imagine that dust or make up the words in that book.
The sound of large wings slashing through the air makes me look up. An eagle flies over my head and then ducks into the trees. Its white head gleams.
“Stupid,” I say. “I’m so stupid. I probably just heard the eagle.”
If my dad were here he’d laugh at what a wimp I’m being. I laugh at what a wimp I’m being and I keep running. My breath comes out in ragged puffs. I push it in and out, focus on my feet.
“Zara!”
I stop. Anger fills me. To hell with wimp. To hell with Booker T. quotes.
“What?”
I plant my feet and wait.
The cold air chills me. I shiver. My hands turn into fists.
“What do you want?” I yell. “Why are you following me?”
I force my eyes wide open and look for something, flashing my light around. What am I looking for? Maybe a man? Maybe a man in a dark European suit? Maybe the kind of man who points at planes and makes your skin feel like it has become a spider parade route?