The Keeper by Sarah Langan Page B

that seemed to silently close in on her with each passing day. “Liz. I can’t talk about this right now. I just can’t.”
    Liz did not hear. “She wants to hurt me. She’s so angry. Did you ever get the feeling she wanted to hurt you? Do you think maybe she can, because she’s so different?” Liz pulled at the neck of her sweatshirt, and Mary saw red splotches all over her daughter’s throat. That these splotches were shaped like human hands was undeniable. “In my dream she tried to strangle me. And when I woke up I found this.”
    Mary averted her gaze. She felt nothing. Not even numbness. She would never have guessed that the sight of her daughter’s bruised throat bothered her in the least, if she had not gagged into her napkin.
    Liz continued, oblivious. “Lots of people dream about her. Have you noticed that since the mill closed, the dreams have been worse? I’m afraid I’ll go to sleep one night, and I won’t wake up in the morning.”
    Mary squeezed her eyes closed. “Stop it, Liz.”
    “Have you dreamed about her lately?”
    Mary took a deep breath. “I can’t talk about this. You know I can’t,” she said.
    Liz frowned. “I went to the woods today because I’d dreamed about them. Something was waiting for me there, Mom. I think Susan sent it. It…it was a bad thing.” Liz broke down crying. Her voice became a whisper, and she leaned close to Mary, as if afraid that someone else might overhear. “It wanted to hurt me the way Daddy hurt Sus—”
    “Stop,” Mary said. “Stop right now.”
    Liz’s face froze and she tried to control her tears, but they kept falling. “It—” she started. She stopped when she saw her mother’s expression.
    Mary felt herself go cold, and her face became set like a plaster cast. She did not like the feeling. She tried to fight it. Tried to care that her child was hurting. Tried to say the things that needed to be said. The things that had been palpably silent for so long that over the years they had altered the terrain of the house, so that all the doors seemed slanted, and the hardwood floors seemed to buckle with warps in every direction. She tried, just as she’d tried long ago with the other child. But still, she went cold. Dramatic Liz, always making trouble. Liz with her crying over things long buried. Frightening herself with her own imagination. Liz and her nightmares, so inconsiderate that she shared them. Fat little Liz.
    “Oh, Liz,” she said, “Don’t we have enough problems? I hate to see you do this to yourself. Have you noticed the basement? The basement’s a mess. I really think you need to sweep down there.”
    Liz shook her head. “I asked Bobby to take me to her apartment tonight. I haven’t seen her in a year. How long has it been since you’ve seen her?”
    Mary leaned in close to Liz. So close that she could smell the Ivory soap on her skin. “Not another word, Elizabeth Rebecca Marley. Not one more word.”
    Liz’s frown hardened, and Mary saw that she was angry. Furious, and for a moment, Mary was frightened. There was something inside this girl, something foreign. Something that surfaced when Mary least expected. A formidable thing, and Mary knew that one day, she would be outmatched. “Did you ever call her after Dad died? I’ll bet you didn’t. I’ll bet you never asked her to come home. You let her live in that terrible place, just like you let her live in the basement. You never even tried to help her because you don’t care.”
    Mary was tempted to strike her daughter. A quick slap to the cheek to bring her to her senses. To shut her up. “Not another word,” Mary said. “You had a bad dream. It’s over now.”
    “It’s like she’s dead to you. Maybe you should take all her stuff to the dump. Just like Dad. You can take my stuff, too.”
    Mary grabbed Liz’s shoulder and held it firmly, too firmly. Liz winced. She didn’t know she was lucky; Mary’s first instinct had been to slap her.
    Liz’s face