The Evolution of Mara Dyer

25

MARA,” A VOICE SAID, WARMING MY SKIN.

My eyes opened, but the trees were gone. The sunlight had vanished. There was only darkness.

And Noah, next to me, his fingers resting on my cheek.

A nightmare. Just a nightmare. I let out a slow breath and then smiled, relieved, until I realized we weren’t in bed.

We were standing by the guest room door. I had opened it—my hand rested on the knob.

“Where are you going?” Noah asked softly.

The last thing I remembered was falling asleep beside him, even though I shouldn’t have. My house was tainted, but in Noah’s arms, I felt safe.

But I left them during the night. I left him.

I had been sleepwalking.

The details of the dream hung low in my mind, thick as smoke. But they didn’t fade with consciousness. I didn’t know where I was going in my sleep or why, but now that I was awake, I needed to see something before I forgot to look.

“My bedroom,” I answered him, my voice clear.

I needed to see that doll.

I pulled Noah along behind me and we crept silently to my room. Noah helped me unpack the doll from the box I had entombed it in, no questions asked. I said nothing as I looked it over, my skin feeling tight as I held it.

Its black smile was a little faded—from wear or washing, I didn’t know—and the dress it wore was newer, but still crude. Definitely handmade. Otherwise? Otherwise it was eerily similar to the doll in my dream.

Maybe more than similar.

I remembered something then.

There was a spot of red on the underside of its arm, where she held it.

I lifted up the doll’s sleeve.

“What is that red?” I had asked the older girl.

“Oh,” she said, and handed me the doll. She examined her finger. “I pricked myself.”

Looking at the doll now, I saw a dark brownish red spot on the underside of its arm. Where its wrist would have been.

My flesh felt dead where my skin met the doll’s. I didn’t know what the dream meant, if anything, but I didn’t care. I was starting to hate this thing and wanted to get rid of it.

“I’m throwing it out,” I whispered to Noah. He looked confused. I’d explain in the morning. We couldn’t get caught, and the more we talked, the more we risked it.

He watched as I slipped on shoes, went outside, and threw the doll on top of the swollen garbage bags in the bin my father had already brought out to the curb. It would be taken away soon, and then I wouldn’t think about it or dream about it or be tortured with it by Jude again.

We went back to Noah’s bed; the doll and the nightmare made me uneasy, and I didn’t want to sleep alone. I rested my head against his shoulder and my eyes closed, lulled by the feel of his silent, even breathing beneath my hands. When I woke again, it was still dark. But Noah was still next to me, and we were still in bed.

I was tired but relieved. “What time is it?”

“I don’t know,” Noah said, but his voice wasn’t thick with sleep.

I drew back to look at him. “Were you awake?”

He pretended to stretch. “What? No.”

I rolled over onto my side and smiled. “You totally were. You were watching me sleep.”

“No. That would be creepy. And boring. Watching you shower, perhaps . . .”

I punched him in the arm, then snuggled deeper under the covers.

“As much as I’m enjoying this,” Noah said, as he rolled over me, leaning on his arms, “and believe me, I am,” he added, looking down into my eyes as a mischievous smile formed on his lips, “I’m afraid you have to go.”

I shook my head. He nodded.

“It’s still dark.” I pouted.

“Fishing. With Joseph. You have to get back to your room before he wakes up.”

I sighed dramatically.

“I know,” he said, his smile growing wider. “I wouldn’t want to sleep without me either.”

I rolled my eyes and scooted out from beneath him. “Now you’ve ruined it.”

“Just as I intended,” he said, leaning back against the pillows. His eyes followed me to the door.

Torture. I pulled it open.

“Mara?”

“Noah?”

“Do wear those pajamas again.”

“Ass,” I said, grinning. Then left. I padded to my room, passing the French doors in the hallway, the night still black beyond them. I quickened my pace, hating to be reminded of what I couldn’t see.

Of who I couldn’t see.

It was nearly dawn, though. Jude wouldn’t risk breaking in so close to daylight. The thought reassured me and I slipped into my bed, my parents none the wiser. I closed my eyes. I had no trouble falling asleep.

The trouble began when I woke up.

At around eight, my father knocked on the door to make sure I was awake. I poured myself out of bed and over to my dresser to pick out clothes for Horizons.

But when I opened my underwear drawer, my grandmother’s doll was inside.

It was all I could do not to scream. I backed away from the dresser and locked myself in the bathroom, sliding down the tiled wall to the cold tiled floor. I pressed a fist against my mouth.

Was Jude watching me last night? Did he see me throw it away? And then put it back in my room while I was asleep in Noah’s?

Goose bumps pebbled my flesh and my skin was slick with sweat. But I couldn’t let my father know anything was wrong. I had to dress and look and act like everything was normal. Like I was healthy and Jude was dead and none of this was happening.

“Get up,” I whispered to myself. I stayed on the floor for one more second, then stood. I turned the faucet on, cupped my hand under the stream of water and brought it to my lips, glancing at my reflection in the mirror as I straightened.

I froze. The contours of my face seemed strange. Subtly unfamiliar. My cheekbones were sharper, my lips were swollen as if I’d been kissing, my cheeks were flushed, and my hair stuck to the back of my neck like paste.

I was transfixed. The water slipped through my fingers.

The sound of it hitting the porcelain sink brought me back. My throat ached—I turned the faucet back on and cupped another handful of water and greedily drank it from my palm. It cooled me from the inside out. I looked in the mirror again.

I still looked different, but I felt a little better. I was tired and scared and angry and frustrated and obviously stressed out. Maybe I was getting sick, too. Maybe that’s why I looked strange. I rolled my neck, stretched my arms above my head, and then drank again. My skin prickled, as if I was being watched.

I glanced at my dresser. The doll was still inside.

“Almost ready?” Dad called out from the hallway.

“Yeah,” I yelled back. I turned away from the mirror and put on clothes. I threw one last look at my dresser before I left my room.

The doll had to go.