Cries of the Children(2)

The barking rose to a frenzied pitch as she pulled the ax down from the wall.

Something shifted on the other side of the room. Samantha froze, the ax held tightly in her white-knuckled hands. There was someone else in here. . . .

It seemed her heart had stopped beating. She moved on stiff legs to the back door. Then, forcing herself to pretend there was no one watching from behind, she swung at the windows. Glass flew out onto the pathway that led to her house. Cool air blasted through the new opening, and Samantha began to scream. She knew no one would hear her, but she couldn’t stop. Again and again she swung the ax.

“Samantha . . .”

The voice was soft, hard to identify as male or female. Samantha spun around, raising the ax to use as a weapon. She barely had time to register a pair of dark eyes as the ax was wrenched from her grip. Even as the dogs barked, a sweet-smelling mist as cold as snow struck Samantha in the face. Everything faded to black.





2


THE FIRST OF Samantha’s senses to return was smell. She breathed in the aroma of freshly laundered sheets, Rocky Mountain columbines, and coffee. She couldn’t remember making coffee. She remembered driving home from work; the garage . . .

“Are you awake yet?”

Bolting upright, Samantha found herself staring into the wide eyes of a little girl. For a moment she could do nothing but gape, dumbfounded. It took a few seconds to take it all in. She was in a strange room. The girl, who seemed to be eight or nine, tucked a rippling strand of long brown hair behind her ear.

“Are you going to get up?”

Samantha blinked.

“Who . . . who are you?” she asked.

She looked around. The mustard-gold curtains, drawn tightly now, and the matching bedspread indicated a motel room. There was no door on the closet, and the hangers were permanently attached. A vase of purple and white columbines had been set on the night stand, as well as a small tray with a cup of coffee, a croissant, and fruit.

The little girl laughed.

“You’re funny when you wake up,” she said. “Look, I went down to the restaurant and brought up breakfast. The coffee has two teaspoons of sugar and a little cream, just like you told me yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

Samantha rubbed her head, feeling a dull ache. Yesterday she had worked a double shift and Barbara Huston had walked her out to her car. She’d driven home, and then something had gone wrong with the garage door, and . . .

“I’m . . . I don’t know what’s happening,” she said. “Where am I?”

“We’re in the Miner’s Hotel, of course,” the child said.

“The what?”

The little girl opened the dresser drawer and pulled out a piece of stationery. Samantha read the letterhead and gasped. It said: “MINER’S HOTEL. EST. 1902, DURANGO, COLORADO.”

“Durango!” she gasped. “But that must be a hundred miles from Ashleigh Creek! How on earth did I get here?”

Panicking, Samantha got out of bed. She was surprised that she was dressed in her own nightgown. A suitcase lay open on the dresser at the opposite side of the room. Samantha recognized her own clothes, folded neatly, as if she’d planned this trip. She turned to the child.

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on here,” she said in a harsh tone, “but if this is someone’s idea of a joke, it isn’t very funny.”

The child backed away from her, genuine fear filling her green eyes.

“Why are you yelling at me?” she asked. “You’re scaring me!”

“I’m scaring you?” Samantha said. “I just woke up in a strange motel room and I don’t know how I got here!”

The little girl moved carefully to the breakfast tray. She picked up the cup of coffee and handed it to Samantha.

“Maybe . . . maybe you’d better drink this,” she said.

Samantha took a sip. The coffee was perfect, just the way she liked it. But she hadn’t told this child how to make it.

“What’s your name?” she asked, trying to calm herself. It was obvious the little girl was as befuddled as she.

“That’s a silly question,” the child said. “You know what my name is.”

Samantha shook her head, cradling the warm cup between her hands to steady them.

“No, no, I don’t,” she said. “Something’s happened to me. Please help me, little girl.”

The child straightened herself. “I’m not little. I’m nine. And my name is Julie.”

“Julie what?”

Julie frowned at her.

“I . . . I can’t . . .”

“You can’t remember?” Samantha prodded. “Julie, how did you come to be here?”