Chris Bohjalian - The Night Strangers

You couldn’t save her.

Now you try to open your eyes, but you can’t, and it takes you a long moment to recall where you are. Slowly the details of the pentagonal greenhouse become clear in your mind’s eye, despite the strange mugginess that has engulfed you. You wonder what was in the sweet tea you drank and then the bitter tincture you swallowed immediately after it in two great spoonfuls. The greenhouse had been illuminated by long rows of grow lights, and at one point it was so bright that you found yourself squinting as your eyes adjusted. You remember turning your head and gazing at Baphomet, at his beard and his wings, and you inhaled what you thought was incense. Your fingertips felt for the edge of the gurney. No, it wasn’t a gurney. Nor was it a massage table. It was a long, antique pumpkin pine table, on which the plants had been replaced with a futon.

You sigh. You decide that what you just experienced of Flight 1611 was a dream, not a flashback. This distinction seems to matter, even now.

“Where is Sandra?”

You turn your head the other way-at least you believe you do-toward the sound of Reseda’s voice, and you have the sense that Holly is standing beside her. Perhaps it is the aroma of lilacs that reminds you Holly is assisting Reseda. Doesn’t the woman always smell slightly of lilacs? You cannot recall what the three of you might have discussed when Reseda was steeping that strange tea in the kitchen. When you first lay down here in the greenhouse, over Holly’s shoulder was a pipe with hanging plants, the leaves of which were shaped like Valentine hearts; the colors were an orange and a purple more vibrant than your twins’ Magic Markers.

“Where is Sandra?” Reseda asks again.

You try to find your voice, to tell her you don’t know, you don’t feel the specific pain you associate with Sandra’s presence, when out of nowhere you hear her. You hear Sandra. You hear her with the same perfect clarity that you heard her that first time she spoke to you in your basement.

Here, she says simply.

“When did you join the captain?” Reseda asks, and you realize that Reseda heard her voice, too. Or did she hear yours? You have read about out-of-body experiences and you long for one now. You want to be both in and above that former pilot on the pumpkin pine table, because you want to witness this. You want to see where Sandra is standing this second. Is she visible to the two other women?

I don’t know, she is telling Reseda, but I think I joined him in the water. I couldn’t breathe.

You try to sit up, to find her. But you can’t. You recall the mind-altering crumpets infused with God-alone-knows-what that Anise and Valerian had been feeding you and start to panic that now Reseda and Holly have paralyzed you from the neck down. Is this, you wonder, what it is like to be hypnotized? Or is this something else entirely?

“Shhhh, you’re not paralyzed,” Reseda says. “Don’t struggle. Let Sandra speak.”

You try to relax, at least a little. Do you nod? You believe that you do, but, again, you are not completely sure. No matter. No… matter.

Reseda runs a clay pestle under your nose with a shallow puddle of hot oil bubbling inside it, and you inhale what might be juniper. Then Holly-yes, you can hear her and sense her-is lining the head of the table, just beyond the futon, with burning votives. Each time she places one on the pine, Reseda dips her fingers into the hot wax and presses a single drop onto your forehead and murmurs a name you recognize from the passenger manifest. The sensation is not unpleasant, and you wonder if she will do it forty-eight times. She stops at twelve, however, listing the names of the nine survivors (including yours) and the names of the three people who died but have attached themselves to you. The melting wax in the votives is flecked with aromatic herbs, but the scent is unfamiliar to you. Again she asks Sandra a question, and you are listening to the woman’s response when suddenly there is the water from Lake Champlain that awful August afternoon starting to wash over you in a single great wave. And so you take a deep breath, your cheeks ballooning like a toddler’s, though the air in those pockets is largely irrelevant. And then, before you know it, you are upside down and the lake water is in your nose, the pain stinging, and you are desperate for air, desperate. When you open your eyes to see where you are, you are completely underwater. It happened that fast-the blink of an eye. You are vaguely aware of the blue leather on the seat ahead of you, of slick emergency information cards, glossy in-flight magazines, digital reading devices, and paperback books floating amidst the bubbles like tropical fish, and the way the fuselage is falling, falling, falling through the lake. You see the wide-open eyes of the young businessman in the brown suit, his hair floating up in the water like saw grass, his arms frantically lashing out as he tries to swim. Then he turns away, kicking you with his wingtip shoe. You release your seat belt-not a five-point shoulder harness, a mere steel buckle linking a thick nylon ribbon-and abruptly the eddies of whooshing water slam you hard into first an armrest and next the jagged floor of the jet, which somehow is above you. You probably would have been forced by the pain in your chest to open your mouth in another second anyway, but when the side of your head is cleavered by whatever is protruding from the floor, reflexively your lips part into a wide, silent O, and the lake water pours in, and your throat spasms shut-the laryngeal cords trying desperately to keep all that water out of your lungs. It is an agony more pronounced than anything you have experienced in your life or, now, ever will. And it seems to last an eternity. You want this over, you want to die now rather than in minutes-because you are conscious of the reality that you are indeed going to perish, there will be no miracle-but it takes time for the brain to black out. The last thing you see before the pain and terror and whiteness obliterates all thought? The white shirt of, you believe, the captain of the aircraft.

T he idea crossed Emily’s mind to get in the car and drive for help, but that would demand that she stop searching for her girls. And because there didn’t seem to be a strange vehicle on the property now and she hadn’t heard one earlier, she told herself that the girls were somewhere nearby. They had to be. And so she raced downstairs and screamed once more for Hallie and Garnet, shouting their names into the storm from the front hallway, the screams desperate, biblical wails that made her throat hurt. Only when her voice had grown hoarse did she finally grab her keys and run for her car, stumbling once on the slate walkway and feeling the sting acutely on the hand that already was cut. But it barely slowed her. She was hysterical and she didn’t care. She climbed into her car and switched on the headlights and the wipers and was just about to throw the Volvo into reverse and glance behind her when she saw it. She saw it for just a fleeting second, and she saw it only because the car had been facing the greenhouse and all that glass acted like a mirror, causing her to look away from the solarlike luminescence of the vehicle’s headlights. She flinched and reflexively turned to her left, back toward the house. And in a window on the second floor, the guest room down the corridor from her and Chip’s bedroom, she saw the halo from a flashlight. It moved briefly but clearly, and she was reminded of the massive fog lights that would cut through the mist at airports. It was that distinct. And then it was gone.

An idea crossed her mind, cryptic but meaningful: This was why Tansy Dunmore had kept a small arsenal hidden throughout the house. This explained the crowbar, the knife, and the ax.