Screams You Hear

By James Morris

Murder and madness infect a small town

For sixteen-year-old Ruthie Stroud, life on tiny Hemlock Island in the Pacific Northwest is an endless sea of boring green, in a place where everybody knows everybody’s business and nothing ever happens. Then her world is ripped apart when her parents divorce and a new man enters her mother’s life. But worse is yet to come.

When she drifts ashore on the mainland, hideously burned, Ruthie has a harrowing tale to tell. It begins with the murder of a family. It ends with her being the sole survivor of a cataclysm that sweeps her little island. As a detective attempts to unravel Ruthie’s story of murder and madness, only one horrifying conclusion can be drawn: whatever was isolated on remote Hemlock Island may now have come to the mainland. Is Ruthie safe? Is anyone?

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Morris
• Release date: Jan 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386712916

James Morris

James Morris, recently retired from various Chief Executive positions within the Logistics and Support Services Business sector within the United Kingdom, has had an interest in occultism for several years and has transmitted this into fi ctional thrillers for others to enjoy. His interest in children’s fantasy and his books on ‘The Magical Adventures of Fairy Petal’ also introduce ‘soft magic’ for children to enjoy. His Grandchildren Niamh and Eoin love the characters in these books. Happily married for over 42 years to Jennifer whose support for his writings have made these publications possible.

Book preview

1

I wake to pain, pain beyond comprehension, my skin on fire, only to find myself in a hospital bed, my arms bandaged, and wires snaking into machines. The burns are covered in white gauze and every motion, no matter how small, sends my nerves screaming. The air is heavy against my skin. And that smell. I can still smell the bitterness of my singed hair. I feel my head, expecting strands of hair, thick and wavy, but it’s gone. There are only splotches of emptiness, a topography of touch that alarms me. I wonder if it will ever grow back.

Tendrils of anxiety course through me, pulsing steadily. I need to wake up from whatever this is.

In spite of the pain, I caress my face and I have no eyebrows. Only stubble. No matter where I touch, my skin isn’t soft; it’s leather, a mask that rests too tightly against my skull. It’s like my skin is both expanding and contracting, pushing and pulling.

In the cyclone of terror, I remember. I remember everything.

I wish I didn’t. I wish it all away.

Around the room, there are no mirrors, and I know it’s no accident. It’s small comfort. I don’t want to see myself. I may never look in a mirror again. It’s only me and a bed, and colorful murals of elephants and giraffes on the wall, their cartoon smiles mocking me. I must be in the children’s wing, even though I’m sixteen. Next to me, an IV recedes into my vein. To my left is a button. It could be to call for assistance. Or to adjust the bed. But I think it’s something else. I think it’s for pain.

I could press it and disappear into numbness.

I could press it and just drift.

But there is something about pain. It’s the price of being alive.

The button is my litmus test.

I am stronger than my pain. I need to focus on something—anything. I need to distract myself.

I am not my pain.

I am Ruthie Stroud. I live at— wait—not anymore. I have a brother—no, not anymore.

I shut my eyes. I can’t shut them hard enough. Through the darkness, I still see fire. My world engulfed with flickering orange and reds. And the all-encompassing heat, heat beyond boiling, bordering on oblivion. Melting.

My last memory is coming ashore on the mainland, alone and fiercely tired. I didn’t walk, didn’t run. I moved, floating, held aloft by the most invisible of strings, my eyes on the horizon, people on the edges of my vision. Adults. I felt their gaze. The air was cool and moist and my skin so hot. Moving and moving; people staring. I hear them, words like police and 911 and oh my God. They surround me, a horde. They’re feral creatures, circling, their faces distorted. They are coming for me. I have no escape.

I scream and my world goes dark.

Ruthie?

I open my eyes. A woman stands in the hospital room doorway. Her skin is the color of teak, her black hair pulled into a tight ponytail, and without a uniform, she’s clearly no nurse. I look down her button-down shirt and a badge is attached to her belt, a gun holstered at her side.

She says, not unkindly, I’m Detective Perez from the Washington State Police.

I knew the cops would get involved, even though they’re late. Far too late.

She waits for me to invite her in. May I?

I nod and my skin crinkles and cracks. She enters, pulling a chair beside my bed and sits down. Her brown eyes rest on me and then dart away. She can’t bear to look. I must seem a monster. She asks, How are you feeling?

I don’t know how to answer that question.

I’m sorry, she says.

Down the hall, I hear a child scream. From surgery or fear, I don’t know. I think fight the pain, fight the pain.

She speaks to me in soothing tones. I need to ask you a few questions. About what happened. Can you talk?

My mouth is dry, my throat sore, my vocal chords thrashed. I’d forgotten how much I screamed. I feel my skin wrinkle into deep crevices as I move my jaw, and it’s an effort to form words. Even my tongue feels burned; this strange muscle in my mouth. Is my dad coming?

He’s on his way. We share a bit of silence and I stare at the woman she is, the beautiful woman I will never be, and she says, I’d like to start at the beginning. And if there’s ever a point where you need to stop, just let me know, okay?

There’s just one thing, and I clear my throat. I force her to find my eyes. To see. To look. To understand.

What’s that?

Don’t judge me, I tell her. I did what I had to.

---

Five Days Ago

---

I sat in class as my teacher, Mr. Scronce droned on, his voice becoming background noise, fading and fading. Out the window, clouds drizzled on the landscape. It drizzled nearly all the time, a blanket of wet, one of the curses of living in the Pacific Northwest. Lots of green—all the pretty kinds you read about in magazines—hunter, emerald, sea foam, jade, pine, and myrtle. But green’s not so pretty when it’s the only color around. More like mold or a sea of pea soup. All the girls in school had big poofy hair—myself included—thanks to the humidity. The pages in our books curled and warped; condensation grew on our phones and devices. It was a world of boots and mud, not sandals and sand.

We lived on Hemlock Island, named for the trees that populate the area because, let’s face it, what else could they call it? Dullsville? The island is part of the San Juan Islands, a forgotten place, or maybe that’s just how it felt.

Born in Seattle, but raised here, this tiny speck was my home and I couldn’t wait to leave it. Hemlock wasn’t just the name of the island; it was our town and the very definition of out of sight, out of mind. Sure, it was safe, nearly crime free, only one sheriff for 600 people. But there was nothing here. Just trees. Lots and lots of trees.

And how could I forget, Mr. Scronce said, drawing my attention, your test scores?

The class groaned. Not very big, the student body only had about 120 students total—30 per year—and our class was tiny. The epitome of a small town, everybody knew everybody and absolutely nothing was secret. Not for long. Mr. Scronce walked in between desks, his bald scalp divided by a few threads of dark hair growing from the front that he shellacked to the back. I pictured him like a turtle, his head bobbing, moving slowly. Believe me, he was a bigger part of my world than I ever wanted. He approached me, a weak smile on his face and slid my test on my desk.

I sighed. It was a C.

I didn’t want a C. I wanted an F. I know I earned it.

As the bell rang, I crumpled up my test and left it on the desk. I caught Mr. Scronce’s eyes and he said, See you later, Ruthie.

I dutifully smiled back.

---

My next appointment was with my school’s guidance counselor. I hadn’t requested it. But since it gave me an excuse to miss gym class with its endless running in circles, I didn’t mind. I sat across from Ian Watkins, a guy right out of college who still looked like he was fourteen. It wasn’t the way he dressed; it was his demeanor. He radiated positivity. I wondered what he was so happy about and what his secret was.

Thanks for coming in, Ruthie. How are things going?

He talked like he knew me, even though he was recently hired. Okay, I guess.

His face scrunched up and a second later, he sneezed.

Bless you, I said automatically.

Excuse me. Allergies. He wiped his nose with a tissue and then faced me. So, everything going good at home?

There’s worse things going on. War. Famine. I can’t complain. His room was littered with feel-good motivational posters. The one behind him read Question Authority.

Thing is, Ruthie, and he swiveled his computer so that I could see the screen. It was a list of my grades from seventh, eighth and ninth grade. Here it comes, I thought.

I’ve been looking at your records. You were nearly a straight-A student. You were in band, and it says here you were trying to get a kickstarter for a school newspaper. Pretty cool, right? What’d you play?

Clarinet.

He pointed at himself. Trombone. For a millisecond.

I know where you’re going with this.

I just want you to see it. Sometimes things are clearer in black and white. He clicked the screen. There were grades from tenth and my current junior year. I don’t know what happened. It’s like two different people. That’s what I thought when I first saw it. I actually searched for a second Ruthie Stroud in the system.

Nope. Just me.

This is a Before-and-After if I ever saw one. My question is: what happened between ninth and tenth grade?

What could I tell him? That a shit storm of epic proportions had ripped everything I had known apart? When parents make mistakes, worlds shift.

Life happened.

I’ll be honest, he said. No one is going to fail you. They know how smart you are. So whatever idea you have of flunking out isn’t gonna happen.

I started to regret not going to gym class.

I get it, Ruthie. I really do. You’re angry or depressed at something or someone and to make them pay you’re going to ruin your life.

I didn’t think I was either of those things. I don’t think failing math is ruining my life, I said. What’s the point, anyway? Everybody uses calculators.

Point is, it all starts here. Think of an airplane. It goes off-course by one degree it’s not such a big deal, right? But the longer the flight, the farther it moves from its destination. He gestured with his hands. Pretty soon, it’s in Timbuktu.

All the posters irritated me, as if simple sayings could solve anything. You’re not from around here. What made you move to Hemlock Island, Mr. Watkins?

Ian. Call me Ian. I shifted in my seat. He seemed to sense my hesitancy and added, The mister title is too formal.

I considered and said, Ian.

I’ll tell you why I moved here if you answer me one thing.

You first, I said.

He considered. "I wanted to go to a small school where I could make a difference. Where I’d know each and every student. Where I could really help. Like someone helped me. I wasn’t always like this. I was more than one degree off kilter, that’s for sure. But to answer your question, I wanted to be… He paused and then grew serious. A light in a sea of darkness."

Sounds like a preacher.

That’s kind of what being a counselor is. Having faith in students, their unknown, untapped potential. It’s all about what could be. I see a lot of potential in you, Ruthie.

God, the things adults say. I bet you tell that to all your students.

He laughed. It’s true. I do. But I happen to believe it.

I couldn’t picture him as a problem kid. How were you off kilter?

He gazed at the wall and there was a flicker of sadness. I grew up an orphan. At least, that’s how it felt. My parents? Well, let’s just say I came along more by accident than design and that was kind of how they treated me. He paused and a bit of his happiness seemed to deflate. I could tell you more, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t be appropriate.

That’s when I trusted him. He might actually understand. He turned out okay; maybe I would, too. And though we’d spoken less than ten minutes, he was probably the only adult aside from my old therapist who gave a damn about me.

He said, My turn, yes, to ask a question?

---

I walked the hallways, thinking about what my guidance counselor had asked me. I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life. All the pressure to ‘Find a Career’ and ‘Plan Out Your Future.’ Why would I? Every adult I knew seemed burdened by some invisible weight, some secret I didn’t want to discover. I didn’t look up to them. I didn’t want to be like them. Anything but them, really. And the thought of going to college only to end up in debt with a job at the end of it that you hated, or even a job at all if I was lucky, seemed too much.

I tried to remember what my therapist had told me: not to dwell on the negative or on the things we couldn’t change. She’d made me memorize the Serenity Prayer, though most days I couldn’t tell if I was wise, courageous or none of the above. I stopped the voices in my head that tormented me, the ones who whispered I wasn’t pretty enough, smart enough, or good enough. I thought, instead, of what I loved. I wanted to travel, see the world. Not in pictures, but to feel the ancient stone of the pyramids, stones that had weathered wars and history; to dive to the very bottom of the ocean and sense the utter vastness of nature. Or space tourism! To see the stars from the edge of our atmosphere as if I could reach out and touch them. Now, if there was a job like that, a job that paid to travel, to discover, to leave a mark that said I was here, I mattered, well, that’s exactly what I wanted to do.

But, really: who has a job like that?

---

At lunchtime, I waited for my friend Max in the hallway. He was my age, a junior and a native islander. I watched as guys and girls I’ve known since forever nod hello and pass me by. That was the only benefit to living on an island: our high school was the anti-high school. We didn’t have a football team, not even a football field, no cheerleaders, and thus, no typical hierarchy of cliques. Everyone knew everyone and it really was a world of sameness minus the dystopia. I actually didn’t mind coming to school. Mostly.

Minutes passed, which was odd. Max was never late. I asked Wendy, a girl from my homeroom, Have you seen Max?

I saw him walk into the bathroom.

I waited another five minutes, my lunchtime ticking away—as well as my patience—and finally walked into the men’s bathroom.

At the sink, a few guys were washing their hands. I was happy to see that. They weren’t too happy to see me.

When did you grow a dick?

About the time you lost yours. I looked under the stalls and saw the telltale shoes. You know someone long enough, you know what they wear. Max?

From behind the stall, his voice comes, surprised and soft. Ruthie? What are you doing?

I asked, "What are you doing?"

The guys at the sink were about to comment, but I shot them a look. They shook their heads and finally left.

It’s just me now, Max.

He didn’t respond.

You okay? I’m coming in there. I opened the stall and Max sat on the toilet, his pants up, sitting like a teenage Rodin sculpture. He was skinny with glasses, khaki pants, and cleated shoes. He reminded me of a seed that had blown onto the island and grown into a weed. Max?

He faced me and his eyes were ringed red. He’d been crying, and in that second I felt like the worst friend in the world.

I’m sorry, Max, and I awkwardly hugged him. I’m so sorry. I wanted to kick myself for forgetting. Why didn’t you stay home today?

That’s the last place I wanted to be. It’s been two years, you know? He focused on his watch, the ticking second hand. Two years, thirteen minutes and fifteen seconds. He would’ve been in seventh-grade now.

I didn’t know what to say; I never did. What was there to say to someone whose younger brother died when Max was supposed to be looking after him? Throughout the year, Max did a great job of pretending he was just a regular guy. Except on the anniversary. He didn’t talk about it. Never in detail, but everyone knew the story: Max had skipped school to hang outside near the edge of a cliff. His brother followed him and slipped. It was as simple and final as that—he fell onto the rocks below, like a windswept doll. Neck broken, body bent. Then the race began to retrieve the body before the tide came back in. They were too late. There was a casket at the funeral, but what lay inside was anyone’s guess.

I leaned forward, my forehead touching his. What am I gonna do with you?

He spoke so softly I almost didn’t hear him. Sometimes, I just want to die.

Not allowed, never allowed. You hear?

He shut his eyes.

You hear? I repeated.

Yes!

Good. Wanna ditch out of here?

He took a deep breath, trying to contain his emotion. I don’t need my parents angrier than they already are.

I was pissed at my parents for lots of things, but I couldn’t imagine how it felt to be Max, alone in a family that blamed him as much as he blamed himself. You sure? We’ll go watch some whales.

He seemed to notice where I was for the first time. You’re in a guy’s bathroom. You know that, right?

Yeah, I said, nodding toward the urinals. I can see.

Better get out of here before you get in trouble.

I shrugged. You’re worth it.

He stood up and I asked, You sure you’re gonna be okay?

No, he said. I’m not.

Sometimes I wondered if he was less a friend and more my mirror. I took his head in my hands and put my fingers on his mouth, upturning his skin into a smile until it became genuine. You and me both.

We spoke the truth that day. We were not okay. Not even close.

2

As the last bell of the day rang, I walked through the hallways toward the double doors leading outside. Opening them, I anticipated drizzle, but was instead bathed in sunlight. Its glow felt like a kind of kiss. Something warm, something familiar. For a moment, the light blinded me. Then I got used to it and I was reminded of who I was. Standing alone as other students filtered out, I watched as my brother Theo strode past like a human peacock.

He was a senior and I could never get out from under his shadow. He had an entire year ahead of me, so that by the time I arrived anywhere—swim lessons, grade school, the ice cream shop—I wasn’t Ruthie. Stripped of my identity, I was Theo’s sister, as though it was tattooed on my forehead.

It didn’t used to be that way. There were times growing up I remembered us as friends. Even then, babysitters would pay him more attention. Didn’t matter if they were teenagers or little old ladies. They’d squeeze his cheeks, amused with his innate adorableness while I watched, politely ignored. As he grew older, the attention only increased, as he became a gravitational pull all his own. His girlfriend now was Sasha Fitzgerald, she of raven hair, mocha skin, green eyes and only recently grown out of her awkwardness into a stunning creature. She was also my ex-best friend.

Theo and Sasha split off toward the parking lot, hand-in-hand, soon-to-be Prom King and Queen, while Max and I walked toward the three buses waiting in the circular drive.

I pictured saying, Hey, Theo, wait for me, and we would walk to his car together, the brother and sister everyone was jealous of, the brother and sister they all wished they had, the family they wished they belonged to.

It never happened.

Theo got into his car—not just any car—a rebuilt powder blue 1953 Buick Roadmaster with shimmering chrome accents. Sasha slid in the passenger side, and even though there was a backseat—room enough for both Max and me and an entire village, Theo shut the door, revved the engine and peeled out. They didn’t give me the finger, but it sure felt like it.

I watched that scene play out every day that year.

Every day and not one invitation for a ride.

Every day feeling invisible.

I didn’t dislike my brother because I was jealous. I didn’t dislike him because he stole my best