Between

By Lindsey Renée Backen

"Where am I?"
"You're in Between."
"In between what?"
"No. You're IN Between. What's the last thing you remember?"
"I don't remember anything."

All I know is I ended up in a world where you exist for as long as you are remembered. But how you experience life depends on what you can remember. Problem is, I can't remember anything. I don't know where I was going, or why I was so dressed up. I can't even guess who tried to kill me--or why he'd want to. I don't even remember my name.

I have friends in Between: Jessica, the spunky girl whose first kiss was stolen by death. Nathaniel, the pioneer who cannot fade no matter how much he wants to. And Carter, the bully who became my best friend. We all live with the others, here in Between, where we are fueled by the memories of those we left behind. Our worlds are comprised of the last day that lives in our memories and the present world that goes on without us. Where people will eventually forget us. And when we are forgotten, we fade.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lindsey Renée Backen
• Release date: Dec 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463625590

Lindsey Renée Backen

Lindsey Renee Backen writes books that cross genres and themes: like life, their stories weave threads of the best and worst of moments, triumphs, and traumas. Her fiction is deeply character-driven, centered around the inner worlds of the characters as they face outer challenges, confront their flaws, and make sense of their worlds. In her books, you will find the innocence of first love, the trauma of war and family abuse, the struggle to break free of molds and expectations, and the complexity of family relationships. Not every character will get a fairytale ending, but read on, Friend. Lindsey believes that every story, whether in fiction or your life, can emerge from the darkest of places end in hope.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Isense death before I see it. I feel it in the chilled brush of the breeze. I hear it in the crunch of the brittle leaves beneath me. When I open my eyes, it hovers over me in a misty fog like the crystallized breath of a giant. It rustles through hundreds of leaves around me, skeletal layers of orange, red, and brown interspersed among the sharp points of evergreen needles.

Pine trees tower above me like cathedral spires, defying the brown trunks and smaller trees below. For a moment, I despise the oaks for demanding their energy from the foliage, sucking the leaf dry and discarding it the moment its usefulness has ended.

The next, I wonder if it’s my perception that’s wrong. Perhaps the tree is the victim, gallantly clinging to every leaf until the last moment when it grieves the loss as it falls. Then it gathers the energy to create a new leaf, knowing the cycle of abandonment will repeat. Perhaps the leaf is the traitor to the tree, deserting its source of life.

Or perhaps it is the wind. The cruel wind that sends a chill through me as it ravages the branches, separating the leaves from their feeble bond. I watch a single brown oak leaf spiral toward me, thinking it’s no beauty as it brushes my forehead. If I lay here long enough, the leaves will cover me completely.

I must not be covered.

The thought jolts my heart as though someone turned the key to an engine, sending a shudder through my spine. Panic raises every hair across my scalp, then creates goosebumps as it rolls down my arms and legs. My skull feels crushed as my thoughts crumble against reality. I roll, pushing to my hands, my knees, my feet.

My crystal-encrusted heels dig into the red dirt before I jerk them free, kicking up leaves, pushing aside branches. The pain in my head dissipates like I somehow left it in the pile of leaves. In its place is terror.

Toward the road or away? I must put distance between us, but if he’s following me, I can’t be caught alone. Deeper into the woods will make me alone, but I can’t go back to the road. I reel, grabbing the smooth trunk of a tree for balance as I ride out the light-headed wave.

What did he do to me?

My thoughts hover in fragmented sentences and taunting swirls of color, like bubbles that pop the moment I try to grasp them. I fight the panic. If I panic, it’s all over. I’m not even sure why I’m panicking.

I close my eyes, blocking out the only sense I can. I cover my ears, shrinking my world into a size so small that I can’t feel lost. The faint linger of pain is the easiest thing to banish.

Sight, sound, touch, taste. I focus on minimizing each sensation, concentrating on my weakest sense. Smell. I smell the sharp tang of pine sap. I smell the earthy tone of sun-warmed wood from the fallen branches and dead trunks scattered across the forest floor. I slowly unblock my ears, hearing the distant call of geese.

Water trickles somewhere to my left and the breeze rustles the ferns at my feet. I hear a tiny plop, probably belonging to a small bug hopping among the leaves, seeking safety from the impending chill. It’s safe to look now.

The sandy loam grinds under my feet, both firm and embracing, as though the earth tries to comfort me. I let my eyelids open. I breathe in the scent, trying to feel as serene as my surroundings. I can’t control my past or my future but, for this moment, I am safe.

A buck steps into a small clearing, shaggy tufts darkening its tan coat. I hold my breath as his ears flicker in my direction. His thick antlers mesmerize me, coming to seventeen sharp points. I know there are seventeen, although I don’t actually count. His eyes are dark pools, reflecting the muted light of the sun, reminding me of a stuffed animal.

He sniffs the air but doesn’t turn toward me. I watch as he stretches his neck to nibble a leaf. I smile, feeling honored that nature doesn’t view me as a threat.

A sound like a wasp jets past me. Before I locate it, the deer collapses to its knees, then tumbles onto its side. I want to scream, but my jaw clamps. I can’t force myself to face the predator behind me, so I fixate on the feathered arrow that protrudes from the animal’s heart. I swallow as the hunter steps into my peripheral vision.

He wears tan pants and a white shirt with baggy sleeves rolled up and tied at his elbows, topping it all off with a brown vest. His hair is dark brown and short, cut with such blunt snips that I imagine him tied to a chair while a witch hacks away with a kitchen knife. His leather boots make no sound as he steps toward the carcass.

He grasps the arrow, jerking it from the bloodless wound. The flint tip comes out clean, but his catch stays down, staring dully at the sky. The hunter straightens, raising his eyes toward me. His voice is low and soft, surprising me with its feeble volume. You crossed the wrong border. He juts his chin behind me. Your people are that way.

I’m alone, I say, before I realize I really shouldn’t be volunteering that information to a strange man.

He straps the bow over his shoulder, replying, Only if you want to be. Solitude becomes very tedious.

How do you know they are my people? I ask.

He shrugs, then steps around the antlers to circle the animal’s head. You were standing downwind. It would have smelled you if you weren’t with them.

What? I ask. What do you mean?

He hoists the deer onto his shoulders before he pauses to look at me. His eyes are filmy, somewhere between gray and blue. You don’t know, he says, but it’s more of a statement than a question.

Frustration seeps into me, first anger, then tears. Know what?

You’ll realize soon enough, he answers, turning his back toward me. When you do, the others are that way.

The buck’s head lolls to the side as he walks away. I don’t call after him, but I do turn in the direction of my so-called people. Maybe someone is searching for me. Perhaps they don’t know me at all, but kind people won’t leave me here alone.

I squint, realizing that he pointed me toward the sun, which is burning away the morning fog. I hear faint laughter, and the feeling of danger evaporates. Children laugh and splash, hidden behind the trees. Maybe a family is camping.

I walk faster, following the sound. I should warn them. But about what? I find a pond where sunbeams hit the water, riding across hundreds of ripples like dancing fairies.

I notice the beauty even as I scan the surface for the children, searching the shady spaces between the trunks of tall pines. They can’t be far. Their words are clear.

Daisy, jump!

I hear the splash, but the voices must come from deeper in the woods because the water is calm and there aren’t any children. I hear another splash—then a scream.

He’s found them. I grab my gown, pulling the material from my feet as I run, slipping as I climb up a steep embankment, but when I reach the top, there is nothing. The voices are gone. I am alone again and the fear has returned, only this time it’s for my sanity.

Wading through tall blades of grass and thick ferns, I tilt my head as I spy the white feathery spray of fleabane flower petals. I blink to clear my vision. Fleabanes bloom in spring to late summer. I’ve never seen any in fall. Panic creeps back into my chest as I realize I can’t remember how I got into the woods. I try to recall something simple. My name. What is my name?

Maddie. Audrey. Scott. Zander.

A stream of names flitters through my mind, a parade of abstract words with no faces. Panic buzzes in my chest, but I push it away. I’ll remember my name later.

I hug myself as I slide down the faint outline of a deer trail. What if the hunter was wrong? What if there are no people? What if I imagined him? The deer? Everything?

There should have been blood. There should have been children. I hear laughter again, this time from the woods to my left, but it doesn’t belong to children. It sounds like teenagers, similar to the giggles and calls I hear in my school hallways. I follow the sound, hoping to prove my own sanity.

I spy red before I make out their forms. A girl, around sixteen years old, tramps through the woods. She is wearing a black and red plaid scarf and walks with an easy, swinging gait, laughing as she knocks shoulders with her friend.

The younger girl is about thirteen years old with wispy blond hair that hangs straight on both sides of her face, covering her ears and ending in a neat trim. She looks like a doll dressed for bed in a yellow nightgown. Pale orange flowers splash across the cotton material beneath the small collar. Her feet are bare.

I slow, disoriented by the picture.

They stop when they see me. The older girl’s mouth falls open as the younger girl steps back, inching sideways like she wants to hide.

The older girl swallows before she offers a smile. Hello.

Hi. My answer is breathy, so soft I’m not sure if they can hear me. I swallow, realizing my mouth is incredibly dry. Where am I?

They exchange glances again before the older girl comes toward me, cocking her head as though approaching a wounded bird. You’re in Between.

In between where? I ask.

"No. You’re in Between, the girl repeats, separating her words with her hands. When I don’t respond, she takes a breath. What’s the last thing you remember?"

Waking in the woods, I answer truthfully. I don’t remember getting here. But someone is after me.

The younger girl creeps from her friend’s shadow. No one can find you here.

Her companion takes my hands and smiles softly. I’m Jessica. This is Miranda.

I’m . . . I stop as again my name eludes me.

If you just woke, you may be disoriented. Don’t worry. She smiles, but her eyes mist as she holds out her hand. You’re not alone. We look out for each other here. Come on. We’ll bring you to the others.

The others? I ask. Is that . . . the boy said my people were this way.

They grin at each other, and Jessica sounds like she already knows the answer when she asks, What boy?

He was hunting. He looked . . . like a pioneer, actually.

That’s Nathaniel, Jessica says. Don’t worry. The stag will be back.

They’re like Tom and Jerry. Miranda giggles. They just go round and round.

I’m still not sure I’m awake. And I still don’t understand why the girl is running around the woods in a nightgown. Who’s Nathaniel?

He is a pioneer, Jessica answers. He’s one of the few still around.

I feel my thoughts click into place, then spin away in all directions as logic slams against reality. He’s a gho—

Jessica puts her hand over my mouth. Her fingers are a breath of wind before they solidify against my mouth. My jaw is hanging open and if she is not careful, she might get drooled on because I can’t seem to shut it.

No! Don’t say that word. You’ll bring them. We’re not the same. Those things are evil.

The younger girl pushes her hair from her eyes. We’re Betweeners.

Jessica moves her hand from my mouth to my hand and tugs me onto a trail. Come on. We’ll explain at the lake. It’s easier there.

I look back over my shoulder at least twenty times before we reach the water again. Unperturbed, Jessica plops down cross-legged, while Miranda hugs her knees to her chest with the slender arms of a child.

Jessica leans forward, dropping her voice as though she is afraid of being overheard. Father Jefferson coined the word from his theory, and whether or not you believe it, it’s important for you to understand. He was better at explaining, but he faded last year.

I watch the water. Jessica’s reflection is just as strong as mine. She speaks quickly, as though someone might drag her off at any moment for spilling secrets. Apparently, in the Bible, death is called ‘sleeping.’ Father Jefferson believes that all those people who are considered dead are in a sort of deep sleep until the end of time.

But for whatever reason, some of us are still awake. Miranda chimes in, squeezing her hands between her knees. Either we woke up, or we never went to sleep in the first place. We all live here, between the realm of the sleeping and the living.

I process their words, letting the meaning wash over me like the water I swish through my fingers, but I can hardly feel it against my hand. So, why am I here?

Their sober eyes frighten me, and I know the answer before Jessica confirms it. Because you’re not sleeping either.

CHAPTER TWO

I’m dead. I wait for some sort of emotion to wash over me. Denial, anger, grief, or fear, but all I feel is a stunned sort of curiosity. I can’t be dead. I can see, feel, and touch. Distracting myself with the water is counterproductive. I watch the ripples race from my fingers over another layer that stays perfectly still.

It’s both worlds, Jessica explains. She leans over to touch the water, creating the same phenomenon.

I know they’re watching me, and I swallow. I’m not ready for them to talk. I don’t have time for shutting out each sense to make my world smaller, so I focus only on the water and keeping my thoughts from showing on my face.

I’m dead. The words dance through my head. They are abstract words with no belief to enforce an emotional connection.

Miranda wiggles, apparently feeling compelled to break the silence. You can touch the water because it was there in your time. The present water remains undisturbed. It takes a lot of energy and strength to move anything that is part of the present world. I can hardly do it anymore.

I wet my lip, feeling its cracked surface. So if a living person were to be standing nearby, would he see anything?

No, Jessica answers, offering what I suppose is meant to be an encouraging smile. You’re safe here. It’s one of the good things about being in Between. Her eyes soften with contemplation. No matter what happened to you during your life, the living can’t follow you here.

Then why do I still feel pain? I ask.

Jessica rubs her arms as though a chill has come, moving one hand down her side. Sometimes it takes a while to wear off. Your mind remembers and recreates feelings, especially if you were injured when you died.

What hurts? Miranda asks. She scoots next to me, and I watch the hem of her nightgown layer itself across the ground.

If I’m dead, I’m safe. I don’t have to run. My mind is pranking me, refusing to recall reality, yet playing along with the idea of unsleeping spirits talking to me. I find myself staring back at them, before I stutter, Well, my head, mostly.

That’s probably shock. Jessica laughs a little, though there really isn’t anything funny. Her eyes brush over my arm, and she reaches to touch my wrist, adding gently, But someone did grab you.

Thick fingers have left purple marks imprinted on my skin, wrapping around my tiny wrists like a cruel bracelet. I wait for a face to come into my mind, but I don’t want to see it, and it vanishes before it fully forms.

Jess!

The shout makes me jump, and we all turn as a guy dodges tree trunks, jumping over the grassy patch that separates the woods from the pond’s edge. For a forest as empty as this felt an hour ago, there are a lot of people running around.

The newcomer is older than the rest of us, falling somewhere around nineteen. He’s wearing camo pants and a matching buttoned shirt with combat boots. It’s not hard to guess what he was or how he died. He skids to an unceremonious stop in front of us, and all I can think about is how he looks so normal. Maybe too normal.

He folds his arms, cocking a grin at me as he runs his eyes down the beads of my dress to the glimmer of my shoes. Hey there, Sparkles.

Brad, be nice, Jessica says quickly.

She just found out, Miranda adds softly, as though I’m not sitting right there.

I can’t tell what slants more: Brad’s eyebrow, which goes down, or the corners of his mouth, which go up. Well, at least you were pretty when you died. What are you all dressed up for?

I feel myself blush, hands going instinctively to my hair, feeling the dark honey-colored spiral curls, papery with layers of spray to keep them in place. I don’t like the attention. I don’t want guys to think I’m pretty. It scares me.

I move my hands to cover my collarbone, feeling exposed by my gown’s scooped neckline and layered sleeves that sit just off my shoulders. I’m afraid to look away from him, but I glance down toward myself, just now realizing I’m in an evening gown.

What am I all dressed up for? It’s all wrong. I glance at the gray chiffon, the delicate beads that cross my chest and sparkle from the petal sleeves. A gauzy overlay gathers at my waist, then flows all the way to my feet, where the elegant look is marred by a torn, muddy hemline, entangled with a few twigs and a stray leaf.

It’s a beautiful expensive gown, and my heart slams. She’s going to kill me for messing it up.

It’s not mine, I say quickly.

Brad’s eyebrows rise higher. Well, I’ve heard of girls dying in a pretty dress, but you might be the first to die in someone else’s. Whose is it?

I don’t know, I whisper. The answer is getting old.

She can’t remember anything. Miranda blushes as much as I do,