Prologue
1995
Rena walked slowly, very slowly, home. It had just started to snow- small white dots that melted as soon as they hit the sidewalk. It wasn’t that far from school to her house, not really, but Rena enjoyed looking at the sky, all white, and she had decided not to take the shortcut. But the sun was setting, so she hurried a bit, and then tripped, her many books spilling out from her bag and onto the wet pavement.
Sighing, she bent over and started to pick the slightly damp books and shoved them roughly into her bag, bending some covers and pages. As she stood, a man almost bumped into her, but he did manage to spill his coffee all over her hair.
Rena looked up, creamy-brown coffee dripping from her short blond hair. The man, holding a large, now-empty coffee cup, stared for a moment before apologizing.
Rena wiped at the coffee that started to run into her eyes with a gloved hand. Her eyes were a light blue, unlike the man who has dark, dark brown eyes and the same color of hair.
The man smiled. “I’m Hubert.”
Rena backed up a step, suddenly scared.
Hubert grabbed Rena’s hand and started to pull her towards a small black and very beat-up car.
Rena screamed a high-pitched screech and tried to get away.
She was, though, only ten, and the man was probably in his early twenties and very tall.
Kicking, biting, hitting, and clawing at Hubert did nothing except make him madder and madder.
Eventually, he got too mad, and pulled his knife out.
The blade reflected off the sunlight and shone, but Rena screamed and his hand clamped around her throat.
Struggling for a breath, Rena kicked him as hard as she could in the shins and was trying to bite Hubert when the knife enters her back, blood pouring from the wound and Rena’s body going limp and dropping to the cement.
Blood stained the gray cement red.
Rena made a whimper-type-moan thing and Hubert lodged the knife into her skin, right above her left eyebrow.
Hubert shoved the body roughly in the back of his car, and then sped away.
Chapter 1
2015
Aven
I stomp my feet to get the snow off my boots and try to get the caked snow off of my jeans.
Then I step inside.
I live in a pretty small house, and I live only with my dad.
We have a basement, packed with old cardboard boxes and crates. On the main floor, we have my bedroom, my dad’s bedroom, a bathroom, a very small kitchen, and a living room with a washer machine and drier machine and a box for our table where we eat.
I go to my room after taking my coat and gloves off. My room is certainly not a room that you’d go bragging to your friends about. The walls are white, my clothes kept in a box under my bed with a comforter that’s really old so it’s thinner than a sheet of paper in some parts and has large clumps of cotton in others. I have two crates with a piece of plywood and a cloth on top for a desk, too.
Fancy, huh?
I set my backpack down and start on my homework.
I am working on my English paper when my dad comes home, stomping his feet and shaking the house.
“Aven? Aven?” his voice calls out.
“I’m studying!” I yell back.
“What do you want for dinner?” he calls.
“Anything is fine,” I shout.
“We’ll have soup!” he shouts.
There is a pause.
“That okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, it’s fine!”
Okay.
So it is not the most effective way of communication.
But it works.
Kind of.
Sort of.
I am finishing up my English paper when he yells, “Aven, dinner’s ready!”
“Coming,” I shout back.
I shove my books into my backpack and go to the living room, sitting cross-legged on one side of the cardboard box/table.
My dad brings in two bowls, handing a steaming bowl of chicken-noodle soup, and then sits down himself.
I stir my spoon around in the soup for a moment, waiting for it to cool off, and then start to eat.
My dad has dark brown hair and eyes that are just as dark, and he rarely smiles. You know, I don’t actually know when he last smiled.
“How was your day?” Dad asks.
“Good,” I say after taking another bite.
“How’s homework?”
“We got a lot.”
“Are you done yet?”
“Almost. I just have a Greek and Latin roots worksheet to finish up,” I say and try to pick up a noodle that fell off my spoon, but I fail.
“Good,” he nods.
“How was your day?” I ask, though every day he says the exact same thing. I don’t even know what he does for a living.
“Fine. Busy.”
I nod.
“Can I go to the movies tomorrow?” I question.
“Sure,” he answers.
I could go pretty much anywhere or do anything and he wouldn’t even know.
But I don’t.
Go just anywhere without telling him, I mean.
I take my last bite of soup and then stand and go to wash my dishes.
That is the only ten minutes I talk with my dad.
Afterwards, I go back to my room and finish my Greek and Latin roots worksheet.
It only takes me a few minutes, but it is already so late.
1:30 a.m., exactly.
I slip under the covers, and drift off to sleep.
There is a girl, probably about nine or ten, with blonde short hair and light blue eyes, walking very slowly.
She stares at the sky but then starts to hurry.
She trips, books falling out of her bag.
She gathers her books, a bit wet from the snow.
As she stands, a man, about twenty-two or twenty-three, not watching where he was going, spilled his coffee on her.
The man has dark hair and eyes.
The girl looks up and the man says, “I’m Hubert.”
The girl backs up a step, eyes wide with fear.
The man grabs her hand tightly and tries to pull her to his car, but she struggles and then the man pulls out a knife.
The girl screams and kicks the man in the shins.
The knife enters her back and she slumps to the ground.
When a sound escapes the girl’s lips, the man throws the knife at her forehead.
Then the man shoves the girl into his black car, speeding away.
I wake up, gasping and covered in a cold sweat.
The man in my dream was Dad.
And you know how in dreams, you just know things?
The girl was me.
In a past life.
I am certain of it.
In my last life, I was murdered by the man who is now my father.
Chapter 2
I look at my clock.
9:47.
I’m late for school already.
And Dad is gone.
The murderer, my dad, is gone.
Not gone, gone; he’s just left for work.
I get up and shower and then replace my book in my backpack with clothes. I take all my money for college, $897, and put it in my backpack, too.
I’ll have to take a bus, because I’m only fifteen and have only a learner’s permit.
And, truthfully, I’m not that good of a driver.
I eat a bowl of cereal and a banana and then start walking to the bus stop.
After an hour, a bus finally shows up.
I step on, dropping a few quarters in the slot and taking a seat in the middle of the bus, which is mostly empty, thankfully.
For three hours, I stare out the dirty windows on the bus.
After that, I have to get off and switch buses.
I don’t really know where I’m headed, exactly.
Eventually, it’s dark and I get off the bus.
I figure out after awhile that I am in New York.
I buy a hot dog and a sprite and sit on a bench.
I know I’m crazy.
Very crazy.
Who just gets on a bus and rides wherever the bus goes?
Me.
And maybe some other people.
I guess.
Who has no plan of where to stay?
Me.
I guess some others fall into that category.
Who has a murder as a dad?
Me.
There are probably not so many people that fall into that category.
Who is crazy?
Me.
But I guess that depends on your definition.
Who is going to freeze to death?
Me.
Who is super, super stupid?
Me.
Who didn’t bring even a jacket when it is below freezing?
Me.
Whose teeth are chattering like crazy?
Me.
Um, I mean, mine.
Who is really cold?
Me.
I open my backpack and pile on layers of long sleeve shirts.
Luckily, I find that I did shove a hoodie in my bag.
And gloves.
So now that I have run away, what do I do?
Hmm…
Thinking.
Thinking.
Still thinking.
Umm…
Hmm…
Uh…
Okay…
Still…
Thinking…
Okay…
I’ve got nothing.
Nada.
Zip.
Zilch.
Zero.
I sigh.
My breath makes a white puff from the cold.
I look around.
The park is empty.
What if there are killers out here?
Like my father?
What will my dad think?
Will he think I’m just at the movies?
I hope so.
I really, really hope so.
What have I done?
How stupid am I?
And insane?
Probably very.
Very.
Very.
Very insane.
And stupid.
I stare at trees.
And touch the scar above my eyebrow.
It was there since I was born.
And there is another one on my back.
Both are the exact places where the knife entered my back and forehead in my dream.
And my dad’s name is Hubert.
Like in the dream.
And his car is black.
Like in the dream.
But I don’t look like the girl.
But I don’t think that is uncommon.
I have dark brown straight hair and dark eyes, like my dad.
The murderer.
The killer.
What do I do?
What do I do?
What do I do?
What do I do?
Somehow, I manage to fall asleep.
Though that doesn’t solve the problem of knowing what to do.
Chapter 3
“Miss, wake up miss,” a voice says loudly.
Much too loudly for this time in the morning.
And what is some random person doing in my room?
I open my eyes, but quickly shield them from the bright light that shines into them.
That’s when everything comes flooding back to me.
I’m in the park.
Not at home.
In the park.
No, not the park.
A park.
Who knows where it is.
“Sorry, miss,” the man lowers the flashlight.
I sit up on the bench, blinking a few times.
“You are breaking the law by being here this late at night,” the man informs me.
“Stupid law,” I mutter under my breath, giving the officer no chance for him to hear.
“What, miss?”
“Nothing.”
“What are you doing out at this time?” he inquires.
I shrug. “Heard there was this party. Alcohol.” Another shrug. “My sister was going to throw it. So I left. I don’t want to be there.”
The officer stares at me for a moment. “Come with me,” he orders finally.
“What?” my voice raises three octaves. “No! I’m fine, really. Swear it. I’m fine. If you could just get it so the party would be gone, I’ll be going home. Please?”
“No. Your sister obviously isn’t responsible enough to take care of you. I want you to come with me. You look cold. Your lips are blue,” he states.
I am cold and my mouth is so numb I can barely talk right.
“But—“ I start to protest.
“What’s your name, miss?” he cuts me off.
I come up with the name instantly. “Alane.”
Huh.
I wonder where that came from.
“Alane…” he prompts.
“Alane Sanderr.”
“Sanderr,” the man repeats, scratching his bald head. “Is Alane short for anything?”
“Alanna,” I say instantly.
Odd…
“Come with me, Miss Sanderr.”
“Why you calling me a ‘Miss’? I could be married,” I say as I stand, stretching a bit.
The officer looks at me curiously. “Who’s the husband?” he questions.
I shrug.
“C’mon, Miss Alanna Sanderr.”
“I want to sleep,” I pout.
“You can sleep at the station.”
“You mean in a cell?” my eyes widen.
“No,” he shakes his head. “In the lounge. There’s a cot there.”
“Fine,” I shrug.
He leads me back to his cruiser and orders for me to sit in the back.
“I’ve always wanted to ride in a police car!” I squeal, sounding slightly insane.
“Not under bad circumstances I’m hoping.”
I shake my head vigorously. “Nope.”
What’s got into me?
I shrug.
Hmm… I just shrugged because of something that I said. No… something I thought.
I giggle.
“You sure you weren’t at that party?” the officer glances at me through his mirror.
“No, sir,” I try to act serious but then burst out into giggles.
The officer sighs.
Once I stop laughing and giggling like I’m mental, I look outside the window while crossing my fingers that all goes well.
“So this is Alanna Sanderr,” the officer says to another officer, a woman with ear-length reddish hair and bright blue eyes.
“Alanna Sanderr?” the woman squints at me.
I nod after a moment of silence.
The woman types something into her computer, then mumbles something to herself.
“What?” the man-officer questions.
“Alanna Sanderr was the girl that went missing here in ’95,” she answers. “We never caught the guy. Still out there, I suppose.”
I about faint when I hear that.
“What’s wrong honey?” the woman looks at me, concerned.
“I know who the murderer is,” I say, completely in a daze.
“Who?” the man demands.
“My father. My present father. He killed me. Her,” I correct. “It was me in a past life, though. My father now killed me in my last life. I had a dream about it. And I have the scars. There’s one on my back and one here,” I point to the one on my face.
“Let’s get a place for you to lie down, honey, alright?” the woman touches my shoulder gently, leading me down a long hallway and into a small lounge where there’s a cot and bathroom. “You can stay here for tonight.”
“You think I’m lying,” I say simply.
The woman just looks at me sympathetically. “Yes. There is no way for that to happen.”
“Yes there is. You’ll see.” I sound like a two-year-old saying that, I know, but it doesn’t matter. Here I am, in jail for the night, technically, and tomorrow I’ll most likely be in a mental hospital.
Ah, great.
I lie on the cot.
And think.
And then sleep.
I’ll be in for a long day tomorrow, though.
Chapter 4
"Here she is," the woman's voice from last night drifts into the lounge.
I sit up abruptly, and in the process I fall off of the cot.
Rubbing my head, I look up to see two new faces.
"Hi, honey," the woman's voice is soft-sounding.
I stand and press myself into the wall.
I stand and press myself into the wall.
“These people are going to escort you out, okay, honey?” the woman looks at me cautiously.
I shake my head roughly. “No.”
The woman sighs softly. “Honey—”
“Stop calling me honey!” I snap at her. “And where are they taking me?” I eye the two people— a man and a woman— warily.
“The hospital,” the man answers.
“What kind of hospital?” I prompt further.
“A mental hospital,” the other woman jumps in, impatient.
Oh, great.
I’m going to be admitted.
***
The mental hospital is actually very nice-looking. The building is made of a pretty, light-colored brick, and the grass surrounding it is a bright green, not all scraggly and brown like at my old home. There are also roses bordering everything, and they’re healthier looking than any I’ve ever seen.
“This is supposedly Alanna Sanderr,” the man tells the lady at the front desk.
“Supposedly?” the lady’s face clouds with confusion.
The man nods. “She believes that she’s Alanna Sanderr, the girl who was murdered awhile back. She thinks her father in this life was her murderer in her last life,” he explains.
“Oh,” understanding replaces the confusion on the lady’s face.
“I’m not crazy,” I state dumbly.
“You’re not, sweetie,” the lady assures me.
Or should I say tries to assure me? Because, really, her assuring does not assure me.
And after that, I am led farther into the building.
I don’t like it here I don’t like it here I don’t like it here I don’t like it here I don’t like it here I don’t like it here I don’t like it here I don’t like it here I don’t like it here I don’t like it here I don’t like it here I don’t like it here I don’t like it here I don’t like it here I don’t like it here, I chant silently in my head.
Though this is actually a nice place, I want to kill all these people because they don’t believe me.
Agh.
“This will be your room,” a different lady announces after stopping in front of a door in a long, light-red-colored hallway.
Great. I’m in a crazy person’s room, I note as I see the two double beds.
“It’s dinnertime, so your roommate is already there. Her name is Zellie.”
Zellie. Why does that sound familiar…?
At dinner, I eat alone at a table and sit there for the majority of the hour we have.
That is, until someone sits down across from me.
“So you’re the new kid, huh?” a girl, who looks oddly familiar, asks.
“Yeah.”
“What are you in here for?”
I shrug. “Apparently I’m psycho. What about you?”
“Same here. I’m Zellie, by the way. Zelda, really, though.”
I look at her for a long time. Her dark skin seems to be radiant, her black hair is tied into a short pony-tail, and her brown eyes sparkle with liveliness.
“Nice to meet you,” I finally say.
“Same here.”
And then dinner is over, and we head back together, chatting as if we’ve been friends for years.
That night, I fall asleep easily, though my dream isn’t very relaxing or calm.
“Hey, Zelda,” the girl with short blond hair and blue eyes smiles as another girl with long black hair and green eyes walks up onto an old porch.
“Hey Alane. How ya doin’?”
“Great,” the girl says.
I wake up then, once again covered in a cold sweat. Could it be her? Zellie? Zelda? It all seems to weird. But if Zelda was reincarnated, then… wouldn’t she also have to have died around the time I did?
Chapter 5
“Get up Alane,” Zellie’s voice brings me out of my dreams.
Alane? I squint. Did I tell her to call me that? Shrugging, I get out of bed and grab some clothes, head to the bathroom, and get ready.
“Alane, breakfast is starting!” Zellie pounds on the door.
“Comin’!” I call back, picking up my pajamas from the floor and exiting the bathroom.
“Would you like to know what I was admitted for?” she questions as soon as I appear.
“Sure…” I reply, slowly.
“Well I was having all these really weird dreams that I was drowned by this one dude and I started getting really freaked out and everything, ‘cause I thought that I was gonna get killed, y’know? But my parents got really freaked out and everything by me freaking out so they sent me here. I don’t get any letters from them or anything.” Her shoulders drop a bit at this.
But I stand there, gaping at her.
“What?” she asks, once she sees my expression of pure shock.
“What did the guy look like?”
Zellie gives a small shrug. “Dark hair, dark eyes… he’s evil… God, I know why they admitted me. I’m talking like he’s real.”
“He is,” I say bluntly.
“No,” Zellie shakes her head. “He’s not. I’m on meds now. You will be soon, too.”
“I won’t take them.”
She laughs bitterly. “Like you have a choice,” she scoffs.
What’s that supposed to mean?
I stare at her for a bit longer, before she grabs my hand, pulling me down the hall to breakfast.
