Sarah

August—November 1955 It rained the day the town of Clearwater held a memorial service for Sarah Benadine. Like the sky itself knew the town's pain, the heavens opened up and it rained so hard and heavy that some were wary of a flash flood. Some of the more superstitious regarded it as an omen for there to be rain today of all days, after a long, dry summer. The inclement weather didn't stunt the memorial attendance, however; the high school auditorium—added on just the year before—was filled past capacity. Most of the tiny town turned out to honor the beloved high school sweetheart. The sound of thunder rumbled low and strong over the tremulous, almost uncertain voice of the high school principal. The room was uncomfortable, to say the least; the multitude of bodies coupled with the humidity outside created an atmosphere that was stifling. Loud, wet sobs broke through the air at what almost seemed to be fixed intervals. Tommy Keller, always the subject of nasty gossip and cruel insults because of his childlike disposition at nearly thirty years old, was sitting in the back next to his mother, crying harshly into a handkerchief. At the front, Andrea, Lance, and Norberta Benadine—mother, father, and sister—sat together, the first time the three of them had been in each other's company for so long since Andrea and Lance had separated nearly three years previous. Splitting the distance between the Kellers and the Benadines, a young girl sat staring at her hands. Round-faced and skinny as a rail, with dark hair and sharp blue eyes, she was eleven year old Shannon Malone, Sarah Benadine's neighbor. Anxiously, she fidgeted where she was. The long black dress her mother had forced her to wear was not conducive to the heat, and she felt a discomfort that was completely unrelated to the temperature. Shannon hadn't known Sarah well. As a rule, just about everyone in Clearwater knew each other, or so it seemed to the young kids in the town who were always under the watchful eye of someone who would be happy to report anything they'd been doing back to their parents. Because Sarah had been her neighbor, Shannon had been perhaps better acquainted with her than most other circumstances would've allowed, but a five year age difference prevented a truly close relationship. They had had unimportant conversation on occasion, but that was really the extent of it. It was not Shannon's unfamiliarity with Sarah that caused her unease. Indeed, it was quite the opposite. Shannon was no stranger to death. Her grandfather had died when she was seven. She'd lost two goldfish, one to a little brother who had thought fish could fly. Plenty of stories had been passed around classrooms about friends, relatives, and pets that had passed away. But this was different. Sarah was a far cry from animals and faceless names, and even Shannon's grandfather, whose death was expected and foreseen. Death to them was inevitable. Death was not for the young, the palpable. Especially not like this. Despite the best efforts of authorities, news of Sarah's death had spread quickly and in excruciating detail. Too many civilians had seen too much of the scene to keep a lid on the gossip. Una and Liam Malone had tried to be tactful with their four children—or the three who were old enough to understand—and explain the tragedy in the gentlest of terms, but barely a day had passed before Shannon had heard the full story from Mary Dent down the street. Mary Dent's father was a police officer—she'd tell anyone—and she'd overheard her father telling her mother all of the details. Of course, Mary had also insisted that an alien had broken out of the library and nearly abducted Angela Carson, and Shannon wasn't so sure about that part. Nevertheless, with Sarah Benadine's name on the tongues of many more ready than even Mary Dent to embellish a story, even those who kept their ear firm to the ground found themselves with all the information of how Sarah was discovered: beaten and bloody, in the middle of a trashed library. Truth be told, something about the story hadn't sat right with Shannon from the second she first heard it. She couldn't quite pinpoint what it was; perhaps it was just the fact that Sarah had been murdered at all. But there was a strange feeling that was undeniable that filled her whenever she thought of Sarah Benadine and the library, and it wasn't quite fear and it wasn't quite sadness. She wasn't quite sure what it was. It seemed that the rain was finally dying down as Father Jim Hannigan, Clearwater's Catholic priest, rose to lead the mourners in prayer. The wind was picking up, however, the auditorium walls creaking ominously under the strain. More than a few sets of eyes were cast toward the ceiling nervously, and Shannon Malone found herself picturing the house from "The Wizard of Oz" flying through the air. She'd went to see that movie with her sister a couple of years ago when it was playing at the Centurion for Judy Garland's birthday and had spent that entire summer terrified that a tornado was going to blow through her town and destroy everything in its path. She'd mostly gotten over that, but the wind battering the auditorium was setting her on edge. Gently, Shannon's mother tapped her on the arm and motioned for her to fold her hands. Shannon obeyed immediately, bowing her head and doing her best to drown out the sound of the wind and rain and listen to Father Jim's words. Una Malone was not a strict woman, but she was raised a devout Irish Catholic and expected her children to show a certain amount of respect for the religion. The child lightly snoring in her lap was a notable exception, but she figured as he was only three years old, it could be allowed. Father Jim finished with an "Our Father." Some in the audience joined him, none louder than Tommy Keller, who punctuated each line with a harsh sob. Father Jim bade them off when the prayer was finished, urging each and every one of them to keep Sarah in their minds as they moved forward. Shannon found that to be a little obvious—it was certainly going to take her a long time to forget what happened to Sarah—but she knew better than to say anything about it and earn Una's signature disapproving glare. Una gently roused the sleeping child on her lap—Connor, the youngest Malone—when the prayer was finished. Liam rose solemnly, the rest of the Malones following his example, Una setting a slightly confused and tired Connor on the ground. Liam and Una's eyes met and through the slightest of glances they were able to tell what the other was thinking. Their children were used to this; it was often that they communicated in this way when the subject was something they didn't want their children to hear. Una nodded slightly and turned to Faye, her oldest. "I should go over and talk to Andrea," she said. "Pay my condolences. I haven't seen her in quite a while now—poor dear's been in and out of the hospital. And now this...Faye, you'll watch your brother if your father and I go down to talk to Sarah's parents?" Faye nodded, taking Connor's hand. "Of course, Mom." "Thank you, dear." Una smiled slightly before walking off, Liam close behind. Faye picked Connor up, watching her parents as they made their way through crowd down to where Andrea, Lance, and Norberta were speaking to Father Jim. Faye was a tall, pale girl, on the cusp of thirteen years old, with the same dark hair and blue eyes her sister had. However, most who knew the two regarded Faye as the prettier sister—even Shannon herself would concede it, albeit bitterly. There was a striking resemblance between Faye and her mother, something that would only grow more pronounced over time. Shannon picked at a loose thread on her dress as she waited for her parents to return. All four Malone children were silent, even seven year old Aiden, who could rarely be found not speaking. The somber atmosphere was more than enough to keep the children quiet, despite there being many others around them deep in discussion. An arm came down on Shannon's shoulder. She jumped slightly, and her head whipped to the side. The grinning face of her best friend, Antonia Guaraldi, came into view. "Hey," she said, ruffling Shannon's hair before Shannon shrugged her off. "You're sick, Toni; only you could be smiling right now," Shannon said, doing her best to fix her hair. Toni made a face. "Hop off your high horse, Shannon, my dear. I'm just as sorrowful as anyone else. It's just—it's not every day someone gets brutally murdered in your town, is it?" "Toni." The chastising voice came from behind Toni. Robbie Edwards stepped out from behind her, shaking his head. Toni was a full head taller than him, and he'd been almost completely blocked by her. Shannon should've figured it would be him; anywhere Toni went, Robbie was almost sure to follow. Toni wrapped her arm around his shoulder with exaggerated enthusiasm, to which Robbie grimaced. Faye shot Toni a disapproving look that would've made Una proud before tugging Aiden off to move away from Shannon and her friends, no doubt worried of the influence Toni would be on Aiden. It was already certain he would be asserting that someone getting murdered in your town was not an everyday occurrence all the way home. "Nice ceremony," Robbie said, making eye contact with Shannon and mostly ignoring Toni, who was still draped over him. "Yeah," Shannon agreed. "Think my mom started crying at one point," Robbie said, glancing around like he was expecting her to pop up behind him. "Really?" "Oh yeah. But then again, my mom cries when a leaf falls off a tree, so I'm not sure—" "So," Toni interjected, acting as if she hadn't heard them talking at all, "who do you think did it? "Toni," Shannon admonished. Robbie rolled his eyes. "We're at Sarah's memorial." "Yes, and we're all crying rivers all over the floor," Toni said seriously. "Don't you have any idea who caused us this misery?" "Has anyone ever told you you're the devil?" Toni smiled even wider—almost proudly—as Robbie finally decided to wiggle out from her grip. She let her arm fall limply at her side. Shannon shook her head, trying to look appropriately disapproving, but underneath, she was curious. Robbie coughed into his hand and looked around again before leaning in. "My dad figures it was one of her friends," he said. Shannon raised her eyebrows, but he just shrugged. "You know, another high schooler." "Well, they had to be awful strong," Toni said. "You guys heard about how she was found." Shannon and Robbie nodded in unison. "That's what my dad says," Robbie continued. "He thinks it was a jealous boyfriend or...well, you know." Shannon and Toni immediately made signs of affirmation even though neither of them truly did know. Nor did Robbie, in all honesty, who was only quoting exactly what his father had said. It was no secret that Clarence Edwards was one of the worst gossips in town, and Robbie could always be counted on to relate everything he said. "It's possible," Toni said, frowning slightly in contemplation. She turned to Shannon and raised a brow. "What do you think, Shannon, my dear?" Shannon hesitated for a moment, glancing between the both of them, before shrugging her shoulders. Up to this point, she had spent most of her time trying not to think of who could have killed Sarah. She was not naïve; she knew that, most likely, someone in town—someone she knew—had murdered Sarah Benadine. And while Shannon did not believe Mary Dent about an alien, it was well-known that Angela Carson had asserted that she'd nearly been attacked by a monster, something that unsettled Shannon more than the idea of knowing the killer. Shannon was not certain she wanted to know at all what had happened that night in the library. Toni sighed, disappointed that Shannon had not offered her own theory, but not particularly surprised. "You've still got that weird thing on your hand," she said, choosing to change the subject. Shannon's eyebrows shot up and her right hand clenched almost involuntarily. Robbie repositioned himself to get a better look, but Shannon's fist made seeing anything of note impossible. The black streak that had appeared on Shannon's right palm almost a week ago was a bit of a touchy subject for her. When it had first showed up, she'd assumed it was a pen mark. A long, arduous amount of time spent scrubbing had proven otherwise. She had yet to figure out what it actually was, still present and, if anything, getting darker as time went on. Toni and Robbie were the only ones who knew it was there, only because Toni had noticed it almost immediately and had not refrained from commenting on it loudly and somewhat obnoxiously. No one else—as far as Shannon knew—had seen, and she'd shown no one else. She wasn't sure herself what her exact reasoning was for such secrecy, but the dark slash made her a little nervous. She hadn't told anyone—not even Toni or Robbie—but there had been a few times that Shannon had been certain it was moving. "Yeah," Shannon choked out dumbly after a moment, not sure what else to say. She didn't relax her fist, however. "You should get that checked out," Toni said. "You could be dying or something." Shannon rolled her eyes, unimpressed. This was certainly not the first time Toni had brought it up; she'd been stressing Shannon's possible imminent demise from practically the first second she had seen the black mark. Shannon had never heard of a life threatening disease that was marked by a black streak on a person's right hand, but Toni seemed convinced. Robbie was much more subtle, suggesting only that she tell an adult or—well, anyone other than Toni that might have an idea of what they're talking about. "I'm not dying, Toni," Shannon said confidently, though her fist still remained clenched. Toni folded her arms and tossed her brown hair haughtily, rising to her full height. She was a good deal taller than Shannon, so standing next to her, under her intense gaze, Shannon felt small and somewhat silly, even though she would swear that Toni was just being overdramatic. "Okay," Toni said doubtfully, "but when you're dead, I'm going to make sure that they put on your tombstone that it was because you didn't listen to me."