Unwelcome Memory (Passage from The Lie of a Lamplight)

The rhythmic clang of metal against metal echoed within the cavernous red barn, a steady beat against the backdrop of the late afternoon sun filtering through dusty windowpanes. Richard worked with a practiced efficiency; his movements honed over years of tinkering and building. Yet, despite his focused labor, a subtle distraction tugged at the edges of his awareness. The faint murmur of voices drifted from the direction of the small cabin nestled further down the path – Raven’s cabin. He tried to ignore it, to lose himself in the task at hand, but an unwelcome curiosity, a ghost of an old, darker impulse, began to stir within him.

     The intrigue grew, a persistent itch beneath his skin. Finally succumbing, Richard wiped his calloused hands on a rag and moved with a quiet stealth he had not employed in decades. He retrieved a pair of old binoculars from a shelf cluttered with tools and peered cautiously around the corner of the barn. His gaze settled on Raven and another woman, Olivia, standing in the small front yard of the cabin, their conversation animated. He focused intently on Raven, his eyes tracing the contours of her form, the way she moved, the tilt of her head as she spoke. There was something… familiar.

     A jolt, unexpected and unwelcome, shot through him. A fleeting image, sharp and brutal, flashed behind his eyes: a young woman, cornered against a brick wall, her face contorted in a silent scream of terror. Blood, stark and crimson, smeared her pale skin and stained her light-colored shirt. A chaotic tableau of implied struggle – a hand reaching out, a desperate flinch – flickered and vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving Richard momentarily breathless. He blinked, the barn’s familiar interior swimming back into focus, the ghost of the memory a chilling reminder of a life he had buried, or so he thought.

     He forced his attention back to the present, the mundane reality of the two women chatting in the sunlight, as they headed inside, a stark contrast to the darkness his mind had momentarily revisited. A shadow fell across the barn entrance, and Richard’s breath hitched. Martha. She walked past, her gaze fixed ahead, seemingly unaware of his clandestine observation. A wave of conflicting emotions washed over him – a surge of the deep love that had anchored him to this life, followed by a prickle of guilt and the gnawing fear that his buried past was not as securely locked away as he believed.

     Turning abruptly from the window, Richard moved towards his sturdy wooden workbench. Amidst the scattered tools and half-finished projects, a stark white envelope lay waiting. The letters BRK clearly on the front in an unfamiliar, precise hand. A knot of apprehension tightened in his chest. He had not seen it there before. He reached for it, his fingers brushing against the smooth paper, the silence of the barn amplifying the sudden, frantic beating of his heart. Raven’s presence, the unwelcome memory – and now this. He held the mysterious envelope, its contents an unknown weight in his hand, a silent question hanging in the air.

Voice’s of the Broken (Passage from The Lie or the Lamplight)

Harper awoke to destruction. His twin bed looked ravaged, stuffing spilling from jagged mattress tears, springs jutting out like skeletal fingers. He carefully swung his legs over the side, avoiding the sharp points, and stumbled into the dingy bathroom.

     Another night of thrashing. Another night of the voices.

     He stared at his reflection in the grimy mirror, then turned on the faucet and splashed lukewarm water onto his face. As he reached for the threadbare towel, his blood ran cold. In the mirror’s reflection, the man in the faded Phillies cap stood silently behind him.

     “How did you find me?” Harper asked, his voice flat.

     “I’m always with you,” the man replied, his gaze blank yet accusatory.

     “I told you to leave me alone.” Harper turned away, trying to ignore the familiar presence. “I know what happened that day, and I don’t need you telling me different.”

     “You’re wrong,” the man told. “You know what you did.”

     Harper pressed his hands to his throbbing head. Not this again. He moved into the kitchen, wrestling open the broken refrigerator. As he reached for yesterday’s leftover sandwich, the Phillies cap man materialized beside him.

     “You killed your family that day.”

     “No!” Harper screamed, his control snapping. “I don’t need your lies! I told you before the trial, in prison—I did not kill my family! I wouldn’t, and I couldn’t!”

     “Your mom and dad would still be alive if it weren’t for you. Not to mention Rebecca.”

     “Don’t ever say her name!” Harper roared, hurling the sandwich at the figure. He watched in detached horror as the food passed through the man like he was made of smoke.

     Harper stormed onto the dilapidated porch, pacing frantically. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” he muttered to the empty air.

     Three weeks of this. Three weeks of him following me, trying to convince me I’m a killer.

     Before long, another figure materialized—the biker in tight leather, slicked-back hair gleaming like oil. Thin sunglasses reflected Harper’s anguished face.

     “You know what you need to do,” the biker said, his voice smooth as poison. “Find the one who killed your family. You know you didn’t do this.”

     “I know who did,” Harper exclaimed, his fingers trembling. “Rebecca’s death will not be in vain. I will seek vengeance, and my family’s killer will not die fast.”

     The biker’s smile revealed unnaturally sharp canine teeth.

     “Phillies cap is back.” Harper paused, “He keeps following me.”

     “Don’t worry about him,” the biker said, his sunglasses sliding down to reveal hypnotic red eyes. “His lies won’t prevail. You have a duty—not just to Rebecca, your parents, and your unborn child, but to the one who helped you escape that hellhole.”

     Harper turned toward the open field, instinctively touching the back of his head where the mysterious injury had been. “What if I’m wrong? What if I did kill my family?”

     When he turned back, the biker was gone. Only the whispered words remained: “The killer is close.”

     In the distance, something caught his eye—a little girl with long brown hair, sitting peacefully in the field, playing with a doll. She looked no older than five, her Hispanic features delicate in the morning light.

     Why does she seem familiar?

     Harper picked up his navy-blue duffle bag and approached cautiously. “Hello,” he called out gently. “Are you lost?”

     The girl looked up with blank expression, watching him approach.

     “I’m not going to hurt you,” Harper continued, moving slowly. “I just want to make sure you’re alright. Where are your parents?”

     She remained silent, her gaze fixed on him. When he was about twenty feet away, she suddenly stood, her doll falling to the ground with a soft thud. A tear welled in her big brown eyes.

     “Are you alright?” he asked, kneeling down and placing his bag beside him. “Do you know where your parents are?”

     Wiping the tear away, the girl pointed at his duffle bag. Harper shook his head in confusion. “I don’t have anything in here you’d want.” More tears welled as she continued pointing.

     “I don’t understand,” Harper said, looking down at the bag. “Where are your parents?” When he looked up, the girl was gone.

     Sitting in the empty field, Harper stared at the space where she had been. His hands trembled as he unzipped the bag. What did she want me to see?

     Inside lay his hunting knife, his cocaine stash, and the orange prescription bottle labeled Risperidone. The prison doctor’s words echoed: “For the schizophrenia, Harper. These episodes you’re having—they’re not real.”

     He stared at the medication, then at the empty field where a five-year-old girl had just vanished into thin air.

     The voices. The girl. None of it’s real.

     But the knife was real. The blood on his finger from testing its edge was real. And somewhere out there, his family’s real killer was still breathing while he ran from crimes, he swore he didn’t commit.

     “This is for crazy people,” he whispered, holding the bottle. “I’m not crazy. I’m broken.”

     Harper confused by the effects of the medication hurled the pills as far as he could into the field and shouldered his bag. The medication makes everything foggy. I need to think clearly if I’m going to find the truth.

Under the Lamplight

A sheen of sweat glistened on Raven’s radiant face, the soft glow of a nearby lamplight catching the fine beads on her brow. Its warm, yellow hue spilled through the open window, painting the kitchen in a deceptive tranquility that belied the tension in her movements. Her hand, guided by touch alone, fumbled across the small kitchen bar until her fingers closed around the solid wood of a sharp paring knife.

     The blade’s weight felt familiar in her grip—too familiar. For a moment, the kitchen faded and she was back in that cave, steel against her throat, the metallic taste of fear flooding her mouth. She forced the memory away, focusing on the innocent task at hand.

     With her other hand firmly anchoring a Red Delicious apple, she carefully drew the blade down, dividing the fruit into crisp quarters. The sudden crash of the screen door opening shattered the deceptive calm, sending a rush of heat through the newly rented house, a warm breath against Raven’s skin.

     But underneath the summer heat, her enhanced senses caught something else—a faint, earthy smell that didn’t belong. Old wood, maybe. Or something that had been buried and recently disturbed. The scent was gone before she could place it, carried away by the evening breeze.

     “Where would you like me to put this? It is labeled music supplies,” Olivia’s voice called out, the sound slightly muffled by the distance. Outside, the lamplight cast long, distorted shadows from the trees, a silent dance of light and darkness against the backdrop of the quiet woods.

     Raven’s hearing mapped the space beyond the window—the rustle of leaves that spoke of wind patterns, the distant hum of what sounded like an old truck engine idling somewhere in the community. But there was something else, barely perceptible: the soft creak of floorboards from a neighboring house, rhythmic and deliberate. Someone was pacing.

     “In the bedroom is fine, thanks,” Raven replied, a smile in her voice as she listened to the muffled thud of footsteps moving through the small living room and down the narrow hallway. Wiping the dampness from her forehead, Raven reached up, her hand sweeping across the open space above her doorless cabinet. The cool ceramic of a small bowl met her fingertips. Gripping it firmly, she brought it down.

     A subtle tremor shook her hand, and she instinctively steadied her wrist. The tremor wasn’t from fatigue—it was from the crawling sensation at the back of her neck, the feeling of being watched. Her military training kicked in, cataloguing escape routes, weapon locations, defensive positions. But watched by whom? And why did this peaceful community feel like a stage set, waiting for the curtain to rise on something darker?

     Easy now, she told herself, closing her eyes. A deep breath in, then a slow count down: “5…4…3…2…1.” Her eyelids lifted, her hands now steady. She quickly dropped the apple slices into the bowl, her attention drawn back to the approaching footsteps, and the unsettling feeling that the deceptive lamplight outside was hiding something more than just shadows.

Olivia’s eagerness was palpable, a vibrant energy that filled the quiet house. She trailed after Raven as the lieutenant moved with a newfound confidence through the living room, her hand lightly brushing against the furniture, mapping her surroundings.

     As Raven’s fingers traced the edge of a coffee table, her enhanced touch detected something unusual—a fine layer of dust that felt oddly uniform, as if it had been deliberately applied. The furniture was supposed to be new, part of the furnished rental arrangement. So why did it feel like it had been sitting unused for months? And why did the wood grain under her fingertips feel worn in places that suggested heavy, repeated use?

     Olivia saw Raven not just as a mentor, but as a beacon, a testament to resilience forged in the crucible of unimaginable hardship. Raven’s story, the soldier who defied blindness to become a bestselling author, had been Olivia’s guiding star through her own turbulent youth. Now, being here, helping Raven settle into this peaceful haven before her own deployment to the very land that had changed Raven’s life forever, felt both surreal and deeply significant.

     Raven paused near the window, the deceptive warmth of the lamplight bathing her face. Through the glass, her acute hearing picked up fragments of a conversation from somewhere nearby—voices too low to make out words, but the cadence suggested argument. One voice was higher, pleading. The other was deeper, more aggressive. The pleading voice cut off abruptly, followed by the sound of a door slamming.

“The van is unloaded. Is there anything else we need to do tonight?” Olivia asked.

     “Actually, Liv,” she said, turning slightly towards the sound of Olivia’s voice, “there are a few things. But first,” a small smile touched her lips, “how are you feeling about everything? Afghanistan is… well, you know.” Her unspoken words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of her own memories.

     As she spoke, Raven’s nostrils caught another trace of that earthy scent, stronger now and mixed with something chemical. Bleach, maybe. Or lime. The combination triggered a memory from her combat training—body disposal methods. The thought made her stomach clench, but she forced her expression to remain neutral.

     Olivia’s excitement seemed to dim for a fleeting moment, replaced by a flicker of apprehension. She knew the dangers, had studied the briefings, but the reality of it, the place that had both broken and ultimately defined her role model, held a certain gravity. Yet, beneath the nervousness was a fierce determination to prove herself, to follow in Raven’s formidable footsteps and make her mentor proud.

     The deceptive warmth of the lamplight spilling through the window painted Raven’s profile in stark relief, highlighting the subtle tension that had tightened her shoulders. In the distance, barely audible, came the sound of an engine starting—not a car, but something heavier. A truck, maybe, or farm equipment. But it was nearly midnight. What kind of work required heavy machinery at this hour? The engine sound moved away, fading into the night, but not before Raven’s trained ears caught the distinctive whine of a vehicle carrying a heavy load.

     Olivia watched her mentor, a figure she held in such high esteem, and sensed a flicker of something beneath the surface of her calm demeanor. Raven stood silhouetted against the soft glow, the lamplight catching the sheen of her tan skin, a testament to her Mexican heritage. She wore a simple white tank top and comfortable navy blue jeans, an unassuming outfit that could not entirely conceal the quiet strength Olivia knew resided within. Her long, flowing brown hair, usually a cascade around her face, was pinned up haphazardly, a clear sign of the tireless effort she had poured into unpacking and settling into her new home. A delicate strap of pink peeked out from beneath the tank top at the back of her neck, a small, almost vulnerable detail.

     But it was something else that caught Olivia’s eye, a stark image etched onto Raven’s skin. Just below the curve of her neck, the bold lines of a raven tattoo. The design of the mystical bird was ripping in half, illustrating her broken past. Tracing the exposed skin of her arms were the faint, yet undeniable, roadmap of scars, silent stories of battles fought and survived.

     A sudden shift in the air pressure made Raven tense—someone had opened a door or window nearby. Her enhanced senses caught the sound of footsteps on gravel, deliberate and careful, as if someone was trying not to be heard. The steps paused directly outside the house, lingering just beyond the reach of the lamplight’s glow.

     A knot of concern tightened in Olivia’s chest. “Raven?” she asked softly, breaking the comfortable silence. “Everything alright? You seem… I don’t know… a little preoccupied.” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “Are you having any second thoughts about moving here? Any apprehensions?”

     Raven turned slowly, the lamplight now illuminating her face, and Olivia searched her sightless eyes for any hint of distress. A faint, almost imperceptible furrow creased her brow. “No, Liv,” Raven said, her voice calm, yet with a subtle undercurrent that did not quite reach her usual warmth.

     The footsteps outside had stopped completely, but Raven could sense a presence still there—someone standing perfectly still in the darkness beyond the lamplight. Watching. Waiting. Her hand moved instinctively toward her hip, where her service weapon would have been during deployment, but found only empty space.

     She offered a small, reassuring smile. “Just… getting used to the quiet, I suppose. It’s a big change from the city. Maybe I’m just being a little paranoid. You know how it is, new surroundings, unfamiliar sounds… or lack thereof.” She gestured vaguely with her hand. “Everything’s fine, really. Just adjusting.”

     But even as she spoke, her enhanced hearing caught the soft whisper of fabric against fabric—someone in the darkness was moving closer, their clothing brushing against itself with each careful step. The metallic taste of adrenaline flooded her mouth as her body prepared for a threat she could not see but could sense with every fiber of her being.

     But Olivia could not shake the feeling that something more was at play beneath Raven’s carefully constructed composure. The splitting raven tattoo, the tension in her shoulders – they spoke of a deeper unease that the lamplight could not quite illuminate.

     “Just give me one moment, Liv,” Raven said, her voice a touch too abrupt, a subtle shift that even her own ears registered. The presence outside had moved again—closer to the window now. Close enough that she could hear the soft whisper of their breathing, rhythmic and controlled. Professional. This wasn’t some curious neighbor or late-night wanderer. This was someone trained in surveillance.

     She extended her hands, the ingrained caution of navigating unfamiliar spaces taking over. Her fingers, her constant companions, reached out, mapping the air before her as she moved forward. A sudden, unwelcome wave of anxiety, sharp and cold, washed over her as she stepped into the living room. Behind her, she heard the almost inaudible sound of someone moving away from the window—quick, light steps retreating into the night. But they hadn’t gone far. They were still out there, somewhere in the shadows beyond the safety of the lamplight.

     The smooth coolness of a cream-colored wall met her seeking hand, a temporary anchor in the swirling unease. It guided her through the short hallway, each step measured, until she reached the equally small bathroom. The click of the closing door behind her felt like a momentary shield. Her hands, now sure of their destination, found the cold porcelain of the olive-green sink. A surge of frustration, a familiar unwelcome guest, propelled her forward. She turned on the faucet with a jerky motion, the icy water splashing against her face, a desperate attempt to shock her frayed nerves back into composure.

     In the silence of the bathroom, with the running water masking any outside sounds, Raven allowed herself to acknowledge what her instincts were screaming: they were being watched. This wasn’t paranoia or adjustment anxiety. This was real. Someone out there had been studying them, learning their routines, waiting for the right moment. The question was: waiting for what?

     And another question, one that had been nagging at her since the move: how had this housing arrangement come together so quickly? When she’d first mentioned needing a quiet place for her final training assignment, Captain Briggs had been surprisingly helpful—almost eager to assist. Most military housing placements took months of paperwork and committee reviews. But Briggs had cut through all of that in a matter of weeks.

     “I know exactly what you need, Lieutenant,” he’d said, his voice carrying an odd satisfaction. “Somewhere isolated, peaceful, perfect for recovery and training. I’ll handle all the arrangements personally.”

     At the time, she’d been grateful for his unexpected efficiency. Briggs had never shown her any particular kindness before—at least not since the ambush. If anything, he’d seemed to take pleasure in making her assignments more difficult. So why the sudden change? Why had he been so insistent on this specific location, even turning down other available properties that might have been more suitable?

     “The Petersons came highly recommended,” he’d told her when she’d asked about the property owners. “Salt of the earth people. They’ll take good care of you.”

     But now, standing in this bathroom with the taste of fear sharp in her mouth and the certain knowledge that someone was watching from the shadows, Raven wondered: recommended by whom? And why had Briggs bypassed the usual background checks, the safety protocols, the standard procedures that were supposed to protect military personnel?

     The more she thought about it, the more wrong it felt. Briggs had pushed for this location specifically, had expedited paperwork that should have taken months, had personally vouched for people he claimed to have never met. That wasn’t efficiency—that was orchestration.

But orchestration toward what end? What could Briggs possibly gain by placing her here, in this community where shadows moved in the darkness and the very air seemed to whisper of buried secrets?

     Admitting her fear to Olivia felt akin to acknowledging a weakness she had fought so hard to overcome. Her past was a landscape scarred by pain, a relentless barrage that had taught her to guard any fragile bloom of happiness. This move, this quiet community, represented her hopeful ascent towards a lasting tranquility, a personal sanctuary hard-won.

     Or so she had thought. Now she wondered if she’d been delivered here like a package, precisely where someone wanted her to be. The realization sent ice through her veins—if Briggs had orchestrated her placement here, then this wasn’t a sanctuary at all. It was a trap.

     The irony was not lost on her – seeking peace in a world she could not fully see. She knew her blindness would amplify the uncertainties, the potential threats lurking just beyond her perception.

     But it might also be her greatest weapon. In the darkness that was her constant companion, she had learned to read the world through senses others ignored. If someone was hunting her—and every instinct told her that’s exactly what was happening—they had no idea what kind of predator they were stalking.

     Yet, beneath the tremor of apprehension that now threatened to overwhelm her, the steely resolve forged in the crucible of military training burned fiercely. She had faced down ambushes, endured captivity, and clawed her way back. She would navigate this new darkness too. She had to.

     Outside, carried on the night breeze, came the distant sound of metal striking stone—rhythmic, purposeful, like someone digging a grave. The sound stopped as suddenly as it had started, leaving only the whisper of wind through leaves and the certainty that whatever had brought her to this place, it wasn’t the peaceful retirement she’d been promised.