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Lucy stumbled down the stairs, heart racing and head pounding. Number 35 Portland Row was silent, unlike her mind, which was still reeling from the screams of her nightmare. Child after child had screamed her name, begging her to save them, grabbing her with clammy, cold hands as they had died brutally from ghosts and criminals. As she had scrambled away from them, she’d been faced with her friends, standing in a half-circle around her, their eyes dead. Their pale, blue-tinted faces lingered in her mind. She clutched the handrail, leaning heavily against it as she half-fell down the last three steps. Maybe she wasn’t doing enough. Maybe there was more she could do. Maybe, if she just tried harder, nobody else would have to die. She could save everyone.
After taking in a few steadying breaths at the bottom of the stairs to calm her trembling body, Lucy pushed into the kitchen. She flicked on the lamp, and turned to the room to find Lockwood sitting with his feet in fuzzy slippers up on the table.
“Hell,” Lucy swore, hand flying to her chest. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
Lockwood raised an eyebrow slowly. “Not particularly. My intention is to prevent one.”
“Well, you’re not doing a great job at that,” Lucy muttered, crossing the kitchen and grabbing a glass out of the cupboard. Behind her, Lockwood cleared his throat and removed his feet from the table, shuffling round.
“I made you a cup of tea,” he offered, almost uncertainly.
“Oh,” Lucy replied, settling the glass back on the counter with a small clink. She settled at the table, folding her hands in front of her. Lockwood slid a cup of tea over to her, the lavender chamomile flavour Holly had converted them all to. He had a cup sitting beside him as well, but it looked untouched. Lucy blew on the steaming surface, staring vacantly at the table. The screams of the children from her dream were still echoing through her mind. Still begging her to do more, to save them, to fix it all.
“I heard you screaming,” Lockwood said, startling Lucy out of her thoughts. She stared at him, and an apologetic look crossed his face. “You were very loud, in my defense,” he added.
“Sorry?” Lucy said, raising her mug of tea to her lips. She took a small sip, but it scalded her lips and she set it back down again.
Lockwood shrugged. “Do you want to talk about it?’
“Not really.”
Lockwood reached across the table and gently placed a hand on Lucy’s, still folded in front of her. Distantly, she felt a buzz skittered across her skin. She looked at their hands, tangled together, then at Lockwood, who looked at her worriedly. “I’m here for you,” he whispered, and Lucy nodded. Lockwood would do anything for her–he had proved that a dozen times over–but this she had to bear on her own. This guilt was hers.
“Thanks for the tea, but I think I’m going to go to bed.” She pulled her hands away from Lockwood’s and stood. Taking the teacup, she moved towards the kitchen door.
“Luce–” he protested, rising to his feet. Lucy, now at the door, turned to stare him down. He hesitated from where he had half-risen out of his chair. She glared until he slumped back down, defeated.
“Night, Lockwood.”
***
The nightmare came again. This time, Lucy was swimming in the lake near her hometown with Norrie, George, Holly, Kipps, Kat, and Lockwood. They had been laughing and splashing in the water, the sun shining softly on them. But then the children had come, with their dead eyes and clawing hands. They took Norrie first, pulling her under the water and blaming Lucy all the while. They pulled each of her friends under one by one, too fast for Lucy to save. Lockwood was last. She grabbed his hands, desperately trying to save him. But he drowned anyway. Then they came for her, scrambling at her ankles and calves, tugging at her until her mouth sunk under water. And they screamed and screamed and screamed and Lucy screamed with them until her lungs ached. And they drowned her.
Lucy awoke with a gasp, hand on her chest, coughing. Looking wildly around the room, she steadied herself with the reminders of her life. The pictures of her and Norrie hung on the walls, newspaper clippings, and skull sitting lifeless on the windowsill. She was fine. Everything was normal.
Loud knocking sounded from her door, startling her. “Lucy! Are you alright?” Lockwood’s voice carried towards her, laced with worry.
“I’m fine!” she called back, desperately trying to steady her shaking hands. He didn’t need to know what a mess she was. And it was only a nightmare. It wasn’t like he could do anything about it.
“You sure?” he replied, and Lucy sighed. He wasn’t going to go away. She stumbled out of bed and made it to the door, throwing it open to reveal a rumpled Lockwood, his hair sticking everywhere.
“I’m fine, Lockwood,” she insisted, staring him dead in the eyes. He took a step forward, reaching for her. She flinched away from his touch, remembering only the hands of the children on her skin. An expression she couldn’t quite name flashed across Lockwood’s features, and he stepped back onto the landing. He tugged on the bottom of his sweatshirt.
“Can I get you a cup of tea at least?” His voice wavered, and he looked so hopeful that she almost wanted to say yes. But he couldn’t fix anything. He couldn’t save Norrie, or any of the other children who had died over the past fifty years. So instead, Lucy turned away, swinging the door halfway closed.
“I’m tired,” she said, barely looking at him. “And we both need to sleep.”
***
The children were burying her alive. Covering her limbs and torso with dirt, layer after layer, deep in cold, moist earth. They jeered as it entered her mouth. This was what had happened to them. She hadn’t done enough. She had killed them. And like them, she too deserved to die. If she wasn’t redeeming them, if she wasn’t saving them, what was the point of being alive? They abandoned her there, underneath the earth, to rot alone. Lucy tried to scream, but her voice was muffled, and she could barely move. Her vision went black, and she knew she was dead. Opening her eyes, she found herself on the Other Side. The landscape was all blue and silver. She was in the middle of a dead farmer’s field, the horizon stretching on forever.
“It’s your fault I died,” Norrie said, appearing out of nowhere, and Lucy stumbled back, trying to run. But she slammed into something solid, and she spun, finding her friends behind her.
“It’s your fault we all died,” Holly, Kat, and Kipps chorused, reaching for her. She ran again, across the frozen field, towards a distant building that looked like Portland Row. Her foot caught on a hole, and she fell to the earth. A freezing hand hauled her to her feet. George glared at her.
“You could’ve saved us. Why didn’t you save us?” he demanded, and Lucy wrenched herself away from him, shaking. She ran as fast as she could, towards home. Towards safety. She stumbled up the steps, and wrenching the door open, launched herself inside.
Lockwood stepped around the corner from the library, tinged blue with death. Lucy went cold. “Lucy,” he said, smiling maniacally. “You had so much potential. Why did you waste it? Why didn’t you save us?” He stepped closer to her, backing her against a wall. He placed an icy hand against her cheek, that awful smile still on his face. She shuddered under his touch. But she was locked there, trapped. She couldn’t move as Lockwood pressed his lips against her forehead. He pulled back a fraction of an inch, and whispered: “you deserve to die.”
He released her, and Lucy collapsed to the floor, numb. He was right. She hadn’t done enough. She curled up into a ball, wishing she would cease to exist. That her consciousness would float far away, somewhere without thought.
Distantly, a familiar voice called out to her. She focused on it, straining to understand the words. What were they saying? Wake up? She wasn’t asleep, she was dead. She was on the Other Side. But the voice kept persisting, and her body began shaking. “Lucy,” the voice said, clearer now, “you have to wake up. Please.”
With momentous effort, she peeled apart her eyelids, finding Lockwood leaning over her, one hand on her bicep and the other squeezing her hand. Relief crashed across his features like the sun rising over the horizon. His smile was more real than she thought she’d ever seen.
Lucy blinked at him, disoriented. “What are you doing in my room?” she asked, pushing herself up to a sitting position. He sat back a little and looked at their joined hands.
“You were screaming again. You were so loud, Luce. I was so worried.” His voice shook as he spoke, and his grip on her hand was firm. He’d been afraid that something was truly wrong with her, she realized. She offered him a small smile, but it didn’t seem to reassure him at all. Lockwood was pale, and he kept his eyes trained on her face.
“It was just a nightmare. I’m fine.”
“Luce. I could hear you screaming from my room. Please tell me what’s happening,”
She bit her lip, hesitating. “I keep having these dreams,” she whispered, “where dead children tell me I’m not doing enough. That I deserve to die. And in this one, you said the same thing. That I had wasted my potential, that I wasn’t enough. And I’m not sure that they’re wrong,” she finished, trembling. She stared at her quilt, afraid to meet Lockwood’s gaze. For one long moment, he didn’t say anything.
“Look at me,” he said, tipping her chin up. His gaze was dark and serious, and Lucy swallowed, mouth dry. “You don’t deserve to die. In fact, you deserve nothing but to live. You’re the best person I know, Luce, and I’m not sure what I’d do without you.” His voice broke on the last words, and Lucy blinked back a sudden rush of tears.
“Are you sure?” she breathed, staring at him intently.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” he replied, a smile climbing up his face “Don’t you dare die on me, Lucy Joan Carlyle. Pinky promise?”
Lucy let out a watery laugh and wiped at her eyes. “Pinky promise,” she agreed, lifting up her hand and extending her finger. Lockwood did the same, and when they tightened their pinkies, it felt like an unbreakable vow.
“Are you alright now?” Lockwood asked, once they had retracted their hands. Worry still tinged his features, and Lucy could tell he didn't want to leave. Lucy didn’t want him to go, either, so it suited her just fine.
“I don’t know that I’ll be able to fall back asleep,” she confessed. “Could you maybe stay with me tonight?” she said, words tumbling over each other in her rush to get them out. Lucy didn’t dare look at Lockwood, and hoped that he didn’t notice her burning cheeks.
“Of course,” Lockwood said, voice soft. “Anything for you, Luce.”
Lucy’s stomach twisted at that, but she just nodded brusquely and shifted to the side of her bed, leaving room for Lockwood to slide in next to her. He climbed under her covers, heat radiating off his skin. They lay side by side, staring at the ceiling.
“Thanks,” Lucy whispered, staring into the dark. Lockwood didn’t reply, instead slipping his hand into hers.