The Dead Girls Club (ARC)

by Damien Walters

  “It was pretty scary,” I said.

  My mom’s face stayed the same way. Not angry, not even worried, sort of … nothing.

  “Okay, it was really scary and kind of gross, but she’s only a story.”

  I tongued the back of my teeth and held the seat even tighter. My mom circled her hands on the table, like she was wiping away leftover thoughts.

  “And there was some kind of ritual? You cut yourselves?”

  If they knew about the ritual, then they knew about the house. I’d be grounded forever. But Rachel wouldn’t give that piece up. She wouldn’t. Being grounded was one thing; being arrested was worse.

  “Not like that, Mom,” I said, but my words were too sharp, too insistent. “We used a pin, that’s all, and stuck our fingers. We were playing a game, like Bloody Mary.” I had deodorant on, but I could smell onions and knew the stink was coming from me.

  Now my mom looked upset, but I couldn’t tell if it was angry-upset or sad-upset. It was sort of both.

  “And you’ve been talking about serial killers, too?”

  “Ugh, Mom, it’s not a big deal.”

  “Be that as it may, it all obviously affected Rachel, and her mother is upset. Upset enough that Rachel isn’t allowed to hang out with Becca anymore. And she talked to Gia’s mom, who came to the same decision.”

  “But that’s not fair.”

  “Maybe not,” she said, raising her eyebrows and doing the weird sweeping thing across the table again. “But it was Becca who told the story, right?”

  “But we all wanted to hear it. Even Rachel. Becca didn’t force us to listen.”

  “Maybe so, but Rachel is her daughter, and she gets to make decisions she’s comfortable with. That’s part of being a parent.”

  “She’s not a little kid.” I crossed my arms, chin down. “So I guess you’re happy we’re not hanging out anymore?”

  “Sweetheart,” she said. “I never said that. I also know the sort of books you’ve been reading forever. Scary and gross things don’t seem to bother you much. But Rachel isn’t you, and I’m not Rachel’s mom.”

  I was about to ask if I could go when she said, “So is this story part of the reason you and Becca aren’t talking?”

  “No,” I said, the lie bitter on my tongue. “It’s not. It’s something else you wouldn’t understand.”

  “You could try me. I was twelve once.”

  I shook my head.

  “Okay,” she said. “Do you have anything else you want to say?”

  And there, the trap. I kept calm on the outside, but the onion smell grew stronger. When Becca and I were ten, we’d found a can of spray paint in her basement. On a brick wall bordering the entrance of the alley at the top of her street, we wrote MATT WILLIAMS IS A JERK and tossed the can in a neighbor’s trash. Later, my mom called me in and asked what we’d been doing. I said playing. She made me tell her where and what we were doing and then said it: “Do you have anything else you want to say?” And of course I did. I broke down and told her everything, even though she already knew. If we’d written something else, we might’ve been okay, but the day before we’d been in Gia’s backyard and her brother had turned on the hose, spraying the four of us.

  But I wasn’t ten anymore, and we hadn’t damaged the house. There wasn’t any proof we’d even been there, so I sat up straight and said, “Nope.”

  Her mouth twisted a little to one side, but she said, “Okay.”

  I went back to my room, so tired I wanted to sleep for a year but happy the house was still our secret. I was happy, too, that I wasn’t the only one left alone. It served Becca right. Everything was all her fault.

  * * *

  I’d finished The Dark Half and was rereading The Shining propped up in bed with pillows behind me. I was at the part where they first got to the hotel and Danny and Mr. Hallorann were talking in their minds. I was thinking it would be fun to do when my eyelids got heavy. I should’ve turned off my light, but it was only a little after nine, so I kept reading.

  I woke up, wincing in the bright, my hand sore. Loosened my fingers from the pen in my grip, confused. The book was open on my lap, the spine broken so it would remain flat. My mouth went dry as I thumbed the pages. Scrawled in the margins, over and over again, the words HELP HER, all messy, but definitely my handwriting. And the side of my hand was smeared with blue ink.

  With the book at arm’s length, I slipped from bed, thinking of Rachel’s sleepwalking. This was so much worse. I would never write in any book, let alone my favorite. Never. I took The Dark Half from my bookcase and opened it to the writing inside. Compared it to the writing in The Shining. Identical. But I hadn’t done it. I swore I hadn’t.

  I stuffed the books under the sweaters in my dresser. It seemed safer to keep them hidden.

  My handwriting. Mine.

  But it wasn’t me. It was her. She’d made me do it.

  No. Uh-uh. She was a story. She couldn’t make me do anything.

  She. Wasn’t. Real.

  I licked the ink on my skin. Wiped it on my pajamas, but only a little came off. Heat flared in my chest, spreading out until my entire body felt afire and the hairs on the nape of my neck rose, as though a thousand eyes were watching me. I squeezed mine shut. Counted to ten. The sensation slowly lessened.

  There was a soft knock on my door, and I bumped into the edge of my desk.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Fine, Mom. I just hit my desk.”

  “It’s after eleven, so get some sleep, okay? I love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  The shadows of her feet remained in the gap between door and floor. I just wanted her to go away and leave me alone. A few minutes later, she did.

  I pushed a T-shirt under my door to block out the light, careful not to shove it out the other side. I opened my closet and pawed through my clothes, all the way to the wall. On my knees, I looked under my bed; the only things there were shoes, a plastic container with old stuffed animals, and dust. Sitting with my back against my dresser, I watched the shadowy space beneath my bed. I checked the corners. I even craned my neck at the ceiling. I knew no one would crawl out from under my bed or drop from the ceiling. It was just the creeps.

  When my parents had to be asleep, I took out The Shining and tore the pages, first one by one, then two at a time, then more, gaining speed as I went. My mouth was thick with unshed tears, my nose running. I wiped the snot on the shoulder of my pajama top and kept ripping pages until every single one was out and in a pile.

  I packed them in the plastic container, all around the stuffies. Crammed it back where it was and climbed in bed, the light on. But I was afraid if I closed my eyes, someone else would be there. I was afraid she’d be there, with her handless arms and her horrible black eyes and her long hair trailing through the blood.

  This was all Becca’s fault. For telling the story, for making us do the ritual, for pretending she was real and making me think she was. I wasn’t going to help her. No matter what.

  * * *

  Because of the humidity, sitting outside felt like breathing underwater, even early in the morning, but I didn’t want to stay inside. I walked the neighborhood, kicking pebbles out of my way, ending up at the edge of the field. When I got to the top of the little hill, Becca was on the other side. Once she was gone, I ran after, crouching next to the open spot in the hedges.

  She darted across the lawn, bent over like an old lady. She was carrying her backpack by one strap, practically dragging it on the ground, and when she reached the front door, she shot a glance over her shoulders. I tensed, but she didn’t see me. Once she slipped inside, I crept from my hiding place and knelt near the basement window with the curtain gap. I couldn’t see Becca, but I heard her moving. A heavy thump sounded, close to the window.

  I felt light-headed and everything went gray, like I was caught inside a raincloud with no way out. I didn’t panic. I didn’t do anything. I couldn’t. When the fuzziness vanished, th
ere was a circle of mist on the glass with HELP HER scrawled across it, already beginning to fade. The fog was on the outside, and I recognized the handwriting.

  I scrambled to my feet, but my ankles tangled and I landed on my butt, a branch scratching my upper arm. With a yelp I couldn’t bite back in time, I scrabbled away from the window as the mist disappeared. On rubbery legs I took off.

  Once I turned onto my street, I slowed down, trying to act normal, but my chest hurt. Sweat poured down my back, ran down my forehead and into my eyes. My fingers were shaking and I held them out as though they were strange, disconnected things with minds of their own. On my index finger, a smear of grime. I scrubbed it on my shorts. Scrubbed it again and again, long after the dirt was wiped away.

  I hadn’t written on the window. I knew I hadn’t. I kicked a stone from the sidewalk. And what was I supposed to do anyway? Becca didn’t want to be my friend. She didn’t want my help.

  But what if she did? What if she hadn’t been faking at all when she called? I bit the side of my thumbnail. It wasn’t my fault. What was I supposed to think? She shouldn’t have shut me out. She shouldn’t have acted the way she did. Most of all, she should never have told us about the Red Lady in the first place. And if the Red Lady was real, if she was so powerful, then she could help Becca. They didn’t need me.

  When I got home, Mom was going to the grocery store for milk, so I went with her. In the magazine aisle they had a shelf of paperbacks, and I thumbed free a copy of The Shining.

  Mom glanced at the cover when I asked if I could get it. “I thought you had that one?”

  “I did. I dropped it at the playground and a bunch of pages ripped.”

  “Toss it in the cart. And sweetheart, your finger’s bleeding again.”

  A narrow strip of my cuticle from the side of my nail was peeled all the way back, past the top of the nail. When I licked away the pearls of blood, she made a small sound and rummaged in her purse.

  “Here,” she said, offering an adhesive bandage. “You know, staying mad isn’t always the best thing to do.”

  I pushed the cart down the aisle. “I thought you just needed milk.”

  “Yes, but while I’m here I thought I’d pick up a few more things.”

  One of the wheels squeaked as I turned the corner into the next aisle. My mom grabbed a few cans of soup, then fixed me with a pensive look. “You know, you could call her first.”

  “Mom, stop,” I said, glancing around to make sure no one else was listening. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  She glanced at my finger long and hard enough that I tucked my arms behind my back. Home, with the groceries put away and Mom upstairs, I picked up the phone. But after I dialed the fifth number, I hung up. I wasn’t the one who’d decided we weren’t friends. She was. She could call me if she wanted to talk.

  * * *

  I stood in semidarkness, my mouth a desert, my fingers ice. Shaking, I turned around in every direction. I was alone in the kitchen. But I didn’t remember waking up. Didn’t remember getting out of bed and coming downstairs. Was I sleepwalking? But I didn’t do that. I never did that. A sound, half sob, half giggle, slipped out, and I covered my mouth. My lips went grainy and rough, and I scrubbed them on the sleeve of my pajamas as I turned on the overhead light, blinking to clear the bright. My skin was dusted with white, and on the table the sugar bowl was overturned, the words HELP HER traced within the sweetness. A sharp pain in my side drove the air from my lungs and my knees buckled. I sank, a deflated balloon, to the floor.

  “Please,” I said. “Stop.”

  The pain flared anew as if in answer. I was afraid to stand, afraid my legs wouldn’t support my weight, but I was more afraid my parents would come down and find me, so I gripped the edge of the table to pull myself up. I scraped my index finger through the words, cutting them in half.

  “Why don’t you help her?”

  I touched my side in anticipation, but there was no pain. Crying, I held the bowl next to the table, swept the sugar back, and wiped the table with a dishrag. Too afraid my parents would hear if I turned on the water, I used the rag to clean myself, too.

  Finally I turned off the light and said to the darkness, “Fine, I’ll talk to her.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  NOW

  When Nicole calls midmorning, I push my chair away from my desk, give my computer my back. We chat about nothing in particular, then she says, “So, is everything okay at work?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  There’s a funny little pause. “You’ve been … different the past few weeks.”

  “Oh?” There’s a challenge in the word that I don’t mean. Or maybe I do.

  “It’s like there was some strange seismic shift. One day you were fine, the next not. All I can think is something must have happened, and we’re—I’m—worried about you.”

  “We’re?” Definitely more than a challenge now.

  “Ryan called me because he was worried and thought I might know what was going on.”

  “So you have been talking to Ryan,” I say. “You lied to me.” Each word is blunt.

  “Yes, but only because we were trying to figure out what’s wrong. We love you, Heather. What happened? You haven’t been answering my calls or responding to my texts. Does it have to do with the old friend? The one with the abusive mother?”

  It takes effort to swallow. Ryan told her? I barely even mentioned it and he fucking told Nicole?

  “Stop prying. Please.” I do my best to make the last word sound at least a pinch sincere.

  “I’m not prying. I care. “

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine. It’s obvious you’re not. Come on, this is me, your best friend. You can talk to me about anything.”

  I’m half tempted to say, My last best friend? I killed her. Would she still care about me then? Would anyone?

  “I said I’m fine. I need to get ready for my patient.” I spin to my monitor and hit refresh. Nicole’s in the process of saying goodbye as I disconnect the call.

  What a wonderful conversation to have on a Monday morning. I jump from my chair, sending it skidding across the plastic floor mat, and grab my mug. Past the reception area is a small kitchenette, and I jam a pod in the Keurig, striking the tile with my heel while the coffee brews.

  As I skirt Ellie’s desk on my way back, my sleeve catches on one of the leaves of the plant in the corner. I try to grab it, fingers splayed, while keeping my full mug balanced. No luck. Coffee splashes and the plant tips over the edge, dirt spraying as the pot thumps on the carpet.

  “Ah, shit,” I say.

  Ellie jumps from her seat. “It’s okay.”

  I set my mug on the corner of her desk, and kneeling side by side, we scoop up the soil.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “No big deal. If you want to kill it, you’ll have to try harder next time. I did it myself last week. The knocking over, not the killing.”

  She’s smiling, but her words send the hairs on the back of my neck prickling. I think of the dirt I found in my office. And the day I found Ellie at my cabinet. The way she behaved, as if caught in the act. But of what?

  She wipes off the pot and returns it to her desk, moving things around to place it a little farther in, away from errant sleeves.

  “See? Good as new,” she says.

  Is it my imagination or is her expression slightly off-kilter? How much do I really know about her? She was vetted by the temp agency, but they were concerned with professional references, experience, and the like. She’s too young to have known Becca, but is it possible she knows Lauren? But from where?

  “Dr. Cole?”

  “Oh, sorry,” I say.

  My nails are crusted with dirt, gritty and dark; there’s more stuck to my skin, courtesy of the spilled coffee. Under the fluorescent lights in the bathroom, I turn on the hot water, soap up, and begin to rinse, working my hands against each other. Soap bubbles glisten on
the tiny pool of water near the drain; dirt speckles the stainless steel.

  Blood on my hands. Dirt beneath my nails.

  Dirt in her mouth. I put dirt in her mouth.

  I remember running home, washing away the dirt and blood, all of it swirling down the drain. I remember thinking my skin would never be clean and everyone would see, everyone would know, so I used the pot scrubber on my nails, tearing already ragged cuticles, washing away my own blood, knowing there would be no absolution, no matter how much I bled. I remember the slick of the dish soap as I upended the bottle over my palm again and again. Scrubbing until my skin hurt.

  As it does now.

  With a half-uttered curse, I yank my arms back. The soap is long gone, my skin bright red. Blood pearls from a torn cuticle. But at least the dirt is gone.

  My eyes are haunted still; I can only imagine how they appeared then. You can’t hide guilt with makeup. How did no one suspect, especially my parents? How did I hold it in? I rotate my shoulders and arch my neck until my muscles release some of the tension. In the mirror, dark shadows notwithstanding, I appear fine. I am fine.

  Back in my office with the door closed, I see a new message in my inbox. From Lauren. TOMORROW NIGHT. 9 O’CLOCK. Along with an address, not hers. All the warning bells are ringing, but Google reveals a building in a small business park not far from her apartment. A business park means good lighting. Open spaces. Security guards.

  I’LL BE THERE.

  I spend the rest of the day in a mental fog, rehearsing what I might say, deciding yes, that’s it, then having it all flutter away. The fog clears the minute I get home and see Ryan’s forgotten to check the mail. Again. My thoughts narrow in on the conversation I had with Nicole. I should take a long bath, maybe have a glass of wine before bringing it up, but my husband and best friend have been chatting about me behind my back. Why should I wait?

  He’s in the family room, drinking a beer and channel surfing. I drop the mail on the coffee table, enjoying the wince it brings. I remain on the other side, arms crossed.

  “I talked to Nicole this morning.”

  “Uh-huh. Hi to you, too.”