The Box in The Cuts: A Supernatural Mystery

by Debra Castaneda

  The article recaps the unsolved cases of Emily and Nicole. Both had long blonde hair. Emily's body was discovered in the bathroom at home just before the start of the school year. What was left of Nicole was found on the family room couch. She'd stayed home from school that day, sick, and had been watching TV. The girls died within a week of each other. And then the story takes a big turn into crazy land.

  “Could the bizarre burning deaths of two teenage girls be cases of spontaneous human combustion? Parents are worried. Did a depraved killer douse the girls with gasoline and set them on fire? The local fire department will only say it has found no obvious source of ignition.

  “International fire expert Rush Nash says the tragic incidents are cause for relaunching the long-standing debate over spontaneous human combustion. Nash says no conclusive evidence has ever been found to prove SHC but believes these two cases—and possibly a third—is enough to seriously reconsider that SHC is not just the stuff of pseudoscience.”

  There's more, but I don't have time to read the rest.

  Principal George Buskin is staring at us from his seat in the front. I give him a little wave. Buskin returns my greeting with cold eyes and flaring nostrils. A weak smile is all I can manage.

  “Get a grip, chickenshit,” Alfie whispers in my ear, then squeezes my knee. Hard.

  A TV reporter in a red dress walks up to us. She has dark hair and lots of makeup. She smiles down at me and says, “I heard you're the editor of the school paper. I'm wondering if we can do a quick interview. Get your thoughts on what's been happening?” She holds out her press badge. Angela Something. It's the station my parents watch.

  Before I can reply, Alfie says, “Wouldn't it be better to do that after the presser? When we know what the police chief has to say?”

  “Normally,” Angela says briskly. “But since he’s running late, I won't have time to turn this for my ten o’clock package, so we need to do it now.” Then she looks at me and adds, “It'll take just a few minutes.”

  My mind goes blank. When I don't reply, she adds, “Since the victims have been girls, I think it's important to have a female perspective. No reason to be nervous.”

  Except there is. There's every reason to be nervous. I'm literally shaking in my boots. There's a rushing sound in my ears.

  I hate talking in front of lots of people. Talking in front of a TV camera is worse. Way worse. The audience is bigger. With my luck, the interview will end up on the internet and stay there. Forever.

  Chapter 4

  I’m alone with the TV reporter and the photographer in the hallway outside the room where the police chief is expected to make his announcement soon. Alfie stayed behind to deal with Principal Buskin, who didn’t want either of us talking to the media.

  Angela is about to ask her first question when Alfie appears. He's managed to ditch Buskin, but he’s not alone. A few other news crews are tagging along.

  “They want to talk to you, too,” Alfie says.

  The palms of my hands are so sweaty I need to keep rubbing them on the front of my jeans. When Angela sticks the microphone in my face, I jump. A red exit sign hangs over her head. I wish I could push her aside and escape.

  She says, “Samantha, I'm sure you've talked to many of the girls at school and in town about what's going on. Two confirmed cases of girls burned to death, and no one knows why. And now a body has been found on your campus. Every girl must be terrified.”

  Angela gives me an encouraging nod. As if she's asked me a question, but she hasn't. Not really. And all I can do is think about Chloe's picture of the horrible, blackened remains. The photo that's on my phone. The photo my mind keeps wandering back to. Those legs sticking out of that unspeakable mound.

  “I. We're...” And then I start babbling.

  I'm not sure what I'm saying because I'm not in control of my thoughts. Or my mouth, but it keeps going. Angela and the photographer exchange looks.

  Alfie steps forward. He slings an arm around my shoulder and says into the camera, “Everyone is scared. But it's been especially terrifying for Samantha and every other seventeen-year-old girl in town. They’ve having nightmares, trouble sleeping, panic attacks.” And he goes on and on.

  Alfie acts like he's been doing TV interviews all his life. He's relaxed but serious. He says smart, insightful stuff. He gives a thoughtful nod when asked a question. And he's asked a lot of questions because, by this time, other reporters have set up their gear and are recording. Even that doesn't throw him off. The reporters are loving it. Loving him.

  It's like I'm not even there.

  The whole thing hasn't lasted more than five minutes but it's felt like forever, standing frozen next to Alfie. The reporters hand Alfie their business cards. They ignore me. And then Alfie is dragging me back into the room, where I slump into my seat, unable to look at him.

  “I hope that was okay back there,” he says into my ear.

  My eyes feel hot. So do my cheeks. I shrug. I'm saved from saying anything because the police chief is walking up to the podium. It takes a while for my shattered thoughts to clear so I can focus on what he's saying.

  Chief Legaspi looks like that old cartoon dog called Droopy. Sad eyes and big jowls. Everyone is leaning forward. “I apologize for the delay, but as of this evening, we have an identification of the body discovered at Hillside High Preparatory. As we were able to notify the next of kin, I am now able to release the name of the victim.

  "The victim is seventeen-year-old Monica Goodman, a senior at the school. She appears to have died as a result of fire and we are investigating her death as a homicide.”

  There are gasps around the room. Murmurs. The chief pauses, then continues. “The cause of that fire is pending an autopsy and other inquiries. Her charred body was found today at 1:45 p.m. in a women’s bathroom in Building C by a teacher at the school. As with the cases of Emily Miller and Nicole DeSilva, arson and other fire experts are assisting in the investigation.”

  Monica Goodman. I didn’t really know her, but I could picture her. Into sports. Always wore athletic wear, but not the cute, trendy kind. Emily, I didn't know at all. I used to play with Nicole when we were little, but we lost touch when her mother sent her to Catholic school. All three had at least one thing in common: they had long blonde hair.

  And then the reporters let the questions fly:

  “How were you able to make an I.D. so quickly? Can you tell us more about the state of the body?”

  “Is there a serial killer in Hillside?”

  “What is the status of the investigation into the first two girls? Are the cases connected?”

  “Why is it taking so long for the experts to figure out what happened?”

  Chief Legaspi's eyes look even droopier as he says, “No, no comment. We have not ruled out a serial killer, but there is no evidence to suggest that we are dealing with one. We're waiting for more tests to come back. I'd like to remind everyone that there is a lot of ground to traverse as this is an incredibly complex investigation.”

  While he's talking, I start thinking about that tabloid story. Because, really, the police don't seem to have a clue about what happened to those girls. If it's not a serial killer with a can of gasoline or a flame torch, then what else could it be?

  I feel myself getting up to my feet. Alfie grabs at my hand, but I pull away.

  My legs feel wobbly and my fingers are tingly, but I lift my chin. I can feel Alfie staring at me, wondering what the hell I'm going to say.

  Don't be a chickenshit, I tell myself. It's not a speech. It's just a question. And I really want to know the answer. “How about spontaneous human combustion?” I ask. “Are your investigators looking into that?"

  And that's how I ended up on every TV newscast, every newspaper, on the radio and all over the internet.

  Chapter 5

  “I'm not sure what you were trying to accomplish last night,” Principal Buskin says.

  It’s second period and we should be in class
. Instead, Alfie and I are sitting in the principal’s office. I can’t believe he called us in. A third girl from Hillside was found dead, burned, on campus the day before and we’re an emergency?

  When we walked through the main office, the phones were ringing nonstop and the secretaries looked flustered. One was sniffling at her desk, a tissue pressed to her face.

  Buskin is pacing. Big head, skinny body. His hair is too black. He probably dyes it.

  “Is that a question, Mr. Buskin?” Alfie asks. His tone is careful. Polite. And said in just a way to piss off the principal.

  Buskin's face reddens and a vein on his temple twitches.

  “Unbelievable,” Buskin mutters. He stops, places both hands on his desk and glares at us.

  “What you two did last night was not the kind of behavior I expect from editors of the school paper. Alfred, I can't begin to understand why you thought you had the right to speak for the entire female student body and claim they're so terrified they might not show up for school. Which ran on every newscast last night and is all over social media. And guess what? Almost one third of the girls called in sick today. Thank you for that, Alfred. For stoking fear and panic.”

  Buskin pauses to take a deep breath before he continues unloading.

  “And Samantha, I'm surprised, no shocked, at the one question you decided was worth asking. Spontaneous human combustion? Really? Did you do any research before you decided to ask something so ridiculous in front of the entire world? And guess what? It's all anyone can talk about this morning.”

  There’s a knock on the door. “Come in!” yells Principal Buskin.

  One of the secretaries sticks her head in. “A reporter from People Magazine is on hold for you.”

  “Get a number and I’ll call them back,” he barks. The secretary gives him a nasty look, then pulls the door shut.

  Buskin turns his attention back to us, except he’s furious now. “You two have created a media circus with my school front and center. And the thing that gets me, really gets me, is that you were more concerned with sensationalism than real journalism.” He pauses long enough to take a swig of water. “That's my opinion, anyway.”

  Which is what people say when they've said something rude and offensive, but they go ahead and say it anyway. But it's the accusation that we're trying to hype the deaths of those three girls that makes me grind my teeth.

  “I think that's unfair, Mr. Buskin,” Alfie says calmly. “The girls are scared. That's the truth. I was just repeating what they've told us in interviews. On the record interviews. I was just answering the reporters’ questions in a matter-of-fact way. Besides, we're not responsible for how the media reacted or how they reported it.”

  Buskin waves his hand impatiently. “And what do you have to say for yourself, Samantha?”

  I swallow. I can't seem to find my voice even though I can practically see the answers in my mind as clearly as if they were printed on a piece of paper. Instead, I say, “It wasn't ridiculous. My question.” Then my throat closes up.

  Alfie's knee knocks into the side of my leg, urging me to say more. I want to. But I can't. I just can't.

  Then we're dismissed. It's another warm, fall day. No clouds. Just plenty of sunshine. It's hard to imagine that such a dark, hideous thing as a girl burning alive could happen in such nice weather. It adds to the unreality of it all. Suddenly I feel like crying. I’m not sure if it’s because I can’t get the image of Monica Goodman out of my head or because of what just happened in Buskin’s office. Maybe it’s both.

  When we're out of view of the school office, Alfie stops and puts his hands on my shoulders. “You're pathetic,” he says, looking into my eyes. “You need to quit being such a chickenshit.” Then he gives me a little shake. “I’m going to get a sandwich before it’s too late. Want to come?”

  “No thanks,” I say. As I watch him go, I feel like it’s fourth grade all over again. I’d spent months working on my California mission project. Alfie spent five minutes on his. He’d stood up in front of the class and everybody clapped at the end because he'd done his report like a comic book.

  No matter how hard I try, no matter how hard I prepare, I'm not Alfie.

  And he's right. I am pathetic.

  I am co-editor of the school paper yet I get choked up at the worst moments, when the stress is on. Mostly in front of certain types of adults, like Buskin, and cameras and large audiences. Talking in front of friends is not a problem. I'm fine in editorial meetings, too.

  I have plenty of time to relive the humiliating events of the last twenty-four hours because our teachers don't have the heart to teach that day. Most of them start off with a moment of silence for Monica Goodman. I feel guilty thinking about myself and my stupid, small problems instead of Monica. The third girl to mysteriously die by fire in Hillside, where nothing unusual ever happens. Hillside Hometown Days and the Fun Run through the flats is about as exciting as it gets.

  When a girl asks to go the bathroom, the teacher panics and calls the office for advice on how to handle the situation. In the end, three girls troop off to the bathroom with a police officer to escort them. We all wait, breathless, until they return safe.

  Emily and Nicole burned to death at home, alone. We used to feel safe at school. Not anymore.

  Chapter 6

  A police mobile command center is now parked at school. The media center where we usually meet for our Clarion editorial meetings is off-limits because officers are everywhere, investigating.

  I’ve reserved the largest student room at the library in downtown Hillside. It’s my favorite building in town. Creeping vines grow along the stone walls. Tall windows let the light stream in. When I pass the front desk, the librarians have their heads together. They’re talking about Monica Goodman. Female athlete of the year. Now the dead girl in the bathroom.

  All over town, people are talking about her. How competitive she was in sports. How she was pretty but downplayed it. Every part of her personality is picked apart, discussed, as if something about her could explain her death. Something she'd done. Someone she'd been with. Somewhere she'd gone.

  I’m the last one to arrive. The room is walled in by glass. It’s like being in a fishbowl.

  Chloe, photo editor and chief techie, is clicking away at her laptop. She’s refused to say anything more about her time in the bathroom with Monica’s burned body. But there’s a dark, haunted look in her eyes. Madison suggested she should stay home, take some time to recover. But Chloe refused. “I need to stay busy,” she’d said.

  Destiny is sitting next to Raj, sports editor. They're looking at pictures of Monica Goodman running, leaping, jumping, with ball, without ball, long blonde hair in a ponytail. There are dark circles under Destiny’s eyes. It looks like she didn’t get much sleep.

  The student reporters are there, too, including Mary McKissick. She’s one of those nice girls everybody likes because they're so awkward it's adorable. And she's an amazing writer. She's sitting at a long desk, dressed in a striped T-shirt and jean overalls, working at a laptop. Her blonde hair is done up in a messy bun.

  Everyone is there except our adviser Mrs. Sangler, the teacher who talked me into joining the newspaper. She’s home with a sick kid.

  Alfie snaps his fingers and points at me. “Samantha, what do you think about this issue?” Which is exactly like Alfie. He's happy to let me do the hard work.

  I shoot him a look, but he just leans back against the table and folds his arms in front of his chest, studying me over the top of his glasses.

  “I think it's a special edition, all about the latest death,” I reply. “Raj can do the main profile of Monica. We need an updated story on the investigation and one of those ‘what we know so far pieces.’ And we have a good story right here at the library. There are way more girls than usual, probably waiting for their parents because they’re too scared to go home.” Everyone takes a moment, looks around, nods.

  Alfie leaps toward the whiteboard and
begins writing stuff down. When he's caught up, I think back to our chat with Buskin and continue. “Alfie, maybe you can confirm the number of girls who called in sick today. Find out why they stayed home and what it was like.”

  His gold flecked brown eyes light up. “Right. Fear and dread at Hillside High. That'll piss off Buskin.” He writes his name next to the story slug.

  Mary looks up from her laptop. “I can give you some names. I almost stayed home myself.”

  “What made you decide to come in?” Alfie asks.

  Mary's eyes widen, hands frozen a few inches over the keyboard. “My parents work in the city, so I’d be home alone. At school, at least there’s safety in numbers.”

  “That didn't help Monica,” Destiny says, her voice rising. “Can you believe the police let us come back to school? How crazy is that?”

  Raj fishes in his backpack for a power bar and tears off the wrapper. “About as crazy as Samantha's question last night. Did you all see that?” Then he throws his head back and laughs. “Now that's some crazy shit. Spontaneous human combustion. Way to go, Sam.” Then Raj laughs some more, but not in a mean way. More like he's impressed.

  Alfie throws a marker at him. “Can we not get sidetracked? Destiny just asked a good question. Why did the police let us come back? I don't think they explained that.”

  “They did,” Mary says. “The police chief was on the radio this morning. He said it was safer for everyone to be at school and that they'd have extra police and patrols.”

  “Like that's going to help,” Raj says. “They should just give every girl a fire extinguisher.”

  This gets a laugh, and it breaks the tension. Alfie holds up a hand. “This whole spontaneous combustion thing. We should probably take it more seriously. Thanks to Samantha, it's pretty much all anybody is talking about. Let's answer the big question. Is it a real thing?”