The Unleashed

by Danielle Vega

  Now, though, Hendricks thought she understood. The air around the crack in the foundation felt charged. It felt . . . heavy. It was cold, like the deep part of the ocean was cold. Cold like a basement without any windows. Hendricks felt it under her skin and down in her bones. Everything smelled like burning wire, like ozone. It seared the insides of her nostrils.

  It was such a deeply wrong feeling that Hendricks could only stay there for a short time before she began to feel light-headed. She dropped her coffee and stumbled backward, her bones shaking. Syrupy, caramel-colored liquid splattered across the cement and dripped down into the crack—

  Hendricks blinked and when she opened her eyes again, it wasn’t coffee dripping through the crack.

  It was blood.

  The blood was everywhere—red handprints swiped over the concrete and splattered across the tops of Hendricks’s shoes, thick streaks stretching across the foundation like a child’s finger painting. Like someone had been playing with it.

  Hendricks felt her gut churn with horror. There was too much of it, far too much blood to have come from just one person. Some of it looked so fresh that she suspected it would still be warm to the touch, and some was so old it had dried to flakes of brown, like rust. The metallic scent of it filled her nostrils, making her want to wretch.

  From the corner of her eye, Hendricks caught sight of something glimmering from deep within the crack, and she knew without coming any closer that it, too, was blood. A black pool of it. She glanced over at it, just for a moment, but that moment was long enough to catch sight of something below the surface of the bloody pool. Something moving. It left a ripple in the blood, and then it was gone.

  Hendricks lifted a shaking hand to her mouth. She knew that whatever was down below that pool of blood was going to climb out and reach for her, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to run away, couldn’t bring herself to move at all. Hot tears pressed at her eyes. She clenched them shut, blinking the tears away—

  When she opened her eyes, again, the blood was gone. The concrete was clean except for the spray of coffee, a scatter of dirty footprints. There was nothing beyond the crack in the foundation except for freshly churned dirt.

  Still trembling, Hendricks leaned over and fumbled for her now empty coffee cup. There was something rotten at Steele House. They needed to leave. Now.

  She felt a prick on the back of her hand, like a needle jabbing her skin.

  When she looked down, she saw a single wasp hovering on her wrist.

  CHAPTER

  11

  Hendricks had sprinted straight for the car. Seeing how upset she was, her dad followed, but on the way home he continued his pep talk about stress relief, adding in some new thoughts about meditation and the power of certain breathing techniques to help cope with PTSD. Hendricks had nodded along, staring out the window. As though breathing techniques could help her with this.

  Later that night, Hendricks was sitting at her desk, her French book flopped open in front of her. She was trying to focus on verb conjugations and tense when she heard a little tap, tap, tap on her window.

  Her spine went rod-straight. She looked up, her skin creeping.

  And then she heard a voice. “Hendricks? Come on, open up.”

  “Portia?” Hendricks stood and threw her window open. Portia was crouched outside, in a pair of purple crushed-velvet pajamas and fluffy leopard-print slippers. She had a silk scarf tied around her hair. “What are you doing out here?”

  Portia looked nervous. Her jaw was clenched, and there was a blush creeping up her neck. After a moment, she wrinkled her nose at Hendricks’s oversize T-shirt and boxers and said, as though stubbornly trying to push the nerves away, “Is that what you sleep in?”

  “I wasn’t expecting company.”

  “Right.” Portia tapped one fluffy leopard slipper in the dirt. “About that, are you going to let me in?”

  Hendricks stood to the side, and Portia crawled in through her window with a soft grunt. One of her leopard-print slippers slipped off her foot, falling to the ground outside.

  “Oh no,” Portia said, peeking out the window. “Do you think it’s okay? These are my favorite slippers.”

  “Portia, what are you doing here?”

  Portia curled her toes into the floor. She looked down at them. “You weren’t answering my texts.”

  Hendricks rubbed her eyelids. “I sort of needed a break.”

  A frown touched Portia’s lips, gone a second later. Hendricks felt a shot of guilt. She’d hurt Portia’s feelings.

  “Friends don’t take breaks,” Portia said, her voice harsher than it usually was. “Friends talk to each other when they’re pissed.”

  “You’re”—she sighed—“you’re right. I’m sorry, Portia.”

  “Is it because I told you I thought Eddie was trying to kill me?”

  “No,” Hendricks said. And then, when Portia gave her the look, she added, “Okay, yeah. I don’t like that you just assumed it was him. You don’t even have any proof.”

  “My proof is that we tried to raise Eddie from the dead and then something creepy and paranormal attacked me.” Portia said this very slowly, like she was talking to a small child. Hendricks felt her annoyance flare up. She was about to start arguing again, when Portia raised her hand. “But,” she added, cutting her off, “I get that that’s not enough for you. So let’s just table the whole Eddie thing until we have more to go on, okay? Can we both just agree that we don’t know what attacked me last night and we need to figure it out?”

  Hendricks chewed her lower lip, thinking this over. After a moment, she nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

  “Great.” Portia exhaled, and Hendricks realized that she must’ve been really worried that Hendricks was mad at her. It made her feel guilty for ignoring all those texts.

  “That’s actually why I came over,” Portia added, sheepish. “I was . . . uh . . . sort of hoping I could sleep at your place.”

  Hendricks frowned. “You said Eddie came to your room last night.”

  “Yeah, duh, that’s why I want to sleep here.”

  “But if we’re going to get proof, we should sleep there.”

  Portia pretended to think. “Maybe you can sleep there and, like, pretend to be me?”

  “Like bait?”

  “Exactly!” Portia looked excited for a second and then, realizing her faux pas, she quickly added, “I mean, not like bait, because he doesn’t want to kill you. So, it’ll just sort of . . . trick him.”

  “A, I’m not sure ghosts can be tricked. And B, he doesn’t want to kill you.” Hendricks ticked the points off on her fingers. “Maybe he just wants to tell you something?”

  Portia rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I know that whenever I want to give my friends a message, I like to hide out in their bedrooms and carve lines into their cheeks.”

  Hendricks ignored her. “Let’s go back to your place, and I’ll prove it to you. If it was Eddie, you probably just misunderstood what he was trying to say. Ghosts can be scary even when they aren’t trying to be.”

  “Right, because now you’re the expert,” she muttered, turning back to the window.

  Hendricks frowned at her. “What are you doing?”

  “Going home?” Portia had one foot propped on the window ledge.

  “You know we can just go through the front door, right?” Hendricks pointed out. “It’s, like, ten. My parents aren’t going to be weird about letting me stay at your place.”

  “Oh, right,” Portia lowered her foot, and smoothed out her pj’s. “I guess I just got so used to doing that with Vi . . .”

  Hendricks lifted an eyebrow, and Portia’s cheeks went rosy. “Yeah, I’m definitely going to make you talk about that later,” Hendricks said.

  * * *

  • • •

  A half hour later, Hendricks was sitting
at the edge of Portia’s bed, watching in awe as Portia applied serum after serum to her perfect skin.

  “It’s a ten-step Korean skin-care routine,” she explained as she patted something goopy onto her cheeks. “In Korean culture, they believe that you should spend just as much time taking your makeup off as you do putting it on.”

  “I have never seen someone spend so much time grooming herself,” Hendricks said, cocking her head to the side. Portia grabbed another bottle from the top of her dresser and began pumping lotion into her palms. This one had a snail on it. Did that mean it was made out of snail?

  “What’s your skin-care routine?” Portia asked, frowning.

  “Uh, soap and water?” Hendricks said.

  “Yeah, but like, how do you take your makeup off?”

  “Makeup?”

  “You don’t wear any makeup?” Portia swiveled around on her seat, her eyes wide. “Seriously?”

  “I wear mascara if I’m, like, going on a date or something,” Hendricks said, shrugging.

  Portia groaned. “I seriously hate you. Your skin is so perfect that I just assumed you used some fancy white-girl foundation they didn’t make in my shade.” Portia gave her cheeks one final pat and put the cap back on her bottle of goop. “You should let me do your makeup for prom, though. I’ve been working on my eyeliner game.”

  Prom. The word sent tension twisting through Hendricks’s shoulders.

  “Did you hear Owen is taking Samia Hart?” Portia sniffed. “He certainly forgot about Raven quickly.”

  Hendricks felt heat climb her cheeks. It was only a matter of time before Portia asked about Connor. She picked up a stuffed bunny from Portia’s bed and began fussing with its ears. “What’s this guy’s name?”

  “Mr. Floppy Head.” Portia narrowed her eyes. “Why are you changing the subject?”

  Hendricks sighed and looked up. “I assumed you talked to Connor today?”

  “No, he was weird at lunch. Why?”

  Weird didn’t sound good, Hendricks thought. Connor and Portia had been friends their whole lives. Hendricks took it for granted that they told each other everything.

  “I sort of told Connor I couldn’t go with him to prom,” Hendricks said.

  Portia’s face fell. “What? Why?”

  “It just felt . . . I don’t know. Wrong. I didn’t want to dance with him and hang out with him all night if I was just going to be thinking about Eddie. Connor’s a nice guy and that’s just not fair.” Hendricks cleared her throat, looking down at her lap. “Anyway, that’s why I didn’t come sit with you guys at lunch. I figured he needed some space, and, well, I sort of thought you’d be mad at me.”

  Portia was quiet for a long time. When Hendricks finally looked up, Portia was frowning. “What?” Hendricks asked.

  “We’re friends, right?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “Well, as your friend, I’m offended.”

  “Portia . . .”

  “You just assumed I would choose Connor over you?”

  “You’ve known him forever!”

  “So? What about sisterhood? What about . . . what about feminism?” Portia stood up, huffing. “You should’ve given me more credit.”

  Hendricks laughed. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”

  “I know that you’re trying to get over Eddie. I’ve told Connor that he needs to move on and leave you alone but the boy is smitten. I’m actually sort of proud of you for turning him down. I was worried you were going to string him along and break his poor little doofy heart.”

  Portia sat next to Hendricks on the bed and lowered her head to Hendricks’s shoulder. Hendricks leaned her head against hers. “Thanks for saying that.”

  “You’re welcome,” Portia muttered.

  For a moment, neither of them said anything. Hendricks adjusted the pillows on Portia’s bed and leaned back, resting her hands over her stomach. It felt good to be here, talking like this. It felt normal.

  “So.” Hendricks cleared her throat. “About you climbing into Vi’s bedroom window . . .”

  Portia sat up, and Hendricks saw two bright red circles appear on her cheeks. “I’m not sure I want to talk about that yet . . .”

  She walked across the room and started fiddling with the bottles on her dresser.

  “Are you going to prom together?”

  “I asked her if she wanted to be my date, and she said that prom is a sadistic rite of passage designed to make outsiders feel like the other and celebrate gender-normative relationships,” Portia said. “But then she texted later and told me she found a killer outfit. So . . . I think that means yes?”

  “Well?” Hendricks grinned. “Come on, that’s exciting.”

  “It is.” Portia paused for a second, biting her lower lip. “I think . . .” She sat down on the bed next to Hendricks, again, looking suddenly giddy. “Okay, so don’t tell anyone I said this, but I think I might want to . . . you know . . . be with her. For the first time.”

  “Whoa,” said Hendricks.

  “Like, on prom night,” Portia added.

  “That’s a big decision.”

  Portia was nodding. “Yeah, I know. I just like her so much. She’s so smart. She was telling me all about the Stonewall riots yesterday, and, Hendricks, I don’t even like history, but the way she talks about it, it was like I was actually there. After we were done talking, I actually went online and ordered all these books about the riots because . . . I don’t know, something about the way she was talking about them made them so interesting and important.” Portia blushed. “That makes me sound stupid, doesn’t it? Like I only care about important things because my girlfriend does.”

  “No, I get it.” Without meaning to, Hendricks thought about how Connor had told her about getting into woodworking with his dad, and how excited he’d been when she’d mentioned she was interested in signing up to work backstage at the school play. Her chest twisted.

  Instead, she grabbed Portia’s hand and squeezed. “It sounds like you guys are really happy.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Their conversation dissolved into longer and longer stretches of silence while the two girls laid in Portia’s massive king-size bed, until Portia’s steady breathing filled the room. Hendricks was amazed by how Portia slept on her back, perfectly still, her hands folded across her chest, like a princess. Or a vampire. Hendricks had already kicked half the blankets off her legs and balled a pillow under one arm. And she still couldn’t get comfortable.

  Eventually, she felt her eyes start to close, sleep taking over. It had been a long day, and she was tired. She began to drift . . .

  Portia’s breath misted the back of her neck.

  “Portia,” Hendricks groaned, still half asleep. “Stop.”

  The breath was cold and dry. Lazily, Hendricks lifted a hand and tried to tap Portia to roll away. “Mmm . . . move over.”

  When the breathing still didn’t go away, Hendricks rolled onto her back, intending to push her—

  But Portia was still on the other side of the bed, lying perfectly still.

  Hendricks sat up suddenly. She was wide awake now.

  She knew she’d felt that breathing.

  Slowly, she grabbed a pillow to put in her lap like it was a shield. It was too dark in the room to see anything but the outlines of shapes: Portia’s figure on her side of the bed, the furniture pushed up against the walls, the thin sliver of moonlight coming in through the window.

  Hendricks’s heart began to climb up her throat.

  “Eddie?” she whispered.

  She strained to hear anything in the silence.

  There was nothing.

  And then . . .

  There. A low, rumble of a laugh. It was more vibration than noise. Hendricks couldn’t say for sure whether she heard it or fe
lt it. She only knew it made her skin crawl. She and Portia needed to get out of this room.

  She threw her legs off the side of the bed. The floor was cold against the bottoms of her toes, making her shiver. She hugged her arms around her chest.

  “Who’s there?” she asked.

  The room was still, black. Hendricks swung her eyes from one wall to the other, clutching the pillow tight to her chest, her breathing coming fast and hard. Deep shadows had gathered in the corners and around Portia’s dresser and bed frame, and Hendricks’s eyes strained to see any movement in them, any shape, anything at all. He was nowhere.

  Which meant he could be anywhere.

  Hendricks perched at the end of the bed, poised for any sign of movement. Outside, an owl hooted. A tree branch rustled against the window. After a few moments, she loosened her grip on the pillow.

  And then her phone screen lit up. Hendricks flinched and shuffled back onto the bed, trembling now. Her phone was sitting on Portia’s side table, plugged into the wall. She glanced at the screen, expecting a text.

  There were no texts. But someone had reached out of the darkness to touch the phone, the lit-up screen illuminating only their long gray finger. Hendricks gaped at it, her throat suddenly dry. The skin on the finger looked old, decaying. Bright red sores crawled up its knuckles, and flesh curled away from its bones like ribbons of old paint. Hendricks watched, horrified, as it slid back into the shadows.

  Her phone screen switched off, and Hendricks was propelled into total darkness. It seemed heavier than before, claustrophobic and suffocating. She fumbled for her phone and stood up. Her fingers were trembling, but she managed to pull up the flashlight app and send a shaky white beam into the black.

  She turned in a tight circle, illuminating every wall, every piece of furniture. Shadows danced away from her light. Something about the way the darkness moved bothered her. It was a fast, sort of twitchy movement.

  Like wasps.

  Hendricks shuddered, pushing the thought from her head. She was just freaked out, that was all. She clutched her phone with two hands now, trying to hold the flashlight beam steady.