“Too cool for his big sister, I guess,” she says with a flip of a smile, closing the book gingerly.
That I don’t get. I never wanted to be apart from Becca. The more she drew away, the more I wanted to press myself into her life. I used to pretend we were twins, real twins, never mind the obvious difference in ethnicity. I wanted to dress like her, act like her, but I never had her talent or her poise. I imagined we were matched, but I was only a mirror held up, reflecting a bit of her shine.
But I only say, “It’s a younger sibling requirement. Making sure you don’t get complacent.” Her smile stabilizes for a moment.
The rain has cleared, and the sky is an utterly normal shade of blue. We could be anywhere, under a sky like that. We could be home.
Except there is an odd substance to it. A thickness. Dimensionality. What my eyes read at first as clouds is—folds. Wrinkles and creases, striations, so faint they nearly vanish against the blue. And for a moment—for a moment—I think it moves, seething like the skin of an animal when it’s been pricked. And then the movement and the folds and the thickness of the sky are gone, the blink of my eyelids clearing them back to vast and empty blue.
“Did you see that?” I whisper, but when Trina doesn’t hear me, I let the question drown in silence.
We pause long enough to put on our shoes again—mine uncomfortably wet—and climb the hill. Up to the gnarled tree. It’s so twisted and lumpy it looks like puddled wax; its branches stab out of it in crazed directions. Its roots have grown beneath the stones of the road, buckling them into a hazardous ripple.
A knife, a short switchblade, is stabbed into the trunk of the tree at the point nearest the road, pinning a torn sheet of lined paper in place.
If anyone comes after us—we made it this far. Going to try to make it to the end. Thought someone ought to know.
—Becca Donoghue & Zachary Kent
I snatch the page from the tree, tearing it free of the knife. The ink looks practically fresh, though I know that doesn’t make sense. Any more than it made sense that Zoe was still wandering, dead, or that Isaac lingered so long in his tangle of iron and misery.
Anthony takes the note and runs his fingertips over the words as he reads them to the others. A faint smudge of blue comes off on the pad of his middle finger. He rubs it clean with his thumb. Then he carefully folds the note and tucks it into his jacket pocket. I have the urge to grab his hand. I want this moment to belong to him and me, but the others are tense, nerves thrumming, and I know we have to keep moving before someone snaps. A few more steps to the brutish head of the hill, and I take them at a loping jog.
At the top, I halt. The hill spills away, steep but not alarmingly so, and at the bottom is nestled a town. Or something like a town, at least. Houses with roofs and windows and paths between them, dirt paths that lead from the road like veins and arteries. But the borders are wrong. Grass growing a foot up the side of one house, the pattern of wood spreading flat on the ground at the base of another. And something wrong with the windows, too—no emptiness behind them, but a kind of fleshy presence that reminds me of what I saw in the sky.
Planted in the middle of the town stands a massive house—the mansion. Its surface is a pale, gray-toned, off-white, too smooth for stone. I can see veins running along it, but not the veins of a human body. More like the veins of a plant. Beneath the eaves of the roof are gills like beneath a mushroom cap, black and withered, though the roof itself is shingled and firm. A pair of crows hunker in the eaves, feathers ruffled against the chill air.
“This is fine,” Kyle says. “This is all fine.”
The road leads straight to the door of the house. The stone continues, flowing from road to steps and in through the door that stands open like a surprised mouth. Or a hungry one. There is no way around. Only through.
So through it is.
The slant of the hill makes it seem as if we’re being pulled forward, pulled down, steps too heavy and too loud against the stone. Sometimes I think I see a quiver in the sky, hear something not quite like wind.
We pause at the bottom of the steps. At the top of them, the stones fuse, then meld seamlessly into wooden flooring in the same constant gray. It flows down a hallway and into a wide foyer. Through the dust and shadows I can make out twin staircases, flanking a pair of double doors.
“I guess we go in,” Anthony says.
“Keep an eye on the floor,” I say. “We don’t know if all of it counts as the road. Make sure you don’t step off accidentally.” And then, more boldly than I feel, I march up the front steps, Trina right behind me, and into the shadowed house.
[Note: The remaining text of this section has been torn from legal pad. Contents recovered at later date and appended. Text is scribbled out. Paper is crumpled, torn. Reconstruction was difficult.] I pause just inside a moment to let my eyes adjust. In that instant, before I can properly see anything, I see her.
She stands in the foyer, hands at her sides, staring straight at me. A shaft of sunlight cuts through the dust-choked air—and through her, too, turning the curve of bone to gold beneath her skin. Just for an instant, and then she’s gone.
Miranda.
INTERVIEW
SARA DONOGHUE
May 9, 2017
ASHFORD: Miss Donoghue. I think it’s time we talk about Miranda.
SARA: What about her?
ASHFORD: You tore a page out of your written statement before you gave it to us.
Sara chews on her lip, looks away.
SARA: I just—made some mistakes.
ASHFORD: We have the page, Sara.
Sara looks up. At first her expression is startled, and then it shifts into something else—anger, jagged and raw.
SARA: Who gave it to you?
ASHFORD: Sara—
SARA: Who was it? It was in my room. In my private things. No one should have been in there.
ASHFORD: It’s not important right now. What is important—
SARA: It is important. I don’t want to do this anymore. I’m done talking.
Sara stands.
ASHFORD: Sara . . .
She walks to the door. Grabs the knob. It doesn’t turn.
SARA: I want to leave.
ASHFORD: Sara, you need to sit down.
SARA: I want to leave. You can’t keep me here.
ASHFORD: We need to talk about Miranda.
SARA: Miranda is dead.
ASHFORD: I know.
SARA: She died in the dark.
ASHFORD: No. She didn’t. And you know that, Sara. What I want to know is why you’re lying about it.
Facing the door, Sara presses her fingertips against her face, digging them against her cheekbones. She whispers to herself, almost too quietly for the microphone to pick up.
SARA: Miranda died in the dark. She died in the dark. She died—
ASHFORD: All right. That’s enough for now. Please sit down.
SARA: Why is the door locked, Dr. Ashford?
ASHFORD: Don’t worry about that right now. Let’s move on.
Sara walks slowly back to her chair, sinks into it. Her eyes are red-rimmed. She licks her lips, and her fingers start their tapping. Ashford watches, mouth pressed in a straight line, until her fingers curl under.
SARA: You want to hear about Becca. That’s why we’re here, right?
ASHFORD: I’m here to listen to whatever you want to tell me, Sara.
Sara laughs.
SARA: And a few things I don’t. Okay. The house. It was . . .
ASHFORD: Take your time.
Sara closes her eyes and draws a deep breath through her nose, lets it out.
SARA: The house is where we found Becca. And where I started to think coming for her was a mistake.
16
THE FLO
OR CREAKS beneath me. Not a hollow sound; more organic, like the wheeze of an animal. I brush a hand against the wall. Firm plaster, but where I expect it to be cold, it has a faint warmth, and a slickness to it like condensation. My steps disturb a thick layer of dust. It’s an inch deep where it heaps against the walls, and bits of dried leaves and other detritus have blown in and tumbled their way around the room.
Windows to either side of the foyer let in golden light, but the chandelier that hangs above us, glittering with crystals, is dark. Double doors stand ahead. The stairs, the same continuous color as the floor, lead up to a balcony, beyond which are more doors and hallways leading deeper into the house.
The double doors are huge and ornate, carved with scenes that have worn with age until they’re almost indistinguishable. I run my fingertips over the blunted shapes, trying to identify them. A city, maybe? And there the curl of waves. A lower panel is more intricate, with contorted bodies, limbs twisting with limbs, faces stretched in agony and ecstasy. They give way to vines and thorns, and at the edges waves crash in, every gasping form suspended moments from drowning.
“That’s . . . intense,” I offer. No one answers. I turn, heart leaping. I’m alone.
“Guys?” I call. No answer but my own echo, faint and crumbling. “Trina? Mel? Anthony?” Nothing and nothing and nothing. Were they with me when I stepped inside? I don’t remember their footsteps.
I feel it. Panic. It’s a wet, slippery creature forcing its way up my throat. I clamp my teeth down and dig my fingernails into my palms. I will not panic. I will not scream. I will not run.
I am still on the road—the floor the same uniform gray. I haven’t broken any rules. And neither have the others. Not recently, at least. I shove that thought away. If we haven’t broken the rules, I think, then maybe this is just what’s supposed to happen.
Is there a supposed to here?
Yes. If there are rules, there’s a way things ought to be.
I force myself to take steady breaths and look around. No sign of the others. And no sign of the front door—it’s swallowed up in ink black. And I have no one’s hand to hold.
“So how do I find the others?” I ask aloud, voice soft, brushing against the quiet like a hand trailing over cobwebs.
And then something does touch my hand. Grabs it. I yelp and yank away, but it comes again, groping at me. There’s nothing there, no one. I scramble away. The darkness in the doorway seems to shudder, stretch. My fear is not a locked door. It stands open, and panic floods out. The memory of the hand that grabbed mine at the Liar’s Gate comes flashing back.
I scramble away from the touch, the unseen thing. I stumble toward the stairs and up them, slap a hand against the step, keep moving. I hit the top of the stairs and freeze. Hallways stretch to either direction, darkness pierced at intervals by shafts of light from narrow windows.
A stair creaks behind me.
I dive for the nearest door and stagger through.
VIDEO EVIDENCE
Retrieved from the cell phone of Melanie Whittaker
Recorded April 19, 2017, 12:52 a.m.
The view is chaotic as the phone sweeps around the room, catching only shadows before stabilizing to the front-facing camera, showing Melanie Whittaker, eyes wide with panic.
MEL: What the fuck. What the fuck is—everyone just vanished. We were all standing here and then it was just me. Okay, Mel, stay calm. Stay calm. I’m going to—I don’t know what I’m going to do.
She looks around, breathing fast.
MEL: Okay. I need to figure out—find the others. There’s nothing here except a creepy-ass chandelier. And I’m talking to myself. Or my phone. Whatever, makes me feel less like I’m about to get ax-murdered. Okay. Let’s look around.
She flips the camera around, focusing it on the room.
MEL: Nothing too spooky around—What the FUCK?!
Someone walks into frame. Sara Donoghue, turning as she takes in the room.
MEL: Sara?
Sara doesn’t respond or seem to react in any way. A second person walks into her path. Anthony Beck. They step around each other neatly, not seeming to notice their own movements.
MEL: Oh my God. Okay, so I can see them on the camera, but I can’t see them or hear them myself. So where’s—
She swings the camera around, locating the others. Jeremy is stalking around the room, head swiveling to and fro. Kyle stands near double doors, hand hovering hesitantly over the nearest handle. Trina, her phone out and the book clamped between her elbow and ribs, stands behind him, yelling soundlessly and waving an arm.
MEL: Oh, thank God. Hold on.
She runs across the floor and moves around until she’s partly in front of Trina. She waves. Trina jerks around to face her, eyes fixed on the phone in her hand. She looks up, then back at the screen.
MEL: I see you. Can you see me?
The flickers of movement at the edge of the screen suggest she’s signing, though clumsily. Trina signs back.
TRINA: I see you, but I can’t hear you.
MEL: Me neither. What do we do? Ah, can’t remember half this stuff but you know what I mean.
TRINA: The others are splitting up. Hold on, can you—
She reaches out. Mel hesitates, then seems to get it. She puts her hand out, and their palms press against each other.
MEL: I can feel that. Okay, so we can perceive touch?
TRINA: Get the others. Make them stop. Stick together.
MEL: I’ll go to the—out there, you get these guys.
Trina nods sharply and turns to grab Kyle’s wrist as he finally takes hold of the knob. His reaction is cut off as Mel sprints for the foyer. Jeremy and Sara stand facing each other, awkwardly close and utterly unaware of each other.
MEL: Ew, you look like you’re going to kiss. Of all the injustices this place has flung at us . . .
She strides forward and grabs Sara’s hand. Sara jerks out of her grasp and runs.
MEL: Damn it!
Mel chases, dodging around Jeremy, who stands oblivious to the chaos. Sara bolts up a staircase. Mel follows, but her foot catches. The phone flies out of her hand. The screen goes dark for two full seconds, then the view springs back as Mel grabs it.
Sara’s shoulder flashes into view, then out again. Mel swings the camera as Sara dives through a door. The door slams shut behind her.
MEL: No, don’t!
She’s steps behind. She yanks open the door, but there’s nothing beyond but an empty hallway.
MEL: Do I follow? I don’t—Okay. No. Don’t go running down a creepy empty hallway by yourself. Get the others. Then go after her. That’s the smart thing. Do the smart thing for once in your life, Mel.
She pulls herself away from the door. Without her hand holding it open, it swings shut with a click. She trudges back down the stairs. The others are clustered in the foyer. Kyle’s hand grips Trina’s upper arm, and he stares blindly into the room, but the others all have phones out, cameras on.
TRINA: Where’s Sara?
MEL: She ran off. Ran—how are you not getting this. She’s gone.
JEREMY: She says Sara ran off.
MEL: Man, I knew I should have taken ASL instead of Latin. Probably better if you read my lips and translate.
JEREMY: Yeah, I can get like 80 percent of what you’re saying instead of 20 percent and a bunch of nonsense.
MEL: And I got enough of that to know the proper response is my favorite sign.
Jeremy laughs; it isn’t difficult to guess what gesture Mel is making.
TRINA: Can you guys not fight right now?
ANTHONY: Seriously. Focus.
Mel at least understands his exasperated expression.
MEL: Sorry. Punchy. Imminent death. Sara disappeared. I mean really disappeared. Couldn’
t see her in the phone anymore.
ANTHONY: It was trying to separate us.
TRINA: Seems likely.
Kyle tugs on Trina’s arm, mouths, “What’s going on?”
TRINA: We have to find a way to see each other properly. My phone’s dying.
ANTHONY: Mine’s not much better. Ideas?
He finger-spells the last word for Mel.
MEL: A dumb one.
Everyone but Kyle looks at her expectantly.
MEL: If it’s trying to separate us . . . There are a bunch of doors. If we could see each other, we’d all pick the same one. The only way we’d go through different doors is if we weren’t together. So let’s all go through the same door, and maybe that’ll be enough.
JEREMY: I think I got most of that.
ANTHONY: I get what you’re saying. We should try it.
TRINA: Same door as Sara?
MEL: We should use the same door as Sara.
JEREMY: Yup, she’s got the same idea. Let’s move. Mel, grab . . .
He offers her his arm. Mel grabs hold. He grips Anthony’s other hand with his, leaving each of them one hand free for a phone. Trina puts a hand on Anthony’s shoulder, bringing up the rear with Kyle as Mel twists to train the camera on them briefly.
They trudge up the steps at an uneven, jerky gait, Mel nominally leading the way as she takes them to the door Sara disappeared through. She opens it with the hand holding the phone, takes a breath, and guides them all through.
The door slams shut behind them, leaving them in near darkness.
MEL: I can see you all again. It worked.
TRINA: Sara’s not here.
ANTHONY: Maybe she’s farther ahead.
JEREMY: Maybe—
??: Quiet.*
17
THE DOOR SHUTS behind me, and I am in darkness. There’s a panic in my chest like a bird beating its wings against glass before I realize that this is the darkness of shadows, not the impenetrable dark that swallowed Miranda.
Miranda*
Rules for Vanishing Page 14
