Rules for Vanishing

by Kate Alice Marshall

  “But how? The road definitely doesn’t include the water,” Anthony says.

  Kyle is looking upward, as if he can stare through the ceiling to the room above. But there’s nothing up there except the books—and the light.

  “I have an idea,” Kyle and I say at the same time.

  “The light?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  “What about the light?” Anthony asks.

  I lift one shoulder. “This lighthouse is the obvious destination so far. And a lighthouse has basically one purpose. To keep the light going at night. So maybe that’s the key, somehow.”

  “One way to check,” Kyle says. He’s already heading for the stairs, and this time I’m the one following. He trots up without any concern for the steep drop beside him. I take things a little more cautiously. Kyle might be skinny, but he shares Trina’s athleticism and dexterity. I, on the other hand, do not.

  The others troop after. By the time we reach the top, Mel is panting a little; she has the same allergy to sports as I do, and her most physical hobby is composing sarcastic hashtags, but she doesn’t complain. The ladder takes us a little longer to negotiate, but then we’re all crammed at the top level.

  Kyle walks around to the back of the bulb of glass. The lantern at the center of it is clean, polished. Like everything else on this level, it looks perfectly preserved for its purpose. Even the five fingerprints I left on the glass walls are gone. I wonder what would happen if we died up here. Would anything be left? Or would it clear us away, as if we’d never existed?

  I shiver and join Kyle. He’s picked up a box of matches. Old-fashioned and thick, with bulbous ends, but still more modern than the lamp itself.

  “So we turn on the gas, right?” Kyle says. I reach out and carefully twist the knob on the side of the brass lamp. The air in the glass flute above it shimmers, and there’s a faint hissing sound. Kyle strikes a match. It flares to life with a startlingly long flame, and Kyle almost drops it. He clears his throat. “Then I guess we touch this . . . here . . .”

  The gas catches almost at once. Easy. The flame elongates elegantly, filling the glass cylinder built to contain it. In front of the large glass case, Mel yelps. “Damn, that’s bright!” she says, staggering around the side with her hand over her eyes.

  “But look,” Becca breathes, pointing.

  The glass focuses the light. Not to a beam, shining out to warn ships, but to a narrow slice that cuts down to the water and across it as far as I can see. It’s angled so that the light touches down precisely where the shore meets the water and continues in a strip along its surface. The light is golden, but it turns the water gray—the same gray as the road, as the shore, as the floorboards in the house.

  “That’s it,” Becca says. “That’s the road.”

  “That’s our way forward,” I say.

  “And that’s where something’s going to go wrong,” Kyle says. He looks grim. “It’s too easy. It’s a puzzle. And none of the gates have been easy. Whatever’s waiting on that water, it’s going to be bad.”

  “We’ll deal with it,” I say. “But we need to go now.”

  “Why?” Anthony asks.

  “Because it’s night. The light is strong enough now, but what about when the sun rises?”

  “Good point,” he concedes.

  We head back down. At the bottom of the stairs, we collect our things, Becca hanging awkwardly back. She never let go of her bag. Probably smarter than the rest of us.

  When I pick up my bag, it’s ridiculously heavy. I start sorting through it, pulling out all the food and the extra clothing and the water bottles that now seem foolish. Becca’s survived a year without food, and here I am lugging around enough protein bars to last a week. I take Becca’s camera out and cradle it a moment before looking up at her. “I brought this,” I say. “Do you want it?”

  Her eyes light up. She reaches for it, and when I hold it out, she takes it gingerly, her fingers running over it like she’s rediscovering its contours. “I didn’t want to bring it out to the woods, so I just brought my point-and-shoot,” she says. “And then I lost that in the house somewhere.” She turns the camera on, fiddles with a few settings, and lifts it, snapping a photo of Anthony. He looks up, surprised, and she laughs. She turns it on me. I look away. I’ve never liked having my photo taken.

  I’ve never liked having my photo taken, except by Becca. I hate how my cheeks bulge out when I smile, how I always look hunched, how every angle seems to capture the awkward bump at the top of my nose. Becca’s photos are the only ones that I look at and see myself the way I look in the mirror. But still I turn away. In the moment I’m not sure why, but now I think I know.

  I don’t turn away because I am worried about the way I will look in the photo, about seeing myself. I turn away because the reason Becca has always been able to take my picture so well, the reason all her pictures are so good, is that they’re how she sees. And for some reason, I don’t want her to see me right now. As if there’s something that only she might be able to discern—something I don’t want revealed. But that thought skitters away into the dark like so many others I can’t seem to keep hold of.

  I get to my feet, throw the bag over my shoulder. It’s lighter now, especially without the camera. The movement puts my shoulder to her, blocking her view of me.

  “Let’s go,” I say.

  We traipse down to the shore. The boat bobs in the water, bathed in the light. A thick, water-swollen rope lashes the boat to a metal ring bolted to the rocks. Anthony leans out to grab it, then hauls the boat in close enough that we can step onto it from the dry shore to the boat.

  It’s a rowboat. Not huge, but big enough for five people who don’t mind bumping shoulders. Mel and Kyle crouch at the front together, Becca and I take the bench at the back, and Anthony, unsurprisingly, mans the oars at the center bench. It takes us a while to get the rope loose and cast off, and another few lurching tries for Anthony to figure out the rhythm of the oars. But then we’re moving, and the boat, for all its apparent age, is surprisingly smooth and swift. The shore falls away; the path of light spills ahead.

  “Let me know if I’m going off course,” Anthony says, focused on the unfamiliar movement. I watch his shoulders as he rows, the coiling and uncoiling of his muscles. I feel oddly detached.

  I want what I told Mel to be true. I want there to be a someday we’re reaching for, waiting for, when all of this is far enough behind us that I can care about crushes again. Think about being kissed and feel that thrill like fingers running up my spine.

  I almost, almost let myself believe it for a moment. And then I see Anthony’s eyes widen in horror, and twist around, half standing.

  The road is vanishing. At first I think something is wrong with the lighthouse—and then I realize the lighthouse is gone, too. It isn’t that the road is gone. It’s that the darkness is coming.

  “Dark,” Anthony manages, a frantic warning. Kyle and Mel whirl, the boat rocking at the movement, their hands already clutching together.

  Becca turns in the seat. Breath hisses between her teeth.

  Five of us. One too many.

  She looks at Anthony. She looks at me. Her hand hovers, indecisive, and I don’t know which way I want her to reach. Who I want her to choose.

  I never get the chance to find out. The darkness crashes over us, and the boat suddenly rocks, struck from beneath by some unseen force. I’m thrown from my awkward position. I scrabble blindly at the wood of the boat, but it slews, and my shoulder strikes the side hard the instant before I hit the water.

  EXHIBIT L

  Police interview of Rebecca Donoghue

  April 19, 2017—Morning after disappearances

  Becca sits hunched in a chair, her hands wrapped around a mug of steaming liquid. She wears an overlarge sweatshirt, and her hair is damp. A female officer sits acr
oss from her, a woman with a broad frame and no-nonsense features.

  OFFICER BAUER: Becca, my name is Linda. I’m here to talk about what happened last night.

  BECCA: I’ve already said I don’t know anything.

  OFFICER BAUER: Do you know where you’ve been for the past year?

  BECCA: Like I said. I ran away with Zachary Kent. He broke up with me, so I came home.

  It has a singsong, nursery-rhyme quality.

  OFFICER BAUER: And where is Zachary Kent now?

  BECCA: I don’t know. I think he said something about LA.

  OFFICER BAUER: All right, Becca. We’ll look into that. But things aren’t as simple as you make them sound.

  BECCA: Aren’t they? It’s exactly what everyone thought. I lost my head for a boy and ran away. It’s why none of you looked for me, isn’t it?

  OFFICER BAUER: I have your file, Becca. Your family was distraught when you left.

  BECCA: I know. I’m sorry.

  OFFICER BAUER: And we’re going to have to talk about the details of the last year, but we also need to know about last night. How well do you know Officer Chris Mauldin?

  BECCA: I don’t.

  OFFICER BAUER: His stepdaughter is a good friend of yours, isn’t she?

  Becca flinches, pain and sorrow flashing across her features for a moment before she smooths her expression.

  BECCA: Trina and I haven’t talked since I left, so I don’t know if you could call us friends. I don’t know her stepdad. Never said more than hello to him.

  OFFICER BAUER: Do you know where Trina is now?

  BECCA: No. Like I said. I haven’t seen her in a year.

  OFFICER BAUER: Officer Mauldin is in the hospital right now, Becca.

  BECCA: Oh. Um. Is he—what happened to him?

  OFFICER BAUER: He was beaten last night. Badly.

  BECCA: I’m sorry. Is he going to be okay?

  OFFICER BAUER: We still don’t know that.

  Becca’s gaze fixes on the tabletop.

  BECCA: Where’s my sister?

  OFFICER BAUER: Your sister is with your family.

  BECCA: Is she all right?

  OFFICER BAUER: She’s in shock, I think. Your whole family is. The news that you’re back is a lot to take in, after all this time.

  Becca gives her a curious look.

  BECCA: Where did you find her?

  OFFICER BAUER: Find her? It’s just past dawn, Becca. She was home in bed.

  BECCA: But . . .

  OFFICER BAUER: Becca, before you can see your family, there are things we need to know. There are a lot of missing pieces, here. Like where Trina Jeffries is. Or why you were out in the woods last night. Or why you were covered in blood.

  BECCA: Ask Sara.

  OFFICER BAUER: Becca . . .

  BECCA: I’m not telling you anything until I see my sister.

  24

  THE WATER HITS me with a slap of sound and cold. Immediately, all sense of the boat is cut off. The creak of wood, the voices, the scrape and splash of the oars.

  A curious sense of peace washes over me. It’s all right, I realize. This is how I do it—how I make sure they make it. Someone was always going to die. This way, the rest of them survive.

  Thirteen steps—maybe it will be thirteen strokes—and they’ll have to manage with one hand apiece. But they’ll manage. Becca will take charge. The way it’s supposed to be.

  I tread water, waiting. Waiting for what, I’m not sure. I should be afraid, but I think this is the first moment since we saw the road that I am completely, utterly calm. I have done all I can. It’s not enough, of course. Nothing would ever be enough. But it’s all I have to give.

  And then something brushes past my leg. Then another, more constant pressure, like fingers probing the shape of my ankle. I kick out and connect with something that gives easily. I feel the passage of a dozen flurrying bodies around me, and I force myself to breathe evenly. Whatever is going to happen is going to happen. But my instincts kick in and I can’t stay still and wait for it.

  I kick off my shoes, try to gauge the direction of the road, and strike out. Swimming in clothing isn’t exactly easy, but the water has a strange buoyancy that makes up for some of the drag, and years of swim lessons come back to me readily enough. A few strokes take me away from the questing touches, and then I pause, catching my breath.

  I hear voices up ahead, and for an instant I think it’s the others. But these voices are wrong. The language is wrong, something that chatters like a stream over rocks, and there are too many of them. I don’t want to swim toward the sound, but I’m sure that’s the way the road went. I take another few cautious strokes. How many is that? Seven, I think. Six more and—and there’s no way I’ll make it, not alone. The rules are the rules.

  The voices draw closer. They’re all around me now, but still I can’t see or feel anything, anyone. They whisper in my ear, babble behind me. A hand grabs my arm. I yank away. Another seizes my leg and gives a sharp tug, pulling me under, and this time when I kick, I can’t break free.

  More hands, and still the voices, bubbling and laughing and whispering. Hands grip my wrists, my legs, my hair. Fingers crawl over my chin, force their way in past my lips, scrape against my teeth as I try not to scream, knowing it will only let the water rush in.

  I flail against the gripping hands. They tighten painfully, craggy nails scraping across my skin. I thrash one hand away and reach for the surface, but it’s too far away; I grasp at only cold water. I can’t hold my breath much longer. I can’t get loose. My lungs burn, and in a moment I’ll have no choice but to surrender.

  The last thing I’ll see is nothing at all. Only darkness.

  And then—light. A soft, golden light, filtering weakly through the water. Briefly, it illuminates the shapes around me. They’re almost human, with withered torsos and gaping, broken-toothed mouths, huge clouded eyes and hollowed cheeks, ash-gray hair billowing in the water around them. Beneath their breastbones, their bodies turn to tatters.

  The light hits them and they scatter. Their movement is jerky, nauseating, but it tears them away from the light and in a moment they have vanished. I struggle for the surface, but my vision goes to spots. I reach for the light.

  A hand plunges through the water and closes around my wrist, hauling me upward. Seconds later I’m being pulled over the edge of a boat, which rocks alarmingly. I spill into the belly of it, coughing and gasping as water puddles beneath me.

  “Ho, there. Air’s for breathing, now, not water,” a low rumble of a voice says. I peer up. The light shines behind the man sitting in the center of the boat, but I can see the broad outline of his shoulders and the silhouette of his hat, wide-brimmed and crumpled as if jammed down on his head. “Let’s get you out of the dark, then, miss.”

  He gets a grip on the oars of the little boat and turns it with a few practiced movements. Around us, the darkness is a solid shell, but it can’t press in past the limits of the light. I’m still struggling to breathe normally; the first word I attempt comes out as a sputtering cough.

  “None of that, now,” he says. “You just hold tight. We’ll have you out in a moment.”

  “Who are you?” I manage.

  “Oh, now, there’s an interesting question,” he says. “Interesting on account of it not having much meaning anymore. Who I am is a man on the road, and that’s all that’s mattered for some time now. You can call me John, as some fair few have, though I can’t rightly recall whether any did so before I stepped through the Liar’s Gate.”

  “You’re a traveler?”

  “I was,” he says. “But those days are behind me. There’s no leaving this place for old John, but don’t worry yourself about that. I’ve learned to abide well enough. And here we are.”

  We edge out of the dark
ness, back onto the glimmering path of light. John finishes his stroke and sets the oars a moment while he reaches behind him, fetching the source of the light. When he turns back, he’s cradling a hand in both of his. It’s been cut off just below the wrist, a bit of bone protruding from the desiccated flesh. The fingers cup a candle, melted almost all the way down, fat globs of wax spilling over the palm. He puffs his cheeks to blow it out and wraps the whole thing tenderly in a cloth he pulls from inside his jacket. Then he puts the bundle inside a wooden box at his feet and taps the lid as if to assure himself it’s secure.

  “What—” I say, but realize before I ask the question there’s really no answer that will make it make sense.

  “There are two ways to survive the road. One of them is following the rules, the other is learning how to break them in just the right way,” he says. “Not much left of that trick, and the cost of its acquisition was dear, but as it’s saved one life, at least, I’ll call it a worthy price.”

  In the lighthouse’s beam, I can see him more clearly. He’s white, with a russet beard streaked with gray and a broad, weathered face. His clothes are as rumpled as his hat and old-fashioned, though I don’t know enough to say whether the fashion is eighty years out of date or a hundred and eighty. One of his eyelids droops, and the cheek on that side is scored with deep scars.

  “I’m Sara,” I say.

  “Oh, that I know,” he replies. “And your next question’s going to be about your friends, who will have fetched up to shore by now, as soon we shall in turn. We’ve been waiting for you awhile now. There was some doubt as to whether you’d make it.”

  “We?”

  He doesn’t answer. The shore is in view, gleaming gray at the end of the light. The others’ boat is there, leaning drunkenly against the shore, pulling free and wandering back with every breaking swell. There’s no sign of them. I lick my lips, taste salt.

  “They’re just fine,” he tells me. “You’ve come through the worst of it, now. For this stretch, at least.”