Rules for Vanishing

by Kate Alice Marshall

  Ashford clears his throat.

  ASHFORD: Sara, we got access to Jeremy Polk’s phone records. There are some text messages on there between him and Anthony.

  SARA: And?

  ASHFORD: It isn’t clear-cut, but . . . Here, I have a printout. I can show you.

  He takes a moment to find the relevant page in his briefcase and hands it to Sara. Her brow furrows as she reads it.

  EXHIBIT O

  Text messages between Jeremy Polk and Anthony Beck

  Jeremy | Anthony

  4/18/17

  How’d it go? Why did she want you to meet her at the bridge?

  It’s complicated.

  Complicated meaning I was right and she’s nuts?

  Complicated meaning complicated I’m going to go to the woods.

  With her?

  Yeah. And whoever else will come. I would really appreciate it if you came, too.

  Sure.

  Really? I thought I’d have to talk you into it.

  No worries. If she wigs out and stabs you with scissors I want it on film.

  That’s not funny.

  I’m serious. Girl’s unhinged.

  She lost her sister. Cut her some slack.

  This is me cutting her some slack. So did she send the text message?

  No.

  You mean no, she didn’t, or no, you don’t want to think she did?

  I mean stop asking.

  You know you’re an asshole, right?

  Yup.

  You ever think about not being an asshole?

  I’m saving my spiritual growth for college.

  Anyway, ignore me. I know she’s your friend and she’s been through a lot of shit.

  I’ve got your back whatever happens.

  I knew you would.

  You’re a great guy, Jeremy.

  But seriously, work on the asshole thing.

  We’ve got plenty of life ahead of us. I’ll get around to it.

  INTERVIEW

  SARA DONOGHUE

  May 9, 2017

  SARA: That doesn’t prove anything.

  ASHFORD: He says that you asked him to meet you at the park.

  SARA: Did I?

  BECCA: Sara. I think what you saw on the road is true.

  SARA: And Lucy’s brother impaled her on a branch, then?

  BECCA: Maybe it’s not that literal, but there was a reason you saw that.

  SARA: I felt guilty. Maybe that’s what the road came up with to make me feel more guilty. I’m not lying. I don’t remember that happening—telling him to convince the others to go.

  She grabs at Becca’s hand, her gaze imploring.

  BECCA: I believe you. I believe you, Sara. But you’re forgetting things.

  SARA: Why? Why can’t I remember what really happened? What’s wrong with me?

  She turns to Ashford, her voice raw and demanding. Abby straightens in the corner, ready to intervene, but Sara stays seated.

  ASHFORD: Your guilt over your friends’ deaths makes it difficult for you to think about that night. Because of that night, you blame yourself. Your mind shies away from it naturally, and so it’s an easier memory to hide away in the recesses of your brain. And then it is easier to hide other things alongside it. It serves as a kind of deterrent, to keep you from questioning your false and missing memories. I believe that memory is key to what Lucy is doing to you—what she is making you forget.

  SARA: You mean what happened in the dark.

  ASHFORD: That’s part of what I mean, yes.

  SARA: And what’s the other part?

  ASHFORD: One thing at a time.

  SARA: You keep saying that.

  ASHFORD: I’m not doing it to be cruel. You need to do the work yourself, Sara. We can’t do it for you. And you do want to, don’t you? You want the truth, and you want to be whole again.

  Sara’s fingernails scratch the table’s surface. Her head lolls to the side, her eyes half-closed.

  SARA: Sometimes I do. Sometimes I—sometimes I—

  Becca seizes her hand.

  BECCA: Stay here, Sara. Count the crows. Follow the path Miranda made for you. Remember.

  SARA: I don’t want to hurt you again.

  BECCA: You won’t.

  SARA: No. You should go. I don’t want to hurt you again. Please. It’s not worth it. I—

  ABBY: I’ll keep you from hurting anyone.

  ASHFORD: Abby.

  But Sara looks fixedly at Abby.

  SARA: Promise?

  ABBY: You want to protect your sister, right? It’s the most important thing to you. And it’s part of why you’ve been holding back. Because you’re afraid of what happens if you open certain doors. I get that. And I promise. If I think you’re going to hurt her, I’ll stop you.

  SARA: Are you sure you can?

  ABBY: Yeah. I’m sure.

  Sara nods.

  SARA: Good. Okay. Then we can try again.

  ASHFORD: Are you certain? I don’t want to push too far too fast.

  Sara frowns faintly.

  SARA: No, I think we have to do this. I think we have to do it soon. I think . . . I think we’re running out of time. I am. Running out. I . . .

  Her brow creases, smooths. Her next words are a whisper.

  SARA: Do you understand?

  28

  THE OTHERS CATCH up to us not long after. I don’t know if I’ve already forgotten by then—the bridge, what I saw. Even now that I remember what I’d forgotten, I don’t remember when it was I forgot. Is that strange?

  Mel and Kyle find us first, and I panic, because Becca and Anthony should have been before them—but they’re less than a minute behind, racing out of the mist and fetching up near us with identical stricken expressions.

  “That was a trip,” Mel says, underselling it by a mile. She shows her teeth, but it isn’t a smile. I want to ask what they saw, and I can see the same question on their faces, but no one speaks it out loud. One confession will demand the rest, and I don’t think any of us can quite bear that.

  “This is it, then,” Anthony says. “The last gate.”

  “Not the last,” Lucy says. “There’s one more.” The gate to Ys itself. And from there, a way home.

  We clamber over the broken gate, helping each other across. On the other side the road sticks out into the mist like a broken-off dock. No one moves.

  “We’ve come this far,” I say. “We can do this.” I reach out and take Becca’s hand, then Mel’s. Mel grips Kyle’s hand tight, and Anthony takes the other, Becca and Anthony closing the ring—Lucy dropping back, away, giving us the moment. We held hands like this before we stepped onto the road. A ring of us, and so many gone now.

  “You came for me,” Becca says. “All of you. I don’t know how to make that up to you. How to make it worth everything you’ve been through. Everyone we’ve lost.”

  “We did this for you. Not because of you,” Anthony says. “Don’t feel guilty. Feel . . .”

  “Loved,” I say softly. “We came, all of us, out of love. For you. For each other. Even Jeremy, even though I doubt he’d appreciate me saying it.”

  “Way too much of a bro for that touchy-feely stuff,” Mel agrees with a tilting smile, and we chuckle. “Sara’s right. We’re here out of love. Because of what all of us were willing to give up for it. Especially Trina. She loved you more than anything in the world, Kyle, and she would do what she did a thousand times over again if she knew it would get you home. And so we’re going to get you home.”

  “I hope I’m worth it,” Kyle says.

  “I hope I’m worth it, too,” Becca says. They share a look that settles from pain into a kind of peace.

  “We
all get home,” Anthony says. “That’s how this ends. Every one of us.”

  “Every one of us,” we all echo.

  The circle breaks. Anthony keeps hold of Becca’s hand, and Mel lingers near me a moment. We don’t have the right habits yet—the small things to comfort each other, to connect not as friends, or not friends alone, but whatever we’re becoming. We have to settle for an out-of-place smile, a gaze that lingers a second longer than it might have yesterday, a brief touch of her hand against mine.

  Then Lucy steps up, her smile sweet, and slips her hand into mine once more.

  “It isn’t far now,” she tells us. “Soon this will all be over.”

  “Should we go first?” I ask.

  “We’ll go first,” Kyle says. “I mean, if that’s okay. I just want this over with.” His eyes shift away from mine.

  We watch silently as Mel and Kyle walk into the mist, turning into shadows before they vanish.

  “Ready?” Lucy asks me.

  “Ready,” I lie, and we walk after them.

  The road is surprisingly intact here—few stones that manage to touch one another, but the edges clear enough, speckling the ground at semiregular intervals. The mist leaves us mostly blind, but that’s a kind of blessing. I don’t want to see what’s around us.

  Because of the mist, we don’t see the dark until we’re almost in it. We hardly acknowledge it, except to rearrange our grip slightly, more securely.

  “Almost done,” Lucy tells me—or maybe she’s talking to herself. We step past the border of the darkness, and into that strange, echoing space.

  I count steps. One, two, three, four. That urge is there— letgoletgoletgo—but I grit my teeth against it, and Lucy’s grip never wavers.

  And then she stumbles. Her breath is labored, and her grip tightens against mine with an alarming sort of desperation.

  “Lucy? Are you okay?” I whisper.

  “Hold on,” she says. “Here, hold—hold my arm.”

  She slides her hand through mine, guiding my palm up to her upper arm so I can grip and leave her hands free. I hear her rummaging in her bag, and then—light. I blink rapidly in the sudden luminescence. She holds the severed hand with its candle in the palm. There isn’t much left of it, but she sets it at our feet. We’re still among the scattered stones, soft grass growing up around them.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, and then I see that she’s bleeding. Her hair hid it at first, but the blood trickles down her neck and pools in the dip of her collarbone, soaking into her dress. Her eyes are glassy, and she sways. “What happened? Oh my God. What should I—what should I do?” I ask.

  She peels her lips back from her teeth. “What happened is Lucy’s brother is a bastard,” she says. “And there’s nothing you can do. Not unless you can travel back sixty-five years or so and stop him from slamming a rock into her skull.” Lucy. Her skull. I blink in confusion, but I don’t have time to think about it.

  The blood comes thicker, faster. She staggers. Her knees buckle. I lunge to catch her on instinct, but all I can do is lower her to the ground as she wheezes.

  “What do I do?” I ask again.

  “It’s all right,” she tells me, her voice faint. “I knew it would happen. It’s why I had to turn back last time. Lucy was dying when she stepped onto the road. This close to the end, it catches up with her, that’s all.”

  “What do you mean, Lucy was dying?” I ask. “You’re Lucy. What—”

  “It’s why I couldn’t use her to get away,” she says. “But you and your sister—you’re both so receptive. I never had to try very hard to get you to hear me. Lucy was like that. Pity about the dying.” Something moves behind her eyes, and I realize I was wrong. Lucy isn’t decades older than she looks.

  Those eyes have the weight of centuries.

  “You’re Dahut,” I whisper.

  She grins. “And you are my way out of this prison,” she says. She reaches out, and before I can pull away, she seizes my hand. Something rushes out of her, cold as the sea, and into me.

  And

  I

  cease.

  VIDEO EVIDENCE

  Retrieved from the camera of Becca Donoghue

  Recorded April 19, 2017, 12:49 a.m.

  BECCA: Something’s wrong.

  ANTHONY: Just keep recording.

  At first the phone records only darkness. Then, light ahead, the surface of it strangely opaque, though a figure can be seen dimly, kneeling.

  BECCA: Why do you want me to record this? We should just go up there.

  ANTHONY: I want a record of this. I don’t trust Lucy. And that camera’s way better than the one on my phone.

  BECCA: Then you take it.

  She hands him the camera, then pulls him forward. The distance between the camera and the light seems to shrink, fold, faster than it should, and then they stand within the circle of light.

  Sara crouches near the flickering candle. Lucy lies in a pool of blood nearby.

  BECCA: Oh my God.

  She rushes forward, dropping to her knees beside Lucy. She searches for the source of the blood and tries to stanch it with her hands.

  BECCA: What happened? Sara? Sara.

  Sara jerks, gaze snapping into focus.

  SARA: I don’t know. She just collapsed.

  BECCA: Where did all this blood come from?

  SARA: I don’t know.

  She stands, lifting the severed hand with her. The candle wax puddles in the cupped palm and spills along its creases. A liquid drop rolls free of the rest and falls to the ground.

  SARA: We have to go. The candle won’t last.

  BECCA: Do we leave her?

  SARA: We don’t have a choice.

  Becca straightens up. She looks down at her hands, frowns, and wipes her hands on her shirt.

  BECCA: Do you hear that?

  ANTHONY: Hear what?

  BECCA: Nothing. It’s . . . it’s quiet.

  She looks disturbed.

  ANTHONY: Let’s just get out of here.

  He hands the camera back to Becca.

 

  29

  THERE ARE THINGS I am not supposed to tell you.

  There are things I don’t remember.

  There are things I don’t know.

  Sorting out one from the other is harder than you think. I’m not sure I’ve done it right. I’m not sure what the things are you need to know, and I’m not sure which things I’ve told you are true.

  Because not everything you’ve been told can be true, can it?

  This is true:

  I don’t know how long I am gone, in those moments after Dahut takes hold of me. When I exist again, when I wake, I am in the dark—but it is not the darkness of the road. It is a maze. It is a house. It is a cage. I am running, chasing someone. Lucy, I think, but the name is as slippery as a dream. Dahut, I call, and laughter echoes back toward me.

  The house unmakes and remakes itself, but there is an order to it. A will, a malice, an architect with a careful hand. Doors vanish behind walls. Corridors are carved where they should not be, false paths to fool my memory.

  I don’t know how long I’m in this place, feeling the deepest parts of myself brutally rearranged, but I wake to darkness, and it is the darkness of the road. And in the darkness is a sound—

  The sound of waves.

  “Don’t move,” Becca whispers. Her questing fingers find my arm. Her breath catches in time to Anthony’s, and I know that they’ve found one another as well.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “The light went out,” Anthony says. “Just now. Didn’t you—but I think we’re there.”

  Light shines all around us. Not the light of the candle, but a green-cast light, sliced narrowly into shafts that
stretch from some vast height to the ground at our feet. I tilt my head up, still half-lost and uncomprehending, my mind lurching from one thing to the next without being able to conceive of the connections between them.

  Becca makes a sound—ta—behind her teeth, startled and wondering, as the light grows stronger.

  We stand on a cobbled street. Around us, buildings rise to domes and spires and minarets, a glorious confusion of architectural styles, their sides overgrown with fringes and folds and rivulets of varicolored coral. The light above filters down as if through a great expanse of water, and I can see the wrinkling surface of waves, but we are no more drowned than when I walked with Lucy through that unformed space. What we passed through there was like a dream; this has the substance of skin, of stone. A solid thing, more real than not.

  The severed hand lies at my feet. The candle is burned down to nothing, a puddle of wax and a smudge of soot that used to be the wick. Spent.

  “What is this?” Anthony asks. He and Becca are barely touching, the last two fingers of his hand softly bent around hers. Her fingers dig into my arm, gripping tight.

  “Ys,” I say, with a certainty that girds my ribs like iron. “This is Ys.”

  “There they are,” says a voice, and I turn. For a moment the girl is a stranger, the smile on her face inexplicable. And then I know her—Mel. Relief and affection rush in, but they never quite reach me, as if restrained behind a pane of glass. Kyle is with her, running toward us down the cobbled street. Mel reaches me and catches my hands. I should feel something more, I’m certain, but I am focused instead on the cool, dry texture of her palms. “You made it. Where’s Lucy?” she asks.

  “Something happened to her,” Anthony says. “She’s dead.”

  Mel swallows, but just nods. Lucy was a stranger, and we’re all out of grief. “But we made it,” she says. “This is Ys, isn’t it?”

  Somewhere beyond us, through the maze of buildings, comes a deep, reverberating sound.