Nevermore n-1

by Келли Криг

  “He knows it,” Isobel grumbled, getting more annoyed by the second. Was it any of Gwen’s business who she gave her locker combination to? They were locker neighbors, not locker roomies. “What does that have to do with what happened?”

  “It was right after last period. Your big football player ex-guy—did you say his name was Ben?”

  “Brad.”

  “Right, well, for some reason, that guy was in your locker. Now, I wasn’t there yet, so I can’t say exactly what the deal was. I sort of figured out this much after the fact—from what other people said they saw.”

  “Other people?” She cringed.

  “Well, apparently, this Brad guy was getting stuff out of your locker, planning to take it with him, it looked like.”

  Isobel tried to remember exactly what she’d stored in her locker. All she knew she had in there was her binder, some books, and a box of tampons—what could he want with any of that? Evidence, she realized at once. He must be looking for some kind of proof about her and Varen. Maybe. What else would it be?

  “But then guess who shows up.”

  “No.”

  “Yeah.”

  Something in her middle turned a wobbly somersault. Varen approaching Brad? Bad. Very bad.

  “What happened?” Her voice almost cracked.

  “Well, this is the part that I saw. Apparently, Varen wanted Brad to give him all your stuff. Then Brad grabbed a fistful of Dr. Doom’s shirt and slammed him into the lockers. Hard. I mean, I saw his head bounce. One-handed, too—Bruno never even had to put your stuff down.”

  Isobel gasped. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. The room around her seemed to tilt. She cringed, and the hand holding the phone felt weak.

  “And that’s what triggered it, I think.”

  Oh God. There was more? Isobel needed to sit down. She sank onto one corner of her bed, waiting for the worst. How bad could it be? she thought. If Varen had called her from work, then he had to be at least somewhat okay. He couldn’t be in traction if he was at work, right?

  “Well,” Gwen said, her voice flattening out, “let me just say that when he banged into the lockers—the lockers banged back.”

  “What do you mean they banged back?”

  The line went quiet and fuzzy for a moment. Isobel squished the phone in hard against one ear, blocking her other ear with a finger. She turned her head to one side, and another roll of static fizzed against her eardrum.

  “All the lockers . . . they knocked back,” Gwen said. “One right after the other. Everybody hit the floor, because it sounded like gunfire—I swear. I saw some of the locks jolting around. It happened so fast—and it wasn’t like some sort of crazy chain reaction that had been set off or something,” she interrupted herself to say, as though she’d already wrestled with this theory in her own mind, “because it started at the total opposite end of the hall, on the other side. It only stopped when it reached your locker. Which slammed shut—by itself. And even though he tried, Goliath couldn’t get it open again.”

  “Gwen,” Isobel said, standing, a note of hysteria in her voice. Her eyes fell to the Poe book still sitting on her carpet where she’d left it. She kicked it under her bed. “You’re making this up.”

  “Sorry, but I’m not that creative.”

  “Did somebody set you up to call me and say all this?”

  “Look,” Gwen said, “I didn’t call because of some prank. I called you because there’s something really freaked out goin’ on, and since it transpired in the direct vicinity of your locker, I thought you might like to know.”

  A scuffling noise had Isobel turning to face the window.

  “Of course,” Gwen prattled, “if I’d known I’d be accused of conspiracy on top of lying, I’d have written about the whole ordeal in an article and submitted it to the school newspaper instead.”

  “Shh!” Isobel hissed. “Gwen, shh!”

  The sound came again. A low, grating noise.

  “I don’t think I should have to shush. You know, I didn’t have to call you. I had better things to do. My trig homework, for example.”

  “No, Gwen,” said Isobel. She dropped her voice as the dull, scraping noise grew louder. “I hear something.”

  For a moment the line went silent.

  “Gwen?” Isobel said, afraid she’d hung up.

  “I’m here, though I’m startin’ to wonder why.”

  “Listen,” said Isobel as another long scratching noise issued from behind her drawn shade. “I believe you. There’s been a lot of weird stuff happening, actually. But I can’t tell you about it right now, because I think there’s something outside my window.”

  There was a moment of tense silence. Isobel strained both ears, listening.

  “You want me to call the police or somethin’?” Gwen whispered.

  “No, not yet. Listen, I want you to stay on the line with me while I try to get a look. It could just be . . . y’know—a bird or something,”

  “A bird? Are you kidding me?”

  “No,” Isobel murmured, distracted as the scratching continued, closer this time. Something shuffled right up against her window ledge. Whatever it was out there, it sounded a lot bigger than a bird.

  “Hold on,” she said. She crept forward, the phone held tight against one ear, her other arm outstretched, fingers reaching toward the shade.

  “Isobel? What’s going on? Are you there or what?”

  Transfixed by the large, moving black shape shifting in and out of the visible edge around her window shade, she watched her own hand as it drifted closer—remarkably steady

  —toward her window. Touching a finger to the edge, she peeled back the canvas ever so slightly, squinting, trying to peer past the glare and into the dusk.

  A thin, spidery hand, almost glowing white in the twilight, slammed against the glass. Isobel shrieked and stumbled back, tripping and falling on the carpet. The shade flew up. The phone jumped from her grasp and landed out of her reach.

  On and off, she could hear Gwen’s distant, frantic voice calling her name.

  Isobel stared up in terror through the dark square of her window, at the pale, luminous face that stared back.

  19

  Visitations

  “Varen!” Isobel launched herself from the floor. She rushed to the window. Finding the clasps, she snapped the locks back, fixed her fingers in the grooves, and heaved upward.

  He crouched precariously on the slanted roof, watching her, his calm, expressionless face level with hers. With every glimpse, every meeting of their eyes, those cool, kohl-rimmed jades bored into her, causing little electrodes to zip through her insides.

  “Isobel! Isobel!” came a tiny, strained insect voice from somewhere behind. “Isobel, I’m calling the police!”

  “Oh!” Isobel whirled, throwing a Hold on! gesture toward the window before diving for the handset.

  “Gwen,” she said, “it’s Varen. I gotta go.”

  “Omigod. Okay—but you better call me baa—!”

  Beep.

  Isobel flung the phone aside and sprang to grapple once more with the window. She tugged and jerked until it shimmied up half an inch, allowing in the cold evening air. She slipped her hands under the bottom, ready to lift, but froze when she felt his fingertips, cool from the October air, slide in next to hers.

  All breathing ceased. And there was that static sensation again, a soft buzz where their skin touched.

  The quiet knock at her door made her jump. She spun, slamming her back to the window. There was a shift and a shudder from outside, a quiet curse, and then a long, scraping scuffle.

  “Isobel?” Her father.

  “Not decent!” she yelled, her voice ridiculously loud, erratic. “Just a second!” She turned and faced the window again, only to catch sight of Varen sliding backward, headfirst down the slope of her roof, some sort of bag trailing behind him, still clutched in his white-knuckled grasp.

  “Oh!” Isobel’s hands rushed to cover her mouth,
so her suppressed scream came out as a high-pitched squeak. She fought the urge to shut her eyes and watched, horrified, as he careened toward the ledge. The strap of his bag snagged on the corner of an upturned shingle and ripped from his grasp. He skidded to the end of the roof, managing to reposition himself at the last second, just in time for the heels of his boots to catch against the gutter, hands braced out on either side of him.

  He stopped. Isobel breathed again.

  The knock at her door was more insistent this time. “Isobel, is everything all right in there?”

  “Fine!” she called. Putting a foot on her window ledge, she hoisted herself up and grasped the shade, pulling it down. “Just . . . give me a second, okay?” She undid the ties on her curtains and drew them together. Turning, she tore across her room and barreled into her closet. She yanked her pink robe from its hanger, threw it around herself, pushed her arms through the sleeves, and tied the belt haphazardly around her waist. Gripping the collar closed so her dad wouldn’t see her T-shirt, she scuttled to the door and opened it a crack.

  “Yeah?” she asked, trying to make her breathing seem normal.

  Her dad stepped closer and put the toe of his shoe between the door and the door frame. Isobel pushed in on the door. He squinted down at her suspiciously, then peered past her, over her head.

  “Dad,” she said, “I am trying to get ready to take a shower.”

  “Oh,” he said. The lie worked, and her father leaned back again, removing his shoe. “I thought I heard you yell.”

  “I was on the phone,” she answered, having had the excuse ready.

  “Everything all right?”

  “Yep!” She flashed a smile.

  “Okay.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, but didn’t turn to leave.

  “Okay,” she echoed, and pressed the door shut.

  “Listen,” he said, jamming the door with his foot again, “you didn’t hear anything on the roof, did you? Mom says she thought she might have heard that raccoon again.”

  “No!” Isobel answered quickly—maybe too quickly. She tried to wipe her face clear of any knowing. “No,” she repeated. “Nothing.”

  “Well,” he said, “do you mind if I take a look?”

  “Dad!” she screeched. She pushed his foot out with her own, then clamped the door shut in his face. “Just wait till I’m in the shower! I am naked!”

  “Okay! Okay! I’ll wait, I’ll wait!”

  Isobel stood another moment at the door, her ear pressed against it, listening. After the sound of quiet shuffling, she cracked it again and saw him tromp down the stairs, muttering to himself.

  She shut the door and turned the lock, then padded back to the window and heaved it open.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed into the darkness.

  She could see him at the roof’s ledge, inching backward toward her window crab-style, until he had at least a foot between him and the drop-off.

  Isobel pulled herself out through the window. She crouched on the sill and leaned out into the sharp air, a chilly wind whipping through her hair as she watched him rise to a standing position.

  He stepped sideways up the slanted roof toward her, one foot carefully following the other as he moved with all the agility of a tightrope walker.

  Varen said nothing as he drew nearer, his jet-black hair stirring ever so slightly in the wind. He bent down along the way and scooped up the small nylon satchel that had snagged on the upturned roofing tile. When he came near enough, he grabbed hold of the window ledge and pulled himself forward. For the briefest moment, they came face-to-face. Their eyes locked.

  Then he broke the stare, swiveled, and sank into a sitting position, chains clanking, with his knees up.

  She watched him speechlessly as he set a cooler bag between his boots, like he was settling down to a picnic or something. An image of the contents as hospital blood bags, complete with juice-box straws, flashed through her mind.

  Unfolding her legs, she made herself as comfortable as she could on the cold outer edge of the sill.

  An intangible and unnameable charge electrified the space between them, and at first, neither one of them said anything. Another breeze rustled past, shaking the tree limbs and lacing the air with the spicy scent of dead leaves and chimney smoke.

  Finally she heard him unzip the bag and watched him pull out a small cylinder.

  “I thought you might like some crappy ice cream,” he said.

  As Isobel’s eyes fixed on the carton, something inside of her broke. She felt it, a landslide. A flood of warmth followed, causing the tips of her fingers to burn against the cold frost of the carton as she accepted it with one hand.

  In the dim light streaming from her room, she could discern little monkeys swinging on vines across the package. BANANA FUDGE SWIRL, the label read, and she felt a twisty sensation that came from the realization that he’d actually remembered.

  Next he held out a spoon for her, staring at her from behind the curve of white plastic with such intensity that it frightened her. She felt an unfurling sensation through her whole body, like she was experiencing the first drop of a roller coaster—one that was sure to have a lot of loops up ahead.

  Isobel took the spoon slowly, a gesture that seemed to carry with it some sort of immense weight that she didn’t exactly understand yet. His eyes fell away, releasing her.

  A curious smile threatened to crack at one side of her mouth as she watched him pry open a carton of his own. He pulled another spoon from the nylon bag, then wordlessly dug in.

  Isobel took a bite too, savoring the combination of banana and chocolate.

  She couldn’t keep her eyes off his hands, those long fingers that, in their movement, held a grace all their own. His silver rings glinted in the light from her window, and she focused on his knuckles before clearing her throat to speak.

  “That was Gwen Daniels on the phone,” she blurted, shattering the silence that had become, at least for her, unbearable. “She told me that you tried to keep Brad from taking stuff out of my locker. Is that why you called me?”

  “Partly,” he admitted.

  “Is that why you’re here now?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” Her stomach clutched. She waited for him to say something else, but he didn’t. She looked down into her carton of ice cream, pushing her spoon through, creating little paths and mountains. “She, uh, said that he, um . . . Are you okay?” she asked.

  He scowled up at her, looking genuinely affronted. She returned his stare, refusing to take back the question even though it seemed as if he was just as stubbornly going to refuse to acknowledge it.

  “Gwen said”—Isobel tried out these waters tentatively—“that something strange happened with all the lockers. Did . . . did you see it?”

  His face darkened. He glanced away from her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, taking another bite of ice cream.

  Ooookay, she thought. She wouldn’t go there just yet, then.

  “Do you know why he wanted my stuff?”

  He stopped picking at his ice cream and looked back up at her through the jagged edges of his hair. “I figured you would know that.”

  Isobel shook her head. She took another bite of ice cream, then, shivering, set it aside on the sill next to her. She slid off the window ledge and, easing down, settled on the roof beside him, all too conscious that now a space of mere inches existed between them.

  “I need to tell you about something,” she whispered.

  He stuck his spoon into his ice cream and, reaching over her, set it on the window ledge next to hers. He raised his eyebrows expectantly, maybe even a little curiously.

  “I had a dream last night,” she continued, half surprised he’d given her his full attention sans his usual dry remark or disparaging comment. “About Poe— I think,” she added.

  His cool expression didn’t change. “Poe?”

  “Yeah.” She nodded, biting her bottom lip, afraid she
might be alone in this after all.

  “What happened?” he asked, seeming to take her seriously enough, though that could have been because of the way she’d been staring at him—wide-eyed, thirsty for him to believe.

  His question was the waving checkered flag she’d been waiting for. “Your Poe book,” she said, then stopped when she realized that in order to tell him the rest, she would have to admit to tossing it in the trash. Maybe she could modify the truth a little and say she’d lost it instead.

  Then something else stalled her. From inside her room came another quiet knock at her door.

  “Isobel?” her mom called. What was this? Parent-daughter conference night?

  “Ugh,” she growled, poking her head over the windowsill. Between the two ice cream cartons, she could see her locked door handle jiggling.

  “Go,” he said.

  She glanced at him, just in time to watch him sink into the shadows, lying back against the roof. His legs outstretched, he crossed them at the ankles, the toes of his boots now the only visible part of him within the line of light streaming from her window. “I’ll wait.”

  “Isobel?” her mother called again. “Why is this door locked?”

  Trying to be ladylike about it, Isobel crawled back through the window, shutting it as quietly as she could manage. She pulled down the shade once more to hide the ice cream cartons, then opened her door.

  “Isobel, what are you do—?”

  “I’ve been trying to get ready to take a shower.”

  Her mother regarded her strangely for a moment, a basket of Danny’s laundry tucked under one arm. She smiled halfway, then said, “I guess you really are feeling better now that you’re snapping at me.”

  Isobel frowned, feeling guilty at seeing her mother’s only lightly masked relief at the return of her daughter from Zombie World. “I’m not snapping,” she said. “What is it?”

  “Brad’s here. He brought your homework.”

  20

  Uninvited

  She found Brad at the kitchen table. Her dad sat across from him, the now infamous books and binders from her locker in a pile between them.