Wish You Were Dead

by Todd Strasser

  “Wait,” I said. “The newspaper article I read about Megan’s friend Molly said something about a mutilation, too.”

  Ethan nodded knowingly. “If you go back and search for instances of break-ins in veterinary clinics, and you match them to stories about finding animals with their eyes gouged out, you’ll find matches in Florida, the state of Washington, southern California, and Kansas, where I’m from.”

  “What about Megan?” I asked.

  Ethan shrugged and said sadly, “Who knows? They’ve never found her.”

  “Oh, God, this is awful,” I said.

  Ethan started a new search, talking to me as he typed. “Have you ever heard of Nemesis?”

  “It’s a word.”

  “It’s also the Greek goddess of revenge,” Ethan said. “She’s got some kind of connection to it. After Molly disappeared, Megan told me she’d gotten a couple of really strange e-mails from someone calling themselves Nemesis.”

  Results began to appear in the screen—comments on blogs, but nothing that appeared recognizable.

  “Try Lucy Cunningham and Nemesis,” I said.

  Ethan typed. Results began to pop up. The word nemesis highlighted with someone whose first name was Lucy and someone else whose last name was Cunningham. Things in strange languages. PDF documents. Fragments that made no sense.

  Then I saw something scroll past on the screen. “Stop! Go back.”

  Ethan went back.

  Str-S-d #7

  about how Lucy Cunningham has disappeared. Some people think Lucy … wish I could make some of the kids around heeere disappeeear.

  IaMnEmEsIs said …

  People get what they deserve.

  Tony2theman said …

  Why be sorry?

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “Looks like a blog.” Ethan clicked on the link and a new page appeared:

  Str-S-d #1

  Today at school Lucy Cunningham looked at me like I was something the cat coughed up. I don’t have to explain who Lucy is. You already know, because there’s only one kind of girl who would look at anyone that way.

  Str-S-d #3

  This girl once asked me why I didn’t at least wear nicer clothes. That’s what she said, “at least.” As if it bothered her that I didn’t even try. Not that my mom has the money. But that’s not the real answer. The real answer is …

  Str-S-d #5

  It’s taken me a long time to get to this point. I said I was being honest in this blog, but I wasn’t completely because I didn’t say what I was really thinking. I mean, wishing people would die. That’s how I really feel most of the time. I just wish they would die. I didn’t write it before because I tell myself I shouldn’t feel that way. But the more I try to rid myself of these thoughts, the stronger they grow. So forget trying to be nice. Forget trying to pretend. Those people have made my life miserable. I want them to die.

  I’ll begin with Lucy. She is definitely first on the list. You can’t believe how it feels to be in the cafeteria and turn around and there she is staring at me like I’m some disgusting bug or vermin. Does she really think I WANT to be this way? I hate you, Lucy. I really hate you. You are my #1 pick. I wish you were dead.

  4 Comments

  Realgurl4013 said …

  I know just how you feel. Popular kids suuuck.

  Ru22cool? said …

  Did it ever occur to you to try and improve your looks instead of just being a crybaby complainer?

  Str-S-d said …

  Go read Str-S-d #4, Ru22.

  IaMnEmEsIs said …

  Perhaps your wish will come true.

  Ethan turned and looked at me. “Any idea who could have written this?”

  “Yes,” I said, and kept reading until I got to:

  Str-S-d #11

  This is the last blog I’m writing. I’m really scared. I wished three people would die, and now they’re all gone. I don’t believe anymore that it’s a coincidence. Someone’s been reading this blog. Someone crazy enough to do what I wished for. If you’re reading this right now, you know who you are. You’re the one person in the world who is always nice to me. But today in school you said something. I’m not sure you even realized what you were saying, but it totally creeped me out. Now I don’t know what to do. I could go to the police, but they’ll want to know how I know and then they’ll find out about this blog and blame me. The parents will blame me. Everyone will blame me. Everyone already hates me. But this is the worst thing that ever happened. Maybe I should kill myself. I could kill myself, but then someone would figure it out. I don’t want to be blamed for this. Even if I’m dead.

  I actually put my hand on his shoulder and stared at the screen, utterly, totally incredulous. This time Ethan didn’t turn around. He just said, “She knows who it is.”

  I’d told him I had to get dressed and I didn’t want him in the house when I did. He said he understood and would wait for me outside. We went to the door.

  “You realize I could still call the police?” I said.

  His shoulders sagged, and he hung his head and stared at the ground. “Look, I’ve told you the truth. You read the newspaper stories and saw what was on the Internet. If I were Nemesis, why would I have told you about all that?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But you just broke into my house and now you’re asking me to trust you.”

  He sighed and nodded. “You’re right. I did that because I’m desperate. I’ve been on the run for a long time. I’m tired and dirty and smelly, and I feel like the whole world is against me—and if you’ve never felt that way, believe me, it’s hard to keep going. This is the closest I’ve gotten to Nemesis, but I need help. The person who wrote that blog has no reason to talk to me, but they may talk to you. So here’s the deal. You can call the police and I’ll be arrested. As soon as Nemesis hears about it, she’ll be gone … off to some new place and new identity, and sooner or later she’ll kill more kids. Or you can trust me and help me stop her once and for all. It’s up to you.”

  He gestured back into the house. “There’s the phone.” Then he sat down on the front step under the portico. “Either way, I’ll be here.”

  I closed the front door and locked it. By the time I’d gotten back to my room upstairs, I’d made my decision.

  Rain splattered on the Audi’s windshield. The address was a street I’d never heard of, in a part of town I’d never known anyone to live. A few blocks of old, two-story wood and brick buildings housing a car-repair and body shop, a plumbing-supply store, a small industrial dry cleaner. On the second floors of some of the buildings were apartments. Rainwater dripped from the roofs and awnings. The address was a store that sold and fixed vacuum cleaners. Above it was an apartment. I parked across the street.

  “Want me to come with you?” Ethan asked.

  “No, I’m afraid it will freak her out.”

  I left the car and crossed the street in the rain. The paint on the small brown wooden door beside the vacuum-cleaner store was peeling. The door was unlocked. I pushed it open and went in. On the wall of the dark vestibule inside were two metal mailboxes. One said BRESLISS.

  I climbed the narrow creaky wooden stairs. The steps were so old they dipped in the middle. On the second-floor landing were some children’s bicycles, a stroller, and two doors. I knocked on the one marked BRESLISS.

  “Who’s there?” a woman shouted from inside.

  “My name is Madison Archer,” I said to the door. “Is Maura there?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m a friend of hers.”

  I could hear muttering on the other side of the door. Then the woman said, “That’s a first. Go get your sister. Someone’s here for her.”

  I heard banging and yelling, and then the soft slither of footsteps. “Who is it?” Maura asked.

  “It’s Madison.”

  Silence. The door didn’t open.

  “Maura?” I said. There was no answer. “Maura, I know what’s g
oing on. I remember what you told me that day in the hall and I read your blog.”

  “Your what?” the woman inside asked. Obviously she’d been listening.

  The door opened just enough for Maura to squeeze out. As if she didn’t want me to see inside. I caught a glimpse of the woman. Small, like Maura, with a hard, deeply lined face.

  Maura pulled the door closed behind her and then led me back down the stairs. We stood in the small, dark vestibule. “How did you find my blog?” she asked.

  “A friend helped me,” I said. “You don’t know who he is, and he doesn’t know who you are, but I can promise you that neither he nor I will ever tell anyone. I swear, and I trust him. You can trust him. But there’s one thing we need to know, Maura. We need to know where she is.”

  “You’re sure you want to do this?” I asked nervously as I drove.

  “If you’re asking if I’m scared, the answer is totally,” Ethan replied. “But what choice do I have?”

  “Can’t we just go to the police?”

  He gazed steadily at me. “Look, I know you don’t know me and don’t have any reason to care about me, but I’m asking you to believe me. I’m begging you. The cops have a sketch. They have an FBI profiler telling them to look for a single male loner. The second you tell the police, I’ll be arrested for Molly’s murder, and by the time the cops figure out what really happened—if they ever figure out what really happened—your other friends will wind up dead.”

  The address I’d gotten from Maura was in a town I’d never been to before. My GPS said we had twenty-seven minutes to go.

  “Your friend Lucy,” Ethan said. “Was she popular?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And not real nice to kids who weren’t?”

  “It wasn’t her fault.”

  Ethan shrugged as if it didn’t matter.

  “Was Megan … popular and not very nice?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I can make excuses for her. Deep down she was really insecure and driven. But basically, yeah. She could have been nicer.”

  “And you?”

  “What did I know? I was just your typical high-school jock having fun.”

  We rode a few more miles. The rain seemed to be letting up.

  “Why does she do it?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m not a shrink.”

  “But you must have an idea. You’ve been following her, researching, trying to figure it out.”

  “Okay, here’s my theory,” he said. “But it’s mostly supposition, okay? I think maybe when she was a teenager, it was a seriously bad time for her. She was probably one of those plain, quiet girls—”

  “But—” I began.

  “Let me finish,” he said. “And for whatever reason, she got teased a lot. Stared at. Pushed around. Maybe her family didn’t have anything and she got singled out for that. I don’t know. I’m just guessing, right? So she grows up thinking someday she’s going to change. Become a totally different person. Make enough money to get all the cosmetic work done and be the person she always dreamed of becoming. The face, the breasts, who knows what else? But it doesn’t work. Whatever she dreamed would happen doesn’t. She changes everything but nothing changes. The dream she’s clung to for all these years is dashed. Whatever it was, whatever she waited all this time for, it doesn’t come true.”

  “So she becomes angry, bitter, resentful,” I said.

  “Worse,” said Ethan. “Vindictive, revengeful. Nemesis.”

  “What about the eyes? The animals?”

  “Who knows? She’s got that science background. Maybe she tried veterinary school for a while and couldn’t cut it. Excuse the unintentional pun. One thing I do know is something a lot of serial killers have in common is animal torture.”

  “I thought serial killers were always men,” I said.

  “Mostly men,” Ethan corrected me. “One out of six is a woman. Aileen Wuornos, Belle Gunness, Marie Noe. Not nearly as common as male serial killers, but not unheard of.”

  “How did you figure out she was here in Soundview?” I asked.

  “Before I left Kansas, I broke into the place where she’d lived while she was there. She’d done a pretty good job of cleaning it out, so there’d been no evidence … nothing I could show the police to prove I’d been set up. But I did find a printout of teaching jobs, and an ad for a chemistry teacher at Soundview High School was circled.”

  We were getting closer. Each turn put us on a narrower, less well-paved, and less populated road, until we were headed up a hill with nothing but bare trees and ground covered with brown, dead leaves. Patches of mist drifted across the road, which was now only wide enough for one car, the asphalt crumbling and dotted with potholes. We came to a narrow gravel driveway that wound back through the trees and disappeared. On a post beside the driveway was a dented mailbox and a small peeling sign that said, HILLSDALE KENNELS.

  I slowed the car.

  “Keep going,” Ethan said.

  I drove up the hill about a quarter mile, where the road ended at a driveway leading to the remains of a small dilapidated house. The roof had sunk in and the windows were broken. It was clear that no one had lived there in a long time.

  “Okay,” Ethan said. “Turn around and go back down. I’ll tell you where to park.”

  About a quarter of a mile back down the road, he pointed at a small clearing. “Pull over here.”

  I did as I was told.

  Ethan sat still for a moment. Then he said, “You don’t have to come. It would probably be better if you didn’t.”

  I didn’t want to go. I was scared half out of my mind. Heart thudding, stomach twisting. But I felt like I’d spent my whole life being scared. At some point I just had to stop and do something. “They’re my friends.”

  He leveled his gaze at me. “Think about it. I have nothing to lose and everything to gain. You have a lot to lose and not that much to gain.”

  “Please stop trying to talk me out of this. If you try hard enough, you just may succeed, and I don’t want you to.”

  He raised an eyebrow skeptically but said, “Okay, let’s go.”

  We got out. The air was cold and moist, the kind of chill that creeps through your clothes. The rain had turned into a thick, misty drizzle, and our breaths came out in white vapor. The faint smell of wood smoke was in the air. Someone somewhere had a fire going. Ethan walked along the side of the road, looking to his left, in the direction of the kennel, even though it was invisible beyond the myriad tree trunks. He paused for a moment, then tilted his head toward the woods. We started to walk through the trees, the wet, dead leaves squishing under our feet.

  Ethan stepped carefully, avoiding sticks that might crack loudly underfoot, and I did the same. All I could see were bare, dark tree trunks, but the scent of smoke seemed to grow stronger. I don’t know how Ethan could know where he was going, unless he was following that scent. I still couldn’t quite believe I was following this stranger—this person who’d broken into my own home, who was on the run from the law—deep into unknown woods. Had I lost my mind? Was I completely insane? And yet somehow I’d come to believe, very quickly, that I could trust him. I’d heard his side of the story. It made sense. Sometimes you had to take a leap of faith. Especially if it might mean saving your friends’ lives.

  Ethan stopped. Up ahead, barely visible through the wet tree trunks, was a low, dark green house. Smoke curled up from a narrow cinder-block chimney. Ethan looked back at me and nodded as if to say, This is it. He started walking again.

  I followed, glancing from his back to the house ahead. As we got closer, I could see a fenced-in enclosure. It could have been an outdoor kennel. There were low, wooden shelters inside—doghouses.

  Ethan paused beside a tree. So far there’d been no sign of life or movement around the house. I moved up close behind him and whispered, “What do you think?”

  “I think if there are dogs there and they start barking, we’re toast,” he answered, and gazed p
ast me back in the direction of the road. “You don’t have to do this. You can still go back.”

  “I know,” I said.

  Our eyes met, and he nodded slightly as if accepting my decision. Then he turned and continued. I could see the fenced-in area now. Something moved quickly back and forth along the fence. A medium-size black dog. Ethan stopped. The dog was excited, as if it knew we were coming. Its tongue hung out and its tail wagged rapidly. Ethan didn’t move. I wondered if he was waiting to see if it would bark, or if the dog’s excited movements brought someone out of the house.

  But nothing changed. The dog kept turning and turning by the fence. Ethan stepped slowly. The low green house looked neglected. A shovel and hayfork leaned against the wall near a door. The roof was missing shingles, and old branches lay on it. Some of the windows were cracked, and most appeared to be covered on the inside with plastic sheeting.

  Ethan stopped about ten yards from the fence. The dog paced more frantically than ever, emitting little yelps and cries but not barking. I realized Ethan was staring at the small black box attached to its collar—one of those awful things that sent a shock each time a dog barked.

  The kennel was divided into pens, each with its own doghouse. But no other dogs appeared. The foul odor of excrement replaced the scent of burning wood. Ethan took a few steps closer, then stopped again. I could almost feel him stiffen. He was looking at the doghouse in one of the pens. Protruding from the opening were human legs, covered by filthy jeans, ending with dirt-covered bare feet. Male feet.

  I felt a gasp burst from my lungs. Ethan heard it and turned quickly, cautioning me with his eyes against making any sounds. Despite my beating heart and churning stomach, I nodded back.

  We moved closer. The smell got worse and I could see evidence that the cages hadn’t been cleaned out in a long time. The human feet didn’t move. Were they Adam’s. Was he alive?

  We were a few yards from the kennel. Inside were half a dozen pens, each in its own doghouse. The black dog charged back and forth frantically, its tail whipsawing. I got the feeling that it desperately hoped that whoever we were, we would take it away from this place. Meanwhile the legs protruding from the doghouse had yet to move or give any sign of life.