Now Entering Addamsville

by Francesca Zappia

  “I love our parents, really,” she told me one night as her unquenchable anger battled her need for sleep over her bowl of instant ramen, “but Jesus, all my good customers will leave if they find out who we are. I’ll end up cutting hair for the people who run true-crime podcasts.”

  I was born Sadie 2.0: Zora Edition. I stole her dye and colored a fat swatch of my hair platinum blonde. I found a chain to wear around my wrist so I clanked when I walked. I annoyed her until she finally taught me how to do makeup like hers. I learned how to turn my eyes into soul-sucking pits of terror. On top of all that, I could see the dead, and Mom knew it. She taught me what they were. How they worked. She taught me that it was her job to protect the living and the dead against firestarters, the creatures that killed with fire and fed off the human spirit. I wasn’t allowed to tell Dad or Sadie about this, because they wouldn’t understand.

  I improved on Sadie in other ways, too. I mean, if you want to use the word improved. You could also call it evolving further into the Novak stereotype. I was taller, I was smarter, and I was angrier.

  And when your mom disappears, your dad goes to jail, and the whole town hates you on sight, sometimes you get it in your head to start doing stupid things to ease that anger.

  Stupid things like hunting firestarters alone.

  3

  The morning of the Masrell fire, I arrived at school smelling vaguely of water that has been sitting too long on the trash from a teenage girl’s bathroom. There had been no time for a shower after Sadie saw the news; she spent the next hour freaking out, trying to get ready for work at the same time she grilled me about where I had been.

  “You were out again, weren’t you?” she’d said, combing frantically at the tangles on the ends of her hair, working her way up the strands. “You didn’t take the Chevelle, but I know you were, because otherwise you’d be yelling about how you were asleep the whole time.”

  I could have pointed out that there was no way she could ever really know because she slept like a rock, but she was right, so all I said was, “When it happened, I was with Artemis. I have an alibi.”

  “With Artemis? Like, our cousin Artemis?”

  “Do you know another Artemis?”

  “What were you doing?”

  “Trying to get away from her. I swear I didn’t do anything. I wasn’t even near Masrell’s house.”

  Sadie had given me a skeptical look, then seemed to remember that she still had her reading glasses on and tossed them onto the countertop in our trailer’s kitchen nook before she reached for her shoes. “The police are going to be looking for the person who did this—”

  “I know, I heard the television.”

  “—which means they’re going to want to talk to you. Tell them the truth—”

  “Yes, that’s what I was already planning to do.”

  “—because if they find out you’re lying, it’s only going to be worse. Okay? Ugh, that stupid TV crew coming here today; their fans are going to be all over the place, and they’ll make this fire even bigger news than it would have been otherwise. And Dad is coming home soon. What’s he going to say when he finds out?” She had stopped with only one shoe on and rubbed her forehead. “He shouldn’t have to deal with this now, not so soon after getting out—”

  I didn’t know why she was protecting him; it was partially his fault the town would blame this on us. But Sadie’s steamroller tendencies only got worse when let loose, and they were already making me grind my teeth. I couldn’t afford to be angry, so I said, “He won’t have to deal with it, because I didn’t do anything. If I have to talk to the cops I will, and I’ll tell them the truth. It’s not difficult. Go to work and chill out.”

  “Chill out” wasn’t in Sadie’s vocabulary, especially if she was outside the trailer, but she did relent and leave for Harrisburg. That left me to cover myself in deodorant and dollar-store body spray and head to school, knowing there was no way on god’s green earth I’d be overlooked by any police officer.

  Addamsville sits in a curved basin of green hills in southern Indiana, bordered to the east by the bluffs and to the west by the thick crush of Black Creek Woods, which skirt the base of Piper Mountain. Handack Street and Valleywine Road, the two roads into town, intersect at a jackknife, making an arrowhead that points south toward the blue expanse of Addams Lake. The side streets crisscross in a neat little lattice pattern, littered with cute tourist shops and local landmarks. Toss a rock and you’ll hit a historical house. In the winter, the homeowners compete to see who has the best Christmas light display. In the spring, families in their Sunday best crawl from their homes like the undead to talk about the weather. In the summer, kids develop sunburns while splashing around in the lake. And now, in the fall, the trees turn all shades of gold and red, and the haunted hayride goes up in the Denfords’ cornfield. To the tourists, Addamsville was a pretty painting on the wall, and all its ugly parts had been cropped out of the frame.

  My mom’s 1970 Chevelle, prowling the streets like a rusty shadow, destroyed the ambiance nicely.

  This wasn’t any black-and-white 1970 Chevelle. This was Dasree Novak’s 1970 Chevelle, and everyone knew it. Pitch-black with two thick white stripes running down the hood. Rust eating at its underbelly. Growling like an angry alligator. Mom had done something to it to make it resistant to fire—like Mom and me—and she’d made it her first weapon against firestarters. I had no idea what she’d done to it, or how, but I imagined it added to the town’s mystique for the tourists. Look, the haunted Chevelle! Run if you see it—the driver hates tourists.

  There was once a time when the Chevelle made me fiercely happy, like I was ripping an oily, ragged hole in that pretty painting. But in the past year, the Chevelle had felt more like a beacon drawing all eyes to me wherever I went, from both the living and the dead. I needed a car, though, and Sadie wouldn’t let me drive her old Camry, we didn’t have any other vehicles, and none of us would ever in a million years sell or trade it in. It was the one beloved thing of Mom’s we still had.

  A police cruiser with a dent in the fender sat outside the front entrance of the high school, so I curled around the parking lot and hid the Chevelle on the other side, between the gym and the football field. A quarterback with an Addamsville jersey circa 1960 watched me from the other side of the field’s chain-link fence, but the two linebackers normally with him were gone. The bell for first period had already rung; the hallways were empty, and though I managed to keep my face straight, my pulse jumped and my battered coffee thermos rattled in my hand. Teenagers texting on iPhones passed, unsuspecting, by teenagers listening to Walkmans. George Masrell had yelled at me just yesterday for dumping my coffee in the trash can outside the janitor’s office. He’d had a spot on his collar and he smelled like the soap from the restrooms. He was dead now.

  I went to the janitor’s office to check. The only ghost there was old Principal Harris, fading around the edges like a blurry photo, looking down the English hallway. He turned to stare at me, the way they all did, as if he expected something from me.

  “Do you know what happened to Masrell?” I asked.

  Principal Harris floated a little to the left, then back. Trying to figure out what had happened was difficult when your suspects couldn’t communicate. I left the good principal there and hurried on.

  For the past few years I had a litany of excuses prepared for tardiness to class. Not because I was out hunting firestarters, though; I just thought school was stupid. I’d forgotten them all by the time I made it to first period geometry, and that left me standing in the doorway with twenty-eight pairs of eyes on me. Mr. Gerwijk paused midsentence at the whiteboard, his mouth slightly open.

  “What?” I snapped.

  “Zora,” Gerwijk said, “you were called to the office several minutes ago.”

  At least I still had my sunglasses on. Fear shows in the eyes.

  There’s no point walking slowly to your doom; if you know it’s coming, you might as well
jump into the dragon’s mouth. As I passed the library, one of the student aides stepped out carrying a stack of books and saw me. She squeaked and dropped the books in her rush to get back through the library doors.

  “Are you serious?” I yelled back to her.

  I’d never set anything on fire. Firestarters did. Creatures with bodies like black tar, sharp claws and bird talons, horns curving over their heads and red pinpricks for eyes. If they were allowed to run free for too long, they could possess human bodies and hide inside them. The easiest way to find a firestarter was to pay attention when the ghosts acted strangely—or to follow the fires. After you found them, the solution was straightforward: lure them into the open, run them over with the Chevelle, and chop their heads off. Incapacitate, behead. It was the way Mom had done it, so it was the way I did it.

  But one time last year, just one time, I let a firestarter get the better of me. I was found unconscious in the Denfords’ cornfield with two fingers cut off and my head sliced open, and half the field was up in flames. From then on it was Zora Novak, arsonist, and no one in Addamsville would believe differently.

  I stomped on to the office. If there was another firestarter in town, I had more to worry about than just clearing my name.

  Principal Sutherland—the current, living principal—stood by the administrative assistant’s desk in the front office with two of Addamsville’s three cops, one stout and brown-skinned and one lanky and pale. They saw me through the office windows before I walked in, and I knew, I knew, I was right screwed.

  “Stormin’ Norman and Captain Jack,” I said as I pushed my way through the office doors. “What can I help you gentlemen with?”

  Norm Newall—the short, grumpy cop with the little notebook—and Jack Lansing—the tall, red-cheeked one—both shuffled on the spot, but for different reasons. One in obvious impending frustration, the other in discomfort.

  “Enough, Miss Novak,” Principal Sutherland said. I hadn’t even been flippant. “Officers Newall and Lansing would like to speak to you. You’ll go into my office. Since you’re eighteen, you don’t need a parent or guardian present.”

  I didn’t move. “Speak to me about what?”

  Here’s a thing about cops: always make them tell you what they’re coming after you for. Never guess. It makes you seem more suspicious.

  “Don’t play with us, Novak,” said Norm. “Haven’t you seen the news today?”

  “Which part?”

  “About George Masrell,” Jack said, and Norm scowled at him.

  “Please, into my office.” Principal Sutherland’s tone was short.

  I pushed my sunglasses on top of my head—maybe some fear would make them believe me—as I followed them into the office

  “We all know you like to set fires on public property,” Norm said to me as I dropped into a straight-backed chair in front of Principal Sutherland’s desk. Norm and Jack flanked the door. “We haven’t had an arson like this in town for plenty long enough, and lines can be drawn.”

  “I didn’t set any fires,” I said.

  All three adults gave me that look, the one that says they know you’re full of it. They had no real evidence I set any of the fires from the last firestarter, but they were damn sure the cornfield had been my doing, and my amputated fingers were all the evidence they needed.

  I rubbed my forehead. “Seriously. Even if I had done it then—which I didn’t—I wouldn’t do it now.” I held up my right hand. I wore the black gloves on both hands, but the ring and pinkie fingers on my right stood up, stiff and odd, when the other fingers curled. “I don’t do fire.”

  The look softened, but not a lot. People feel sorry for you when two of your fingers get cut off and your head gets sliced open, but they don’t feel too sorry if they think it was your fault.

  “We’re not accusin’ you of anything, Zora,” Jack said, “but we’ve been checkin’ the school security tapes for the past few hours, and you’re the last person Mr. Masrell talked to on ’em. Outside the janitor’s office yesterday, after school let out.”

  “Yes, I did. He was yelling at me for throwing away coffee and making the hallway smell like Starbucks. I don’t even drink Starbucks. Too expensive.”

  “And you yelled back?”

  “Of course I did! He was being a jerk.”

  “Was he only yellin’ at you about the coffee, Zora?” Jack said. “Seems like a lot to get that angry over.”

  “All he yelled about was coffee,” I said, “but no, he was probably angry at me about, like, the fact that I exist.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My dad took all his money, like he did to everyone else in this town. You might have heard about it. Was a bit of a headline.”

  Okay, that was a little sarcastic.

  Norm stood in stony silence. Jack looked uncomfortable. Dad was in prison, so it wasn’t like they could do anything else to him.

  Finally Norm said, “Can you tell us what you did from the time you spoke to Mr. Masrell yesterday to the time you arrived at school this morning?”

  Well, here it was.

  “After the coffee thing, I left school and went to the dog park for a while. Then I went to work for the rest of the night. Captain Jack here knows—he stopped by for the Chocolate Killer Sundae.”

  Jack beamed. Norm glared at him.

  “It’s fall,” Norm said. “What are you doing getting ice cream? It’s too cold.”

  “They only serve it till the end of October.” Jack shrugged. “Gotta get it while it’s there.”

  Norm made a noise of discontent and turned back to me. “Why were you at the dog park?”

  I shifted in my seat and crossed my arms. “Because I like dogs.”

  “What time did you leave there?”

  “Around five.”

  “And when did you get to work?”

  “Five ten.”

  “Was there anyone there who can confirm that?”

  “Yeah, everyone else working that night. Hal, Mads, Lorelei. They’re all working tonight, too. And Bach was there. He ordered his usual; we talked for a bit. Ask him.”

  “Bach. Forester’s Bach? You friends with him?”

  “We don’t hang out.”

  “What about after work?”

  “I went home and watched Cheers.” I paused for a heartbeat, glancing between Jack and Norm, thinking how I probably still smelled like trash. “Then I waited until Sadie fell asleep, then went out. I was on the west side of town until three a.m., fixing porch lights and pruning flowers. Around three I went home and went to bed. My alarm went off this morning, I ate breakfast, got dressed, and came to school.”

  All three adults stared.

  “Excuse me?” Norm said. “You admit you were out last night?”

  “You know the person who’s been going around fixing things for people overnight? Broken fences, lights, things like that? That’s me.”

  Norm and Jack looked at each other. “Can anyone confirm this?

  “My cousin Artemis.”

  “Greta’s daughter?”

  “Do you know another Artemis?” I snapped, then took a sharp breath and forced down my rising annoyance. “I was passing her house as she came home from some ghost hunt. We talked for a bit and noticed the fire—we could see it. I can give you a list of all the things I did last night, and you can go check with the owners of the houses. I promise you I couldn’t have been on the east side.”

  Norm looked at Principal Sutherland. “I’ll have them call her down,” she said, ducking out of the room to tell the office assistant, then returning.

  “Let’s assume you’re telling the truth for now,” Norm said. “Why were you late getting here today?”

  I shrugged. “Sadie kept me. You know, giving me a speech about being a good person and doing the right things.”

  “Speakin’ of your sister,” Jack said, “we’ve tried contacting her. Do you know when she’ll be home?”

  “She gets off work around
five today, but she might go out with her boyfriend after that.”

  “Who’s her boyfriend?”

  “Grim.”

  Norm and Jack both looked confused for a moment. Then Norm scowled. Jack snapped his fingers and said, “You mean Gavin Grimshaw?”

  “That’s the one.”

  A look flashed across Norm’s face that made me suspect Grim was another of their suspects. If an eerie, overcast day could take human form, it would look a lot like Grim. Despite all his melancholy, Grimmie wasn’t dangerous. Weird for sure, but docile as a rag doll and sweet as all get out. And he was one of the few people who could get Sadie out of the trailer.

  “Could you tell me your sister’s or Mr. Grimshaw’s whereabouts yesterday evening?” Norm said.

  Even Sadie wasn’t immune to this witch hunt. Although she, too, had been known to commit the occasional misdemeanor, Grim was pure as a dove.

  “I don’t know what they were doing while I was at work,” I said, “but after that they watched TV with me. They passed out before I did. Around nine thirty.” I folded my arms and clenched my jaw to keep everything else inside. I wanted to say so many things. I wanted words to make them understand. That I would never do something like this, and neither would Sadie. That despite what happened to Mom, and what Dad did afterward, Sadie and I weren’t bad people.

  No anger or ranting or threat would make them believe it. So I pushed down the burn in my chest, forced myself to unfold my arms, and said, “I didn’t like him very much, but I’m sorry this happened to Mr. Masrell. I didn’t have anything to do with it. I don’t like fire now”—my voice shook—“and I don’t want to hurt people.”

  They stonewalled me, all three of them, with faces that said clearly that my past was still counting against me. I understood why I was their first suspect. I’d be my first suspect, too, if I was running the case. But did they have to make it so obvious they were coming after me because I was me?