Stalking the Dead

by E. C. Bell

  “James Lavall here,” James finally said. His voice sounded really loud in my head, in spite of the road noise rumbling up through the floor of the trunk, and I was again afraid that crazy Rosalie would hear it before I told him everything I needed to tell him.

  “James, I’m in trouble,” I whispered. “Please—”

  “I’m away from the phone right now,” James’s calm voice said over my frightened whisper. “Leave your message after the beep.”

  Shit.

  Beep.

  “James, I’ve been kidnapped by Rosalie Jacoby. I’m in the trunk of her stupid car right now, and I think we’re heading back the way we came. To the old part of town.”

  Rosalie’s car hit a bad bump, slamming me up against the roof of the trunk and popping a couple of the helium balloons. The cell jostled free from my hand, and I spent a frantic few seconds feeling around under me. Was pretty sure I heard the “beep” that was James’s stupid cell phone telling me that my message time was up, and when I finally grappled the phone into my hand and slapped it to my head, I could hear the dead air sound of disconnection.

  I was being ridiculous. I knew it. I needed to call the cops. I pressed 911 and when the operator finally answered, whispered, “My name is Marie Jenner, and I’ve been kidnapped. Rosalie Jacoby has me trapped in the trunk of her car. I don’t know where she’s taking me, but God, I’m so afraid! Help me!”

  Brief silence as the 911 operator digested what I’d said, and I thought I was going to go crazy. I could hear more traffic around the car, and another balloon popped when Rosalie slewed around a quick corner. She’d turned right, and the sound of the pavement changed under her tires. Turned again, just a few seconds later, but this time she turned left, and I grunted as my head hit the door of the trunk. She’d jumped a curb—I thought. Then I heard long grass slapping the side of the car, and realized I couldn’t hear any more traffic.

  “She’s got me in the trunk of a blue Sunfire,” I whispered. “I don’t know where she’s taking me, but please, you have to help me. Please.”

  “Can you hear anything that gives you any idea where you are being taken?” the operator asked.

  “I just said I don’t know where she’s taking me,” I hissed. “Can’t you find my cell phone? Track me?”

  Please tell me you can track me. Please.

  “Just stay on the line, Marie. We’ll find her car. Just stay on the line.”

  The car slowed. Listened to the operator try to keep me calm as I felt the car bump over rocks or something and slow even more. Then the car crunched to a stop.

  “I think she’s taken me to the old part of town,” I whispered. “God, hurry! She’s stopped the car in the old part of town!”

  And then I stopped talking, because I heard Rosalie walking to the trunk of the car, and I knew, without a doubt, that I had run out of time. Slid my cell in my pocket without shutting it off and hoped the operator would be smart enough to keep silent as I heard the key slide into the lock.

  When Rosalie finally got the trunk open, I’d even managed to wipe the tears of fear from my face. I figured she’d probably know I’d been crying, but damn! I wasn’t doing it in front of her.

  I didn’t think the cops were going to find me, so it was time for me to save myself.

  Oh God.

  Arnie:

  Home Sweet Home

  I ROLLED AROUND in that stupid mason jar in the back seat of Rosalie’s Sunfire as Rosalie drove down the hill away from the kidnap scene like a bat out of hell. The hum of the motor filled the jar, almost drowning out the radio and Rosalie’s voice as she sang along. Damn, I hated that music she listened to. All thin-voiced bitches complaining about their weight or whatever. However, I would have gladly taken the noise if it meant I was free from that jar.

  I heard Marie, in the trunk. Muffled voice, but it sounded like she was talking to someone. I couldn’t make out one word but I tried yelling, to get her attention. She didn’t respond. Looked like she couldn’t hear me.

  Son of a bitch! I didn’t want her thinking I had any part of Rosalie’s little adventure.

  The car bounced over a rough patch, and Rosalie's voice hit a high note, or close to it, and nearly blew off the top of my head. All I wanted was for her to shut the hell up, but knew that wasn’t going to happen. So I fumed until she finally shut off the car.

  She picked up the jar, and me, and held me to the front windshield.

  “See?” she said. “We’re home.”

  It took me a minute to figure out where we were.

  We were in front of the John J. Fitzsimmons High School. The high school that I—and Marie, and, a year later, Rosalie—had attended, back in the day.

  It had been slated for demolition when city council had decided that the old part of town needed to be completely rebuilt. They’d started tearing the place down, until the price of oil dipped. Then the demolition, plus all the rest of the work in the area, was put on hold until oil prices rose again, and the faucet of money was turned back on.

  All that was left of the school was the gym and the south wing. The south wing. Where I’d first met Marie. Where I’d saved her. And where we’d fallen in love.

  Why the hell had Rosalie brought us to this place?

  Why?

  Rosalie laughed, delightedly, and held the jar to her face. It was unnerving, looking right into her crazy brown eyes like that. “Oh, my love,” she said. “You’re going to be so surprised.”

  “Let me out, you bitch!” I yelled, but she didn’t respond, because, dammit all, she couldn’t hear me.

  She placed the jar—and me—inside her jacket, and then she zipped it closed. I couldn’t see a thing in the pitch black, but heard her open the door to the car and get out. Heard gravel crunch as she walked to the back of the car and opened the trunk.

  “Get out,” she said. “We’re home.”

  Fuck me. Why had the bitch brought us here? And what the hell was she going to do to us?

  What the hell was going on?

  Marie:

  High School, Once More with Feeling

  ROSALIE THREW THE trunk open and jammed the gun in my face. “Get out,” she said. “We’re home.”

  “All right,” I said, and scrambled to get out. I wasn’t fast enough for Rosalie. She grabbed me by the hair and yanked. Hard.

  “Hurry up,” she said. “We got lots to do.”

  My eyes filled with tears, but I managed to get myself out of the trunk and standing upright.

  Rosalie saw that there was only one helium balloon left and growled, “Did you do that on purpose?”

  “Do what?”

  “Break the freaking balloons,” she said. “Did you?”

  “No,” I said. “They popped when you hit a pothole or something. They just popped.”

  She stared into my face for a long moment, as though considering whether or not I was telling the truth. Made her decision and gave my head another cruel shake. It felt like she was pulling my hair right out of my head.

  “Let go,” I said. “It hurts.”

  “Tough,” she said, and pointed at the trunk. “Get the balloon. Now.”

  I reached into the trunk and unravelled the string. My heart jumped into my throat when the stupid balloon almost escaped, so I wrapped the string around my hand.

  “Now, get going,” Rosalie said.

  “Where?” I asked. “I don’t know where I am—” Then my eyes cleared, and I saw that she’d brought me to our old high school.

  “Isn’t it too bad?” Rosalie said, pointing at the ruins. “Them tearing it down?”

  “I guess so,” I said.

  “Ah well, that’s the price of progress, I guess,” she said. “At least it’s quiet here.”

  She had that right. It was quiet. I thought I could hear the river, but figured that was more wishful thinking than anything else. The school was at least ten blocks away from the Clearwater. Maybe more.

  “I should be able to hear if a
ny police try to get in here and save you before I’m done,” Rosalie said.

  “Done?” I asked, more than half-afraid to hear her answer.

  But she just gave my hair another tug, and pointed to the half-demolished high school with the barrel of the gun.

  I walked over the broken and weed-infested parking lot, toward the school, with Rosalie behind me and that stupid balloon floating between us. I bet we made a crazy-looking parade, heading into that school.

  Seriously crazy-looking.

  KICKING THROUGH THE debris that covered the entrance to the south wing of the high school in the dark was difficult, especially with Rosalie clinging to my hair the way she was. By the time we got through it and into south wing proper, I was winded and sweating.

  “Can’t we stop for a minute?” I asked. “I need to catch my breath.”

  “What are you, ninety?” Rosalie snapped. “Keep moving.”

  I noticed she wasn’t winded at all, and that ticked me off. True to form, I opened my mouth and stupidity burbled out.

  “Screw you, Rosalie. All the way to hell.”

  Then I flinched, because usually when I blathered foolishness at someone holding a gun on me, I got hurt. But all Rosalie did was laugh and give me another push.

  “Over there,” she said. “To the gym locker room.”

  “Boys’ or girls’?” I asked. Finally a fairly legitimate question, but she acted like I was all sorts of a fool, and shook me hard by my hair.

  “Boys’, of course, you idiot,” she said. “Why would we want to be in the girl’s locker room?”

  “I don’t know,” I whispered. I really needed to remember to shut my mouth around the crazies. Really.

  I WALKED THROUGH the door into the boys’ locker room, and had a moment of deja vu that almost knocked me on my ass. I swear, I could feel the steam and hear the jeers as I walked into that room after all those years, even though the temperature in the half-ruined school felt ten degrees colder than out in the parking lot, and the room was completely dark.

  “I can’t see anything,” I said to the crazy woman still holding my hair with one hand and that frigging revolver with the other. “Isn’t there any light in here?”

  “Ten steps more, and I’ll light a couple of candles,” Rosalie said. “Or you will. Then we’ll have plenty of light.”

  I shuffled forward, certain that I was going to run headlong into the bank of lockers lining the far wall. Hit nine steps, and stopped dead.

  “Where are the candles?” I asked.

  “To the right,” Rosalie said. “With matches. But be careful. I don’t want you knocking anything down.”

  I was going to ask her what the hell she meant by that, but held my tongue. I’d know what she meant soon enough.

  And then, swear to God, hand on the Bible and the whole works, I thought I heard someone whispering my name.

  “What?” I asked before I really thought.

  “Shut up and light the candle,” Rosalie said. “Now.”

  I had to be imagining the voice. There was no way that anyone had found us yet.

  I tried to pull myself together and waved my hand to the right. Felt something tall and waxy, and determined, sleuth that I was, that it must have been one of the candles Rosalie had been talking about. Held it and patted around with my other hand, looking for the matches.

  Rosalie’s hand tightened on my hair, and I groaned. “Be careful,” she said. “I’m not kidding.”

  “I promise,” I groaned. “Please, don’t pull it anymore. My head’s starting to ache.”

  I wasn’t lying to her. A thin white-hot needle of pain thrust through my head, from my hairline at the base of my skull to roughly the middle of my forehead.

  “Tough,” she replied. “It’s your own fault.”

  Now, I knew for a fact that it wasn’t my fault, but again showed some serious restraint and kept my mouth shut. Finally found the small box of matches and struck one. It spewed sparks everywhere until it finally took.

  In the light from the match flame, I could see there was not one or two candles, but many, many more. They weren’t just on the bench in front of the lockers, but on the floor, and in candle holders set into the tiny crevasses between the lockers, all the way to one locker, third row up, dead centre in the middle of the bank.

  That locker was open and looked like it was stuffed full of flowers.

  I gasped, and that tiny flame shook like my hand had suddenly been hit with palsy.

  “Jesus, Rosalie, what am I seeing here?” I asked.

  “I’ll explain in a second,” Rosalie said. “Just get the candle lit, will you?”

  So I did. The match guttered as I brought it up to the candle wick, and I was all prepared to start again with another match when the wick caught. The light flared and jumped, turning the chaotic scene before me into something out of one of my better nightmares.

  Rosalie had built a shrine—a frigging shrine—to Arnie Stillwell, in his old gym locker.

  Besides the candles—and now I could see there had to be at least a hundred of the things, and from all the wax dripped everywhere, it looked like they’d been here for a long time—images of Arnie were stuck everywhere. Some were old newspaper clippings from his football days, but a lot of them were school photographs. Arnie through the years.

  The flowers rammed into Arnie’s old locker were all fake and cheap. I thought I saw a shiny black ribbon with “Our Condolences” typed down it in white.

  “Where’d you get those?” I asked, pointing at the flowers.

  “Aren’t they nice?” she asked. “I got them from the cemetery. The one behind my place.”

  “You—you stole flowers from the cemetery?” I gasped. “Seriously?”

  She pulled my hair, hard. “Of course I did,” she said. “After all, my poor Arnie’s dead. Isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” I gasped as tears flooded my eyes. “Please Rosalie, that really hurts.”

  “Don’t say stupid things and I won’t pull your hair,” Rosalie said. “You’re kinda thick, aren’t you?”

  “Must be,” I said. “Sorry.”

  Rosalie opened her coat carefully and pulled a mason jar from it. There was a small white candle set in the jar, and the jar was sealed shut. She gently set it in the locker, in the middle of all the cemetery flowers.

  “What’s that?” I asked. I half-expected Rosalie to yank on my hair again, but all she did was snigger.

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” she said, and let loose my hair. “Hang the balloon on the locker,” she said. “But don’t block the front. And do not knock any of those candles down! I’m not kidding!”

  I carefully tied the helium balloon to the locker door. It swayed in a stray breeze, and then steadied about three inches above the top of the locker.

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  “Not bad,” she said. “But I wish you hadn’t burst the rest of them. They’d look pretty all the way around, wouldn’t they?”

  “Yep,” I said, kowtowing to the crazy. “I believe they would.”

  And then I heard the voice again, but it wasn’t whispering my name this time. It sounded muffled, like the person had cotton stuffed in his mouth. Or like the person was a long way away. Like maybe out in the hallway, or out in the parking lot.

  I must have turned my head, because Rosalie perked up and pressed the gun into my back. “What are you looking at?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” I said, wishing there was a way to kick myself for reacting to the sound. “Nothing.”

  She swung her head in the direction of the door. “Did you hear something?” she asked.

  “No.” My voice sounded weak, even to me.

  “Tell me the truth!” she cried, and rammed the gun, hard, into my spine.

  “I thought I heard something,” I said. “But it’s probably an animal.” I thought about the last conversation I’d had with James, and my throat tightened. “Maybe it’s a bear.”

  “The
re aren’t any bears here,” she said. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because I heard something,” I said. “Didn’t you?”

  All I could hope was that the muffled voice I’d heard was someone out on the wrecked parking lot, or in the semi-demolished south wing, looking for me. And that Rosalie would go out there to find them, or get scared and run away.

  If she did, there was a chance I’d be saved.

  “No,” she said. “I didn’t hear anything. But you be sure to let me know if you hear it again.”

  “I will,” I said.

  Not a chance, crazy chick.

  “’Cause if the cops have somehow found us before I’m ready for them, I’ll need to at least have time to put you down before they get here.”

  “Oh.”

  “So you better hope it’s a bear you heard.”

  “Right.”

  I stared straight ahead, at Arnie’s old locker, determined not to react in any way at all if I heard that voice again. Rosalie wasn’t going to get scared and run away. And she wasn’t going to let me walk out of here alive. She hated me. Because of Arnie.

  Arnie.

  Could that muffled voice be Arnie’s?

  No. There was no way Arnie could get to this place. I knew he’d used Roy to piggyback to Mom’s trailer, but since Roy had moved on, I hadn’t seen Arnie anywhere.

  But what if, somehow, he’d piggybacked on Rosalie? Could he have done that? Figured out a way to cling to her, turning her into an unwitting mule for his spirit? After all, he’d tried it on me. Why wouldn’t he have tried it on her, too?

  Wouldn’t put it past him. He’d used her for years. Why not now?

  She wouldn’t have realized he’d done it. All she would have felt was the coldness.

  The problem was, I hadn’t seen him, or his light, anywhere near her. Maybe he’d figured out a way to hide himself from me. Or maybe he was still trapped in her apartment, and Rosalie and I were all alone.

  Either was a possibility, but maybe I could buy a little more time. Maybe I could even talk her into going to her apartment, to find him.

  Anything to get away from this horrible place with its godawful shrine.