Under My Skin

by James Dawson

  Molly Sue, are you in here? She tried again as a desperate last bid, but knew there would be no reply.

  Because Molly Sue was in Stan now.

  ‘No!’ she cried aloud. ‘No, no, no!’ She rocked against the radiator, the handcuffs digging into her wrists.

  Jennie barged back into the room at once. ‘Sally? What’s up?’

  She grit her teeth so hard her jaw hurt. ‘She’s in Stan! She went into Stan!’

  ‘What?’ Jennie’s eyes widened.

  ‘Molly Sue! When we kissed, she travelled into Stan. She’s taken him.’ Jennie rubbed her forehead, processing this information. ‘I know it sounds insane, but it’s true. I can’t feel her inside me any more.’

  ‘What is she going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Sally forced back tears. Crying time was over. ‘Jennie, you have to release me. Quickly, I need to catch up with him.’ She tugged against the handcuffs.

  Jennie spun in a confused circle in the middle of her rug like a dog chasing its tail. She snapped out of it and climbed over her bed to the bedside table from which she took the key. She returned and crouched down next to her. ‘Wait.’

  ‘What? Quick! He’s getting away.’

  Jennie eyed her with suspicion. ‘Wait a second.’ She backed up. ‘You told me that I wasn’t to let you out under any circumstances.’

  ‘Jennie! That was before this happened. Hurry up! Stan is in deep trouble!’

  ‘But isn’t that exactly what this Molly Sue would say to get me to untie her?’

  ‘I’m not Molly Sue! I’m me!’

  ‘Well, of course she’d say that!’

  ‘Jennie, please. We’re wasting time.’

  ‘Tell me something that only Sally would know.’

  Molly Sue had access to all her memories anyway, but she didn’t let on. Sally searched for the most intimate secret she knew. ‘OK, what about the time in Year Five when you farted and a bit of poo came out and you had to borrow my gym shorts?’

  Jennie considered that for a moment.

  ‘Or what about the fact that the first person you ever kissed was your cousin in Seoul?’

  Jennie’s mouth fell open. ‘OK! I believe you! I told you to never say those words aloud!’ She kneeled down and released her wrists.

  Only when Sally struggled to her feet did she truly feel the extent of how achy and stiff she was. ‘Ow, I’m numb.’ Nonetheless, she hobbled over to the bed and pulled her leather jacket on.

  ‘Where are we going to look?’

  Sally was already on the landing. ‘We aren’t going anywhere. I need you to stay here.’

  ‘What? No way.’

  She took the stairs two at a time. ‘Jennie, this is serious. I can’t put you and Stan in danger. I’d feel awful if something happened to you both. I need you to be OK.’

  ‘But I want to help.’

  ‘And you are. If something happens to me, and it probably will, I need you to give a letter to my parents. I left them in my bag. There’s one for you too.’

  They reached the kitchen, but Jennie grabbed her arm and pulled her back. ‘Stop. What do you mean if something happens to you?’

  Sally wished she had an answer. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what she’s capable of, but I think I know where she’s heading.’

  ‘I can’t just sit here waiting to hear if you’re dead!’ Tears filled Jennie’s eyes.

  ‘Please! I know it’s a big ask, but worrying about you and Stan is only going to throw me off my game.’

  Jennie caved. ‘OK, go. But you better get back here in one piece with Stan.’

  ‘I promise I’ll do everything I can. I have to go.’ Sally stepped over the chicken wings and to where the back door was flapping in the wind.

  ‘Be careful,’ Jennie said, but Sally had already gone into the night.

  Stan didn’t have that much of a head start and he had to be either on foot or on the bus, which was almost as slow. Sally ran until her thighs and calves burned. She had to stop every few minutes to rake in breath and at one point her stomach heaved painfully. Following the river was probably the quickest way down into the valley and she guessed that was the way Stan must have gone. Below her the swollen river roared through the ravine and the tops of the trees strained and bowed against the wind. Tonight the forest was alive.

  Sally took the fastest possible route towards the House of Skin. She had to be taking him there. Molly Sue had been able to manipulate her from that first meeting, but her possession hadn’t truly started until she’d got the tattoo. That must be where she was steering Stan. In a way, Sally had won; she had Molly Sue on the ropes. The tattoo apparently believed her resolve and had gone to plan B – a new host.

  But Sally would die before she let Molly Sue have Stan.

  The thought powered her on. She had to get there before they tattooed him. Would it be the same tattoo or could she manifest in different ways? What would Stan’s Molly Sue be? A dragon? A mermaid? A skull? How would it speak to him? Sally had been thinking for a long time now that Molly Sue, or whatever her true name was, must be someone different to each host she inhabits – Molly Sue was tailor-made to exploit her weaknesses. I’ll be your best friend, just do everything I say or I’ll kill you. The Molly Sue character felt old, but Sally suspected her true entity was older still. Who knew what the voice in Stan’s head would sound like.

  Whatever she really was, Molly Sue hungered for pain, suffering and death and took joy in them. If that’s not evil, I don’t know what is. I have to get to Stan. She ran faster.

  Sally left the woodland footpath and leaned against the turnstile, catching her breath again. She might yet vomit. She coughed and spluttered but nothing came up.

  Not Stan, please not Stan. It was strange. How much she’d taken him for granted. It was so clear now. She’d been vile to Stan. This whole time she’d suspected – no, more than suspected, known – how Stan felt. He’d been an insurance policy. If no one else wanted her, there’d always be The Boy Next Door. He’d always be patiently waiting, some faithful Labrador trotting at her heel.

  And I knew, she told herself, choking on a sob, I knew.

  Well, Molly Sue wasn’t gonna win this one. I owe him that much. You’re not having him, Molly Sue. He deserves better than either of us.

  Move. She took flight again, this time over the tin bridge and onto the damp pavements leading into Old Town. Out in the open, a fierce wind whipped through the streets. Dirt and litter swirled in circles around her feet but she fought through the gusts. Sally ran past the school, past the diner, past the rec ground. You’re close now.

  Something felt wrong. Her skin prickled. She stopped. From nowhere, a furious gust bellowed down and she was almost swept off her feet. The opening to the chain-link fence around the warehouse flew open, clanking and banging against the wall. Sally froze. She remembered what was behind that fence . . .

  Sure enough, the rabid hound barrelled out of the yard, almost tumbling over its own feet. Sally couldn’t believe how fast it was; it moved like a bullet.

  Fight or flight? She couldn’t run away. She couldn’t go in the opposite direction. Stan needed her. Sally stood her ground.

  Spittle flying from its jaws, the dog reared up at her, gnashing its teeth. All Sally could do was cover her face with her arms. She felt needle-like claws rip at her sleeves and she stumbled back.

  The Doberman fell to the floor, snapping at her heels, driving her back. ‘Get off me!’ she cried, kicking out with her foot. The hound backed up, baring blood red gums. Its eyes were wild. Saliva foamed around its mouth.

  And then another Doberman, identical to the first emerged from the kennel. And then another. The dogs seemed to be carbon copies of each other. How was that even possible?

  ‘What the . . . ?’ Sally’s mouth fell open.

  The twin dogs joined their brother. Three grinning, growling, hungry dogs circled around her.

  Sally was trapped.

  Chapter Thir
ty-Two

  Sally had no weapons, nothing she could even use as a weapon. Backing away, she scanned the empty road. The windows – the ones that weren’t boarded up – were black and even the streetlights flickered and swayed in the wind.

  The first dog – she thought, but they were impossible to tell apart – lunged for her. Vice-like jaws clamped around her arm and she yelped, shaking it off. The leather of her jacket prevented it from getting too firm a grip and she flung it loose, but a second was already gnawing at her boot. She staggered, trying to remain upright. If she went down, they’d tear her to ribbons.

  She kicked and kicked, trying to shake the dog off. The third dog bounced up and down on its hind legs, teeth snapping in her face. Claws scraped her cheek and she felt the warmth of blood flowing from the wound. Sally swung her arms like a windmill, trying to confuse and deter the animals, but they were tireless. The constant barking rattled her skull.

  I have to get to Stan! Her inner voice screamed as loud as the dogs were barking.

  And then – they stopped. Breathing heavily, Sally cautiously lowered her arms from over her eyes. The wind was stronger still, whipping her hair around her face. Veins of lightning lit the sticky sky, each followed by an angry growl of thunder. What is going on? The dogs had backed off, whimpering. They looked downright sheepish. Bad doggies. But why?

  ‘Don’t you have somewhere to be, Sally?’

  Over the wind, Sally could hardly hear her. She turned, pulled the hair out of her eyes and saw Sister Bernadette, all in white, standing in the very middle of the street. She wore a thin cotton dress, almost translucent as lightning flickered, and her wimple was gone. Her raven hair was down, blowing around her face. She looked completely different – wild, beautiful and powerful. ‘Sister Bernadette . . . how did you know?’

  The dogs slinked over to the sister, heads bowed. They came to a rest at her feet. ‘Sit!’ she told them and they obeyed at once. All three sat attentively awaiting instruction.

  Between the moonlight and streetlights, Bernadette’s alabaster skin was almost luminous. She fixed Sally in a kindly gaze. ‘Sally, my child, now is the time . . . and you need to run.’

  She didn’t need telling twice. Sally’s eyes prickled with gratitude. ‘Thank you,’ she said. She turned and ran, leaving Bernadette to deal with the hounds. Sally sensed she would never see her again.

  This time it took her no time at all to find the House of Skin; the neon lights blazed hot pink down the alleyway. The tattoo parlour was open for business once more. Sally hurtled down the backstreet and swung around the railings to go straight down the stairs.

  Sally paused for a moment on the threshold. Her plan had only got her this far; now that she was here she had no idea what she was supposed to do. Just stop them . . . any way you can. With an unsteady hand, Sally pushed the door.

  It creaked open with no hesitation. It was almost like the door wanted to be walked through. Come into my tattoo parlour, said the spider to the fly. She was probably walking into a trap. They either wanted her or Stan . . . they didn’t need both. The space beyond the door was blacker than black, like stepping into ink. Arms out in front of her, Sally plunged into the dark.

  The House of Skin had changed. After the World’s Scariest Clone Dogs, Sally didn’t bat an eyelid. Strange how quickly you can habituate to impossible things. Nothing was impossible any more. The reception had shifted and grown; no longer a cosy holding area, it was more like a hotel lobby.

  Sally emerged from the marble alcove around the door and took in the faded splendour. Once upon a time this would have been a Gatsby delight, but now it was a ruin: a cobweb-strewn chandelier clung lopsidedly to the ceiling by a thread; a layer of dust as thick as snow covered the mosaic floor and the upturned chairs and sofas. Ash swirled through the dim light, which punched its way into the room through cracks in the walls.

  Wait a minute. I know this . . .

  It was the art deco hotel from Stan’s zombie game, recreated in minute detail. Or certainly as Stan would remember it. This whole place had been created from his mind. Molly Sue had read his mind. One key difference: the once glorious pictures of the tattoos were now either flat on the floor or hanging at broken angles in broken frames.

  What is this place?

  When Sally was here before, she felt out of time somehow, as if the entire structure existed independent of the world. A spider’s web Molly Sue could hide in, waiting for unsuspecting flies. Like a web, perhaps it could bend and flex. She remembered the room as warm, but now it was glacial. Her breath frosted in the air. Sally wrapped her arms around herself.

  I’m in Stan’s nightmare. Molly Sue was trying to scare him, show him how powerful she was

  She took a few more steps into the mouldering space. Sally yelped. Her hand flew to cover her mouth. There was a corpse splayed out on a chaise longue.

  Stan?

  She rushed to the sofa. Although it was hardly recognisable as human, she was pretty certain the body was female. Leathery skin was taut around her skeleton, eyes sunken back into her skull. Her lips were stretched over teeth that now seemed too big for her decaying head.

  The eyes snapped open and Sally shrieked. The woman groaned and raised a hand to her, pleading. Sally saw the hand was tattooed.

  Backing away in horror, Sally’s heel made contact with another body. She whirled around and saw another almost-corpse resting against a pillar, just as emaciated as the first. Just as tattooed. This one she recognised – not by his face, but by his amputated arms. The man from outside school. How was that even possible? She’d seen him die. Something crawled across his skin – a faded ink scorpion. His eyes opened into slits. As he saw her he gave a pitiful groan. ‘Please . . . please make it stop . . .’

  ‘Oh God . . .’ Sally looked around the room. Either her head or the room was spinning. Perhaps both. Half buried by the dust were the bodies of many men and women. The ones that still had skin were tattooed. Their eyes blinked, but they were immobile, more husk than human. They were like the skins snakes cast off – kept alive by the tattoos, she guessed. No alive, wasn’t right. This was not living but they were not truly dead.

  A tapping noise drew Sally’s attention, and she realised a low mewling noise was coming from her own mouth. Something was moving in the room – light, scuttling footfalls. Little feet tapping on the tiles. Something like a rat . . . something like a spider.

  Shaking off her disgust, Sally stood in the centre of the lobby, taking slow, cautious steps. She scanned every dark corner, but all she saw were the desiccated bodies and they weren’t capable of such swift movement. ‘Where are you?’

  More spry footsteps. Something scuttling low to the ground. Sally shuddered. Was it the dogs? Perhaps Sister Bernadette couldn’t hold them back any longer. Sally crouched to look under a sofa, but saw only dust and some items she remembered from the shop. The Day of the Dead skulls and the religious icons were scattered across the floor.

  The footsteps grew louder. It was close. Sally shot to standing and whirled around.

  Too late did she think to look up.

  A black shape crawled across the ceiling. Sally screamed, a reflex. Its face twisted to look at her and Sally screamed again. It was Rosita.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  With a hiss, Rosita let go of the ceiling and plummeted towards Sally. There was nothing she could do. She tried to dive out of the way, but Rosita was on her in less than a second.

  Sally hit the tiled floor awkwardly, her hip bearing the brunt of the fall. Rolling onto her front, ignoring the pain, she tried to crawl away, but Rosita’s nails dug into her flesh, pinning her down. The spider-woman straddled her, her hands closing in around Sally’s neck.

  Now that she was close, Sally saw Rosita’s irises were jet black and inhumanly swollen. When she smiled her deadly smile, her teeth seemed sharper than before. ‘Back so soon, Sally Feather?’ Her grip tightened. ‘Was Mother not everything you desired?’

  Sal
ly gasped and choked, trying to prize the fingers off her throat. Mother? Rosita was Molly Sue’s daughter? No . . . not Rosita – whatever was inside her. ‘You . . . tricked me! She’s evil!’

  Removing one hand, Rosita slapped her hard across the face. ‘You ungrateful little bitch! Did Mother not give you everything? Popularity, beauty, love . . . you could have had it all.’ A tiny black spider tattoo elegantly lowered itself down her slender neck on a silk strand. Rosita was more than just Molly Sue’s slave. The darkness, the power inside her came from Molly Sue.

  Sally could no longer speak as thumbs dug into her windpipe. Tears ran down her face and glittery silver shapes swam in the periphery of her vision. It’s not worth it. It’s not worth it if I have to become like her.

  Maybe Rosita heard what she was thinking, maybe she didn’t, but she went on, pressing harder and harder on her neck. ‘You were weak. You couldn’t handle her power. You were an unworthy host. Not like Boris and I . . . we are her special children. We take good care of Mother and so she gives us gifts.’ Gifts, Sally guessed, like being able to walk on ceilings.

  Rosita squeezed harder. Like curtains closing at the theatre, darkness swooped in over Sally’s vision. This was it.

  ‘But fear not, little one. Now you’ll stay with us in the House of Skin,’ Rosita cooed. ‘Join the family . . . for ever and ever and ever . . .’

  Stan. The image of his face gave her the jolt she needed. She let go of Rosita’s wrist and let her hand feel its way over the tiles. Her fingers found a smooth, cool object. Porcelain. One of the Day of the Dead skulls. Sally gripped it by its eye sockets and drove it into Rosita’s tattooed face with everything she had left.

  There was a crunch as it made contact with her nose. Rosita screamed and fell off her. Not letting go of the skull, Sally bashed it onto the side of her head. This time, the woman crumpled to the ground. Exhausted, Sally flopped onto her back, gasping for breath. Her body lulled her to sleep, but she knew if she closed her eyes, she’d be done. Covered in dirt and grime, Sally woozily stumbled to her feet.