© 2015 by Billy Phillips. All rights reserved.
THE TOON STUDIO PRESS
Beverly Hills, CA
No part of this publication may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permissions, write to Toon Studio Publishing, Attention: Permissions Department, 141 S. La Peer, Beverly Hills, CA 90211
“She’s Not There” by Rod Argent, by permission of Marquis Music Co. Ltd.
Cover design by Hyun Min Lee, Hl Design
Book interior by Morgana Gallaway
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Epilogue
For Marianne
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
Special acknowledgment to Michael Tabb who gave me the inspiration to finally write my first book of fiction. Michael, thanks for your generous spirit, integrity, and love of craft which deeply inspired me, and for suggesting that I set this first book in Wonderland with two sisters in the “starring” role! You are an immense talent with an immense heart along with a magnetic personality to match! Thank you!
The following story is based upon actual fictitious events that took place in various graveyards around the world.
The first sighting took place at the Kirriemuir Cemetery in Angus, Scotland, on an otherwise unremarkable Tuesday evening.
A second sighting occurred about two weeks later, on the other side of the Atlantic—in Glendale, California, at the Forest Lawn Cemetery.
Only a few days later, a third sighting was reported at a graveyard in Berlin, Germany.
The sightings were reported on Twitter and Facebook by various witnesses who warned of peculiar occurrences taking place in their local graveyards. Some reports concerned mysterious lights seeping out of graves. Others involved an actual moving body.
Immediately following the fourth sighting—only forty-eight hours after the third—video footage began showing up on YouTube.
This was also the first time the word zombie was used. Apparently one of the dead and buried had become undead and unburied at the Cemetery of the Holy Doors in Florence, Italy.
The video, though dark and shaky, showed what appeared to be a body climbing up out of a gravesite and moving about the headstones by the pale light of the moon.
Most people figured the sightings were pranks. Especially when a groundskeeper at one of the graveyards reported finding clusters of what appeared to be some type of exotic chickpeas scattered on the lawns.
A few small, local newspapers, however, did report that some local cemeteries where sightings had occurred were beefing up their security.
The sightings began to gain traction when unexplainablenews.com picked up the story. Readers were intrigued.
But not one of these reporters or any one of the website’s readers had figured out that these bizarre events were not happening in arbitrary cities or at random graveyards.
A definite pattern was forming.
There was one individual, though, who was following the goings-on with compelling curiosity. One person knew exactly what was happening.
And why.
Should you Google the Kirriemuir Cemetery in Scotland and should you dig deep enough to discover the identities of the souls resting there, you’d find that J. M. Barrie, the famous writer of Peter Pan, is coffined and consigned to that old graveyard on a hill.
The burial ground in Berlin—the St. Matthäus Kirchhof Cemetery—happens to be the resting place of the Brothers Grimm. And Forest Lawn Cemetery in sunny Glendale, California, is the eternal home to L. Frank Baum, author of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. The Gothic-style Cemetery of the Holy Doors in Florence, Italy, is the keeper of the bones of Carlo Collodi, the man who brought Pinocchio to life well over a century ago.
Most kids—and most adults, for that matter—associate these writers with enchanting stories of princes and princesses, puppets and pirates, and fairies and godmothers. Most don’t know that these revered authors also spun bloodcurdling tales about ghouls and ghosts and witches and phantoms and a whole other world that lies beyond the grave!
This brings us back to our most unusual and anonymous friend, who clearly sees and understands the terrible danger that lurks in extraordinary places unseen by the human eye, a danger that was prompting the living dead to rise up from the grave in search of the one person who just might be able to prevent the unthinkable.
Our friend is also looking for this one person right now, at this very moment.
She comes in colors everywhere;
She combs her hair
She’s like a rainbow
—“She’s a Rainbow,” The Rolling Stones
Caitlin Fletcher went numb with fear when her next breath didn’t come.
I’m not breathing!
Her muscles went taut, like a tightrope.
She couldn’t catch a lungful of air automatically, like normal people do.
She had to think about it.
She had to consciously inhale and willfully exhale because her body was no longer breathing on its own. It was as if someone had jabbed a long needle through the wall of her chest and shot her lungs up with Novocain, paralyzing them. Or the part of her brain that regulated involuntary breathing had been switched off.
She began obsessively picking at a fingernail until it bled.
Her legs trembled.
What if I forget to breathe?
She started breathing faster and faster. Soon she was sucking air like a vacuum cleaner.
She became light-headed. The room spun. Brutal panic set in. She was wild-eyed. Manic. Verging on a total freak-out.
Caitlin Fletcher then dumped the contents of her brown paper lunch bag onto the dresser in her bedroom.
Container with scoop of tuna on a bed of lettuce. Bunch of red grapes. Apple-pumpkin muffin. Skittles. Energy bar. More Skittles.
She placed the empty bag securely over her mouth and nose.
And she breathed.
Inhale.
Exhale.
The paper bag was supposed to relieve these wretched, god-awful symptoms, at least according to Google.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Her
heart rate had to be clocking 120.
Inhale.
Exhale.
And then—
Caitlin was so involved with her bag, breathing, and beating heart that she failed to notice that her eleven-year-old sister, Natalie, had just wandered into the bedroom. Natalie calmly and casually climbed out onto the tenth-story window ledge of their new split-level London flat on Royal Street.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Caitlin caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She was mortified. Staring back was one fourteen-year-old, inflated- brown-bag-wearing girl with thick, black-rimmed glasses and a tumble of waist-long, cinnamon-colored hair—though the hair was actually quite lovely.
Suddenly the whole episode seemed totally ridiculous to her.
Then again, when you’re reasonably certain you’re dying—or worse, going crazy—you’re no longer concerned how blatantly absurd you might look. You’ll do anything to free yourself from irrational, indefinable, and suffocating fear.
Caitlin slowly lowered the bag from her face.
The bouts of oxygen deprivation had gotten worse lately.
Some were even as bad as that very first one, the incident, which she loathed remembering.
She knew her current crisis had triggered this latest attack. She was having major anxiety over the possibility of having major anxiety. All because of—
The masquerade ball.
Tonight.
On Halloween.
At her brand-new, hoity-toity high school.
In a new country.
On her birthday.
My birthday!
The Kingshire American School in London was supposed to put on the most “epic” event of the entire school year; the annual All Hallows Eve Masquerade Ball. Each year, loads of kids from other schools tried to crash this fabled bash.
Some tried making fake IDs to sneak in. Others tried to bribe their way in. She had heard that last year, a few kids traveled all the way from Manchester and offered the bouncer at the entrance fifty pounds to let them pass. But the bouncer was seventy-three-year-old Mrs. Sliwinski, the social studies teacher. She refused the payoff and gave those bribers the swift boot.
Caitlin had a hunch about why the masquerade ball was so popular: for one magical night of the year, kids didn’t have to be something they downright disliked.
Themselves.
They were free to be someone else, which is what most of them secretly longed for every day.
For Caitlin, thoughts of attending the major happening—or worse, not attending—had flat-out overwhelmed her.
Dodge the masquerade ball?
She’d blow a grand opportunity to make new friends at the biggest social event of the year. It would be doubly hard to break into any of those cliques that had been forming since the start of the school year. The uppity kids at Kingshire might label her a loner, a loser, and a liability. No one remotely normal or cool or popular would consider befriending her. She hadn’t been any of those things at her old school.
Attend the ball?
Difficulty breathing. Potential panic. Or worse: a strong compulsion to flee a crowded auditorium.
No. Caitlin couldn’t risk it. Not after what had happened at the last Halloween dance she had attended. Too painful. Thoroughly humiliating. She had hoped all that panic stuff would’ve disappeared once she, her father, and her sister moved to London from New York.
It hadn’t.
And then there was her absolute most dreadful fear. The very reason why she was ready to ditch the ball, ruin her social life, and wreck her reputation at her new school.
Dancing.
Inhale.
Exhale.
There was just no way Caitlin could or would dance in front of other human beings. Never. Ever. Not after the incident.
And because she was also the new kid at Kingshire, it would guarantee curious stares at the very least. How could she possibly dance and enjoy it while imagining everyone gawking at her, judging her looks, scrutinizing her dance moves, and critiquing her rhythm and coordination? A thousand probing eyes crawling over her body like buzzing beetles? Ugh!
At her old school, no one focused that degree of unwelcome attention upon her. All the kids had known one another since childhood. They’d played tag on the playground during elementary school. Then they’d spun bottles, binged on frozen yogurt and went to movies together through middle school. But here she was enrolled in a brand-new high school where she didn’t know a single soul.
And suppose she did show up but turned down any requests she got to dance? By the next morning, she’d be christened the official wallflower of Kingshire. By lunch, she’d be cast out and consigned to a corner of the cafeteria to eat her lunch solo for all eternity.
And that was the best-case scenario. Suppose no one asked her to dance? Or, worse, she had no one to talk to and couldn’t think of a way to join a conversation? Oh God. She imagined standing all alone at a school dance, looking awkward, feeling like a misfit and being forced to fake texting on her phone so she wouldn’t look like the lonesome loser of London.
Caitlin was totally conflicted. These were uncharted waters for her. She had been well known and well respected at her old school. It was publicly funded, so most kids didn’t really care what your dad did for a living.
The Kingshire American School in London, on the other hand, was privately funded by benefactors such as the Sullivan Family. They were in investment banking. Other bigwigs and dignitaries from the US and abroad, who preferred an American curriculum, sentenced their kids to Kingshire. Rock stars too. And famous athletes. Even Brits grooming their sons and daughters to become international citizens of the world enrolled their kids here.
When Caitlin’s dad had requested a temporary transfer to the UK, his company agreed to cover the costs for Kingshire so that his children’s US education wouldn’t be interrupted.
Ya, right. History class would continue uninterrupted while Caitlin’s social life would suffer a severely spasmodic disruption. She and her superclose friends back home were always secure enough to dress themselves in whatever fashions they wanted. There had been no stress over worrying about whether the wrong outfit or fashion label would make you feel unbearably out of place—or get you shunned at school.
When you walked the hallways at Kingshire, eyes skimmed over you like bar-code scanners at Macy’s or Harrods, calculating the cost of your outfit.
That’s because the kids judged you according to the three Ls:
Label.
Looks.
Legacy.
If your clothes bore the right label, if you were considered attractive, or if you had the right last name, you were accepted by the popular cliques.
Imagine if a new American kid with an ordinary last name, average looks, and a mid-priced wardrobe had a panic attack at the prestigious London school?
There were no viable alternatives here. No options. No escape. No oxygen.
Caitlin’s thoughts were interrupted by a cry from the window.
“Bird turd!” exclaimed Natalie. Caitlin turned to see her kid sister climbing in through the open window with a camera in her hand.
What the—?
Caitlin pulled the bag from her face and stared wide-eyed at Natalie, who was hopping down from the windowsill. She started wiping globs of green goo from her hair with a damp towel she grabbed from the back of her desk chair.
Natalie’s dangerous stunt made Caitlin forget all about her own panic.
“What in the world were you doing out there?” she hollered.
“A pigeon just guanoed on my head.”
Caitlin’s forehead crinkled. “Guano?”
“Bird droppings. You know … poop!” Natalie stood in front of the window, her mountainous spray of red hair backlit by the spill of daylight.
“Dad would kill me if he knew I’d just let you do that.”
Natalie plopped down on the chair and rested her feet on the desk. “Don’
t be such a wuss. I was taking pictures and investigating. Chill, first-born sister. Where’s your sense of adventure?”
Caitlin sniffed. Attending a school dance at a school like Kingshire was, for her, an extreme sport.
“I’m totally adventurous.”
“Uh-huh,” Natalie muttered, eyeing the paper bag in Caitlin’s hand.
Caitlin dropped it and hoofed it under the bed.
“What’s up with you?” Natalie asked as she got up to get her backpack from the closet. “You look excessively morbid this morning.”
Caitlin exhaled a breath full of despair. “I have some issues.”
“I’ve been telling you that for years!”
Caitlin glowered. She didn’t care if the teachers called Natalie “gifted,” or if the psychologists declared her a “prodigy” in various academic fields—science among them. To Caitlin, she would always be her overbearing, bigmouthed baby sister.
“That’s why I never tell you anything personal,” Caitlin said. “You have zero sensitivity.”
Natalie slid her camera into her backpack and then hopped onto her bed and began jumping up and down. She moved nimbly, like a gymnast.
“Forgive me, sweetest. I was trying to lighten things up. Go ahead. Vent. I’ll be sensitive.”
Caitlin was uncomfortable baring her soul, even to Girl Wonder. If Caitlin chose to skip the dance, though, she didn’t want Natalie probing for details as to why. She decided to dish out just enough information to throw her off the scent.
“The problem is my social life,” Caitlin said.
“You don’t have one.”
Caitlin shot devil eyes at Natalie, who winced.
“Oops. Severe lapse of sensitivity. My bad. Go on.”
Caitlin crossed her arms. “Too late, twerp. For once you tell me something.”
“Like what?”
“Like that scatterbrained stunt you just pulled—what were you investigating out on the window ledge?”
Natalie’s eyes narrowed. “Not sure you’ll wanna hear this.”
Caitlin rolled her eyes. “Gimme a break.”
Natalie stopped jumping. She sat down on the edge of the bed, looking unusually serious. “I woke up in the middle of the night last night. Thought I saw something or someone at the window.”
The Color of Fear Page 1
