by Dan Poblocki
“Uh-um,” Cassidy’s voice broke. “Excuse me?”
The boy set the comic on the check-out belt and then brushed his long black bangs away from his forehead. His expression remained blank, as if he were staring at an empty space instead of a twelve-year-old girl.
“Can you help me?” she asked.
“Depends,” said the boy.
Cassidy blushed. “On what?”
“On what kind of help you need.” The boy blinked. “If you’re being chased by a serial killer, I’d really rather just stay out of it. Collateral damage, you know?”
“I’m not … being chased. By anyone.” She had no idea what he meant by collateral damage.
“Good. Then I’m pretty sure I can help you.” He finally smiled. The flash of straight white teeth made him look mischievous.
“I just need to make a phone call.”
The boy shrugged. “Easy enough,” he said, pulling a cell out of his back pocket. Flipping it open, he asked, “What’s the number?”
Shoot, Cassidy thought. The number. She dropped her bags and rifled through them. “I’ve got it somewhere … I hope. It’s just that Mrs. Tremont was supposed to be here, like, I don’t even know how long ago. I wanted to make sure I didn’t make a mistake.”
“I know the Tremonts,” said the boy. “They live around the corner from me. I used to watch their son when he was little. In fact, I’ve got their number right here.” The boy pressed a couple buttons and then handed the phone over.
Cassidy blinked, surprised. His face looked suddenly familiar. This was the boy who’d stayed with her and Joey once that first summer, when Dennis and Rose had concert tickets in the city. “Thanks,” she whispered. Holding the receiver to her ear, she could hear the ringing.
There was a click and then a female voice answered, sounding annoyed. “What is it, Hal? I’m sort of busy here today.”
“Mrs. Tremont?” Cassidy said. This was followed by a long moment of silence. “Are you there?”
“Cassidy! Oh my … You’re at the Stop & Shop! I saw Hal’s name and … What day …?” The woman mumbled something. “I’m so sorry, honey. Oh my goodness, you sit tight. I’ll be right there.”
Another click, followed by silence.
Cassidy handed the phone back to the boy behind the register. “All set?” he asked, looking pleased with himself.
“I hope so,” she answered, her chest trembling. Mrs. Tremont had forgotten her? “Thanks … Hal.”
“You’re welcome, Cassie.” When her mouth dropped open, Hal smirked even wider.
“You remember me?” She hated when people called her Cassie, but she was so surprised he’d come close that she didn’t bother correcting him.
“Now I do. Same black hair. Same dimples. Same sparkly eyes. It’s been a couple, but you don’t look that different.”
“You sure do.”
He nodded. “Uh-huh. There are these things called growth spurts? Ever heard of them?”
Cassidy blushed. “Yes. I’ve heard of them.”
“So you’re back in Whitechapel for another few weeks?”
“My last summer. Next year I’ll be too old.”
“Too old? You? I don’t believe it.” Everything that came out of his mouth sounded like a joke.
“It’s true. I’ll be thirteen.” When he didn’t respond, she felt her cheeks growing warm again. “Mrs. Tremont is running late.”
Hal shrugged. “Doesn’t surprise me. It’s been a big day over in Chase Estates.”
A big day? “What do you mean?”
“Of course you haven’t heard,” he said, almost to himself. He sighed and then stared hard at her, as if formulating how to tell the story. “That crazy hermit lady who lived in the old farmhouse on the hill died.” Cassidy shivered, raising her hands to her mouth. “There’d been this smell…. A couple days ago, when the police finally went in, they found her on the living room floor. She’d been there for a few days, ripening in the heat, surrounded by piles of junk. Stacks of it. Like, to the ceiling. People are saying she was a hoarder.” Cassidy shook her head, confused. “A hoarder? You know, someone who can’t throw anything away? It’s some sort of mental disorder. OCD, I think. There was a whole television series about it. Anyway, my friends have been texting me all day. I guess the town’s started clearing the garbage out of the house. Supposedly, they set up a few huge Dumpsters in her front yard, already filled with all sorts of stuff. I’m gonna paw through it when I get out of here. See if she had anything good.”
Cassidy blinked back tears, trying to catch up. “Mrs. Chambers died?”
“Yeah! That was her name.”
Now it all made sense. After what happened at the end of last summer, of course the Tremonts had forgotten about her today.
SEVERAL LONG MINUTES LATER, a car horn sounded from the parking lot. Hal had been telling her about his first year at college when Cassidy turned and saw the white hatchback idling at the curb.
“Gotta go! Thanks for letting me use the phone!”
“Anytime,” said Hal. “Hey, I’ll probably see you later on. Gonna head up to the Chambers place myself. Check things out.”
The doors slid open, and the day’s hot air pushed at Cassidy’s chest like a pair of wide, angry hands.
The driver’s-side door swung open and a tall, gangly woman leapt out. Mrs. Tremont. Rose. A kindergarten teacher during school months. A full-time mom during the summer. She maneuvered awkwardly around the door and then dashed in front of the car, her arms outstretched as if Cassidy were falling and she would catch her. Seconds later, Cassidy was enveloped in her host mother’s arms, a pair of sinewy rubber bands squeezing away her breath. Cassidy smelled sweat on Rose’s neck, masked by a baby powder scent. But mostly she smelled sweat. It wasn’t unpleasant, just sudden and kind of weird.
“I’m so sorry,” said Rose. She held Cassidy away, examining her from top to bottom. “Wow, you’ve gotten so tall!”
“There are these things called growth spurts,” said Cassidy, forcing a grin.
Rose. Dark, thoughtful eyes. Brown hair trimmed short like a boy. There’d always been something about her that reminded Cassidy of a turtle, though she couldn’t say what it was exactly. Her husky voice? Her serene demeanor? Her long neck?
“There certainly are,” said Rose with a chuckle. “After raising three children into adolescence and beyond, I am familiar with growth spurts. Wait till you see Joey. Here, let me help you with your bags.”
Cassidy handed over the suitcase and then followed Rose across the pavement. The sun was glaring off the car’s windows, so she couldn’t see inside. “What’s wrong, he’s too busy to step out and say hello?”
“Oh … well, he wasn’t feeling well,” said Rose. “But you’ll see him soon enough at home.”
Cassidy tried to respond, but all that came out of her mouth was a high-pitched grunt. Rose flung open the hatch in the rear of the car and placed the suitcase inside. Cassidy took a deep breath, carrying her backpack to the front seat. All those fears that had been swirling in her mind during the bus ride from the city bubbled up again.
Something strange was happening, not the least of which was the death of the Tremonts’ neighbor, Ursula Chambers. Maybe that was all it was; the discovery of a dead body must have had some sort of weird effect on everyone who lived nearby. Hal, the grocery boy, had seemed downright giddy about it.
As soon as they’d buckled their safety belts and Rose had pulled away from the curb, Cassidy spoke up. Words to fill the silence. “Hal said Mrs. Chambers died.”
Rose sighed. “Hal Nance has a big mouth.”
“But it’s true?” Cassidy ventured.
“Yes, it’s true. In fact, that’s the reason I was late.” The reason you forgot, thought Cassidy. “Our street has been a complete mess. You’ll see when we get there.”
“Is it the reason Joey’s not feeling well?”
Rose glanced at her, disconcerted. After a moment, she answered,
“You’ll have to ask him that yourself.”
NORTH OF THE SMALL SHOPPING CENTER, the land crested at a ridge blanketed with old-growth trees and marked with large, refurbished houses with frames dating back to before the American Revolution. On the other side of this hill, the road twisted and turned, following the natural gullies that steep streams and brooks had carved into the rocky ground, until it intersected Chapel Street, under which the waters joined, forming a churning river that roared westward. At this intersection of both streets and streams was Whitechapel proper, where a quaint collection of gift shops, general stores, and art galleries surrounded a magnificently maintained, white neo-Gothic church with a spire that strained toward heaven. The building had once been an Episcopalian place of worship, but like many things in the old town, it had long ago been renovated and repurposed — in this instance, for use as the town hall.
As Rose sped past the building, Cassidy bent her head to peer up at the steeple. She loved riding bikes with Joey down here. They’d perch on the wall by the bridge over the river, licking ice cream cones from the DQ, sitting in silence because the crashing sound of the congregating waters was too great to be heard over. She hoped they’d have the chance to do that again this summer.
The hatchback groaned as it made its way up into the steep countryside beyond the other side of the town. A few minutes past the next set of hills, the land opened up. Wide fields appeared before larger hills grew in the far distance.
Here were Whitechapel’s farmlands, and though plenty of stock and produce was still traded from the area — New Jersey’s famous fresh tomatoes, for example — the temptation of land development had proven too great for many of the farmers who’d been struggling for years to stay afloat. All along the next few miles of road, one subdivision sprawled after another. At the entry of each, a freshly painted sign demarcated which community was which: Summit Ranches, Headley Farms, and of course, Chase Estates, where the Tremonts resided.
Glancing ahead through the valley, Cassidy saw that these developments were still expanding. New houses sat next to newer mansions, each more grand than the last. As Rose pulled into her own development, Cassidy wondered when the construction would stop. What she had always cherished about her time here was the quiet, the sense of solitude, the air that you didn’t have to share with millions of other people packed into tight apartment buildings while outside the sounds of cars honked at one another through unending flashing traffic signals. How much longer would it be before Whitechapel was just a more remote version of New York City? The thought of it made Cassidy feel empty, as though this were actually the last summer this place would exist. As it is now, she thought. As I am now.
Rose navigated up the labyrinthine streets of the Estates, and Cassidy’s heart jangled like a squirrel in a cage. She’d barely spoken to Rose on the way here, and now she was closer than ever to seeing Joey again. He had always come along to pick her up. Why not this time? You’ll have to ask him that yourself, Rose had said mysteriously.
Cassidy clutched the sides of the car seat as Rose pulled into the cul-de-sac, and finally, the steep driveway. At the top, the Tremont house was the same two-story, large gray box that she’d fallen in love with two years ago. The wide, white trimmed porch stretched across the front of the house, where Rose had arranged a collection of white wicker chairs and benches, iron plant stands overflowing with ferns and glossy green elephant ears four times the size of Cassidy’s face. It was the perfect place to sit in the morning, sipping warm tea, watching as the sky turned from pink to a hazy summer blue.
Rose mentioned she had forgotten to pick up barbecue supplies for later, but she helped Cassidy bring her bags to the front door before making her way back to the hatchback and speeding off.
Cassidy felt a disturbing numbness when she realized she was alone. Well, not quite alone. About a dozen people had gathered up the street, gawking in front of the entrance to Ursula Chambers’s long driveway. Deep in the woods, an impression of the dark old farmhouse was vaguely visible. Workers dragged what looked like bags and bags of garbage away from the building and down the path, tossing them into a Dumpster that was parked halfway up the driveway. Weeds and tall grass and even a few saplings had grown up through the gravel lane, threatening to block the way.
Memories of the previous summer raced through her mind: her suggestion to Joey that they try to make contact with Mrs. Chambers, the hike through the woods to the farmhouse’s backyard, the confrontation, and then, of course, what happened later that night…. Cassidy blinked it all away and then shuddered, appalled at the way the neighbors were now behaving. Shouting. Pointing. Laughing. Cassidy took a deep breath, turned, and then reached out and opened the Tremonts’ front door.
“HELLO?” SHE CALLED OUT. “Anyone home?” She received no answer. The subtle scent of apples and cinnamon crept from the kitchen. The sound of muted music vibrated the floor above her head. Joey’s room. Cassidy hiked her bag up on her shoulder, squeezed the suitcase’s handle and then cautiously made her way up.
Joey’s door was the first on the left. Cassidy knocked. The music inside seemed to grow louder. She knocked again, this time trying the knob. It wouldn’t budge. Locked. Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to the crack at the edge of the door. She was about to call out so Joey could hear her over the stereo, when the door swung open. Joey gripped the knob fiercely, squinting into the darkness of the hallway. Cassidy was so surprised that she shouted his name anyway. At the same time he called out, “What do you want?” After a moment, Joey shook his head, clearing cobwebs. “Cassidy,” he said. “Sorry. I thought you were my mom.”
Not knowing how else to respond, she shrugged. “Rose dropped me off and went back out.” When he rolled his eyes, she decided not to question why on earth he’d speak to his mother the way he’d just spoken to her.
Joey held up a finger and then dashed back into his room, turning down the stereo on his desk. He stayed there, flipping through loose pages laying there in a scattered mess. Drawings. Cassidy could just make out the image of a dog: a familiar-looking golden colored mastiff. If Joey’d drawn those, he’d gotten quite good since the last time they’d seen each other. And yet, the sight of the drawings made her feel queasy, for if the drawings were his, he hadn’t yet moved on from what had happened to Lucky.
“You look different,” she said standing in the doorway. Rose had exaggerated: He’d grown a little, but he was still pretty short for their age. His brown hair was long and covered his ears. His skin was paler than the previous year, as if he’d not been in the sun since school had let out in June.
“You too,” he said over his shoulder. But he’d barely glanced at her.
“Can I come in?”
“Uh.” Joey hesitated, not looking up.
Seconds passed, and Cassidy felt her face flush. “Oh, it’s okay,” she said before he could reply, waving her hands as if to clear away bad air. “Forget it.” She didn’t want to hear him say no. “I should bring my bags over to Tony’s room.”
“Good idea.”
Cassidy smiled and then turned stiffly away. “Well, I hope you’re feeling better now,” she called over her shoulder.
“Better than what?” he answered.
Cassidy paused just around the corner. “Your mom said you weren’t feeling well.”
“Oh, no,” Joey said, chuckling. “I just told her that so I wouldn’t have to …” He trailed off, as if realizing what he’d been about to say. So I wouldn’t have to come with her to get you.
Cassidy blanched. “Well, I’m really excited to be back,” she squeaked out, tightening her lips so they wouldn’t tremble.
“Me too.” Joey’s voice from within his bedroom.
She started down the hall, thinking of the notebook knocking against her spine. The Book of Bad Things. Levi Stanton, the neighbor who had given it to her, suggested during one particularly awful evening that if she researched and wrote down all the things that scared her, they might n
ot seem so scary anymore. The notebook had become a catalogue of atrocities, a horrid list of nastiness from A to Z and back again. Natural disasters. Wars. Pandemics. Monsters. But this — this new version of Joey — left her feeling something different. Not simply bad; indescribable. And a little bit dizzy. “Let’s hang out when I’m unpacked.”
“Yeah,” Joey said as the music swelled once more. “Maybe.”
Imagine a human face whose skin is peeling off in wide sheets so that you can see pinkish bone underneath. Imagine the eyes, bulging and pale, as if they’re about to pop like balloons, as they catch sight of you. Imagine an unhinged jaw hanging at a crooked angle so that the mouth is drawn down into a jagged frown. Imagine that mouth creaking open, revealing broken teeth and a blackened, flapping tongue, as it comes closer, trying to bite.
Images like these terrified me a couple of nights ago when Janet and Benji invited me over to watch a video. The decaying zombies in the film freaked me out really bad. Nightmare bad. So I’ve done some research to help me sort out my thoughts. And what I’ve learned about them, the truth about zombies, might be even worse!
Most people think of zombies as these movie monsters, dead people risen from the grave to walk the earth with an unquenchable desire to feast on living flesh. I guess, in a way, this is what zombies are now, how we see them in theaters and on television screens with friends on Halloween. But zombies aren’t only make-believe.
Some people believe that zombies are real — that they are human beings who’ve been poisoned by evil “witch doctors.” The poison slows their hearts to an “undetectable rate” and the victims appear to be dead. Their families mourn and hold funerals and bury the poor people, even though they are secretly alive.
