Sawkill Girls

by Claire Legrand

  Like the trees themselves were watching.

  A shiver zipped gaily down her back.

  “This way,” Marion whispered, taking Zoey’s hand gently in hers. “Quietly. We don’t want to scare it.”

  Zoey swallowed. “It?”

  But Marion didn’t answer.

  Zoey abandoned her fish and allowed herself to be led along. She kept glancing at Marion, inspecting her face. Marion didn’t seem to mind. Her eyes were wide, ringed in darkness.

  “I put my hair into a ponytail,” Marion explained, staring straight ahead. “I thought that would help, but it didn’t. I had to take it down. I had to take it all down. It was going to carve my skull open.”

  With difficulty, Zoey asked, “What was going to carve your skull open?”

  Marion glanced at her. “The sound. It wants me to follow it.”

  A page from her father’s black book flashed before Zoey’s eyes: The figures sketched in pen. The top hats and the long coats. The tufts of fur. The eyes white and without pupils, the wide grins.

  ILLE QUI COMEDIT.

  Zoey had looked up the phrase in an online translator:

  HE DOTH EAT.

  Now she remembered, with the woods shivering on all sides, where she’d seen those illustrations before. Not those exact renderings, but similar enough to match. When she’d found the book under the couch, something inside her had pinged at the sight of those sketches, but she hadn’t been able to place them until this moment.

  Her pocket-Thora opened a door in her brain and whispered, slippery and cold like the ghost she was, Took you long enough, Sherlock.

  Those drawings were of the Collector.

  Monster-obsessed Thora had tried her own hand at illustrating the Collector in various forms, had even submitted Collector stories to online horror magazines—fully illustrated, every time, and always accompanied by images very much like these.

  Which meant . . . what? That her father was also a secret Collector fanatic?

  “Marion, have you heard the stories about the Collector?” Zoey flushed a little, placed a hand on her abdomen as if that could quell her slight nausea. To be talking about this with someone who wasn’t Thora felt like violating an unspoken pact. But in the quiet moonlit woods, with Marion trembling beside her and the air ripe and taut, Zoey felt like if she didn’t say the words aloud, something terrible would reach up out of the ground and grab her. The words were a defense. The words held power and deflated nightmares. “There are these old island stories, about this boogeyman thing—”

  “It’s like a cry,” Marion whispered, ignoring Zoey. “My bones are crying. Or, not only my bones. My bones, and someone else’s, too.”

  “Crying like . . . weeping?”

  “Crying like screaming.” Marion stopped and faced Zoey, her eyes clear, alert. “If you think this is bullshit, you can leave. It’s fine.”

  “I don’t think that.” Zoey clenched her teeth, steeling her bones. “Earlier, at Val’s party, these spiders fell out of the trees, onto these kids, right in front of me. Not one or two spiders. Like . . . dozens.” Zoey blew out a breath. “It feels like a weird night, is what I’m saying.”

  She didn’t mention her father’s book to Marion, part of her hoping that if she never spoke about the book, about her father’s reaction to her finding it, then it would never have happened. She would be able to once again look him in the eye without feeling like she was staring down an ominous closed door.

  Zoey shook her head and wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. “Thora always said, if there’s a place in the world where crazy shit could and would happen, it’s in the Sawkill woods.”

  “Thora,” said Marion quietly, still as a tree herself. “Your friend who’s missing?”

  “She’s dead. I know it.” Zoey cast her eyes toward the ground. “She was such a good writer, you know. Her stuff was raw, and weird as all hell. The kind of writing that makes you ache because you feel like you’re getting a peek into a secret place.”

  “I’m sorry, Zoey. I’ve seen death, too.” Then Marion held out one of her hands; a long tangle of black hair rested in her palm.

  “This was inside of me.” Marion gazed imploringly at Zoey, tear tracks drying on her cheeks. “I pulled it out.”

  “Christ.” Zoey was reminded, most unpleasantly, of the spiders trying to force their way into Jane Fitzgerald’s mouth. Looking at the hair gave her the same upside-down feeling. The feeling of am I awake, or am I dreaming?

  She swallowed hard. “Why don’t we just go ahead and ditch that?”

  She turned over Marion’s hand. The tangle of hair fell to the ground. They were on the other side of Kingshead now, past the gardens and the stables, down into the woods on the other side.

  Ugh. More woods.

  “Can you describe the sound to me, in more detail?” Zoey asked, when she could no longer stand the silence. Up and down her neck, her skin itched. “Maybe if I know what to listen for—”

  “Stop.”

  Zoey obeyed. She stayed put as Marion moved slowly into a cluster of thin, dark trees . . . and disappeared.

  All sound vanished. There had been noise, just a moment ago—night birds, night bugs, the rustling of trees and leaves, the hoot of an owl.

  Now, there was nothing.

  It was dead still in these woods.

  And animals, they go quiet when a predator is near.

  “Marion?” Zoey’s mouth filled with the sharp, sour flavor of adrenaline. She followed Marion’s path into the trees. “Where’d you go?”

  Past the trees was a well-trod dirt path, and at the end of the path stood a circle of small white stones.

  Marion stood in the center of them. Head tilted to the side. Birdlike. Listening.

  “Marion,” Zoey whispered again. “What is this place?” She took another step forward, tripped over a root, and caught herself on its tree.

  Her hand landed in something hot and wet on the bark.

  She brought her hand away.

  Her fingers glistened black. The tang of blood slithered inside her mouth to curl across her tongue.

  A sound came from the stones—a gathering army of winged bugs, a rattlesnake warning away intruders.

  Marion whirled. Her wide eyes found Zoey.

  She whispered, “Run.”

  There came a cold shattered crack like a fist through glass, followed by the ear-popping feeling of a quick pressure change. Marion flew out of the stones, a rag doll flung away by a temperamental child.

  Zoey lurched forward, grabbed Marion’s hand, yanked her to her feet.

  This time, when Zoey ran, she wasn’t alone.

  Val

  The Lullaby

  Val figured Zoey would try to get back at her for what had happened at the party.

  Even though Zoey was the one to behave so dreadfully, that was the kind of person she was—throw around vile insinuations like she existed alone and righteous on a lofty pedestal of morality, then turn around and paint herself as the victim.

  So Val sat at the window seat in her bedroom, rereading Thackeray’s Vanity Fair for the seventeenth time, waiting, and was unsurprised when she saw Zoey trudge up from the woods toward the housekeeper’s cottage.

  But she was surprised to see Marion with her.

  She closed her book, padded downstairs, and slipped outside. Barefoot, through the hedges, Val followed Zoey and Marion, hidden under the branches beside the long drive.

  “We’ll go back tomorrow, in broad daylight,” Zoey was saying. “We’ll bring reinforcements. We’ll bring Grayson. We’ll record the whole thing.” She wiped her left hand on her pants, keeping her right hand firmly around Marion’s.

  Val’s eyes narrowed on the point where their fingers joined. So Zoey and Marion were friends now? Val did not approve of this development.

  They walked up the white steps to the cottage’s back door. Val hid in the hydrangea bushes, crouched panther-style. She curled her bare toes into the
black dirt.

  “We can try,” Marion replied, her voice thoughtful and measured where Zoey’s words practically tripped over themselves in panic. “I don’t think we’ll find that place ever again.”

  “I don’t even get what that place was,” Zoey went on. “Part of the Mortimers’ gardens or something? Some kind of fairy circle . . . thing?”

  Val’s blood stopped circulating, screeched to a halt, and reversed course.

  A fairy circle.

  The stones?

  The world dropped away from under her feet, leaving her flailing in midair.

  How could they have found the stones? They couldn’t possibly have found the stones. His power kept the stones veiled from anyone but his hosts: Val, and her mother, and no one else. Not even Val’s father had ever seen it—whoever he was, long gone before Val was old enough to remember him, some man Lucy Mortimer had seduced and then sent on his way. The Mortimer women selected vital, virile men as mates, but never kept them around long enough for them to discover the truth.

  Val’s crouching knees gave out. She sank clumsily into the cool mud, her skin pulling tight across her bones. If he realized others had happened upon the stones, he would find a way to blame Val for it. Or he would blame her mother, and Val noticed the way he looked at Lucy Mortimer these days—like he was tired of looking at her, like he was itching for fresh meat. And there was, of course, only one fresh meat option left for him, at least until Val let some hapless fool plant a daughter in her belly.

  But then, if her mother had estimated correctly, he would free himself before that day came, and Val wouldn’t need to bear him a daughter after all. He would free himself, and her body would then, perhaps, be her own, at last, and no one else’s.

  Unless he killed her, once he was free, and before she could be truly free herself.

  She bowed her head, pressed her palms against the mud, and inhaled.

  He will try to rule your life, your every breath, your every choice, with fear, Val’s grandmother had told her. And for the most part, he will succeed. Every scrap of dread he senses in your blood is his fuel. He will use your panic to grow his power.

  Close every door to your heart.

  Keep your fear close and quiet.

  “There was blood on that tree,” Marion was saying. She glanced at Zoey’s hand. “You’re sure you didn’t just scrape your hand?”

  Zoey held up her palm, flat and rigid. “Do you see any wounds? Because I sure don’t.”

  Marion inspected Zoey’s hand, running her fingers gently up and down every finger, every crevice.

  If Val had claws, they would have slid out from underneath her fingernails, carved hateful lines in the mud beside her black-soled feet. She wanted to jump out from her hiding spot and barrel headfirst into Zoey, sending her flying. She wanted to dig through Zoey’s skull until she found her answer: How did you find the stones?

  “I guess not,” Marion said, doubtful. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep tonight.”

  “I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep again, ever,” said Zoey.

  Marion sat on the porch’s top step. She wore a pale oversize sweater and dark shorts that showed off her soft white legs.

  Val’s fretful heart mewed inside the cage of her ribs like a hungry kitten.

  “What happened to your fish?” Marion asked.

  “Damn it. I totally dropped them when we ran.” Zoey glared at the woods, hands on her hips. “So much for that. I’ll have to think of something else. No way am I going back in there for a bag of dead fish.”

  “What’s up with you and Val anyway? Why don’t you like her?”

  “I hate her,” Zoey corrected. “She stole Thora from me, turned her against me. I spent the three months before Thora’s death being pissed at her because she chose Val over me.”

  Marion hesitated. Then, quietly, “How exactly did Val turn Thora against you?”

  “I don’t know,” Zoey admitted. “But I’m not kidding, Marion. You should stay away from her. And Charlotte, too, though if tonight’s party was any indication, it’s too late for that.”

  “Too late?” Marion frowned, hugging her middle. “You make Val sound . . .”

  “Dangerous? Good. Because she is. Her whole family is.”

  “I don’t understand. Her family’s dangerous because Val broke up you and Thora?”

  Zoey laughed bitterly. “You’re starting to sound like Grayson.” She threw up her hands. “I don’t have proof, all right? You got me. I just have my gut, and my gut’s telling me that there’s a connection between the Mortimers and the girls who’ve vanished—”

  A car door slammed.

  “Zoey? Home. Now.”

  Zoey straightened and squinted in the darkness. “Dad?”

  Chief Harlow stopped at the edge of the yard, arms rigid at his sides. “Come on, let’s go.”

  “What the hell?” Zoey looked as startled as Val felt. “Where’d you come from? How’d you know I—”

  “Now.” Chief Harlow turned a little to the side, and past him Val spotted his patrol car—lights off, dark and hulking. He must have crept up the drive without headlights, Val too distracted to hear the crunch of his tires on the gravel.

  “No explanation for showing up like this, all quiet and sneaky in the dark like a stalker?” Zoey stood at the bottom of the porch steps, arms crossed over her chest. “I told you I was going out tonight.”

  “You told me you’d be at Grayson’s,” Chief Harlow replied. “But Grayson called me an hour ago saying you’d left a party all upset, that some girl had hit you, and that he couldn’t find you.” Chief Harlow’s voice sounded ready to splinter. “Yeah, Zoey, sorry to show up out of the blue and ruin your night, but I’m gonna drop everything and find you after a phone call like that.”

  Zoey glared at him for a long time, neither of them moving.

  Marion cleared her throat. “Chief Harlow, I’m sorry, I’ve been talking to Zoey for a while and distracting her—”

  “Don’t apologize to him, Marion,” Zoey snapped. “You didn’t do anything wrong. And neither did I.” With that, Zoey started walking toward the patrol car. When Chief Harlow reached out to touch her shoulder, she jerked away from him.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Zoey told Marion. She slammed the car door closed, nearly catching her father’s fingers.

  For a moment, he stood unmoving, staring away from the car, his shoulders rigid and his mouth in a furious thin line.

  Interesting, thought Val. Trouble in paradise?

  The thought brought her a savage satisfaction. She’d always watched Zoey and Chief Harlow with envy—how open they were with each other, how clearly the chief adored his daughter.

  He muttered good night to Marion, slid into the driver’s seat, and peeled out onto the driveway, headlights on and wheels squealing, apparently no longer so concerned with stealth.

  Alone, Marion sat on the steps for a few quiet moments.

  Then the song began.

  Little fairy girl, skipping down the sea

  Little fairy girl, pretty as can be

  The melody floated down from a cracked-open window on the cottage’s second floor. White curtains fluttered out into the night.

  Marion stood, listening. Then she smiled, slow and easy, like the first spill of sunlight.

  Val rose slowly to her feet in the shadows. Suddenly, she wasn’t worried about stone circles and someday-daughters. Ice ribboned her body where her veins used to be.

  That was Charlotte’s voice, singing.

  Charlotte, singing the lullaby Val’s grandmother had always sung to her before she died.

  Val’s skin prickled, awakening. A shift in the air alerted her to his nearness; a shift in her gut reflected his appetite.

  It was time.

  Marion slipped inside the back door, and Val walked slowly to the cottage. For a moment she considered planting her feet in the dirt and saying, No.

  Not tonight.

  I n
eed more time.

  But only for a moment. His need pushed her on; if she kept him waiting, he’d throw her to the ground, send her convulsing, whack her head against the mud until she acquiesced. He’d do it all without leaving the woods. He’d do it from the inside out.

  Val wasn’t new to pain, but she didn’t seek it out, either.

  Maybe I should, she thought. Maybe, if I were braver—

  Tears stung her eyes. Frantic, she blinked them away. She stumbled into the shrubbery, and from underneath the open window, she could hear everything the Althouse sisters said and did.

  Charlotte: “Where’ve you been?”

  Marion: “Couldn’t sleep.”

  Charlotte: “Again? Where’d you go?”

  Marion: “Nowhere.” A sigh, a rustling of covers. “Can you sing to me? You were singing something just now. What was it?”

  The egg that lived inside Val shifted, awakening. She licked her lips, tasted their cherry gloss.

  “You know,” Charlotte was saying, “I have no clue. I just made it up, I guess. Do you like it?”

  No, you didn’t, screamed Val’s brain. It’s my grandmother’s song. Are you too stupid to realize it? Can you not understand that you’re being hunted?

  Of course not.

  The girls he chose could never tell, not until the end.

  Not until Val led them to it.

  Marion: “I didn’t know you could write songs.”

  Charlotte, laughing in delight: “Me neither! Sawkill inspires me, I guess.”

  Marion: “Sing it to me? Maybe it’ll help me sleep.”

  “My little starfish,” mumbled Charlotte, sleepy. Then she resumed her song. The lullaby of Sylvia Mortimer.

  Who is the fellow with the bright clean grin?

  Do you want, fairy girl, to weave a spell for him?

  In the reflection of one of the cottage’s first-floor windows, Val saw him moving behind her—a black shape that could have been described as a man, mostly. If she turned around, she knew she would find nothing but the hissing woods. Her reflection, though, it never lied. It showed him moving crookedly, listing to one side. A long coat. A wide smile, frozen in place like that of a doll.

  He would, it seemed, play the boogeyman tonight. A favorite form of his.