by Scott Hale
Seconds after Ramona’s death, the police uncovered the crime scene and arrested both Lux and Echo.
Echo was sentenced to three years in a mental health hospital, and would be released pending the unanimous agreement of several of the psychiatrists there that she had recovered. Despite the court’s decision that Echo had been manipulated by Lux to be an accomplice and that the wearing of the victims’ skins was clearly a sign of mental illness, the Internet disagreed and turned on her. Because she was a woman, the Internet had decided the judge had taken it easy on her and that the only appropriate sentencing, despite her young age and obvious psychosis, was death. Every once in a while, Echo’s echo would be renewed by those interested in the case—those people who spread around terrible trivia like candy; candy to be consumed, and forgotten. She would never be released from the mental health hospital, though. She would be found dead in her room the night before her hearing, a phone in her hand and a pool of blood around her body. The cause of death would be decided to be a poison of some sort no lab in the country would end up being able to identify.
Due to Lux’s blog posts coinciding with the deaths of the victims, as well as having been placed at the scene of the sixteen deaths at the Wharf, Lux was arrested and charged with twenty-three counts of first-degree murder. After a long trial and a media circus that went on for years, Lux was given life in prison. There, she continued to blog and gather followers, who, after subsequent deaths following Lux’s imprisonment, began a movement to bring evidence to light that Lux had been framed. No DNA evidence had been uncovered, nor was there any true eye-witness testimony. Several alibis were unearthed that were irrefutable, and no links were made between Lux and any hired hitmen.
After eight years, several documentaries, and a recently released web series that people binged and theorized over for months, Lux was granted parole. The deaths continued, and while links could be made to Lux’s speeches, blogs, or videos, the links were inconclusive, and the sights of the killer or killers too fantastical in their reports to take seriously.
Lux eventually shielded herself with religion, and she adopted her militant beliefs about feminism to a more conservative approach. She began to incorporate god into her works and appealed to the White Supremacists who’d begun to support her of late, due to “cleansings” that continued to happen all around Lux. Shielded by faith and Southern Politics, Lux continued her work without harassment for several years, where she put out five books, and also five children, as she had been “cured” of her lesbianism.
It wasn’t until shortly before the Trauma that Lux abandoned her conservative beliefs and returned with a more liberal-slant. “Don’t Assume My God” was her slogan, and it was printed on stickers, shirts, posters, pins, and spray painted across the surfaces of cities all over the world. There was a time when it was believed she had the power to overthrow Lillian. And then that time passed.
Lux’s family would do their best to forget her.
The Internet would remember her for as long as it existed. She would be simultaneously loved and loathed, and although many would call for her blood, it would be their blood by which her work was done. To kill her, they would have to ignore her, but she was worth too much exposure, too much attention, too much ad revenue; too many clicks, too many likes, too many hearts, too many thumbs-up; too many conversations, too many debates; she was too easy a scapegoat, too convenient a punching bag; she was too much like them; and not enough were like her. The Internet bled Lux dry, and Lux bled dry the Internet. People to come might say it had all been for naught, but not Isla Taggart, who sits down at this very moment with a battered copy of Lux’s last book in her hand.
On the cover is the image of a jellyfish. The species is known as the turritopsis dohrnii, or the ‘immortal jellyfish.’ It is one of the few animals that are capable of living forever, as it is capable, after reaching sexual maturity, of returning to a polyp state, where, if allowed to flourish, it will once more mature and, again, revert. As long as the conditions are right, this biological immortality can theoretically go on forever.
Isla Taggart does not know these things yet, but soon she will, and so, too, will those she shares Lux’s teachings with, and so on, and so on, and so on, and so on…
A CHILD IN EVERY HOME
SUNDAY
The last thing Linnéa wanted was to be like her mother, who had worried so much while she’d been alive that she wouldn’t be surprised to hear Mom was still at it beyond the grave, giving Death a hard time, making sure to remind It to put on a coat before going out for the night. It wasn’t that Linnéa didn’t care about her daughter, Filipa; it was that, for a ten-year-old, Filipa was smart, smarter than most of the mouth-breathers, children and adults alike, on this block, and she wasn’t going to learn anything about anything if she spent most of her formative years in a fallout shelter of hand-holding, finger-wagging, and fear-mongering. That was how you ended up with fourteen-year-olds with two kids, and sixteen-year-olds with rap sheets that read like grocery lists (“One aggravated assault and two burglaries will hold us over ‘til the weekend.”). Linnéa knew this. She’d done her fair share of stupid things to herself and others in the pursuit of independence. She didn’t want that for Filipa, and she didn’t want Filipa to be her or her mother. She just wanted Filipa to be Filipa. And if that meant getting dirty, getting bruised; getting picked on or getting a detention—then okay, alright, so be it.
Today, though, today was different. Because Linnéa and her husband, Stephen, had been in the backyard since there was enough light to work with, doing this or doing that, and during all that time, the white, unmarked van across the street had not only never moved, but the person inside it hadn’t gotten out. They were still in there, somewhere beyond those tinted windows, waiting for something. She knew they were in there, because sometimes the van would dip, as if the driver inside were rummaging around. It was easy to imagine the worst, especially with Filipa not far from the street herself, sitting against her favorite tree, reading from her favorite book, not a care in the world, because her stupid mom had told her she had nothing to worry about.
“Filipa,” Stephen called from the garden, his hands green and neck red. “Filipa, darling.”
Linnéa watched the scene from behind the grill she was stationed at. The heat coming off the sun and the coals had reduced her to ratty jean shorts and a bathing suit top. She gave the burgers a flip. Filipa was doing her best to pretend she hadn’t heard her dad. It wasn’t going to work, though. Stephen was legendarily persistent. He made car salesman cry and telemarketers consider suicide. He was the gnat all other gnats would look at and say, “Chill, bro.”
“Filipa,” Stephen said, not looking up from his lilies. “Fili—”
Filipa dropped her book in her lap and shouted across the yard, “Oh my god, Dad. What?”
“Get your daddy a beer.” Stephen turned around to Linnéa and held up two fingers.
Linnéa nodded and said to Filipa, “Two beers.”
“I can’t.” She opened the book and drove the pages to her nose. “My legs aren’t working.”
Stephen fell back on his haunches. “Well, isn’t that something?”
Burger grease leapt up and splattered across Linnéa’s hands. She didn’t notice. There was movement coming from the van again.
“Guess we’ll have to cancel your birthday party next month.”
Filipa lowered the book ever-so-slightly. “Guess so.”
Stephen went back into the garden, this time with a spade. “Guess you won’t be able to see that movie this weekend with your girly girls.”
Filipa shot a look at Linnéa.
Linnéa said, “What? We can’t afford to get you a wheelchair.”
“The cost,” Stephen said.
“It’s ridiculous.” Linnéa tried not to smile as she threw a few buns on the grill to toast. “We’re going to have to sell you.”
“To get enough money for the wheelchair,” Stephen added.
“And then I don’t even know how we’ll afford to get you back.”
“She’ll be deeply discounted, I’m sure.”
Linnéa nodded. “Even so. I don’t know how much a girl who can’t fetch her two poor, loving parents some beers go for these days.”
“Not much,” Stephen said. “I mean, that’s like half the reason to have a kid.”
Sighing dramatically, Linnéa launched the buns onto a plate. “Well, shoot. I guess it’s good it’s summer time. You’re going to be under that tree a long while. Least the nights aren’t so bad.”
Filipa, with her annoyed smirk, not wanting to give in, said, “You could get me a blanket.”
“Could,” Stephen said, tearing out some strangely colored, almost vein-like roots. “But suddenly, my legs feel a little hinky.”
Linnéa made her knees wobble. “I’m going down.”
Filipa snapped her head back and hopped to her feet.
“Praise Jesus!” Stephen said, making the sign of the cross. “Our little girl is healed.”
Filipa stuck out her tongue as she marched towards the back door.
“Truly, a miracle,” Linnéa said, deadpan.
“You guys are alcoholics,” Filipa said, pointing at the two of them.
“Hey now,” Linnéa fired back.
Stephen murmured, “Don’t talk about your mother that way.”
Linnéa cried, “Stephen!” and hurled an oven mitt at him. It didn’t go but a few inches from the grill.
“I’m getting a beer for myself,” Filipa said, as she slipped into the house through the back door. “Going to get lit.” And then, with that, their little goblin was gone.
Linnéa didn’t bother arguing with the girl. She knew she wasn’t serious. Filipa was smart, which meant she was also a smart ass. The two didn’t always go hand-in-hand, but in Filipa’s case, Linnéa was glad they did. It was that little edge her daughter needed to round her out from being a total square.
The erratic movement in the van stopped. Lunch made and plated, Linnéa stepped away from the grill and drew closer to the white trope that never lost its touch.
“Hey Steve?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to go say something.”
“Huh?” Stephen pulled his head out of the weeds and stared into the street. “There still people in there?”
“Think so.”
He came to his feet, brushed off his knees, and wandered over to the grill and grabbed his veggie burger, which had been marooned to its own maroon-colored plate. “Surprised Joyce hasn’t said anything.” He chomped down into the burger and moaned. “S’good. S’real good. If only I had a beer!”—he hollered at the house, “—to wash it down.”
Linnéa checked her phone. “True. Joyce has the fastest fingers in these parts when it comes to texting out suspicions.”
“A life of penny counting will do that to a person.” Stephen took another bite. “Got stuck behind her at the store once. Swear to god, that woman only shops with coins. Had to get out of line and buy spider repellent by the time she’d finished, had so many webs all over me.”
Linnéa pretended to laugh. “I don’t know. It’s been out there all day. Jesus, this is stupid.” She went back to the grill and grabbed the still-hot spatula. “God forbid we hurt someone’s feelings by being rude. I’m going to go talk to them.”
Stephen stepped out of her way. “Just don’t hurt them, alright?”
She took the spatula in two hands, like a sword. “My mother would be proud.”
Stephen shrugged and shuffled back to his spot in the garden.
More movement in the white van. Linnéa picked up the pace, wanting to catch them in the middle of whatever it was that they were doing. Reaching the sidewalk, she became aware of herself and cased her surroundings.
It was Sunday, and church was over, and though their subdivision wasn’t large enough to be its own little country like, say, Maidens’ Grove, which straddled the tri-county lines, the neighborhood, Six Pillars, it still had some size to it. Sizable enough, that, on a Sunday, after mass, in summer, there should’ve been more folks out, farting around and making good use of their porches and stoops. But there was no one. No teenagers tearing down the street in their souped-up hand-me-downs, the bass of their music pre-and-proceeding them, like the modern-day drums of war. No old timers sitting catatonically by their windows, behind their windows, befriending the local wildlife, or looking for ways to go messy-up their family’s day. No thirty-somethings, like herself and her husband, cranking out chores or taking a crack at long-standing and ultimately forgettable projects.
But most importantly, there were no kids. None of their yelling, nor that distinct smell of their sweat, which read to the nose like spit and nickels. Linnéa searched the front yards and backyards for little bodies bashing into one another. She searched the tallest trees for skinny stowaways. The sounds of gunfire and creative cussing were a good way to track couch-dwellers, but even that was missing.
Granted, this wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Linnéa loved her child, but she wasn’t a fan of children in general, especially the kind her generation was responsible for squeezing out. It wasn’t their fault—the kids; it was their parents. The men and women who let the Internet teach their boys and girls everything, and wanted nothing more than to be their either their bosses, or their best buddies. Children raising children. Narcissistic dollmakers. That was how you ended up with that blowhard, Lux, over in Bitter Springs. And they had the nerve to give her, Linnéa, crap about the way she—
The van. Apparently, she was the only who cared, because she was the only one paying it any mind. And no, that didn’t mean she was being overly paranoid. Spatula at the ready, she crossed the street and got right up on it.
Stephen was tonguing his gums, getting the last of his burger from out between his teeth, when Linnéa returned from her reconnaissance.
“Two teens fucking,” she said, shaking her head.
“What?”
“Yep.”
“This whole time?”
“Guess so.”
Stephen scratched his cheek. “Think we should offer them some water? It’s awfully hot out, and they’ve been going at it for hours now.”
“Why here?” Linnéa snorted. “The hell?”
“I mean, got to give them credit. Minus the van, it’s pretty incognito. They at least got a window rolled down?”
Linnéa shook her head.
Stephen cringed. “Resale value’s shot to shit now.”
“It’s weird.”
Stephen’s eye widened. “Hey, want to actually see something weird?”
Linnéa wandered over to the grill and dropped off the spatula. Pointing to the van, she said, “That’s not weird to you?”
“It’d be weird if they weren’t fucking around in there. Look.” After rooting around in a pile of weeds, he took out a handful of the strangely-colored roots Linnéa had seen him yank up earlier. “Now, that’s weird.”
She reached out to touch them. “What are those?”
But he pulled them away before she could. “I have… no idea. It’s really pissing me off because they weren’t here the other day.”
Linnéa twisted her mouth, raised an eyebrow. “Steve, don’t get all obsessive about this.”
“Little vermillion fuckers. Look at this.” He tore one in half, and a creamy, red fluid sputtered out. “Look at that!”
“You’re loving this,” Linnéa said.
Stephen had slipped into botanist mode. Mumbling, rumbling, he rambled and ambled back to the garden and started looking for the growth’s culprits. He’d be unreachable for the rest of the day, lost in a blur of message boards and poorly-designed web pages. And once he figured it all out, he’d act as if it hadn’t been a big deal, and that he’d known, basically, what he was dealing with all along. Linnéa looked forward to teasing him about it later.
And looking forward, Linnéa noticed Fili
pa hadn’t taken her lunch off the grill.
“Hey, Filipa come back out yet?”
Stephen smacked his lips, like a parched traveler deep in a desert.
“I’ll take that as a no?”
“Yes. I mean, no. I mean.” Stephen smiled. “You know what I mean.”
That girl. Linnéa marched across the yard and went to open the backdoor, but Filipa had left it open. The central air was slipping through the cracks. They were literally throwing their money away. Groaning—how many times did she have to tell her?—Linnéa pushed into the house, into the kitchen, and shut the door hard behind her.
“Filipa?”
Linnéa wandered around the kitchen, touching up this, straightening out that, as she waited for her daughter to respond.
“Filipa?”
She opened the fridge and found the five beers in there where they’d left them. She shut the door, strained her ears. The central air clicked off. Pipes hissed. Water was running somewhere.
She sidestepped her way out of the kitchen and into the hall. The bathroom door was shut, but the light was on.
“Filipa?”
No answer. Linnéa knocked on the door. She wedged her fingers between the door and the molding and slowly, creepily, started to open it.
“Answer, or I’m coming in.”
No answer. Linnéa gave her five seconds and then barged in. The toilet had urine in it, and the sink was still on. A few squares of toilet paper were spread across the ground. One had a dirty shoe print on it.
