7 Souls

by Barnabas Miller; Jordan Orlando

  “I’m not paranoid!” Mary yelled. Her throat ached with the strain. “What do you mean, paranoid? You’re the one acting like we’ve got to flee the fucking country!”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” Dylan’s face was strained; he looked down at the passport case in his hand, as if he’d just noticed it. “Jesus, this can’t be happening….”

  My friends are dead, Mary thought again. It was like a soul-crushing blow that kept hitting her over and over. Both dead.

  “Dylan,” Mary whispered, sniffing and wiping snot from her upper lip as she cried, “do you know what’s going on or don’t you?”

  He raised his head and looked at her, his brown eyes focusing like a laser. She could see him trying to collect his thoughts, trying to be rational, not to give in to fear.

  “I know part of it,” he said finally. “I know that the people chasing us are going to figure out where we are. Look, please, please just trust me for a little while longer, okay? Let me get you something to wear and then we can get out of here. Once we’re moving, I’ll try to explain what I know.”

  She stared into his eyes and he returned the stare, not blinking, not moving. She couldn’t see anything in his face but honest concern—and fear.

  “Okay,” she said, sniffing and wiping her eyes. “Okay.”

  “Why don’t you get yourself a glass of water”—Dylan pointed toward a darkened doorway she hadn’t noticed before that led to a kitchenette—“and I’ll get you some clothes.”

  She did need a glass of water. Her throat was killing her, her head was pounding and she was feeling the beginning of the brutal hangover that was going to result from all the drinks she’d had: the wine at Amy’s, which seemed like an entire lifetime ago, back before the world tilted sideways and she’d slid into this twilight realm of madness; the vodka martini Dylan had bought her; the tequila shots and champagne at her surprise birthday party. It was all catching up to her, she realized; that was most of why she felt so light-headed.

  “Yeah, okay,” she said weakly, gathering the blanket and walking toward the kitchen. Dylan nodded and headed in the other direction, toward a closed door. Mary winced as her bare feet collided with the splintered floorboards and kicked more of the ubiquitous paperbacks out of the way.

  Reaching through the dark kitchen doorway, she found a light switch and flipped it. After a moment, a weak fluorescent bulb sputtered to life. The kitchen was tiny—a sink full of dirty dishes, a small fridge, a row of battered metal cabinets, a calendar with a Cézanne print. The cold linoleum pressed against her feet as she headed for the sink. She picked through the dish drainer, trying to find a clean glass.

  Rain was pounding against the kitchen window, behind its metal security grate. Mary filled a glass with tap water and gulped it down, gazing at the blackness beyond the windowpanes.

  Lightning flashed.

  Mary jumped, dropping the glass. It shattered on the floor. She nearly screamed in shock at what she saw.

  Joon was outside the window.

  Mary had been staring in that direction at exactly the right moment, purely by chance—the flash of lightning had illuminated Joon like a paparazzi flashbulb. Joon, just a foot away, staring right back at her—apparently suspended in midair, three floors off the ground. She was dressed exactly the same as she’d been at the farmhouse—the same Elie Saab dress and shiny headband.

  The lightning flickered and flared again, like a dying lightbulb, and Mary felt a scream building in her throat as she stared into Joon’s eyes. Joon was moving—raising her hand to her face—as the lightning flashed.

  Putting her finger to her lips.

  Then it was dark again.

  Mary’s heart was pounding in her ears, her pulse clicking in her throat like a drumbeat. Thunder boomed, a multistage staccato explosion, and Mary flinched, staring at the window in disbelief.

  Did I really see that?

  Mary didn’t believe in ghosts—of course she didn’t believe in ghosts. The whole concept was ridiculous.

  But did I really see that?

  Dylan seemed to be moving around his bedroom; she could hear the muffled creaking of the floorboards. No doubt, changing his own clothes before finding things for her to wear.

  Mary walked toward the window, wincing as her feet crunched on the broken glass littering the floor. Her skin was crawling with goose bumps; her entire body felt as cold and numb as if she’d been standing in a refrigerator for hours. She got close to the window, panting as she gathered her nerve and then cupped her hands around her eyes, peering through the glass.

  Someone was out there.

  There was no question about it. She could see a black silhouette against the murky glow of another kitchen window, across the air shaft. The shape was moving, coming closer.

  Mary fumbled with the window, her fingers straining as they twisted the soot-covered latches. The window screeched as she began lifting it, emitting a blast of cold, wet wind that blew against her body and made the blanket billow behind her.

  As she struggled to lift the heavy window, she stiffened in amazement. Fingers curled around the sash—a pair of strong, slim hands, helping her get the window open.

  Mary dropped to her knees, pressing her face to the opening. It was Joon—she was right there, her rain-soaked face inches away.

  “Is that—” Mary cleared her throat and tried again. “Is that really you?”

  “Shhh,” Joon whispered. Mary could see small bands of blackened adhesive around her cheeks and chin, from where the gag had been taped. Joon reached through the opening they’d made and clutched Mary’s hand. Mary squeezed back. The feel of Joon’s warm skin was making her cry all over again. “Be quiet—he’ll hear you.”

  “But how—”

  “Don’t trust him,” Joon whispered urgently. She kept squeezing Mary’s hand through the five-inch gap they’d pried open, but Mary could see red welts around Joon’s wrists. From the ropes, she realized. When she was tied up. “Please—you’ve got to get out of there.”

  “But—”

  “Just listen,” Joon hissed. She was peering past Mary’s shoulder, trying to see into Dylan’s living room. Mary realized that Joon wasn’t floating in midair at all—she was crouching on the cast-iron fire escape. She must have climbed up, from the alleyway below. “Do you have anything else to wear?”

  “What? No—”

  Joon and Amy had helped her get dressed, hours before, she remembered—it seemed like another lifetime. “He’s getting—Dylan said he’d get me something to wear.”

  “Good. Take the clothes. Get dressed,” Joon whispered urgently, “and then get out of that apartment and down the stairs. I’ll come around and meet you.”

  “But how did you—” There were millions of questions she wanted to ask. She heard Dylan’s bedroom door swing open and his footsteps on the floorboards. He was coming back into the living room.

  Joon raised her finger to her lips again.

  Mary nodded. She squeezed Joon’s hand—Joon squeezed back and then receded into the dark rain.

  “Did I hear something break?”

  Dylan’s voice, behind her.

  She rose to her feet just as he came into the kitchen. “Sorry,” she told him—he was staring at the broken glass all over the floor. His eyes moved to the open window, where a thin ribbon of cold air was blowing inside. “I dropped the glass. I started to feel faint and I—I needed some air, so I—”

  “Are you all right?” Dylan was looking at the streaks of blood she’d left on the floor. “Do you want a bandage or—”

  “Let’s just get out of here,” Mary said. Walking wasn’t as difficult as she was afraid it might be; luckily, she didn’t seem to have any glass shards embedded in the soles of her feet. “Did you find anything for me to wear?”

  (Don’t trust him.)

  “I put it in the bathroom. Just some old stuff—it probably won’t fit you.”

  Dylan frowned. He looked down at the broken glass and
then over at the window again. Obviously, he felt like he was missing something—she could see it in his face.

  He’s smart, she thought. He’s really smart—remember that, if you’re going to try to fake him out.

  “Thanks,” Mary said. She got past him as fast as she could, nearly tripping on the blanket—again—as she hurried through the living room and furtively grabbed her BlackBerry from the couch. The bathroom was right next to Dylan’s front door; she could see a pair of jeans and a T-shirt folded on the closed toilet seat, with a pair of sneakers placed on top of them. “Just give me a minute,” she called out, getting in the bathroom as fast as she could and swinging the door shut.

  MARY UNLATCHED THE BATHROOM door as quietly as she could, gently pulled it open and peered out. She had stripped off her ruined clothes, dropping her underwear and the sodden green rags that had once been a $2,300 dress onto the cold tiles, and pulled on the jeans and T-shirt, bareback, no underwear. Nothing fit, at all—she’d had to roll up the cuffs and cinch the jeans around her small waist with the belt Dylan had provided. Finally, she pulled the shapeless, lumpy-looking sweater over herself and slipped her feet into the sneakers. Her BlackBerry and keys slid easily into the oversize jeans pocket. She had given herself just twenty seconds to splash water on her face and pull her hair back, tying it in a rough knot, before opening the door.

  Peering through the crack, she could see Dylan’s back as he stooped over his coffee table zipping up an overnight bag. He’d put on his big winter coat—another one was draped on the couch, obviously intended for her.

  Now or never.

  Mary pulled the bathroom door all the way open, wincing at the creaking hinges. She walked as gently as she could, not breathing as she approached the front door. She could hear Dylan packing behind her as she gently twisted the brass knobs on the locks, trying to keep them from snapping. Incredibly, he hadn’t noticed—he was moving back toward the kitchen as she threw the final lock and pulled on the door.

  It wouldn’t move.

  Come on, come on, Mary thought frantically as she strained against whatever maddening force—warped wood or sticky old paint—was holding the door closed. Finally the door gave with a loud pop and a low-pitched creak as she pulled it open. Her heart racing, she slipped her body sideways and, with the latches catching on Dylan’s sweater, she pulled herself out into the stairwell and eased the door shut.

  Mary actually thought she was going to make it. It was ten or twelve feet along the filthy metal railing to the top of the stairs. Then three flights down, if she remembered right. But she didn’t get far at all.

  The sneakers weren’t laced and didn’t fit right. She stumbled and fell forward against the stairwell railing, nearly bashing her face against the banister. Dylan’s door burst open and he ran out after her. She wailed in fear, her soles slipping on the tiled floor as she desperately tried to pull herself upright.

  Too late; no use. Dylan was right there—he reached down and grabbed her, snagging his arm around her waist.

  “No!” Mary panted. Black spots began to fill her vision. “No, no, no—”

  “Where are you going?” Dylan was fighting to keep his grip on her. She bucked and twisted. Everything was growing dim. “Why are you running away?”

  No, no, no—

  She was fainting—there was no question about it. The world was fading, turning black, like the end of a movie. She kept struggling, but her arms and legs would barely move; she was getting weaker and weaker.

  “Mary?”

  Dylan’s voice, from miles and miles away. The darkness was washing over her like tar, drowning her in oblivion.

  Stay awake … stay awake …

  It was hopeless. She tried to rally her strength, but there wasn’t anything left. Mary felt her eyelids fluttering and then—

  7

  2:05 A.M.

  SHE BLINKED, STARING UP at the ceiling. She was stretched out on her own narrow bed, along the west wall of her bedroom, the wall her father had painted pink and gold when she was five years old and that had never been repainted. The overhead light was on, an ancient fixture with three bare sixty-watt bulbs that burned her eyes, making her squint at the glare as they always did. The same bedroom ceiling she’d stared at hatefully for years, with the long crack down the south edge and the triangular patch of cracked plaster that had crumbled and fallen, revealing the lathing underneath.

  What—

  Waking up from a dream was always like this, particularly when it was a frightening dream—the cold sweat coated you and the final scenes of the dream flashed in your mind like lightning, fierce and brilliant but fading, vanishing into the mist as the cold light of the real world entered your waking eyes.

  I was dreaming. I was dreaming—a horrible, horrible dream.

  And here I am in my own bed.

  Mary’s bedroom—right next to Ellen’s along the narrow corridor—had a tiny window with a dim view of the building’s air shaft. She barely got any natural light; their apartment was too far down from the air shaft’s apex. That was why the overhead light was usually on—in fact, she tended to fall asleep with it on, particularly when she came home tipsy. Mary couldn’t count how many times she’d stumbled in here with her ears ringing, the room spinning, and kicked off her high heels and collapsed onto the bed, passing out in her clothes with the lights on. She’d always wake up early in the morning, around dawn, dehydrated, her head aching painfully, with the same pitch-black view out the window, long before the first dim indigo traces of morning light fell down the air shaft into her tiny room.

  What a crazy dream, Mary thought. She stared at the familiar ceiling, at the cracks and the exposed lathing and the triad of lightbulbs emitting their harsh glow, trying to remember the details.

  My birthday, Mary remembered. My birthday, and nobody cared; Patrick broke up with me and … somebody … asked me out, and then it got worse and worse, running and driving and a haunted house, Amy screaming and Joon dying and coming back as a ghost who wasn’t a ghost….

  Mary had never had a nightmare like that before. It had been so real, so terrifying, so filled with vivid sensations: the freezing cold and the night wind and the blasting sound track of blaring songs and grinding gears as the car she was in pitched and swerved, brakes squealing as it spun through the rain and lurched ahead, on the run, speeding out of danger, or into danger. More than any other dream she’d ever had, there was the terrifying way that it had all lingered on the edge of sense; how everything that happened almost fit together into normal daylight logic but just missed somehow, veering instead into the surreal landscape of fever dreams and fantasies.

  But I’m awake now, Mary thought, arching her back and stretching luxuriously. In my own bed, and I’m safe. She couldn’t quite remember how she’d gotten here, what had happened the night before, but that was hardly new to her. I was partying somewhere, out with my friends.

  It’ll occur to me soon. It’ll all come back.

  Mary propped herself up on her elbows, grunting with the effort, and looked around at the room—and then stopped moving.

  What the hell?

  She stared down at herself, at her clothes.

  Why am I dressed like this?

  The clothes were completely unfamiliar. A gigantic pair of men’s Levi’s, cinched comically around her waist with a battered black leather belt fastened on its tightest hole. No socks. White tennis sneakers so large that the heels extended back an inch and a half from her ankles. A threadbare cotton T-shirt beneath an oversize, lumpy wool sweater.

  Mary looked around the room. Same old shambles—the bulletin board with the tacked-up Vogue clippings of ensembles she liked; the clutter of schoolbooks and old CDs and club invitations and perfume bottles and gift bags covering her desk; the framed Monet print her father had given her long ago.

  Mary frowned, rising to sit on the edge of the bed. The floor was littered with clothes—tops and dresses and pants—still on their hangers.

>   In the center of the floor, casting triple shadows beneath the harsh overhead lights, a crumpled beige coverall, like a cleaning woman would wear.

  Oh.

  Looking behind herself, Mary saw her clock radio. Its digital readout said 2:06.

  It’s dark out, she confirmed, looking at the blackness beyond her window’s narrow frame. It’s two in the morning.

  It was coming back all at once, like a blurred image coming into focus, bringing a familiar feeling of dread and fatigue and sadness and pain and confusion.

  I wasn’t dreaming.

  But the alternative didn’t make any sense. These were Dylan’s clothes; she had clasped hands with Joon through his open kitchen window and followed her advice, taking Dylan’s clothes and sneaking out the front door, trying to get away.

  But she hadn’t made it.

  Dylan had caught her, literally.

  And that was where it had ended.

  And now here she was, in her bedroom.

  The same night? It has to be the same night, doesn’t it?

  But what happened to me? Why can’t I remember?

  She could hear something—a muffled human sound, faint and obscure, coming through the closed bedroom door.

  Crying. Somebody was crying out there.

  Quietly, Mary got to her feet, advancing toward her door, trying to keep the big sneakers from squeaking on her worn-out floorboards, kicking clothes out of the way. She cocked her head to one side, straining to hear. The crying voice was male, she realized, feeling a sudden flood of adrenaline. Somebody was out there, in the corridor or the living room, crying.

  “Mommy,” the voice cried. “Mommy, Mommy …”

  Mary didn’t recognize the voice at all. Her anxiety was growing. She struggled with the doorknob, rattling the door against its warped frame, the brass knob slipping maddeningly in her fingers, refusing to turn.

  Who locked me in here? How did I end up locked in my bedroom?

  And then she realized what the problem was. Below the knob, the thumbscrew of the door’s latch was flipped sideways.