Buried Secrets

by Ginna Wilkerson

  I head up to the door and wave back at Charity. I hope she didn’t pick up on anything weird or think we were rude. I sigh as I unlock the door and call out to Penny to let her know I’m home. Then I head up to my room, think about doing some writing, but change my mind and just lie on the bed with quiet music. I have a lot to think about tonight.

  * * * *

  School today seemed to take an entire week to drag by; even English class. Actually, especially English class, because the name of Mary Warren kept coming up in class discussion about The Crucible. I sat through the discussion without contributing once, which I know made Ms. S. wonder what was up with me. I feel sick, I’m scared, and I’m kind of in love: that’s what’s up. And the more I study about the Salem Witch Trials, the more weird stuff comes up. For instance, there’s a book in our library that follows the actual transcripts and tries to tie that information to possible facts about the characters. The native woman Tituba played a big part in getting the girls in trouble and then continuing the tragic farce of the trials. Tituba…The drawing of her in the book looks like her skin is light golden-colored. A bit like Mr. Perry in the Computer Lab, actually. I can’t imagine she came directly from Africa—more from South America or something. I’m getting way too deep into this project, and I know it’s because of Mariah.

  But of course, I’m not telling anyone any of this except for Hillary and possibly Dax, and it takes me all of Wednesday to get my own thoughts together enough to talk at all.

  So now it’s Wednesday evening after dinner, and I’m ready to go talk to Hillary—at least about my feelings toward Mariah. I’m still not sure I want to get into a discussion about who she is, was, or might be, but I know realistically it won’t be possible to avoid this line of questioning with Hill. And there’s a strong possibility Dax is over at the Calvano house, too, tutoring Roger. Maybe some part of me is hoping he’ll get involved and push me to admit what I’m starting to believe.

  Sitting in Hillary’s room with the door closed, I take a deep breath and begin.

  “Okay, Hill—I hope you meant what you said a while ago about not caring if I’m gay. Because Mariah and I kissed, and I’m not sorry we did. I really like her a lot.” Hillary opens her eyes wide and stares at me, then looks down at her hands folded in her lap.

  When she looks up again, she says very quietly, “I meant it, Em. You’re my friend—the best friend I’ve ever had. What makes you happy makes me happy for you.”

  I relax a bit now; I had hoped she would say something like that. But then:

  “I still worry about Mariah though. I just have this feeling that we’re not being silly thinking that she’s not, you know, just a kid from Salem. Over even a kid at all…”

  We sit for a moment in a silence that feels like a physical presence in the room. I would almost think some kind of spirit is listening right here, right now.

  “I know. There are questions. And there’s one part I haven’t told you yet from last night.”

  “Well, what? No fooling, I want to help you figure this out. It’s not a joke any more, now that you’ve actually been with her and kissed her and all.”

  “I agree. It’s serious stuff.” And just at that moment, there’s a knock on the door. We both jump as if there’s something supernatural out to find us.

  From outside I hear, “Hillary? Are you in there? It’s me, Dax.”

  Hill calls out, “Okay, Junior, come in. We want to get your opinion.”

  Dax peers around the doorjamb, a grin on his face. He comes into the room, dressed in a Pink Floyd T-shirt, one of his Goodwill finds. I motion him to sit.

  “Roger’s finished with math for tonight; he’s listening to Fifties’ rock ‘n roll and playing Call of Duty. What a weird little dude…” And he shakes his head.

  “Never mind that. The other day you said something about Mariah. Well, it’s really important now, because she was with us, with Em, at the movie last night.”

  “Yeah?” says Dax. “‘Like—a date?”

  Hill answers, “Try not to be an asshole about it, okay? Emelia really likes her. We’re just worried that there really is something—unnatural—about the girl. Something dangerous, even.” Then she turns to me. “So what’s the part you haven’t told me yet?”

  “Well, okay. You know she was really upset when the girls on screen were all taunting the Mary Warren character…”‘ I notice Dax widening his eyes in Hillary’s direction, but I ignore it as best I can. “She basically had a panic attack—like had to get out of the crowd, out of the building, even. I found Mariah sitting on the steps out the side door with her head in her hands. She looked as if she were crying, but without tears. I know that doesn’t sound right.”

  Dax interjects, “It does if you’re a vampire. But go on…”

  I choose not to acknowledge this. Hill gets up and checks the door to make sure it’s locked. We don’t need Ri-ri waking up and coming in to get her big sister just as we are discussing the lesbian undead!

  “So after, you know, the kissing part…she gets all panicky again, says she’s sorry—for what I don’t exactly know—and her eyes were glowing dark in this weird way. Then she runs back toward the football field. And I mean run, like an Olympic sprinter. I’m sure it was my imagination, but before she rounded the hill out of sight, she was out of sight. Like disappeared—poof! Gone.”

  Hillary shakes her head in disbelief. “Em, as much as I am usually on the side of ‘this girl is weird,’ I think this particular event is just your imagination. I mean, you were upset, too, and…distracted.”

  Now I shake my head. “No, I saw what I saw. One moment she was there, running, and I was watching her. I was totally focused on following where she went, you know? And the next moment there was empty space.”

  Dax basically takes charge of the conversation. “Have either of you read Dracula? I don’t mean some cheesy movie version or spoof—the actual novel by Bram Stoker? Of course, even that is not totally definitive or accurate, but he tried. He did do some research.”

  Hill gives him a look of disdain. “What are you talking about? Whatever or whoever Mariah might be, she certainly isn’t a middle-aged dude in a cape with fangs.”

  “Hillary Calvano, can you not make a leap of connection between similar concepts? I thought you were smarter than that.”

  I chime in, “‘Hill, I think he means that we should look at the ways in which Mariah might fit the characteristics of a—vampire—starting with stuff in Stoker’s book.”

  Dax slaps me on the back. “Yes! Well done, Em. So let’s do it. Someone get a piece of paper to make a list. I brought a list I made in middle school when I first got interested in the fictional undead—the things one should look for. I’ve had it in my backpack for a couple weeks, thinking Mariah was bound to reveal herself eventually.” He passes us each a copy of his list, which contains items like: no reflection, doesn’t eat food, must stay in during daylight, can be invisible to mortals, etc. Hill points to the “invisibility” item and makes a knowing face at me.

  “Well, there’s one fit, Em. You just told us about it before we even looked at the kid’s list.”

  “But,” I say, “What about the kissing? I mean, isn’t there something about the vampire kiss infecting the victim? Like then they become one, too?”

  Dax takes this one. “Doesn’t have to be like that. Some versions say that victims bitten sicken and die, but there has to be exchange of blood to make a ‘new’ vampire.”

  “Of course, if you actually had sex, there’s a possibility of that,” adds Hill.

  I snap my head in her direction. “Oh my God, why did you just say that? Has anyone talked about having sex? No!”

  Hillary looks annoyed, yet a bit embarrassed. “Come on, Em. You like her, and it’s not like you haven’t…”

  “Stop! Do not go there—not right now. Let’s get back to the vampire thing regarding Mariah, okay?”

  So we start a list about Mariah. It takes us a while
and a good bit of rather contentious discussion. At some point, Roger knocks on the door, saying something about the power to his XBox. Hill yells at him to go away and read or something, that we’re busy doing high school homework. Poor Roger, he’s got to feel left out sometimes with Hillary and Ri-ri both being so intelligent.

  When we finish the list about Mariah, we put both lists side by side on the floor. All three of us kneel there, propped on our elbows and reading. It doesn’t look good. There’s a lot we still aren’t sure of, like where she actually lives, but at the moment it looks like I’m dating a girl who is not even alive in the usual sense. Talk about foul-ups! This has the entire “Taylor affair” beat by miles. Mom would not only send me away to that Christian school, she’d probably disown me for good and all.

  And what about the Salem Witch Trial connection. Shit! I can’t even think about that at the moment.

  Chapter 30: Where There’s Smoke, There’s Fire

  Not that I blame her, but Emelia has worked herself into a frenzy about Mariah, the vampire thing, and the possible Salem connection. After the three of us studied the problem of Mariah and who she might actually be, Dax and I had to admit that it looks like Mariah was once Mary Warren from the infamous Salem Witch trials, and somehow became a vampire living in Jeffersontown, Kentucky. As crazy as this all sounds, I’m starting to believe it. There are too many connections for it all to be a coincidence.

  Earlier tonight, Dax talked Em into going to Jeffersontown to find what he calls Mariah’s “vampire lair.” I’m not sure this is such a smart idea, as Emelia is pretty freaked already. Actually seeing a coffin in the ground (or whatever other gruesome sights they might encounter) might send her over the proverbial edge. And I know for sure her aunt must be worried that she’s still out this late on a school night. At least, I assume she’s still out there somewhere, since she promised to call or at least text when she got safely home.

  Dax, however, wouldn’t be talked out of his plan. He called his sister Kylee and asked her to pick them up. Apparently, she has an art class or something in J-town on Wednesday night. I guess she didn’t mind driving them, since she showed up shortly after that and they left my house in Kylee’s Yaris. Now here I sit trying to write my review of The Crucible for English class and waiting to hear from Emelia. The more I work on the essay, the more I am reminded that we might actually know someone who participated in these events—whose name is mentioned not just in fiction like this play but in the history books! It’s too creepy, and I can’t really think about it anymore.

  I climb up onto my bed and try listening to music, holding my phone in one hand in case Em tries to reach me. The music helps calm me, and I start to drift off a bit.

  * * * *

  Next thing I know, the buzzing of my phone from somewhere under the bed penetrates my foggy brain. I wake up instantly, knowing it must be Em or Dax. But where is the damn phone? After scrambling down and searching my entire desk area, I finally spot it under a corner of my desk. Must have knocked it off in my sleep.

  It’s Emelia. “Hey! I’m so glad to hear from you. Are you okay?”

  All I can hear is breathing and sobbing. “Em? What’s going on?!”

  “I—I’m—so scared, Hill. It’s true, at least the vampire part. Or—at least—she lives in the earth like a vampire. I don’t know what to think anymore.”

  I gather my thoughts as quickly as I can. “Right now, just think about getting somewhere safe. Where are you? Is Dax with you?”

  “Dax went home with Kylee. I’m still here in the parking lot of the school.”

  “At Butler?” Now I’m a bit confused.

  “No, no—I told you we came to see Mariah’s—lair. In Jeffersontown.”

  “And you’re still there—in the parking lot? By yourself? Is Mariah there?” This is getting more complicated by the second.

  “Hillary—please help me. No, I haven’t seen her. I don’t want to right now. I don’t want her to know—that I know. Can you come get me?”

  Em is my best friend, and I have to think of some way to help her. I can’t tell my parents, or Em’s aunt—I have to do this myself. I make up my mind to take Pop’s car and go get Em.

  “Okay, girl—don’t panic. Walk down to the Papa John’s and stay there until I come.”

  “You’re actually coming here? In what? How?”

  “In Pop’s car,” I answer. “I know I haven’t passed the test yet, but I can do it. I have to. Mama and Pop are downstairs watching a movie. I don’t have enough cash for a taxi, so this is what we have to do. Just stay at the restaurant until I get there, and don’t talk to anyone. Okay?”

  “I’m pretty dirty, Hill—bring some towels or a blanket—we don’t want to get your pop’s car dirty.”

  “Now you’re making sense. Just stay calm and I’ll be there in twenty minutes or so.”

  “Okay—thanks so much, Hillary. I’m leaving the parking lot right now.”

  And she’s gone from the phone. I feel like she’s on another planet or something, and the phone was our only lifeline. I’m totes scared about using Pop’s car. I’m not such a hot driver, plus I’m doing it in secret and leaving Shively at night. I just can’t think of another plan.

  Chapter 31: Vampire Lair

  I know that I should stay away from this mortal girl whom I think I might love; it’s wrong to pass on the vampire life when the person has no reason to cross over. Tituba made me to ensure I didn’t die a horrible death as an accused witch, or live in destitution as an abandoned orphan with no prospects of marriage. At least, I prefer to believe that Tituba did what she did on that long-ago night for altruistic reasons. Surely she could not have loved the poor ill-fated lump of a girl that was Mary Warren? At least the vampire life has slimmed me and strengthened me, and the twenty-first century styles seem to suit my appearance.

  I know Emelia is attracted to me, and I admit that I find her attractive, too—I simply cannot make myself regret that we kissed on the steps of the school. Still, that’s no excuse. Emelia might think she loves me, but she has an entire life ahead of her. As I have a centuries-long existence as a vampire; waking at new and unknown times and feeding on whatever I can find until someone of the undead will send me to my ultimate death. Emelia, as much as I want to be with her, has no way of even imagining the life I would be offering her.

  It is the day after our meeting at the movie, and I know I must feed, though I have no true desire. When the sun goes down, I will perhaps try the lawns of the lovely houses on this street; a few red squirrels should provide plenty of nourishment. These in Kentucky are much fatter than the poor scrawny squirrels in Salem, who struggled through the winter with no help from the equally struggling humans.

  For now, I walk around the school and the neighborhood, going so far as the bookstore where I first saw Emelia. How I wish now that I had not followed the two girls—not made the effort to speak to them. What was I thinking? I was not thinking, is the answer; rather, I was following my heart, whatever heart beats in the body of the undead. And that vampire heart is troubling me today, trying to put Emelia and her soft urgent lips from my mind.

  Back at the school, I wander into the Computer Lab and find Mr. Perry.

  “Hello, Mariah. How is your Wednesday going?”

  A normal, polite thing to say—I know he’s just trying to be friendly. But it takes all my self-control not to spill out the entire truth about myself, and about Emelia. I need a friend, someone to talk with, so badly. I wish I could spend just one hour with the girls I knew in Salem: Anne and Mercy, even little Betty Paris. But they are all long-dead, as nature dictates. So I answer kind Mr. Perry, “It’s okay, Mr. Perry, I’m just tired, I think. Can’t seem to relax.” I am proud of how well I have learned to speak properly for this place and time when I need to.

  “Maybe you should go sit in the library for a while—read something calming—it’s nice and quiet in there and nobody will bother you…”

  “Actuall
y, that’s a pretty decent idea, Mr. Perry. I think I’ll do just that. Thanks.”

  It’s not a bad idea, and I know where the library is. At this time of day, there are hardly any kids there except the ones who really like to read and study. The one text I am familiar with except for the Bible (which seems inappropriate for me now) is the works of Mr. William Shakespeare. Mr. Putnam had two of three volumes in his home, and sometimes he would help me to read when I had finished my work. Reading one of the history plays, or maybe something dreadful and tragic like Titus Andronicus would surely help to distract my thoughts. I head to the library.

  I find a copy of Richard III, clean and shiny, probably untouched since purchased for the newly built school. Settled in a chair in the back corner, I struggle through the vaguely familiar text, trying to remember Mr. Putnam’s explanation of the plot. I love the line ‘Now is the winter of our discontent’—even though it’s spring here in Kentucky, I feel wintry discontent in what used to be my soul. Soon I’m lost in Richard’s trials and my own begin to fade into the background. When the lights dim and the library woman comes to tap me on the shoulder, I am shocked that so much time has passed. I need to feed, and then to get in for the night.

  * * * *

  The squirrels prove easy to come by; I catch two in one yard, looking as if they are deep in conversation beneath a huge oak. I dispatch them swiftly and with ease, as always, trying to pass over my feeding quickly and forget it. After one more across the street from the two, I feel satisfied enough for now. I have such a tangle of thoughts and emotions swirling through my brain that I stumble upon my hide-away home without even realizing where I am. By the time I orient myself to the football field, the angle of the school building, and the brush surrounding the entrance, I start to feel it.

  There is the trace of a human presence here—not immediate, but in the recent past. My vampire nature is wont to warn me of the nearness of others, particularly those who might threaten me. I move more slowly now, searching for anything strangely changed or out-of-place. The first thing I notice is footprints in the muddy ground: two sets. One set is large and flat, like that made by a male shoe with a heavy step. These prints move all about the outside of my home, finally going into the entrance. I am outraged that some masculine presence has invaded my carefully-guarded space!