Something like Voodoo

by Rebecca Hamilton

  He sat back and pulled his shirt over his head, then helped me out of my top. His skin was on fire, generating enough heat to keep me warm. Still, I couldn’t stop shivering. His skin brushing against mine ignited every cell in my body. In that moment, I would have done anything Noah asked. But Noah wasn’t like that. Dad was wrong. Noah seemed more experienced than me, but a part of me believed he was more afraid of sex than I was.

  The interest was certainly there, though. I could feel it through his pants and mine. Right then, something burned my chest.

  “Ouch!” I screeched, pushing him off of me, but he was already pulling away. I could see the pain in his face, too.

  Then I saw the cause of the pain: The crescent on his chest had turned from a pale pink scar to a fire-poker orange glow.

  “Oh my God! Noah!”

  He leaned against the wall, covering the scar with his hand. I looked down to find a mirror-image crescent shape seared into my chest as well.

  Noah’s whole body tensed. “I have to go, Emily,” he said through his teeth. “I’m sorry.”

  He threw on his shirt and ran out of the house, out the front door even. I chased down the stairs after him, watching him go, worry eating a hole in my chest to match the newly branded mark he’d left behind.

  ***

  Something was wrong. Really wrong. Whatever Sarah was up to, we were running out of time. I needed to find another solution. Something different than the one Noah and I refused to discuss.

  At the library a couple weeks ago, it wasn’t only her and Noah’s surnames I’d found a connection between. The other It Girls and my surname had all shown up in the same settlement at the same time. There must be pieces of the puzzle Sarah had solved that I hadn’t.

  I kept seeing the pained expression on Noah’s face. I’d seen that expression before. On my mom, shortly before she died. Sarah wouldn’t kill Noah, but I wasn’t discounting the idea voodoo had played a role in my mom’s death. Especially not after everything I’d learned over the last few months.

  I darted into my dad’s room and yanked open his closet doors. Mom’s boxes had to be in there somewhere. I shoved stuff aside on shelves then parted the clothes on the hangers. There, at the bottom of the closet, behind a stack of shoe boxes, sat an old file box Dad stored Mom’s things in. I pulled it out, dropped it on the bed, tore off the top, and started digging through.

  At first, I was more making a mess than doing anything productive, hoping something would pop out at me.

  Nothing did.

  My heart pounded in my chest, but I made myself slow down. I sorted through everything a second time.

  Mom’s wedding ring was in the box. I probably gave that more attention than I should have. The itty bitty stone and tarnished band were nothing to write home about. Might as well have been a raisin glued to a shoestring, though certainly prettier. Delicate, like Mom had been. When she was alive, she would tell everyone about this ring. How it might not be much, but the diamond was real, just like my Dad’s love for her.

  I set it aside, not even noticing the tears sliding down my face until one splashed on my hand. I wiped it away with the back of my shirt sleeve and shifted my attention to a bunch of papers.

  Some were old letters Mom had written to Dad. I didn’t read those. The rest were mostly newspaper clippings. Mom’s obituary, sure, I expected to see that here. What I hadn’t expected was year-old newspaper clippings from Hackensack. Articles with names highlighted. Noah’s name. Sarah’s name. The It Girls. Little things, like awards won or time volunteered or the best scores in school.

  Why did Dad have all these?

  I flipped through them all but found nothing revealing. All I knew was that Dad had known about Noah and Sarah long before we moved to Hackensack. Was that why we had moved here?

  I swallowed the lump in my throat and dug deeper into the box. I opened a manila folder to find a pile of large photographs: Pictures of Noah. Sarah. The It Girls. All candid shots taken from far away, sometimes partially obscured by leaves or a metal rail or window curtain. A note was attached:

  HERE’S WHAT YOU ASKED FOR. –P

  Who was P?

  I tucked the photographs back in the envelope. Mom’s memory box was apparently filled with memories of Noah and Sarah, too. I found property tax records and medical records for both families – the Caldwells and Williams. Photocopies of car titles, birth certificates, social security cards. Why did Dad need all those?

  Panic welled up inside me, making it harder to breathe. Was my dad some kind of stalker? A chilling thought drove itself like a nail through my chest: He could go to jail for this kind of thing.

  If Dad had all this, did that mean Sarah – or someone else in her family – had all this same info on Noah and me? She certainly seemed to know enough about my medical history, but did she have anything to do with Mom’s death? If these things were in with hers, Dad must have thought Noah or Sarah or one of the It Girls was somehow connected to what happened. But if that was true, why would he have thrown me like bloody bait into the shark-infested waters of Hackensack High?

  I shook the thought away. I was his daughter. No way would he use me to get more information about them – not even if it meant solving Mom’s mysterious death.

  Failing to convince myself of this, I pressed my lips together and blinked back tears. Almost completely buried at the bottom of the box were sketches. Some old, some new, all drawn by my hand. None of them I’d seen before. That meant they’d been stolen from my room before I’d woken to see them.

  Again, the focus was Noah and Sarah. Some of the other It Girls. A few of me, the pencil marks on those smudged and worn, the pages more creased. Those must have been sketches my dad kept going back to.

  But the most surprising sketches were the ones of Heather and my dad. Were we really all in danger?

  21

  GHOST GIRL

  When Dad arrived home, I was sitting at the kitchen table with Mom’s box, the most incriminating of the files spread out on the table. The more I sat reviewing the evidence, the more convinced I became moving to Hackensack – right into the fray with Noah and Sarah – was no coincidence.

  As Dad’s gaze fell on me then the files, the color drained from his face. His shoulders slumped.

  “Emily…”

  “Who’s P?”

  He shook his head, his lips turning down around the corners.

  “Tell me! Who. Is. P?”

  Dad’s Adam’s apple bobbed, his hands twisting together. “His name is Peter Ludwig, and he’s a private investigator. But you probably figured as much.”

  My whole body shook, but I kept my tears in check. In my trembling hands, I held one of the images of Noah.

  “You…you think he had something to do with Mom’s death?”

  Dad’s eyes went wide. “It’s not that. It’s –”

  “You knew all about this before we even moved here!” My voice cracked. “You knew we were tied to this – to whatever it is – and you brought me here anyway!”

  “I thought you liked it here,” he tried.

  “No!” I held up my hand, still holding the image of Noah, the paper crumbled in my fist. “Don’t you dare! You’re my dad. You’re supposed to protect me! Not use me to…to…” I slammed my hand on the table. “Ugh!”

  He approached cautiously and crouched at my side. “Emily, please.”

  I glared at him from the corner of my eye, his pleading gaze giving me reason to pause.

  “I would never let you get hurt. This was the only way. But I’ve been watching you. Every moment, I promise you, you were never alone.”

  His words sunk in. I stood so quickly I almost fell backwards over my chair. “You followed me? Don’t you realize – Oh my God. You could have gotten him killed! Me killed! If Sarah finds out –”

  “Shhh, shhh…”
Dad placed his hand on my shoulder. His skin was ice cold. “No one is going to find out. It’s only an app I put on your phone. Remember when I took it away? I figured –”

  “You stalked me through my phone?” I took another step back. This was all getting too weird, even for me. “Isn’t that like, illegal or something?”

  “No, Emily,” Dad said calmly. “It’s not illegal to put a parenting app on your child’s cell phone.”

  His hand slid down to my own, finding my fingers and giving them a gentle squeeze. “I’m close to finding out the truth. I know Noah is innocent. I know all about Sarah and what she’s doing, and I’m sorry I didn’t trust you about him, but you have to understand –”

  He didn’t finish his sentence. This time it wasn’t because I interrupted. As his eyes fixed on something behind me, I heard a small shuffle, like paper crinkling.

  I turned to see the floral wallpaper peeling from the kitchen wall. I moved out of the way, but it grazed me as it fell. The wall behind the paper decayed into black.

  One piece we might have chalked up to some kind of mold problem. But the piece beside it started doing the same thing.

  “Dad,” I said, edging away. “Why is it doing that?”

  He met my question with silence. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from it to look at him. By the time the third sheet started to peel, I was on the other side of the room.

  Something behind me made a noise like footsteps crunching on gravel. I jumped and spun around. Holy hell. The kitchen windows were spider-cracking, each break branching out and multiplying like ice giving out beneath too much weight. It happened slowly at first, but then the small pieces of glass spit at me, the wind battering against the windows reaching inside to slap at my face.

  Instinctively, I curled up against Dad’s body, his wide frame providing shelter from the thrashing wind and cold.

  The house groaned, softly at first, like a creaky step, then more intensely. Soon the foundation rumbled beneath us. I grabbed onto a kitchen chair but it toppled beneath my grasp. I crouched as the furniture shook, pictures rattling against the wall, frames crashing to the floor. Were we having an earthquake in New Jersey?

  “Dad!” I yelled over the noise.

  He nearly tripped trying pull me into the doorway. We both crouched, barely able to fit inside the doorframe. For the first time in months, we were face to face, close enough for me to could smell his aftershave.

  When the shaking grew more violent, he braced himself and protected me from falling by stretching his arms across the door and planting his hands over my shoulders. Dirt and crumbling debris sifted overhead, hitting my shoulders and dusting Dad’s hair.

  “What’s going on?” I yelled.

  Dad’s eyes were wide, face pale, lips unmoving.

  The kitchen blender toppled over, then inched its way across the Formica and tumbled to the linoleum floor. The rest of the counter’s contents – spatulas and spoons, microwaves, toaster, the clean dishes still in the drying rack – came crashing down as if the blender had been a magnet. The windows all gave out at the same time, shattering glass like confetti over the floor.

  The knives slid from the wooden block now on the floor and flew like darts across the room. They sailed through the doorway over our heads and wedged their points into the wall behind us. I curled my body into a smaller ball. It had to be Sarah. How was she doing this? I needed to talk to Noah – to call Hazel – but first we needed to get out of here.

  I glanced around for an escape. The hallway was trashed with broken table legs, shattered picture frames, and patches of drywall. I looked back toward the kitchen, but as I did, the lights flickered. In the small flashes, I saw the same ghost from the asylum.

  She was outside our house, on the other side of the busted window above the kitchen sink. Pale skin, black eyes and hair, short, blunt bangs. Her mouth opened as if to scream, but no sound came out. Just more wind, roaring so loud it deafened all other sound around me. After another flicker, the ghost was gone.

  Terror froze me in place. This had to be Sarah’s doing. She was the only It Girl strong enough in her voodoo to do this. If she was tormenting us, it meant she had the right to. What allowed her magic to extend over my family? I hadn’t done anything to her – not even when baited to.

  Realization hit me like a towering wave as my gaze slid to Dad. I yelled over the clattering and rumbling, hoping he could make out the words. “You have to tell me if you did something to Sarah!”

  His eyes reflected my terror, his mouth hanging open.

  “Did you do something to her?” I repeated. “DID YOU?”

  The flickering lights stayed on a moment longer then snapped off completely, right as the quaking of the house came to a standstill. The pitch black swallowed us. I wanted to believe the scare was over, but the growing unease in my stomach told me things were just beginning.

  The pipes in our house groaned loudly. Laughter cackled unseen, as if living inside our walls. I recognized the sickening sound as Sarah’s voice. But when I checked around, she was nowhere to be seen.

  “Dad?” I whispered, voice trembling. More shuffling, like footsteps on debris. Then just as quick, that stopped, too. “Please, Dad. Please, tell me.”

  “I was trying to protect you.” He grabbed at his chest, curling forward, his face twisted in agony.

  “Dad!” In that moment, his pain reminded me of Mom. This couldn’t be happening. I couldn’t lose him, too. He was all I had. I lunged for him, looking all over for something that might help, but there was nothing.

  With his arm around my neck, I lugged him into the hallway. The house gave another jolt, throwing us to the side, careening me into the staircase railing. Dad’s weight crushed me, and I hissed as pain bolted through my arm.

  A few more steps and we could get out of here. I used my hip to pop his body away from mine, and together we staggered forward again until we reached the foyer.

  I peeked out the tall, rectangular window beside the front door. No one was out front. I needed to get Dad to my car, and from there, as far from Sarah as possible.

  Hazel’s place would be safe. If we could get there without Sarah in tow.

  I yanked open the front door, burning my hand on the metal knob and shrieking at both the pain and the sudden appearance of Ghost Girl on our doorstep.

  I tripped backward, tumbling to the ground with my burnt hand tucked against my chest. Dad fell out of my hold, his head knocking against the wall. My own agony was too intense to rescue him.

  My elbow had broken my fall, that pain second only to the searing fire in my hand I couldn’t ignore. The moonlight falling into the house on either side of Ghost Girl illuminated the bubbling skin on my palm.

  I crawled backward on my good hand, desperate to put more distance between us. Doing so meant moving farther from my dad. I glanced to the kitchen for something to help, and when I glanced back again, she was gone.

  Get up, Emily. This is not the time to lick your wounds.

  I made a run for it, darting into the kitchen and pulling open the drawer where Dad kept the oven mitts. All the other drawers and cabinets flew open at the same time. I choked back another scream, grabbed the mitt, and rushed back to Dad’s side. If he wasn’t unconscious, he was close to it.

  With my good hand protected, I managed to get the front door open unscathed. I hooked my arms under my dad’s armpits and started dragging him backwards outside. The door slammed against his legs. It was as if the damn house was doing everything in its power to prevent our escape. I fell back with him on top of me. The door bounced one more time, then slowly creaked open.

  After crawling out from beneath Dad’s weight, I pulled him off the porch, his heels thumping the wooden porch stairs as we went. From the yard, I checked in every direction for any sign of Ghost Girl or Sarah.

  It was too quiet. Wet grass, c
risp air, dark night sky. The streetlamps were out, but my vision had adjusted inside to the darkness, and I could see well enough to make out any unusual shapes or shadows. There were none. But Sarah had to be here. Somewhere. There was no way this Voodoo Ghost Girl decided to randomly start haunting us without direction. Just the same, I didn’t want to find Sarah so much as I wanted to avoid her.

  I dragged my dad down the drive and leaned his unconscious body against my Corolla as I fumbled awkwardly with the keys. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking, the one inside the mitt still throbbing.

  The street was calm, the rest of the world blissfully unaware of what was happening at the Bishop residence. I glanced around again for Sarah, but nothing.

  Not until I looked up.

  She smiled down at me from the front bedroom window – my dad’s room. With a wave, she stepped backwards until the dark inside swallowed her whole.

  I checked back to where I had left my dad leaning against the car, but there instead was Ghost Girl, splayed out like a doll, staring at me with dead, glossy-black eyes. I screamed and jumped back.

  “Dad!” I scanned the area, frantic. “Dad, where are you?”

  The world was a spinning blur. I could barely see through my tears. A hand grabbed at my calf. A cold jolt traveled up my spine. When I turned my head, it was Dad again, where Ghost Girl had been.

  Sarah was playing tricks on me. I wasn’t sure how much of what I was seeing was illusion. When Dad whispered, “Emily, we have to go,” I knew it was really him.

  I hurried to get the car door open and heaved my dad into the backseat. Tucking myself into the driver’s seat, I stabbed the key into the ignition. Dad was in back, his body twisting, moans and whimpers pressing past his lips. But the engine wouldn’t turn. Damn it! Damn her.

  Sarah and the other three It Girls – Kate and the twins – appeared out of nowhere, standing at the hood of my car, violently smacking their hands over and over, yelling and screaming and laughing.

  I flipped the lock button and tried again with the engine. My prayers went unanswered, so I dug my cell phone out of my pocket and hit a button to light up the screen. No signal. Of-freaking-course. I tried dialing Noah anyway, but it was gone. No service whatsoever. Then everything stopped. The girls disappeared. The streetlights flickered on. The air calmed.