by Jeff Sampson
V1: The vespers you didn’t observe.
FS: That’s one way to phrase it. But that is why I find this so interesting. The progression of the change . . .
V1: Yeah. I thought about it, and I guess it was sort of like a car revving up after not being used for a while, you know? Like someone turned the key and it churned for a bit, then died. Turned again and it churned even longer. Turned the key one more time and . . .
FS: Then the engine turned over, and you transformed all the way. Wonderful!
V1: Oh yeah, it’s totally a blast.
FS: Oh, please excuse my enthusiasm. I can sometimes be a bit, ah, excitable. Just ask my colleagues.
V1: I’ll be sure to do that later around the water cooler.
FS: [laughs.] You have quite the sardonic sense of humor at times!
V1: Sorry. I guess it’s hard not to be sarcastic under the circumstances.
FS: Yes, I suppose that’s understandable. [clears throat] In any case, let’s move back to this past chapter. Quite an eventful party. And interesting how many familiar names were there. It almost seems fated.
V1: Yeah, well, me beelining for Dalton wasn’t much of a coincidence, but—
[V1 ceases to speak as another round of muffled thuds and booms sounds. These noises are louder than the ones indicated in previous transcript (Part 2). Noises quickly cease.]
V1: Seriously, is everything all right out there?
FS: Must be. Yes, of course. If there were an issue, I’d surely be contacted.
V1: If you say so.
FS: Hmm, well, I don’t think we really need to go into further detail on what we’ve just read. Let’s continue on.
Chapter 9
There Has to Be a Logical Explanation
Lesson for the day, kids: Hangovers are real, and they are the opposite of fun.
I woke the next morning with sunlight slicing between my open curtains and stabbing my eyelids. I grimaced. My limbs, my back, my chest—every part of my body felt stiff, overworked. There was a constant throbbing pain in my forehead, and my mouth tasted like I’d spent last night licking a toilet.
Last night. Oh no, last night.
I sat up in bed and immediately regretted it. I still felt woozy, and my head seemed determined to roll off my neck. I forced open my crusted eyes. As usual, everything was blurry.
I fumbled for my glasses on my nightstand, then slipped them on.
The first thing I noticed: my pants. The nice, tight-fitting pants Dawn had let me borrow were torn to shreds, hanging from my hips like a denim hula skirt. At least the green tank she’d loaned me was fine. She’d probably start to notice soon if even more of her clothes began to disappear.
Everything in my room seemed in place, with the exception of the curtains, which had been left open, something I never do. Second story or not, I don’t want anyone able to spy on me. I realized suddenly that I had no idea when or how I’d gotten up to my room the night before. I remembered me and Dalton in Mikey Harris’s kitchen, I sort of remembered running off into the woods, getting sick, and . . .
“School,” I muttered. “Oh man, it’s a school day.”
The clock told me it was 7:43 a.m. I was supposed to get picked up by Megan in fifteen minutes.
Stumbling only slightly, I made it across the hall to the bathroom. I suddenly really, really had to pee, but my mouth still tasted horrifying, and I seriously needed an aspirin or an ibuprofen or something else for my head. I popped the pill first, putting my head down and gulping at the water pouring from the faucet, then compromised on the other two problems by sitting on the toilet and brushing my teeth at the same time. I kicked off the pants as I sat down. No use wearing those anymore.
Finishing my business, I flushed, got up, and spat the toothpaste froth into the sink. It hadn’t helped. The inside of my mouth still tasted like death.
It was then, standing over the sink and squinting at my own bleary, red-rimmed eyes in the mirror, that I remembered. I remembered Dalton, Nikki’s angry face, the triplets promising to hurt me, tossing poor Mikey Harris aside, chasing after Patrick’s smell, and . . .
Changing. I remembered changing.
“No way,” I whispered, and turned away from my hideous reflection. What Crazy Emily had done was bad. Supremely bad. Girls like me just did not go to parties and make scenes like that, did not challenge the royalty of high school, did not shove one of their prized leaders. And they certainly didn’t try to steal another girl’s boyfriend. That was something people did only in nighttime soap operas. Heck, daytime soap operas too.
And what was all that about, anyway? What was my alter ego’s freakish obsession with boys? Licking Dalton’s face, following another one’s scent—and that, too. The endless, irresistible urge to smell guys. It was like I’d transformed into a confident, kick-ass girl every night, but rather than be a superhero or something, I spent all my time trying to find a guy to pounce on.
What did that say about me? All this time I’d hidden in my room, reading my books, covering my, er, womanly attributes up so no one would ogle me. I didn’t do anything at school, really, so let’s face it: I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. I mean, I had my fantasies about who I’d like to be—not careers, really, just the idea of becoming a woman who was strong and confident and utterly calm in any situation—but before the past few nights they were just wistful imaginings. Other girls fantasize about being something actually achievable, like lawyers or doctors or artists or models. Heck, even wanting to grow up and be a mom is a goal.
But without really knowing who I was, what I was meant to be, I never imagined that maybe the real reason I wished I was like the cool girls on TV was because I wanted to . . . get a boyfriend. Which didn’t even make sense, because that had hardly ever been my lifelong goal, and besides, how pathetic is that? Not the wanting-to-date part—that was fine—but more that I guess some deep, dark, subconscious part of me apparently had only that as a goal. Dress up to get the boys. Act crazy to get the boys’ attention. Lick the boys. Chase the boys.
Standing there in the bathroom, my feet bare against the cold tile, I didn’t know what to think. Maybe my brain was still addled from the beer after all. I should have taken Megan’s advice the night before and tied myself up. Why hadn’t I? Why, despite how disturbing it was to have these crazy mood swings, did a big part of me find Nighttime Emily kind of appealing, even with her penchant for acting like a contestant on a trashy reality dating show? Breaking rules. Getting in people’s faces. That wasn’t me, no matter how fun it felt at the time.
And that was the whole point, wasn’t it? For all her many flaws, Nighttime Emily was the embodiment of every crazy fantasy I’d had since I started high school, given up Megan’s dream of us becoming popular, and completed my transformation into a wallflower loner. Only Nighttime Emily apparently completely lacked any sense of social correctness.
I turned back to the sink and splashed water on my dirt-streaked face, then ran a brush through my hair before pulling it back. Even though I felt supremely grimy, there was no time for a shower. I snagged the ruined pants from the floor, ran back into my room, and tossed them into the closet.
There was no denying I’d gotten drunk last night. Supremely drunk. But was it possible to get so drunk that I’d hallucinated? I mean, blurry though my vision was, I had clearly seen my arms and hands. I remembered them being longer, covered in fur, my hands transformed into claws. That wasn’t possible, clearly. I mean, just ’cause I was some sort of were-slut, that didn’t mean I was a . . .
Werewolf.
The word popped into my brain as I pulled on my jeans, and it felt so very right that I stopped with only one leg on. Falling back, I sat on my bed. I glimpsed Ein still lying on his back in the corner where I’d kicked him the night before.
A werewolf. What a crazy thing to hallucinate. Between that and the whole Emily Cooke spirit idea, maybe I’d just been watching too many horror movies. Combine that with booze . .
.
But then, what about how when I was Nighttime Emily, I spent so much time smelling everything? How I was stronger, faster, graceful? What about how my vision miraculously cleared, and everything I heard and felt sizzled with intensity? Or how I’d somehow managed to tear my pants to shreds with just my hands, how there was dirt still stuck under my fingernails from where I clawed into the damp earth . . . ?
And let’s face it: That explanation made a whole lot more sense than my theory that the other Emily had possessed me. Not that I had ever really taken that too seriously—
Well, maybe a little.
“There has to be a logical explanation,” I said, then let out a bitter laugh at how I sounded like the scientist character in every bad horror movie I’d ever seen once he’s faced with something out of the norm. “No, seriously. Maybe I found . . . scissors or something in the woods. Maybe . . .”
I didn’t know. I didn’t have any answers.
It had to be a hallucination, I decided. Beyond the whole wolf-girl thing, I also remembered seeing and feeling ghostly, shadowy figures standing all around me.
Werewolves. And ghosts. All of that belonged strictly in the realm of fantasy. At least my change into someone with a bad case of the crazies could be explained rationally by a brain tumor or something.
Reassuring.
It was 8:05. Already five minutes past the time when Megan was normally outside honking at me. School started in fifteen minutes.
Oh man, all this time I’d been getting ready to go to the one place I probably should never go back to, ever again: Carver Senior High. Home of the Carver Cougars and all the pretty, important people I’d made a complete and utter spectacle of myself in front of the night before.
So here were my choices: feign sickness and stay at home all day, trapped in my room with nothing to do but think about last night all day long, or go to school, where I would have to suffer the wrath of the entire junior class.
Okay, maybe you’ll think I’m even more nutso than you already do, but I decided on school. It’s just that, for the first time in my life, the idea of being trapped in a room filled with books, comics, and movies all about strange, supernatural happenings didn’t sound all that appealing. I actually wanted normal, boring reality for once.
Besides, I was back to being glasses-wearing, makeup-less, hoodied Emily Webb. Maybe no one would recognize me.
Right.
I was halfway down the stairs to the living room when the front door slammed, and I heard my dad’s stomping footsteps. He screamed out my name. “Emily? Emily!”
Confused, I peeked down the stairs and waved at him. “Yeah?” I said.
Relief washed over his face, and he put his hand to his chest. He was wearing his pajama bottoms with his sneakers on, and also his faded leather jacket. His glasses, as always, were crooked—had he been outside?
Before I could move, the door opened wider and Dawn rushed in, still wearing her clothes from last night, followed by my short stepmother.
That was when I finally remembered—I’d ditched Dawn last night. I was guessing I hadn’t checked in with her before ending up in bed, either. My face flushed with embarrassment.
“Emily!” Dawn called at the sight of me. She raced up the stairs to pull me into a hug. “Oh, dude, I was so, so scared. I’m so glad you’re fine.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I guess I got kinda drunk, and I wasn’t thinking. . . .”
I couldn’t say anything else because at that moment my dad and stepmom finally reached me, and they, too, drew me into a hug.
“I was worried out of my mind, Leelee,” my dad said. I could hear it in his voice; he definitely wasn’t lying. Oh, my poor dad! I’d never done anything like this, ever. How he must have felt . . .
“Sorry, Dad,” I said, my voice muffled against his chest.
“You’re in so much trouble, little girl,” he said. “But oh, am I glad to see you.”
My stepmother pulled away, her glasses wet with tears. A lump formed in my throat. She was such a nice woman, my stepmom, and here I’d gone and made her cry.
“I’m sorry, Katherine,” I whispered to her.
She sniffed and took off her glasses to wipe at her eyes. “We heard about that boy getting shot, and I had this horrible feeling,” she said between wipes. “I was so afraid that whoever is doing this . . .” She sobbed, and my dad let me go to put his arm around her.
For a moment, I thought she must have been confused about the gender of Emily Cooke. Then I remembered another detail of my blurry evening: the popping sounds. The girl screaming.
“A boy was shot? Who?”
Dawn shook her head. “I don’t know his name. Somebody at the party, though. A girl came screaming down the street after you ran off, saying we needed to call 911. . . .”
I couldn’t breathe. There were three guys who I saw leave the party right before I did, but only one of them was with a girl. Trembling, I ran down the steps into the living room. Fumbling with the remote control, I flicked on the TV.
“ . . . And now over to Nancy Smith, who is on location at Carver Senior High School in Skopamish, where another sixteen-year-old student has fallen victim to an unknown assailant.”
I could sense my family crowding behind me, but they didn’t say anything. I stood in front of the couch, so nervous that I couldn’t sit down or even lower the hand that held the remote.
The image cut to a view of my high school. There were some students and teachers milling around out front, but far fewer than usual. The camera panned over to rest on a blond woman in a suit, standing in front of the stone Carver High sign with a microphone to her chin.
“A community is broken by fear this morning at the news that another bright young student has fallen victim to a crazed gunman.”
A picture flashed on-screen: Dalton. Attractive, sweet-faced Dalton McKinney—who’d never said a bad word to anyone, but who’d acted totally opposite from his normal self last night, just like I had.
I gasped and put my hands to my face.
“Carver Senior High School football star Dalton McKinney is the latest victim of an assailant that police now believe to be the same person who killed fellow student Emily Cooke earlier this week.”
“No,” I whispered.
“Dalton McKinney is currently in Harborview Medical Center and listed in critical condition, though we were told just moments ago that doctors are hopeful for his survival. Fellow students and parents are at the hospital this morning waiting anxiously to learn if he’ll be all right, and whether or not police will be able to find the person responsible for these attacks.”
I clicked the TV off. Dalton was alive.
But he almost wasn’t. He’d left the party early and ran into the killer for one reason and one reason only: me. If I hadn’t acted the way I had, Nikki never would have become upset, Dalton never would have . . .
It was at that moment that the cautious pleasure I’d had from being Nighttime Emily went away completely. No matter how exciting she was, last night she’d taken it too far, and now I hated her, what she’d made me become, how she made me treat everyone around me.
I turned to Dawn. “The girl who ran back, is she okay?” I asked. “Was she hurt?”
Dawn grimaced as she remembered. “She seemed fine, but there was . . . uh, there was blood on her hands from trying to help that boy . . .”
“Did she say anything? Did she see who it was?”
Dawn shrugged. “I don’t know, it was chaos. Everyone was still reeling from whatever happened with you downstairs, and then the girl ran back screaming that her boyfriend had been shot.”
I didn’t ask any more questions, but even as I stood there wobbling with shock, I had to wonder: Why did the killer only shoot Dalton? If he was going around killing random teens, why not Nikki, too? Or Spencer, if he’d managed to catch up with them?
Maybe the shootings weren’t so random after all.
It was eight fifteen
. School was about to start. Suddenly I didn’t feel quite as gung ho about going.
Chapter 10
I Heard What You Did
I was officially grounded.
I know in the grand scheme of things, especially considering all the insanity of the past few days, being grounded should have been the least of my problems. But here’s the thing: I had never once been grounded in my entire life. I’d never done anything even remotely requiring a punishment of that magnitude. Doing grounding-worthy things usually requires a person to leave the house.
But drinking and wandering off and disappearing all night? Yeah, that was worthy of punishment, being forced to stay home with no internet or TV for the weekend. I wasn’t mad at my dad or anything. I was glad he was laying down the law. I deserved it.
Oh, how my life was changing.
I wanted to stay home that day, just surround myself with my dad and stepmom and Dawn, even if they were going to spend the next several hours lecturing me on the dangers of alcohol and of acting so reckless. My dad was sympathetic at first, thinking maybe I wanted to go to the hospital along with all my “friends” and hold vigil, waiting to hear about Dalton. I refused and gave a lame excuse about being afraid of hospitals; I couldn’t really explain why my showing up there would be the worst idea since George Lucas said, “Hey, how ’bout some prequels?”
Thinking I was trying to get out of my education on top of everything else, he forced me to go to school. I couldn’t really blame him.
Megan wasn’t outside when Dawn drove me to school. Of course not; school had started twenty minutes before. But a quick check of my cell phone showed that she also hadn’t called me. After the frantic way she’d been all over my case the past few days—ever since seeing me transform into the type of girl she loathed with every fiber of her lanky being—and after hearing about Dalton, surely she would have checked up on me.
That she hadn’t? I had no idea what it meant, but I had to assume with her it was because she was mad at me. Join the club, Reedy.
