The Undrowned

by K. R. Alexander

  My first goal has to be to get out of here. Fast.

  Before I can think about it too much or psych myself out, I jump into the water.

  Cold slices against my skin, making the breath burst from my lips in a cloud of bubbles.

  I thrash for the surface, my clothes heavy like lead, dragging me down, but I see the light up above me.

  Darkness claws at my legs from below.

  I keep expecting something else to scratch my ankles, for an icy hand to grab on and drag me down. But I make it to the surface without encountering any of the drowned. I look around. There’s no sign of Bradley, Christina, or Mario.

  There’s no sight of Rachel or the drowned, either, and that fills me with dread.

  My heart races in my chest, feels like it’s up in my throat.

  I feel like I’m swimming in the ocean with sharks circling below me, waiting to strike.

  I swim.

  I swim so fast and so hard that my arms and legs burn, and my eyes burn, too, but it’s only because the image of the dead kids with shark teeth and razor claws has me so afraid that tears flow from my eyes, my breath coming out in panicked sobs.

  I can’t see them, but I can feel them.

  Below me.

  Getting

  even

  closer.

  I swim faster. The shore seems to get farther away.

  My lungs burn and my arms feel like jelly, but finally, finally, I make it to the shore. My feet brush against mud and stone and I haul myself up to the grassy shore, collapsing the moment I’m on dry land. I lie on my back and close my eyes and try to find some warmth in the sun, try to calm my breathing.

  I need to figure out what to do.

  I need to tell someone. I have to. Even though it means Rachel will tell them what I did.

  But that doesn’t matter anymore, does it? I mean, she’s still walking around—no one will believe I killed her.

  But Bradley, Mario, and Christina are gone. Rachel killed them.

  Or the creature pretending to be Rachel did.

  Although I know I should go to the cops, I can’t bring myself to believe they’d help. I need to find adults who will believe me. Adults who know that Rachel is acting strange.

  I need to talk to her parents.

  Just thinking that makes my heart hurt. I haven’t spoken to her parents since we stopped being friends. But I don’t really have a choice. They’ll be able to convince the cops that their daughter is a killer monster better than I can.

  I push myself up and wobble a little when I stand—my legs still feel like jelly and my arms are noodles.

  The lake stares back at me, Bradley’s boat bobbing empty while new boats filled with happy families and friends start to make their way toward it.

  I turn and head toward the woods before anyone can see me and connect me to the empty boat.

  I don’t want to have to explain what I’ve just seen.

  I don’t think I could if I tried.

  I make it to Rachel’s house without getting pulled aside by a cop, even though I keep looking over my shoulder, worried that I’ll see flashing lights or the minivan of some family who saw me swimming away from an abandoned boat and chased me down.

  Just like swimming across the lake, getting to Rachel’s house is easy. Too easy. Why isn’t she chasing after me? Why didn’t she try to drown me in the lake when she had the chance?

  Because she isn’t done playing with you yet.

  I can’t help but feel like a mouse in Rachel’s maze, and I’m doing exactly what she wants.

  I try to take a deep breath to settle my nerves when her house comes into view. Three stories tall and filled with glittering windows, the place is huge. Especially compared to my house. The yard is perfectly manicured with little shrubs and a fountain. It fills me with dread.

  What if her parents don’t believe me? What if Rachel’s managed to fool them as well?

  It’s too late to turn back now. I square my shoulders and march up the front walk—only to have the door open before I can even ring the bell.

  My heart skips.

  It’s Rachel.

  “Hello, Samantha,” she says.

  She’s wearing a long sundress that clings to her damp skin, and her hair hangs lank and wet around her shoulders. Like she just got out of the water.

  How did she get here before me?

  An image of her sprinting yesterday comes to mind, and once more I’m reminded that I’m not dealing with my friend. I’m not even dealing with a human.

  I don’t know what I’m dealing with, other than that it is cruel and terribly strong.

  “Rachel, I, um—”

  “Didn’t expect me to be here. I know.” She smiles. Once more, I wonder if she can read my thoughts or if I’m just that bad at hiding them. She tosses a strand of wet hair over her shoulder. “But after that relaxing swim, I’m exhausted. That, and the nice meal. I thought I could use a nap.”

  I swallow. Did she eat Christina?

  “I … Are your parents home?” The words catch in my throat. I struggle to come up with a fitting reason for me to be here. Something to make her not suspicious. I know that isn’t possible. “My parents wanted to see if they, um, would like to go out to dinner next Friday.”

  It’s a total lie and it makes no sense. The moment the words fall from my lips I know there’s no way to take them back or make them convincing. I fully expect Rachel to call me on the lie.

  Instead, she just chuckles.

  “They aren’t in.”

  My heart drops.

  I say, “Oh, um. Maybe I’ll come back later.”

  There’s no way I’m coming back later.

  Maybe I could call and hope they pick up?

  “There’s no need to do that, Samantha.”

  I hate the way she says my name. Like she knows a terrible secret. And she does. She does.

  “What?”

  “They are on vacation,” she says smoothly. The door opens a bit wider. Something behind her catches my eye. “They won’t be back for a long, long time.”

  Her smile grows, and when I realize what I’m seeing behind her, so, too, does my panic.

  I take a step back.

  “Oh,” I manage to get out. “Okay, then. Well, I’ll, um, I’ll see you around.”

  Her smile splits her face in half when I stumble backward over the step and start to jog.

  “Yes,” she says softly. Even though she doesn’t raise her voice, her words ring in my ears. “Yes, you will. Soon.”

  It’s only when I’ve run a few blocks away that I feel like I can breathe. When what I saw can truly register.

  Behind her, on the white carpet, were two piles of clothes, perfectly laid out as if someone were putting together an ensemble. But they weren’t just clothes. They were her parents. Or what was left of them.

  On the carpet beneath them were people-shaped puddles of water.

  The last thing I want to do is go home. It doesn’t feel safe. Then again, nowhere feels safe. Rachel could be hiding anywhere. Just the thought makes me feel like I’m being watched. I try to walk slowly through the neighborhood. I jerk at every sound or movement.

  Is that color darting from behind the hedge a bird or Rachel?

  Is that swaying curtain from the wind or from the monster I’ve unleashed?

  Every single person who passes feels like Rachel in disguise. I try not to look suspiciously at everyone, but it’s difficult. I feel like I’m losing my mind.

  Rachel has somehow turned her parents into water.

  She’s somehow gotten the drowned to take our three classmates.

  And those are only the ones I know about.

  I don’t even realize where I’m wandering until my feet stop in front of the police station.

  I freeze.

  Cops wander in and out, and with the birds singing in the trees, there’s a part of me that knows this place should feel safe. Out of everywhere in town, this is where I’m su
pposed to be protected.

  I imagine walking up to the front desk, asking to speak to a cop or detective. Telling them that there is a girl in my class who is no longer a girl but a monster. And then I’ll have to explain how she has superhuman speed and strength, and she’s drowned three kids with the help of her undead friends, and she liquefied her parents, too.

  Just running through the conversation in my head tells me the absolute truth:

  No one is going to believe me.

  Without Rachel’s parents to vouch that their daughter is no longer their daughter, what hope do I have?

  At best, the police would laugh at me, thinking it’s some elaborate prank.

  At worst, they’d lock me up. Maybe because they’re worried about me. Or maybe because—if I’m going to convince anyone of anything—I’ll have to admit what happened on the docks on Wednesday. I’ll have to admit that I pushed Rachel and didn’t try to save her.

  They’ll definitely lock me up for that.

  I turn and start walking back to my house. Shame floods me.

  I’m terrified of Rachel, yes. But I’m terrified of getting into trouble for what I’ve done even more, and that will keep me from ever going to the authorities. I don’t want to face the consequences for my actions.

  In a way, I know, that makes me more of a monster than she’ll ever be.

  My parents aren’t home when I get there.

  “They’re running errands,” Jessica says when I ask her. She’s sitting in the living room watching TV, but she’s too focused on her phone to really see what’s on the screen. She barely even looked up when I came in.

  “Do you know when they’ll be back?” I ask.

  That makes her look at me.

  “No. They didn’t say. Why?” Her eyebrow twitches. “And why are you wet?”

  Because I feel safer with adults around. Because Rachel could come here at any moment. Because I had to swim away from monsters that ate my friends. I feel like I should be readying for the zombie apocalypse—assembling weapons and boarding up the windows and doors and hoarding food. But it’s not like I think any of those things would actually work against whatever Rachel’s become. She could break down any door and stop any weapon.

  All I can do is wait to see what her next move is.

  “Fell in the lake,” I lie. I don’t answer her other question. Just turn and start heading upstairs so I can dry off and change and figure out what to do next.

  “What’s going on?” Jessica asks. Her question stops me.

  “What do you mean?”

  She looks up over her phone. “Besides the prank calls? You’ve been acting really weird lately.”

  “How?”

  “You haven’t insulted me once this week, for one thing,” she says. She pauses. “You’re starting to act like, well, like before.”

  Before.

  Before Rachel and I stopped being friends. Before I became a bully.

  I know this is the part where I’m supposed to open up. To tell her what’s going on and we will bond as sisters and everything will be right again. It’s like there’s this closed door between us, and all it would take for things to be right again is for me to open it. But I can’t, because would she honestly believe that my ex–best friend came back from the dead and is now murdering everyone around me as revenge? She already thinks the phone call was a prank.

  There’s nothing I can do to convince her that what I’ve said is real.

  But if Rachel is targeting the people close to me, maybe the only way to save her is to push Jessica away. To act like my old self.

  “Don’t get used to it,” I mutter.

  She grunts and goes back to her phone. The door between us stays firmly shut and locked.

  * * *

  Once I’m showered and dressed, I feel like I should be doing more. More to get ready. More to find out what Rachel is up to. For a while I just pace back and forth by my bed, trying to figure out what to do.

  “What do I do?” I whisper to no one.

  That’s when I hear it.

  Voices.

  Coming from my nightstand.

  I freeze and look around. Is someone in my room?

  But no, I’m alone. But then—

  Something thuds in my nightstand, making the lamp shake. I yelp and take a step back.

  But the voices don’t go away. They get louder. And they start making sense.

  Help me, they whisper. Help us!

  The voices sound like kids. And one of them, I swear, sounds like Rachel. The real Rachel.

  I take a shaky step forward.

  My hand wobbles on the drawer handle.

  When I pull out the drawer, water spills over the edge, and the sketchbook plops wetly at my feet.

  It’s open to a drawing of Rachel. Rachel, trapped under the water, along with Bradley and all the other drowned people I’d seen at the lake. In shaky letters above the water’s surface are the words

  I sit on my bed with the soggy sketchbook in my lap.

  I can’t stop staring down at the picture. The details are so real. So lifelike. Almost like these kids are locked within the pages of the sketchbook.

  “How do I save you?” I whisper. “How do I save anyone? How can I make it right?”

  The sketch doesn’t move. Nothing changes. For a moment, I feel stupid.

  Then an idea strikes me.

  I grab a pen from my desk and press the tip to the page.

  What do I do? I write.

  I don’t expect anything to happen. I almost want to laugh at myself for thinking this could work. Then the ink bleeds against the page, spreading out in a smear and washing the image of the lake away.

  Replacing it with a new sketch. This one of me and Rachel outside of school.

  In the sketch, she stands on the steps looking forlorn, and I stand below her with tears in my eyes. My gut wrenches. I know precisely what this is, even before the voice bubbles appear on the page, saying the words we couldn’t take back.

  How could you? mine reads.

  Samantha, I’m sorry! reads hers.

  Just seeing the picture brings the memory back in a wave of sadness. I’ve tried to forget about this moment, have tried to turn it into something useful, like anger or hate. But seeing it again …

  A tear falls onto the page, soaking into the paper. I rub it away with my thumb, but the moment my finger touches the page, the image changes again.

  This time to Rachel in the hallway.

  She’s fighting with a group of girls, including Christina. They hold something above her head.

  A book.

  A journal.

  Read it! one girl calls.

  Don’t! Rachel responds.

  The image changes, becomes a close-up of Christina holding Rachel’s journal victoriously before her. She’s reading the journal entry aloud. Her words ricochet across the page. Even though it’s only text, I can hear them ringing in my head like she’s in the room with me.

  I feel bad for Samantha. Her parents are going to get a divorce soon and I think her dad is going to lose his job. She doesn’t have any friends because she’s so scared of being hurt. Even her little sister doesn’t like her. I’m her only friend. And sometimes I wonder if I’m just her friend because I feel bad for her. Because I know everyone feels bad for her.

  She’s just so sad.

  I can barely see the page anymore from the tears in my eyes. Distantly, I hear a door slam. Then the image shifts one more time.

  It’s a scene of the hallway. Christina tosses the journal back to Rachel. And they see me, standing farther off.

  Christina is smiling.

  Even your friend thinks you’re pathetic, she says to me.

  Rachel is crying. But the image of me is standing there with her hands balled into fists. And even though there aren’t speech or thought bubbles, I know what the drawing of me is. I know it better than anything else.

  I will not let anyone feel sorry for me!

&nb
sp; I’ll make them be sorry!

  I’ll make all of you sorry!

  That was the moment Rachel and I stopped being friends. When she revealed the truth—that she felt sorry for me, that she thought I was pathetic. And that was the moment I made the decision to never be sad or weak again.

  After that, I made the life of anyone who so much as looked at me as miserable as possible. I bullied them, and I made fun of them, until everyone in the school knew that I wasn’t someone to feel sorry for.

  I was someone to fear.

  The image fades, and with it so, too, does my sadness, replaced with an anger that has bubbled ever since that terrible day. I sniff and wipe the last of my tears on my sleeve.

  “What does that have to do with making things right?” I ask the blank page. “She’s the one who made everything wrong.”

  The page doesn’t answer.

  Downstairs, the phone begins to ring.

  For a while, I let the phone ring, thinking that Jessica would get it before I could reach it.

  Except the phone keeps ringing. Even when it most definitely should have gone to voicemail. It rings and rings, and after a solid minute I’ve finally had enough. I know who it will be.

  I make sure to slam the sketchbook back into the nightstand. I don’t want anyone else seeing those sketches. I don’t want anyone else to understand my truth.

  “Jessica!” I yell out when I slam open my door. Where is she? Why isn’t she answering the phone?

  She doesn’t answer.

  I make my way down the steps. I don’t see her in the living room. Maybe she went out. Maybe, unlike me, she actually has real friends who want to spend time with her.

  The phone keeps ringing.

  “What?!” I grunt.

  Mom would not appreciate me answering the phone like that. But she isn’t here. No one is.

  “Temper, temper,” Rachel says, her voice once more gravelly, echoing like she’s a dozen voices in the bottom of a well. “Anger like that will get you in trouble.”

  I swallow.

  “What do you want?” I try to make my voice sound forceful, try to make it sound like a demand. Instead, it comes out as a quiet squeak.

  “I already have what I want,” Rachel-who-is-not-Rachel responds. The tone of her voice makes me shudder. She sounds … pleased. “At least, for the most part. The question is, do you?”