Andy stumbled over to the pile, and picked up the axe. “Now what?”
“I want you to cut off Jenny’s hand. Either one is perfectly fine, no need to be picky!”
“You freak show!” Jenny cried out, before Andy tackled her and pinned her down.
“Andy, no! Please!” she screamed through tears.
Andy held her down, his knees on her chest, and with his free hand he pinned her right arm. “I’m fucking sorry, it’s me or you!” He raised the axe back, just as far as it could go, and his lips trembled for a brief second. He sloppily brought the axe down on her arm, and quite missed her wrist. Jenny cried out loudly, nearly shrill enough to shatter glass. He raised the axe, and tried again. This time it connected with her wrist. Each hack made her scream, and her sobs grew loud and panicked. Blood, red and hot, spattered across his face as his axe swung up and down, an echo of breaking and chipping bone filling the room. Jenny’s sobs were soon the only thing heard. He rolled off of her, stumbling, exhausted from the exertion.
She curled into a sobbing ball, as Andy stood up and dropped the axe.
“You are a violent little shit, aren’t you Andy? Isn’t she your girlfriend? Tsk tsk.” Marshall shook his head.
“Very well, Jenny dear, you are next. Why don’t you pick up a weapon? We have the…”
But Jenny stood up, and grabbed the knife, and rushed toward Andy, blood spurting from her stump. She stabbed him twice in the ribs, and his screams of surprise filled the room. Jenny felt vomit rise in her throat as she heard the knife meeting his bones. But still, her hatred propelled her, as the hot and sticky blood crept up her hand.
“What the fuck?!” He pushed her away from him, the knife still lodged in his side. She kicked at him, clutching her bleeding stump of an arm to her chest, the blood soaking up into her shirt. She retreated behind the chest, where she crouched down, sobbing into her knees.
“I can’t believe I just did that. Oh, my God.” She looked around at all of them, finally looking up at Marshall with her mouth slightly open, a crazed expression on her face, which grew pale at the loss of blood.
“Jenny, thank you for being so enthusiastic, but you can only cut them, not stab. We want them to stay alive for a little longer. Oh my, Andy is bleeding quite a bit, isn’t he? How entertaining!”
Andy sputtered and ripped the knife out of himself, though it was difficult to extract it in one clean motion. “Fucking bitch.”
Marshall shook his head. “I think you shouldn’t have removed that so quickly. The blood will come sooner, now. It looks like Marcus & Jenny will be our finalists.”
Jenny yanked at her shirt until it tore and pulled off a strip of fabric. Huffing, she shakily made herself a tourniquet to staunch the flow of blood. She kept her eyes going to each of them, fear glistening in her tears.
“Clever girl,” Marshall complimented her. “You two boobs should take a note from her book.”
“You don’t know shit!” Andy said viciously.
“What happens if we all die?” Marcus asked.
“Then I put this gun in my mouth and eat a bullet sandwich, of course, and this video will go to all of your social media. We die tonight with a purpose. Bullies will think twice before ruining another life. Won’t that be a legacy?”
“But you’re ruining our lives, don’t you realize how stupid that sounds?” Jenny exclaimed, before she was wracked with another wave of pain. “God…” she knelt and started hyperventilating. She scrunched her eyes, and almost seemed to pray with her head bowed.
Marcus looked at her and quickly cast his eyes to the ground, mumbling something.
“You are losing a lot of blood, too. Perhaps Marcus will be our winner. How interesting. Is that what you’re thinking about?” Marshall shrugged after the boy didn’t move. “On to the next, then?”
“What is it?” Marcus asked.
“The razors. Or the Powders.”
Marcus screwed up his face. “What’s in the powder?”
“That’s part of the mystery!” Marshall sang.
“Just tell me,” Marcus screamed, “Please!”
“Well, four are rat poison. The other is oxycodone, a wonderful pain reliever, something either Andy or Jenny could greatly benefit from, now. Don’t you think, Marshall? Take the razor, won’t you?”
“Fuck off,” Marcus responded, and picked up the bags.
“You may snort, or swallow one of them. Or, you could always slice a friend.”
“Twenty percent odds of being good, eighty percent at killing me.” Marcus looked at the discarded knife on the ground.
“Twenty percent. Eighty percent.” Marshall said with a sick tone of glee in his voice.
“Fuck this,” the young man said, and grabbed the knife, stabbing an expectant Andy in the leg.
“What the fuck, dude!?” Andy struggled with him, trying to prevent a second stabbing.
“You’re the weakest, and it was your shitty idea to harass the kid in the first place. It’s your fucking fault we’re in this at all. You deserve this.”
“You always were a jealous piece of shit. You’re gonna have to kill the bitch, you know that, in order to get out. You ain’t gonna kill your girlfriend, you’re gonna pussy out!” Andy said, as he fell to the ground from exhaustion.
Marshall watched as the boy turned more and more pale. “You’re gonna rot in hell, old man,” Andy said, laughing weakly before he moved no more.
“I’ve made peace with my God,” Marshall said, “Annnd that’s Andy out, ladies and germs! We’re in the finals! Marcus McAvoy and Jenny Salazaar! And please, children, remember—we’re cutting here, not stabbing. Trevor didn’t stab himself.”
The two teens looked at each other.
“We never should have listened to Andy,” Marcus said.
“It’s too late for that. I’m sorry,” Jenny whispered, as she held her stump of a hand.
“The powder, or the knife. Which will it be, Jenny?”
“Just do it, Jenny. You were better than all of this. You can’t choose who you love, or why,” Marcus insisted.
“Andy wasn’t always a dick,” she admitted.
“But he was! You just didn’t see it!” he screeched.
“Take the powder, it will be less painful than a stabbing.”
“And it guarantees you live.”
“Do you really think either of us is getting out of this, if we win?”
“Given the choice between certain death, and going out on my terms? I think I’ll go with the more positive outcome.”
“Why’d you make fun of Trevor?” he asked her, and he saw Marshall lean in curiously.
“I was fat. It made me feel better to make fun of someone else.”
“You were gorgeous,” he sputtered.
“I’m sorry, Marcus,” Jenny told him.
“Don’t be, just live.”
Jenny reached down, and took the knife in her hands. “I’m sorry, Marcus.” She raised the knife.
“Don’t be,” he replied, and Marshall’s jaw dropped as Marcus grabbed the knife, and stabbed Jenny in her sides, over and over, until the spatter of blood was too much, and he vomited onto the floor and over her body.
Marshall heard Marcus’ labored breathing with each thrust. He considered putting a bullet in the boy right there; he would be deserving.
Marshall looked down and let out a loud whistle. “Some pent-up rage in there, after all. But you toyed with her before killing her. You really are a little shit-bag.”
Marcus walked over to where the stairs were. “Are you satisfied? They’re all dead, and here I am. Last man standing. Last mother fucker standing.”
Marshall grimaced. “You are one sick little boy.” He pointed the phone at Marcus’s face, splashed red with blood, and the eyes of a killer. “I’d be doing the world a disservice in letting you live. But, rules are rules, aren’t they?”
Marshall stopped recording.
“Wait, what are you doing?” Marcus dema
nded.
“I’m saving the video, and after that, I’ll place an emergency call to 911. The cops will be here shortly, to ensure that you do live, but I hear prisons are pretty harsh on your type.”
“You’re a rat. You cheated me.”
“No, son. You did that yourself. You should have let the girl live, she seemed most repentant,” Marshall said, as he scribbled a note on paper, which he sat next to the phone.
“Jenny was a slut.”
Marshall huffed. “This video is gonna get a lot of attention. The world will see what you are, I just posted it, made it public. Makes you nervous, doesn’t it? Wonder what your mother will say.”
Marcus let the silent room speak for him.
“All the same, let me just remind you, the rat poison is always there, if you choose to be a coward. And between you and me, I personally would bet that you choose the easy way out. Cowards like us always do, don’t we?”
Marshall put the handgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger, welcoming blackness.
1914
my friend mary
L.W. Bellin
After the fire, she was gone. I’d gotten so used to having Mary around, talking to her throughout the day and sometimes into the night. My time spent with her could fill a lazy summer afternoon, lounging in the backyard, or a dreary winter storm, where we’d huddle together on the window seat, watching the snow fall against the gray skies.
But now, here it was October, Hallowe’en to be exact. Four months had passed, the house was gone, and with it, her.
I hadn’t really thought about what would happen to Mary after the fire. It had destroyed one-third of Salem and left 18,000 homeless. Gone were houses, churches, schools, and mills. My family had had to camp out at Forest River Park for weeks, like refugees. My father had worked at a leather factory in Blubber Hollow, near where the fire started; he became one of the thousands who struggled not only to find a place for his family to live, but also a new way to make a living. Eventually, we moved into a small apartment on a different side of town. My father found some work doing odd jobs for the people on Chestnut Street, who hadn’t lost their homes, but none of it was long-term.
It was a Saturday, so I didn’t have school, but I had chores to do. My father was out early, on the hunt for work. Mother had offered to bake for one of the many Hallowe’en parties that were to take place that night, and I was helping her make the dough and chop apples for the pies. She had also been busy baking cakes for the First Church Guild to sell that afternoon.
I thought of Mary as I peeled what seemed like fifty apples for every person in Salem. Surely, that was more than enough for the pies. Maybe it wouldn’t have felt so torturous if Mary had been there to keep me company. How I missed her.
Eventually, my mother sent me to deliver the cakes to Ames Memorial Hall. I headed down our road and over to Essex Street. On the way, I passed by the windows of R.S. Bauer, which were decorated with the most outrageous Hallowe’en novelties. A week earlier when we’d passed the store, I’d begged Mother to buy some paper jack-o-lanterns for the apartment, but she’d said no, we couldn’t afford that kind of frivolity this year, and that we’d be lucky if we even had any sort of Christmas to look forward to, so I could just forget about that Hallowe’en nonsense.
Still, I stopped and stared in the windows for a good, long time, imagining what it would be like to have those black and orange decorations scattered about our little apartment. We’d always had a real jack-o-lantern to place in the window on Hallowe’en, with Mother toasting the seeds in the oven while we carved a ghoulish face into it. Henry had been determined that we would have a real jack-o-lantern that year, too, so he and his friends had descended on Donohue’s store as soon as they got out of school the day before, to get one of the 200 carved pumpkins being given away. They had arrived too late.
“Honestly, Helen, I think some boys got out of school early just so they could get one. Like that nitwit Pete Walker. Maybe I’ll stop by Pete’s house on Hallowe’en and take his.” My brother talked tough, but I knew better.
There were still a few pumpkins for sale at the grocery, but I knew we didn’t have the money for one of those, even if Mother could have baked it into a pie or served it up for dinner after we’d had our Hallowe’en fun. This Hallowe’en was going to be different for so many reasons.
After I dropped off the cakes for the sale, I decided to go by our old house, or what was left of it. I didn’t know what I was expecting, but something drew me there. I guess my thoughts of Mary. It was a little hard to tell exactly where the house had stood. For weeks after the fire, the front steps had still been in place, leading up to where the front door had been—would have been. But now, they were gone, steps and door and all. Still, I was pretty sure I had the right spot, even though there was nothing there. And no Mary.
It hadn’t occurred to me how she was tied to the house we’d lived in. We had found a new place to live, but Mary couldn’t do that. She had been bound to the house itself, spiritually if not physically. With the house gone, she was untethered.
I’d first met Mary when I was about eight years old. I’d been up in my bedroom when I noticed that one of my dolls, the one with the blond ringlets and big blue eyes, was no longer sitting on the chair where I’d placed her for my afternoon tea party. I looked around and found her sitting on my bed, propped up against my pillows in her pink, satin dress with the ruffled lace. I knew I hadn’t moved her, so I went to the bed to look closer. As I was about to pick her up, I felt a hand on my arm. Then I heard a girl’s voice say, “She looks like you.” I looked to where I’d heard the voice and saw a girl about my age, sitting on the bed and stroking my doll’s hair. “You have the same eyes.”
I froze, but I wasn’t scared. I’d never been one to run away in fright from anything. Mostly, I was just curious. “Who are you?”
“I’m Mary. I live here, too.”
“How come I’ve never seen you before?”
“I’ve seen you. I thought we could be friends.”
Maybe I was lonely, longing for a sister to play with instead of just Henry. Or, maybe, I was just too young to be disturbed or acknowledge that this was anything out of the ordinary. So instead, I befriended Mary.
And, for a time, I was too stupid to hide my new friendship from my family. I would talk about her like she was someone I knew in school, and I would even talk to her regardless of who was around. My parents would overhear me conducting these one-sided conversations and began to worry. My brother teased me mercilessly for weeks after he learned about my imaginary “friend”. Even though Henry was a year younger, he could be insensitive and sometimes cruel. His teasing didn’t bother me all that much, but Mary didn’t like it, and she could be protective.
Eventually, Mary suggested that I should keep our friendship secret, so I began to pretend not to see her even when I did, and I wouldn’t speak to her when anyone else was around.
But I never gave up on Mary.
And so, I had looked especially forward to this day. I knew what they said about Hallowe’en, how the veil between the living and the dead was at its thinnest that night. How it was the most likely time for spirits to cross over. While other children were excited about pumpkins and parties and bobbing for apples, I was most excited about seeing Mary again.
* * *
After dinner, Mother and I went to the Larson’s party to deliver the pies and enjoy some refreshments. My father had had a long, tiring day, without finding any work; he just wanted to stay home and read. Henry took advantage of my father’s distraction to go off with his friends for some Hallowe’en mischief, but Mother told him that he had to stop by the party later and walk us home. It was her way of making sure that Henry was off the streets before he and his friends got into any real trouble.
There were lots of people I knew at the party, and plenty of good things to eat and drink. The decorations transformed the room and gave it a festive air; everywhere you looked was a ja
ck-o-lantern or a witch. Even the games looked like fun, but I was feeling detached from the others, a bit lonely. I’d so been hoping to see Mary, and so far there was no sign of her anywhere.
Around eleven, Henry showed up at the party to escort my mother and me home, but Mother didn’t want to leave. She was too engrossed in catching up with her old neighbors and finding out the latest gossip. She said that she would walk home later with Mrs. Martin. So, I left with Henry.
I didn’t tell Henry I’d been by the old house that afternoon, but I asked if he wanted to go by it that night. He was more than happy for an excuse to stay out late. We headed toward Lafayette Street and wound up standing on the same spot I’d been just a few hours earlier.
“Weird, isn’t it?” Henry said.
I didn’t respond. I was too busy scanning the empty lot for a sign of her. It was weird, but maybe for a different reason than Henry thought.
I looked up to where the second story would have been, trying to imagine my bedroom window looking out onto the street, where Mary and I had huddled during those winter storms. If I squinted, I could just picture the house as it was before the fire…
Then, when I stopped squinting, I began to see a flicker on the ground. I wasn’t sure what I was seeing at first, but then the flicker turned into flames, and they seemed to be everywhere, coming up from the ground in random patches.
Soon, the flames grew smaller, but there were more of them. They began to form a square, marking the footprint of the house as it had been. Once the footprint was clearly established, the conflagration began to rise up, forming a three-dimensional outline of the house. I watched in amazement as the flame lines crisscrossed through the air, melding to form first the interior walls, and then the clapboards, until the entire house had risen phoenix-like from the empty lot. What had been just a drawing in shimmering red now appeared to be a solid structure: our house, as if it had never been touched by the fire.
I didn’t know if Henry was seeing this, but I was too hypnotized to glance his way. When I heard him let out his breath, I knew that it wasn’t just me. We looked at each other, wonder on my face, fear on Henry’s.
One Night in Salem Page 8
