by R. L. Stine
No. I slid the wheel to the right and followed the dark road. Was that a squirrel I almost hit? No. Maybe a rabbit. Maybe a raccoon.
I was making the big curve onto Parkview, doing at least eighty, when the oncoming headlights filled my windshield. I blinked in the blinding lights. I cursed them for having their brights on.
And too late, I realized I was in the wrong lane. I was in the left lane. Too late. Too late to swing the car. Too late to avoid them. I heard the roar of a horn, like a siren, as the lights grew even brighter, washed over me, blinded me.
I’m driving right into them. Can’t stop.
13.
Sudden darkness. The long wail of the car horn ringing in my ears, bleating like an enraged animal. The horn finally stopped as the other car swerved into the right lane and roared past me.
Missed. The car missed. I forced myself to breathe. Silence now. The twin circles of bright white headlights lingered in my eyes.
Breathe, Caitlyn. Breathe.
Chill after chill ran down my back. A close call. I almost died. I didn’t really want to die. I was too angry to die.
I jerked the wheel and pulled the car to the curb. I hit the brake too hard, and the car lurched forward before it stopped, throwing me against the wheel, then slamming me back.
I cut off the engine. Then I sat there with my hands in my lap, staring out into the darkness, forcing my breathing to return to normal.
Caitlyn, you’re not handling this well. Caitlyn, get a grip.
Where was I?
I squinted across a narrow lawn to a square brick house with a single light on over the front stoop. A small one-car garage at the top of the driveway had its door open.
It took me a few seconds to realize I had parked in front of Blade’s house. I stared at the yellow light over the stoop until the house blurred behind it.
I knew I didn’t deliberately drive here. At least, I didn’t know I was going to park in front of his house. “I should go home,” I murmured out loud.
I reached for the button to start the engine. But then I lowered my hand to my lap. I needed to talk to him. No. I didn’t want to see him. I didn’t want to sit here for hours, till the middle of the night, waiting for him to return from his date. And then rush him, run at him, confront him crying and screaming.
No. I didn’t want that.
So … why couldn’t I start the car? Why couldn’t I move? Why was I sitting here, every muscle in my body tense, my stomach rumbling and growling, wave after wave of nausea making me hold my breath and clench my jaw?
I don’t know how much time passed. I glanced at the car clock when the red Mustang finally turned into the driveway. It was nearly one o’clock.
I watched the car stop in front of the garage. I watched the red taillights die. I watched the driver’s door swing open. Now it all seemed to be in slow motion, like some kind of slowed-down dream.
Blade stretched his arms over his head. Then he closed the car door quietly. Quietly so he wouldn’t wake his parents, I guessed.
I sat and watched, hands clasped tightly in my lap. When he started loping toward the kitchen door, I finally moved. I moved fast.
I shoved open the car door, grabbed my bag, and leaped out. I didn’t bother to close it. I ran around the trunk to the driveway and began to run, gripping my bag in one hand, waving my other hand above me head. “Blade! Blade!” I shouted his name in a shrill voice I didn’t recognize.
It was a warm April night, almost balmy, but the air felt cool against my burning cheeks. “Blade! Stop! Blade!”
Why did I drag my bag with me? I can’t answer that question. Was I thinking clearly? Not at all.
Blade turned and I saw the surprise on his face. I kept waving my hand above my head as I ran, some kind of desperate signal.
I stopped a few feet in front of him, breathing hard, my chest heaving up and down.
He narrowed his eyes at me. “Caitlyn? What are you doing here?” No warmth in his voice. His eyes cold. Wary.
“I-I-I” I stammered. I searched for something good in his face, just a tiny sign that he was glad to see me. No. Not even that. A sign that he liked me? No.
“It’s late,” he said, tugging the sleeves of his hoodie.
“I … I … Didn’t you say you loved me?” I blurted out, my voice trembling as if underwater.
He blinked. He lowered his gaze to the ground. “We had fun,” he murmured.
“Fun?” I cried. “Fun? You said you loved me. You know you did.”
He raised his eyes. His mouth formed a sneer. “You didn’t really think I was serious—did you?”
“Huh?” My mouth dropped open. I kept my eyes locked on him. I was straining to see the Blade I knew, the Blade I loved.
“We had fun, that’s all,” he said. He yawned.
I think it was the yawn that set me off. The loud, open-mouthed yawn put me over the edge.
I felt something in my brain snap. At that moment, at that second, something inside me cracked apart. I guess it was my whole life.
I really can’t describe it. Something in my brain just exploded.
I saw the surprise on Blade’s face. Or was it fear?
And then everything went crazy.
14.
“Fun?” I screamed. “Fun?”
He glanced to a window at the side of the house. His parents’ room? Was he afraid I might wake his parents? Is that all he cared about?
“You creep!” I cried. I had the handle of my bag gripped tightly in my right hand. I raised my arm and swung the bag at him, swung it with all my strength.
“Hey!” Blade uttered a startled cry and stepped back. He lowered his shoulder, and the bag swung over his head.
“Hey, stop, Caitlyn. Stop it.”
“Fun?” I shrieked. “Fun?”
I swung the heavy bag again. This time it glanced off his shoulder.
“Whoa.” His expression turned angry. “I’m warning you,” he murmured. “Stay back. Stop it.”
My next swing caught him on the chest. I couldn’t stop myself. I swung again, narrowly missing his head. I swung the bag again. Doubled him over with a blow to the stomach.
“Enough!” he groaned. He made a grab for the bag. Caught it from the bottom.
“Noooo!” I struggled to pull it away from him.
“Caitlyn—chill! Stop! Calm down! Can we talk?” He gripped the bottom of my bag and jerked his hands hard.
“Give it back!” I screamed. “Give it!”
The handle snapped out of my hand. I stumbled back. Blade held onto the bottom as we both watched all the contents spill onto the ground.
“You creep! You creep!” I was shrieking without even hearing myself.
Blade tossed the bag across the driveway. He glared furiously at me. “You crazy idiot. Are you going to leave?”
In the dim light from the stoop, I saw the knife. It lay on top of a scarf I had stuffed into the bag. With a shuddering moan, I dove for it. I gripped the handle tightly and raised it in front of me.
“Hey—what’s that?” Blade demanded, gazing from the knife to me.
My thumb fumbled for the button, and I released the blade. It snapped out instantly and I held it in front of me so Blade could see it clearly.
“Come on, Caitlyn. Put that down,” he said, holding his arms out at his sides, as if preparing to defend himself.
“Fun? We had fun?” I cried.
No way he could defend himself. I lunged forward and poked the sharp tip of the blade into the front of his hoodie.
He gasped and stumbled back. “Put it away. Are you crazy? Put it away!”
I jabbed at him, just enough to make him feel it. I poked him in the chest. Then I lowered the blade and poked his stomach.
“You’re crazy! You’re crazy! Stop. Put it down. Let’s talk.”
His eyes were wide. I could see he was in a panic. He kept his arms lowered, tensed, ready to fight back. He retreated a step, then another—and backed into
his car.
I had him trapped now. I moved forward and poked him again, pushing the tip of the blade against his belly.
“Give that to me!” He uttered an angry scream and swiped at the knife.
I tried to swing the blade out of his reach. But instead, I sliced through the palm of his hand. The blade cut silently. I gasped. I started to choke.
Eyes bulging in disbelief, he raised his hand in front of his face as a line of blood oozed onto the palm.
The blood trickled for a few moments. Then it started to spurt.
We both stared at the bleeding hand in silence. It was too horrifying for either of us to make a sound.
And then he began to wail, shrill high-pitched cries, waving the spurting blood in the air.
Like a fountain, I thought. Blood spurting like a bright fountain.
His shrieks made my ears ring. The sight of the blood made my stomach lurch. I gagged.
I had to stop that horrible sound he was making.
I swung the knife back, then plunged the blade deep into his stomach.
Again. I stabbed him again. Stabbed again.
That stopped the screaming. He made a gurgling sound and grabbed his belly with both hands. Dark blood seeped through the red hoodie and poured over his hands.
He dropped to his knees, moaning, making strange wheezing sounds. The blood ran out of his body. He raised his eyes to me, his face twisted in horror, in disbelief. He tried to speak, but blood rolled over his tongue and bubbled over his lips.
He sank on his side to the grass, hugging himself. He bled out so quickly.
I stood there watching, fighting back my nausea, gritting my teeth. So quickly. It happened so quickly. Or was I standing outside time? Did it actually take him a long time to die?
I can’t tell you, Diary. I stood and watched the spreading blood. Such a big puddle of his blood, with him curled on his side inside it.
I was still gasping for breath, fighting the deep shudders that paralyzed my body, when I knew he was dead. And as soon as I knew, I started to move, to breathe again, to think more carefully and calmly.
I wiped the blood-soaked knife on the sleeve of his hoodie. Then I folded it up and tossed it into my bag. Gathered my belongings and stuffed everything back where it belonged.
Then I drove home, sobbing all the way. Sobbing at the top of my lungs, big tears rolling down my face, burning my cheeks.
My boyfriend, my only true love, was dead. I killed him. Stabbed him and watched him bleed to death. Killed him. I killed him.
So of course I cried. Cried and sobbed and moaned all the way home. I knew my life would never be the same.
PART TWO
15.
Thankfully, Mom and Dad were asleep in their room. I couldn’t have faced them. I would’ve collapsed in a heap and never moved again.
How could I explain to them what I did? I couldn’t explain it to myself.
I stood in the dark kitchen without turning on a light. My bag suddenly felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds. I let it fall to the floor in front of the kitchen door.
The house was so still. The only sounds were my harsh breaths and the hum of the refrigerator. I took a few steps toward the kitchen counter. My sneakers squeaked on the tile floor. I pictured them covered in blood.
I pictured Blade swimming on his side in a lake of his own blood. I never knew that blood could smell so powerful. It smelled tangy and sour, very metallic.
I pictured Blade raising his head above the blood, gazing at me. Blood flowed down his face, thickly matted his hair. But he stared at me through the layer of blood, an accusing stare. He didn’t need to speak. I could read the horror and the anger on his face.
I shook my head hard, erasing the terrifying picture from my mind. I shut my eyes tight and held them closed. Could I stay in this darkness and keep all these pictures from my brain?
No. For some reason, Deena Fear appeared before my eyes. Her black hair flew about her head as if being blown by a hurricane wind. Her lips were bright red, brighter than Blade’s blood.
In my imagination, my feverish imagination, she raised a red hoodie in both hands and waved it at me.
Why is she doing that? Why is she even in my thoughts now?
The frightening stories of the Fear family contained many murders. According to legend, the Fears throughout their history knew how to murder people in the most hideous and painful ways.
But I’m a Donnelly. My grandparents came from County Wicklow in Ireland. We have never been murderers … till now.
I made my way through the dark house, then up the stairs to my room. I leaned on the banister and stepped as lightly as I could. I didn’t want to make a sound.
I closed the bedroom door carefully behind me, crossed the room in the dark, and slumped onto the edge of my bed. The window was open. The curtains drifted in and out softly in a gentle breeze. Pale light from the streetlight across the street washed over the carpet.
I sat hunched on the bed staring at the shadows of the shifting curtains. I don’t know how much time passed. I didn’t move. I barely breathed.
At some point, I scratched the fingernails of my left hand over the back of my right hand. Dug the nails into the skin. Just to feel something. Just to feel some pain. But I was numb. My hand was like a limp sponge. I didn’t feel a thing.
I sat there staring at shadows, chilled in the breeze from the window. Images rolled through my mind. Red hoodies … rivers of blood … Blade’s accusing eyes … I couldn’t shut the pictures out.
“I have to confess,” I said out loud, my voice hollow as it broke the deep silence. “I have to tell what I have done. I murdered Blade. I murdered him.”
I collapsed into shoulder-heaving sobs. I lowered my head, covered my face with both hands, and cried. Cried till my face and hands were soaked from tears.
The flashing red-and-blue lights made me stop. I lowered my hands and stared at the glare of the lights outside the bedroom window.
I heard a car door slam. The sharp sound snapped me from my shock. I grabbed a wad of tissues and mopped my face. Then I stumbled to the window and gazed down at the street.
A Shadyside police patrol car had stopped at the bottom of my driveway. The flashing red-and-blue roof lights gave the front lawn an eerie, unreal carnival glow. I watched two dark-uniformed officers striding up the driveway.
My knees started to collapse. I gripped the windowsill to keep myself up. A wave of nausea made me swallow hard. Again. Again.
They were here. The police were already here. Here to arrest me for Blade’s murder.
I lurched into the hall and flew down the dark stairs. So fast. The police were so fast. So quick to end my life.
16.
Gripping the banister tightly, I stopped at the foot of the stairs. The two cops stood side by side in the open front doorway. The pulsing red-and-blue lights behind them made them appear to flicker in and out of view.
They eyed me in silence as I stepped up to the doorway. They had their caps off. They both had short, black hair and dark eyes. They could have been twins, except that the one on the left was about a foot taller than his partner and had a thick black mustache.
The tall one had his right hand resting on the gun holster at his waist. They both stood erect, tense, as if expecting trouble.
I didn’t plan to give them any trouble. I knew why they were there, and I knew I had no choice but to surrender to them.
I gazed from one to the other. Their faces revealed no emotion at all. I wondered if they could see how much I was trembling. “I-I … know why you’re here,” I stammered.
Their eyes grew wider as they studied me. “You do?” the shorter cop said.
His partner shifted his weight uncomfortably. “I’m Officer Rivera and he’s Officer Miller. We were driving past and saw your front door open,” he said. “We wanted to make sure no one had broken in.”
My breath caught in my throat. I started to choke, but covered it up,
made it sound like a cough.
I wanted to laugh. I wanted to do a crazy dance. I wanted to hug them both.
“Oh my God,” I said, thinking fast. “My parents must have left it open. They … they were visiting friends. I think they just got home a little while ago.”
The officers seemed as relieved as I did. Miller smiled and nodded. Rivera lifted his hand off his holster. He brushed back his short black hair.
“Or maybe it was the wind,” I said, feeling braver. “I’ve been home all night. I didn’t see the door was open.”
“Check the latch,” Miller said. “Make sure it works okay.”
“Thanks for noticing,” I said, my heart still racing. “I really appreciate it.”
They started to turn away. But Rivera stopped and motioned to the sleeve of my shirt. I followed his gaze and saw the dark stain there.
My heart skipped a beat. I forced myself not to react at all.
“Is that blood?” he asked, studying it. “Did you cut yourself?”
I fingered the sleeve. Studied it, too. “It’s an old stain,” I said. “I don’t think it’s blood. I don’t know what it is. It won’t come out in the wash.”
They both gave me two-fingered salutes, touching their foreheads. Then they turned and walked into the pulsing lights, down the front lawn to their car.
I closed the door carefully. I let out a long sigh of relief. My parents hadn’t awakened. I leaned my back against the door, shut my eyes, and tried to force my heartbeats to slow.
They didn’t come to arrest me for murder.
But they’d be back.
I opened my eyes and ran my fingers over the dark stain on my sleeve. Still damp.
“The knife!” Did I say those words out loud?
The bloodstain reminded me of the knife, and I realized I didn’t remember what I had done with it.
The murder weapon.
In my horror, in my panic, in my insane moment of deadly rage—did I leave it beside Blade’s body? Did I just toss it to the ground and run?
Or did I take it with me?
