All The Pretty Dead Girls

by John Manning

  Or, at least, she was.

  Ginny didn’t have time to ponder it. She wanted to get home to listen to the tape recording of her interview with Bernadette deSalis. She hadn’t had a chance to listen to it all the way through, and she knew from experience that little details were often missed in the actual conversation, and could be picked up by listening to the recording. She gathered her papers and headed off campus.

  Driving back to her apartment, she thought again about what Gayle Honeycutt had told her. These multiple Virgin sightings—what could they mean? Were they a symptom of mass hysteria? Had Bernadette read about one of them, and thus imagined her own encounter?

  Or was something else going on?

  Ginny wasn’t religious—but neither was she a disbeliever. Too much of what she had studied all these years could never be explained “logically” or “scientifically.” As an historian, her job was to record and interpret—not to pass judgment or rule out scenarios simply because they didn’t fit into her personal beliefs. Bernadette’s visions of Mary had gone beyond the standard Christian tradition. She’d seen the Divine Mother in her various incarnations. And now there were other sightings, all around the world—

  Ginny glanced over at her briefcase. Inside were printouts of news reports from as far away as China. Gayle Honeycutt had underestimated the story. It wasn’t just North America. It was the entire globe. And in reports uncannily like Bernadette’s story, sometimes the Blessed Mother appeared as a deity other than her traditional Christian self. In China, a girl claimed a visit from Quan Yin. In India, Durga had made another appearance, complete with her eight arms.

  And in each case, the Divine Mother had relayed an incredible secret. Just as she did to Bernadette.

  But that secret… Ginny thought, shuddering. How could she possibly believe that?

  If I believe that the Divine Mother is making appearances around the world, why should I doubt what she has to say?

  And could it have anything to do with these girls’ disappearances? Gayle had said Perry Holland had found evidence girls had disappeared from Wilbourne before. Was there any connection?

  Suddenly, Ginny slammed on her breaks. Ahead, in the gathering twilight, a group of children were crossing the road. They were dressed as witches and ghosts and tiny little red devils, carrying pitchforks.

  Halloween. That’s right. It’s Halloween.

  One little devil boy looked over at her through the windshield. He grinned. Ginny shivered.

  Back home, she tried to relax. A little pasta, a little red wine, and some good music. That’s what she needed before she settled down to listen to the tape.

  She always listened to Stevie Nicks when she wanted to unwind. “Just like the white winged dove,” Ginny sang, pouring a jar of spaghetti sauce over the noodles she’d boiled. She refilled her glass of wine and carried her plate into the living room.

  The tape recorder sat on her desk. She’d called both her agent and her editor to tell them about this latest development, and both were ecstatic. Ginny wondered if they’d caught the reports of the multiple Virgin sightings. The universe seemed to be writing her book for her. Ginny surely would have another best seller on her hands.

  Unless, of course, the Virgin’s warning went unheeded.

  Could it really happen? Ginny thought as she ate her dinner and washed it down with the wine.

  As “Edge of Seventeen” morphed into “Stand Back,” Ginny deposited her plate in the sink and refilled her glass. She took a deep breath, then headed back into the living room to switch off the CD.

  “Sorry, Stevie,” she said. “Now it’s time for Bernadette.”

  She sat down at her desk and hit PLAY on the tape recorder.

  GINNY: Thank you again for agreeing to be interviewed, Bernadette, and agreeing to be recorded. For the record, my name is Dr. Virginia Marshall, and I am writing a book about sightings of the Virgin Mary, and am currently a professor of theology at Wilbourne College. For the record, can you state your name and your age and tell me a little about your family?

  BERNADETTE: All right. My name is Bernadette Marie Claire deSalis, and I am thirteen years old. I will be fourteen in February. I am the youngest child of Pierre and Madeleine deSalis. I have three older brothers.

  GINNY: Thank you. Now, you’ve told me that you saw the Virgin Mary back in September, is that correct?

  BERNADETTE: Yes, I did.

  GINNY: Will you describe what happened?

  BERNADETTE: It was the night before school started. Every night, before I go to bed, I pray to the Blessed Mother to give me the strength to believe in the Lord and to follow His teachings. I also pray for my family, and for the world in general—for the sick, for the poor, and for the starving.

  GINNY: And you do this every night?

  BERNADETTE: Yes.

  GINNY: So what made this evening different than any other evening?

  BERNADETTE: (laughter) Besides the Virgin Mary appearing to me?

  GINNY: Yes. Is there anything you can think of that made the night different from any other night?

  BERNADETTE: No. It was a Sunday like any other Sunday. My mother and I went to Mass, then we did some shopping in Senandaga for school clothes—did I mention school was starting the next day?—and then we came back home. Mom made dinner. It was like any other night really.

  GINNY: And your prayer was the same as it always was?

  BERNADETTE: Yes. I don’t know why the Blessed Mother chose to appear to me that night, Dr. Marshall, although I know God in His wisdom chose that night for a reason. He has a plan, and I am part of it.

  The doorbell suddenly rang, startling Ginny. She hit the PAUSE button, hurried to the door, and discovered a couple of trick-or-treaters. The girl, no more than five, was dressed as a ballerina. The boy, about eight, was yet another devil, complete with horns and pitchfork. Ginny could have sworn it was the same child she’d seen on the road. He grinned at her the same way.

  “Trick or treeeeeeeet!” they screeched.

  She hadn’t gone shopping for candy. “Hang on,” she said, and rushed into the kitchen. She banged through her cabinets looking for something, but all she had were cans of tuna fish and boxes of ziti. She went back to the kids and gave them each a five-dollar bill.

  “Cool,” the boy said.

  After that, Ginny turned off all her lights. By the glow of the moon, she refilled her wineglass. She had a slight buzz going—it was her third glass after all—but she needed to unwind. She sat in the dark and thought about what was happening.

  Could it be true?

  Father Ortiz believed it could be. “It’s been prophesied,” he told her.

  Ginny had scoffed. “The Bible has been mistranslated so often that I can’t put stock in any prophecy.”

  Father Ortiz looked at her. There was fear in his eyes. “You’ve written about the lost books of Revelation, have you not, Ginny?”

  She nodded. “The ones that the Vatican supposedly keeps hidden, out of fear of panicking the faithful?”

  Father Ortiz nodded. “What if I told you I’d seen them? That I’d read them?”

  “I’d ask you if you thought they were forgeries, or later additions by some fanatical sect.”

  He smiled. “I am not an expert.”

  “So give me your opinion.”

  He demurred. “I’ve said too much. I simply want to impress upon you that this situation is…serious.”

  “Then why hasn’t the Vatican swept Bernadette off to Rome?” Ginny asked him. “Why not put her in hiding somewhere, as always seems to happen to those who see visions? Why get me involved?”

  That question, of course, had come before Ginny had learned of the sightings taking place all over the world. But clearly, the Vatican had known about them right from the beginning—and was unnerved by them. That’s why they were calling in experts like herself. Ginny was probably just one of many being consulted all around the globe. The fact that the Church was as unnerved as she was�
�

  Ginny sighed, switching the tape recorder back on. It was not reassuring.

  GINNY: So tell me about God’s plan.

  BERNADETTE: I can only tell you what the Holy Mother told me.

  GINNY: All right.

  BERNADETTE: It is the beginning of a great battle. A terrible, malignant evil has been manifesting in the world for some time now. And now one has come who will bring great destruction to all men and women. It is the One who has been prophesied.

  GINNY: Are you speaking of the Antichrist? As foretold in the Book of Revelation?

  BERNADETTE: I am.

  GINNY: And who is this Antichrist? Do you know?

  BERNADETTE: I do.

  GINNY: So tell me his name.

  BERNADETTE: That I am forbidden from telling. At least for now.

  GINNY: So are you able to tell me anything about him?

  BERNADETTE: Perhaps one thing. (Pause.)

  BERNADETTE: The Antichrist is not a him, but a her.

  48

  When Tish Lewis finally awoke, she was hanging upside down on a cross.

  She couldn’t scream. Her mouth was gagged. She was naked.

  A fire blazed in front of her. Figures in red robes moved about in the dark room, illuminated now and then by the fire’s glow. They were chanting.

  Tish struggled, but she was tied securely with strong rope. She knew her end was at hand.

  She prayed it would come quick.

  “Master!”

  The voice in front of her was familiar. Dean Gregory.

  “Master, for you!”

  Gregory let his robe fall open. Even though she was upside down, Tish could see clearly that the dean was naked, with a blood engorged erection.

  She began to cry.

  “On this, your sacred night!”

  Gregory approached her. The group was chanting, urging him on. Nurse Cochrane, Professor Adamson, even the dean’s wife.

  But not Oostie, Tish thought with some satisfaction. I killed Oostie. One less monster in your coven.

  That was Tish’s last conscious thought. Mercifully, her brain shut down as Gregory raped her. Her eyes never opened—not even after Gregory pulled away, the darkness in the room seeming to vibrate, to pulse with life.

  The darkness became the demon itself, and it swallowed what was left of Tish’s body.

  49

  Outside, the sky looked like snow. Impossible, Sue thought. It’s still too early in the season. November had just begun. Yet the gray, heavy sky looked ominous enough.

  She looked over at Malika, studious as ever, her nose in a book. They’d never really talked about their argument, just fallen back into a careful routine with each other. They didn’t talk much. Mostly just “hellos” and “good-byes” and the occasional grunt in between.

  “I’m heading into town,” Sue told her.

  “They’ll stop you at the gate.”

  “I have the guard fooled. I pull a cap down over my forehead and he thinks I’m a driver for one of the bigshots.”

  Her roommate lifted an eye to look at her over her textbook. “You’re breaking the rules,” she said softly.

  “Promise you won’t squeal?”

  Malika returned to her reading. “I’m not the type. I challenge authority.”

  There was just the slightest emphasis on “I” and it pissed Sue off. “And are you implying I do not?”

  “I’m merely referencing your support for these armed fascist goons on campus.”

  “Oh, please,” Sue said. “Have you ever talked to one of those guys? They’re quite sweet. As if they’d ever do anything to harm one of—”

  A strange image flashed through her mind. A guard—clamping a gloved hand down over a girl’s mouth.

  Had she dreamed it? She didn’t remember.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t trust them. Grow up a black woman in this country and you’ll learn that you can’t just blindly trust a group of white guys with guns.”

  That statement just pissed Sue off all the more. “Look, would you really rather the administration did nothing?”

  Malika threw down her book. “That’s exactly what they did! Nothing! For weeks! Not a word to any of us about Joelle and Tish going missing! Just lies!”

  Sue gave her a bemused face. “Tish Lewis isn’t missing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Sue began to answer, then realized she didn’t know. Why had she said Tish wasn’t missing? As far as she knew, Tish still hadn’t been found…

  Or had she?

  “I guess it’s just a feeling I have,” she said, puzzling to herself. “I guess I think she’ll turn up.”

  “Well, I’m not nearly so optimistic.”

  Anger flared again. “That’s what’s wrong with you, Malika! You’re always so pessimistic, always so ready to see the bad side of things!”

  “Tell me a good side to any of this!”

  Sue glared at her. “You know, maybe your problem is that you just haven’t gotten laid lately.”

  Where did that come from? Even as Sue said the words, she was aghast at what she was saying. Certainly she hadn’t gotten laid—she had never gotten laid. But she was deliberately giving the impression to Malika that she and Billy were having sex. And the weirdest part—she was enjoying doing it!

  Malika stood up to face her. “That is uncalled for, Sue Barlow!”

  Sue laughed, even as part of her hated herself for doing so. “You know, Malika, I’m beginning to wonder if maybe you just don’t like men. Maybe in fact you’re a lesbian. Ever consider it?”

  Her roommate’s eyes were nearly popping out of her head. “I am not a lesbian!” she shouted.

  “Not that there’d be anything wrong with that, right, Miss Limousine Liberal? Excuse me, Ms. Limousine Liberal.”

  “Fuck you, Sue!”

  Sue laughed. “I’m beginning to think you want to.”

  She gathered up her pocketbook and cell phone.

  “If anyone reports me for going off campus,” she said, one last parting shot, “I’ll know it was you.”

  She closed the door behind her.

  Once again Sue made it past the guard.

  Driving into town, she was mystified as to why she had deliberately provoked Malika in that way. But she had to admit, she enjoyed it.

  “That bitch thinks she knows everything,” Sue said to herself. “I’ll show her a thing or two.”

  Oh, her roommate got her so mad…

  She found a spot to park on Main Street. She was supposed to meet Billy at the Yellow Bird. She looked at her watch and saw that she was early. She’d go in anyway, and grab a booth.

  She took one close to the door. “I’ll just have a strawberry shake,” she said when Marjorie offered her a menu.

  She sat there and stared out the window. The square was deserted. She watched the bare trees bend and swing in the strong wind. The sky was still dark. It’s going to snow, Sue thought.

  And sure enough—a few wispy flakes began turning in the air.

  “Well, will you look at that?” Marjorie said as she placed her shake in front of her. “The first snow of the season. Gets earlier every year.”

  “It won’t amount to much,” Sue said.

  “Let’s hope not,” the waitress said before moving away.

  Sue took a sip. She was surprised at how angry she still was at Malika. Part of her said the fight had been all her fault, that she’d goaded her roommate into it by calling her a lesbian. But what if she had? Malika had only gotten what she had coming to her.

  “She’ll learn,” Sue whispered.

  “Do you mind if I join you?”

  A voice startled her out of her reverie.

  She looked up and instead of seeing Billy, she saw an older man. Sixties probably. Small, some kind of Hispanic. She resisted her Manhattan upbringing—that instinct drilled into her from childhood to not talk to strangers, to dismiss him with a wave of her hand and a curt “no.” Why this older man wanted
to sit in the same booth with her was rather peculiar and even a bit creepy—but Sue was intrigued. She gave him a slight shrug. “Be my guest,” she said.

  “I’m Father Ortiz,” he said as he slid into the booth across from her. He smiled at her as he opened his coat and shrugged it off his shoulders, revealing his priestly collar.

  “You’re a priest?” Sue asked.

  “I am.”

  “Catholic?”

  He nodded. “Right again.”

  Sue gave him a strange look.

  “I just wanted a moment of your time, Miss Barlow.”

  “How do you know my name? My boyfriend will be here in a minute—”

  “This won’t take long,” said Father Ortiz. “I understand you had a rather interesting encounter with a friend of mine recently at the hospital.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You seem sad,” he replied as though she had said nothing. “Is everything all right?”

  He seemed genuinely interested. Sue thought that his eyes looked kind.

  “I don’t know you,” she told him.

  “But I know you, Miss Barlow. I know that you must be very confused right now. Even frightened.”

  “Why would I be frightened?”

  “It’s not hopeless, you know. It doesn’t have to go the way they are expecting. You still have your own self-will. You still have a soul—”

  “Okay, now I’m thinking you’re crazy. Who are ‘they’? I’m thinking I should call the waitress and have her kick you out of—”

  “I suspect you are not usually so belligerent. Does it frighten you? Concern you?”

  Sue stared at him. “Your friend at the hospital. You mean that freak, don’t you? Bernadette deSalis? How dare she speak of my mother!”