The Dead Girls Club

by Damien Angelica Walters

  I did a little up-and-down shoulder dance. The last story she’d told was about a guy who’d had a bad day at work. After his family went to bed, he stabbed them all—his wife, two sons, and baby daughter. She wasn’t even walking yet. For about a week, I kept watching my dad, wondering if he ever had a day bad enough to make him want to stab me and Mom. I decided not, but you never knew, Becca said. You never knew who was secretly a monster.

  Gia and Rachel shook their heads, and Becca said, “I didn’t think so. Not many people have, and most who have are gone.”

  “Gone?” Rachel said.

  Becca slipped her finger slowly across her neck. “Gone.”

  “Why’s she called the Red Lady?” Rachel said.

  “Are you going to let me tell her story or not?”

  “Okay,” Rachel said, pulling her legs to her chest.

  “She lived a long time ago when women wore long dresses and had to cover their hair. When men made all the rules and women had to do whatever they said.”

  I guess I made a face, because she fixed me with a glare. I didn’t mind when she told us about things from long ago. It had been cool when she’d told us about Jack the Ripper, but with the name Red Lady, I’d expected something else. Not boring history.

  “Did she have a real name?” Rachel asked.

  “Yeah, but nobody remembers it.”

  “So how—”

  “Rach! Let her tell the story,” I said.

  “Just asking,” Rachel mumbled.

  “The Red Lady lived in the woods near a village, and if you needed help, you could go to her. She could make someone fall in love with you or make your enemy have an accident or make your plants grow taller. She could do almost anything you wanted if you were willing to pay her price. And the more important or dangerous the spell, the more she asked for. Like she’d do a small spell for a chicken or some eggs, but for bigger things you had to give up something important.

  “Even though she did spells, she wasn’t a riding-a-broom and warts-on-her-nose witch. She was more powerful than that. And smart, too. Women sometimes went to see her not for spells, but about regular problems. She would give ways to fix them, ways without using magic. But when the women talked to their husbands, the men would say the ideas were theirs. The men didn’t know they were really the Red Lady’s because the women were careful, so it was okay for a while. See, the men were afraid of the Red Lady, afraid of her power, but they left her alone because they were afraid of what she might do if they didn’t.

  “Some of the women decided they didn’t want only the men to be in charge because that wasn’t fair or right, so they asked the Red Lady to help. At first she didn’t want to, because if the men found out they’d blame her, but the women wouldn’t stop asking. So she agreed. But since the spell she had to do was complicated, her price was that they had to send their oldest daughters to her to learn magic.”

  “Cool,” Gia said.

  “Right?” Becca said. “Except the parents had to give them up completely. The girls would live with her and be her daughters. The women said okay, but one of the women was only pretending.”

  “Like a spy?” Rachel said.

  “Exactly,” Becca said. “She told the mayor’s wife about the deal, and the wife told the mayor, and he hated the Red Lady more than anyone.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because when he was younger, he liked her but she didn’t like him back. Ever since then, he’d been trying to figure out how to get rid of her but was too afraid to do it by himself.”

  “Jerk,” I said.

  Gia looked over at me and said, “Big time.”

  “So the mayor got all the men together but twisted the story around, saying the Red Lady wanted to kill, not teach, the girls, and that she wanted to be the one in charge. And they believed him,” Becca said. “So they arrested her and they held a trial. She reminded everybody about the spells she’d made for them, even the ones they didn’t want anyone to know about, and all the other ways she’d helped, but they didn’t care. They found her guilty.”

  “Why didn’t the other women help her?” I said.

  “They couldn’t. The men wouldn’t even let them go to the trial. If they stood up for her, they’d be put on trial, too.”

  “But weren’t they her friends?” I said.

  “Maybe, but they were scared,” Becca said. “And it was way different back then. Or maybe they weren’t her friends enough. Maybe they didn’t care what was going to happen because it wasn’t going to happen to them.” Becca leaned back, palms flat on the floor, arms straight. “Anyway, they found her guilty and sentenced her to die.” She glanced at us one by one. “By being buried alive.”

  Rachel shuddered, Gia bit her lower lip, and I curled my toes tight and gnawed at a cuticle.

  “That’s not even the worst part. First, they dug a deep hole right in the middle of the village. Then they stripped off all her clothes, tied her ankles together, and cut off her hands with an ax.”

  We squealed.

  “Because a witch needs her hands to make potions, right? And to dig herself out of a hole. Then they cut out her tongue.”

  Rachel moaned. “Why would they do that?”

  “They were afraid she’d say the spells and use her magic.”

  “And everyone went along with it?” Rachel asked.

  “They did,” Becca said. “The Red Lady was quiet the whole time, even when they cut off her hands. She couldn’t say anything after they cut out her tongue, but she didn’t even moan or cry.”

  I ran my tongue around the inside of my teeth, wondering how it would feel to have a stump there instead. Would you be able to eat? Make any noise at all? Would it slip down and make you choke? I rocked my hips and slid my hands under my thighs, pressing them hard into the carpet.

  “They put her in the hole, threw her hands and tongue in, too, and took turns filling it in. They made the women and even the little kids drop some dirt in so everyone would be part of it. And the Red Lady watched them the whole time. She didn’t move, not even when the dirt started covering her mouth and nose, and that was worse than the watching. There was no way she could breathe and she should’ve been flopping around trying to get air, but she was perfectly still.

  “Finally, when they had the hole filled in, they went back to their houses, pretending everything was okay. They told themselves she was a witch, not a woman, and things would be better with her gone.

  “But then everyone who helped fill the hole had bad dreams, even the kids. They dreamed they were in the hole with her, and even though the dirt was going in their mouths and noses and choking them, her mouth and nose were dirt free and she was smiling. Everyone woke up choking, their mouths full of dirt for real. But they were so scared, they didn’t tell each other. And the hole was exactly the way they left it, all filled up. The next night, they all had the same dream again and woke up with even more dirt in their mouths. They told each other then and went to the mayor, since he was the one who decided she should be buried alive. They said he had to do something, but he said they were lying, it was because they felt guilty, but she was evil and they’d done the right thing.

  “That night the dreams and the dirt came back. They went to the mayor again, but he was dead, his mouth full of dirt. So they decided to dig out the hole and let the Red Lady out. They were scared, but they were too scared not to. They all took turns digging, but when they got to the bottom”—she spoke so low we had to lean close—“there was nothing, only an outline of her shape in the dirt, stained dark from her blood.”

  “That’s it?” Gia said. “But did they keep having the dreams? And what about the dirt?”

  “I didn’t say it was the end, but it’s all I’m going to tell you right now.”

  Rachel said, “That was awful.”

  “Come on,” I said. “I want to know more.”

  “Me too,” Gia said.

  “Nope,” Becca said, stretching her arms overhead. �
�It’s getting late and I have to get home.”

  I groaned. “Not fair, Becca. Not fair.”

  “It’s a reeeeally long story. I don’t think I’ll finish it next time, either.”

  I groaned again. Gia, too.

  “You probably won’t even like the rest.”

  “Ugh,” I said. “Don’t say that.”

  “Does it get worse?” Rachel said.

  Becca quirked the corner of her mouth, and like that, we were hooked.

  CHAPTER THREE

  NOW

  “Yes, Lauren was released five months ago,” the husky voice on the other end of the phone says. I can tell she’s smiling, too. A firm believer in rehabilitation, Alexa Martin.

  “Where is she now? Did she move back to Towson?”

  “You know I can’t tell you.”

  “No, I know. I was … What’s her mental state like?”

  “Given the parole board’s decision, it’s good. She’s happy to be out. I know you have a personal interest in her, but she’s served her time.” Alexa’s tone is gentle, patient. I recognize it all too well, although she’s had a dozen more years than I to perfect it. “She’s not the woman you knew. I’ve told you before, but it’s the truth.”

  I curl my fingers around the half-heart until the edges dig into my skin. “You should’ve told me she was out. You promised you would.”

  “To what end? Truly? And it was years ago when you asked. I thought it better to keep it all quiet.”

  I squeeze tighter. Oh, really? Better? What if I’d run into her while running errands? Or what if I’d stumbled upon an article detailing her release? Or what if she decided to send me a necklace in the mail?

  Keeping tabs on Becca’s mother had never been my intention, but ten years ago I met Alexa, one of the staff psychiatrists at the prison where Lauren was serving her time, at a professional development seminar. I’d known who she was beforehand, and while I had no intention of seeking her out, when I came back from a break, the seat next to her was empty, and I mentioned how much she resembled the actress Charlotte Rampling. It’s a good story, anyway.

  Over drinks a month later, Lauren’s name spilled from my lips. I kept to the official story, admitting I was a childhood friend of her daughter’s, and it’s been easy enough to bring her into the conversation now and again. Alexa’s far too professional to divulge in-depth details, but reading between her words has given me enough over the years. At least until now.

  “Is she still your patient?”

  “Heather.”

  “I know, I’m just shocked, that’s all.”

  “You knew it was a possibility.”

  “A remote one, yes, but …”

  “She’s paid her price, that’s all I’m going to say.”

  We hang up with a promise to get together soon. My fingers grip the half-heart even harder. Just because Lauren’s out doesn’t mean she sent this to me. For one thing, how would she have gotten it? If she had it all along, why wait until now? It doesn’t make any sense. I want to understand, but I can’t. Why spend years in prison if you know—

  I rub the confusion from my forehead, put the necklace in my desk drawer, and pull up a browser. I find the same article about her release and archived articles about the crime. She probably won’t be on social media, but I check anyway. Thirty minutes later, with no luck whatsoever, I shell out sixty bucks to a pay site claiming they can provide information on anyone. Unfortunately, the results can take up to twenty-four hours.

  Okay, then.

  Before knowing Lauren was released, I’d thought Gia and Rachel were the only ones who could be involved. Again, it makes no sense for them to wait until now, but I can’t completely ignore the possibility. So while still logged in to my oft-neglected Facebook page, I search for Gia Williams. A few profiles have no pictures; others obviously aren’t her. Maybe she got married and changed her name. I try Georgina Williams. The second profile listed has GIA in parentheses, the picture unmistakable. Small and curvy; straight, dark hair pulled back in a messy bun; wide, full-lipped smile.

  Most of the pictures show her and a man with a dark, close-cropped beard. Climbing Arizona-hued rocks; in diving gear beside a cerulean sea; roasting marshmallows over an open flame, a tent in the background. I stop at a photo of them standing beside a FOR SALE sign. He’s holding a bucket with gardening tools; she has a tape measure and paintbrush. The house, a pale-blue Cape Cod. Two-car garage. Nice front yard.

  The first comment says, CONGRATS! NOW YOU’RE OFFICIALLY AN ANNAPOLITAN!

  You’ve got to be kidding me. Annapolis? We’re next-door neighbors. Of all the places in Maryland she could’ve moved to. And we’re not exactly sitting next door to the old neighborhood. Annapolis is about forty-five miles away from Towson.

  The picture is dated July of this year. Two months ago. Curious timing. Maybe a little too curious? More pictures show outings with other women, dinners with other couples. They all show a woman content and happy with her life, not a woman who’d poke old secrets like a bad tooth. But what the world sees—what you present to the world—doesn’t mean a damn thing.

  I could send her a friend request. Play catch-up. But I need to be smart about this.

  It takes a little longer to find Rachel McAffrey, now Anderson—she isn’t friends with Gia, and her page is as frequently updated as mine. But I learn she’s married with a son and she’s an attorney, which seems out of character for the Rachel in my memory. A little more digging reveals she practices family law. The house in her profile picture’s background catches my eye and, if I’m not mistaken, isn’t far from where we grew up.

  A few minutes later, I have their addresses. Rachel’s is exactly where I thought, and Gia’s is so close we must’ve run into each other at some point. Annapolis is a small place. Starting points. For what exactly, I don’t know yet. I may not have made the first move, but I’m not going to sit idly by while waiting for the second.

  I tick names off my fingers. Lauren. Gia. Rachel. There’s no one else I can think of.

  Except the Red Lady.

  Leaning back in my chair, I cross my ankles. The Red Lady. What a wretched story; what a wretched beginning to the end. Before her, my friendship with Becca, Gia, and Rachel was the stuff of every healthy childhood. All that laughter, all that sugar and spice. Look closer, though, and you’ll see the sharp teeth and smell the cruelty lurking beneath the surface.

  I type THE RED LADY into the search bar but don’t press enter. I know what I’ll find: nothing. She was only ever a story. Becca’s story. And yet.

  And yet.

  Red Lady, Red Lady.

  I rub the side of my abdomen, frowning at the memory of chanting. The four of us were still talking then. Still friends. The Dead Girls Club. Four girls with a penchant for the macabre. Reading from true crime books about serial killers and imagining what it felt like to be killed in such horrific ways. The bloodier, the better. Gruesome, certainly. Our parents would’ve been as horrified by the eager tone of our conversations as our subjects: Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy, Ed Kemper. The names of their victims never summoned as easily. They made good press only when their pictures were lined up, a grim tableau of numbers. The more the merrier, so to speak. A bigger headline.

  They came first: the killers, the Dead Girls Club. The Red Lady came after. She was Becca’s boogeywoman, her avenging angel, her desperate wish for another, better life. The product of fraught emotions, her stories and overarching theme didn’t always follow the expected logic. What began as a story became something more, and what started as a chain around my ankle turned into a noose around my neck. Maybe Becca and I were damned from the first mention of her name.

  How exciting, how grim, that first story. Even now, the thought of choking on all that dirt sends a chill through me. At least I think that’s how the story went: a deep hole, a dying woman. But when you recall an event, you aren’t remembering the event itself, only the last recollection. A memory of a memory. And
if the mind wants something to be real, it can rearrange facts and occurrences to suit. Sometimes we make up stories to explain things to ourselves; sometimes we do it to hide the truth.

  Index finger held rigid, I jab the enter key.

  My search results: an Alabama ghost; an Upper Paleolithic–era human skeleton; Sekhmet, an Egyptian deity. I’ve seen the links before. Never the correct red lady, because she never existed, neither as ghost nor historical figure. And yet.

  Tell a story enough, it becomes something else. To the mind at least. It felt true. It all felt horribly true. And deep inside, in a tiny part of me that’s still twelve years old, she feels as real now as she did then. If I take her away, what’s left? Cold-blooded murder.

  She made me do it. I didn’t want to. I would never have hurt Becca like that.

  My eyes burn, and there’s a dry click when I try to swallow. I scrape the edge of my thumbnail along the skin around my index finger until I peel away a pale comma. The small wound stings but doesn’t bleed. I scrape until it does, then blot it with a tissue.

  There wasn’t as much blood that night as I thought there’d be. That’s a truth I remember. Another truth: I have no memory of burying her body. But I know I did it. I must have; I’ve a strong memory of digging, of washing dirt from my hands.

  I open my drawer, swirl the necklace’s chain. Feel a tightness in my belly at the liquid sound it makes. I close the drawer, catching the tip of my pinkie finger. I shake it off with a hiss.

  This is not my fault. And I can’t change what happened then. If I could, I would’ve already. All I can do is move forward. One way or another, I’ll find out who sent the heart to me. Then I’ll figure out what to do.

  * * *

  Ryan’s singing Linkin Park, which usually means good news. I shrug off my shoes and force myself to relax as I walk into the kitchen. He has a pot on the stove, a bowl in one hand, mixing spoon in the other.

  He turns with a smile. “Hey.”