The Dead Girls Club

by Damien Angelica Walters

“Why didn’t you wait?” I said. This was different than when she and I had gone alone Friday night. We were best friends. We did stuff together without Rachel and Gia all the time. And they did stuff without me and Becca. But the three of them going without me? That felt wrong, really wrong. They’d never done anything without me before.

  “We didn’t plan it, we just went,” Becca said. “We weren’t even there long; Rachel thought she heard someone in the house.”

  “I did.”

  “Did not,” Gia said.

  “Were you even going to tell me?” I said.

  “We were only there for a couple minutes. It’s not a big deal,” Becca said, turning away from me, toward Gia. “You know, there is something else we could do, something more than the stories.”

  “What?” Rachel said, and at the same time Gia said, “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a ritual we could do,” Becca said.

  “Like looking in a mirror and saying Bloody Mary three times?” I said. Everyone knew that didn’t work. Nothing like that did.

  Becca’s nostrils flared. “Sort of. But you don’t need a mirror.”

  “A séance?” Gia said. “Or light as a feather, stiff as a board?”

  “Nope, it’s way better,” Becca said.

  I wanted to remind them that when we’d done the séance last summer, Becca had blown out the candles and pretended it was the spirits, even though we all saw her do it. And when we tried light as a feather, stiff as a board, we dropped Gia and she hit her head.

  “What do we have to do?” Rachel said.

  “A bunch of stuff. And if it works, the Red Lady will step out of the shadows and show you her face.”

  “Then what?” Gia said.

  “That’s it. She isn’t going to do anything, not if you’re not doing anything wrong. You get to see her and then she goes away.”

  “Are you sure?” Rachel said.

  “Positive.”

  “So when can we try it?” Gia said.

  “How about Saturday?” Becca said. “We’ll do it at the house.”

  “But I won’t be here, remember?” Gia said. “We’re leaving for Ocean City on Friday and won’t be back until next Friday. You know that. I told you.”

  Rachel groaned. “Gi-a.”

  “It’s not my fault you forgot.”

  “We’ll wait for you,” Becca said. “The Red Lady isn’t going anywhere.”

  * * *

  My mom was out running errands when we got back to my house. I put on MTV, but I was the only one watching. Everyone else started talking about what body part they’d give up if they needed to ask the Red Lady for help. I said I wouldn’t give up anything.

  Then Becca said, “What if your parents were killed and the person got away with it?”

  “I don’t even want to think about that,” I said, glaring at her. But even then I wouldn’t ask the Red Lady for help. Not that she was real, anyway, because she wasn’t.

  “I would give up my boobs,” Gia said. “Nobody would have to die either.”

  “You can give them to me,” Becca said, making grabby hands.

  Gia squealed, and the two of them ran around like we did when we were little. We’d pretend our hands were poison, and if you got touched you had to act like you were dying: grabbing your throat, flopping down, gasping for air.

  “Yeah, but what if?” Gia said.

  “La-la-la, I can’t hear you,” I said, covering my ears.

  Becca yanked one wrist and Gia the other. I squirmed away.

  “You have to tell,” Becca said. “What would you give up?”

  Rachel stood in front of me and pointed one finger. “Eyes, fingers, or toes? Or boobs,” she said with a giggle.

  “Toes,” I said.

  “What about your hair?” Becca said. She was smiling, but it was funny. Not happy; kind of mean.

  “Sure,” I said. “My hair, then.”

  “I mean all of it,” Becca said. “And it would never ever grow back again.”

  “Like bald?”

  “Yes,” Becca said.

  “No way,” I said.

  “I thought you wanted to cut it off,” Rachel said. “Becca said you did.”

  “I want to cut it short, not all off.”

  “Nope,” Becca said. “You said cut it all off.”

  “I meant cut it shorter, to my shoulders, not all off,” I said.

  “That isn’t short,” Rachel said.

  “It is for me.”

  “We could do it,” Becca said, her voice quiet.

  “What?” I said.

  “Cut it. It would be fun.”

  I grabbed my braid. “Uh-uh. My mom would kill me.”

  “It’s your hair,” Rachel said.

  “I know, but it’s too thick. It won’t look right.”

  “We could cut it so short it wouldn’t matter,” Becca said. Her mouth was too open, her teeth too big, like she was ready to bite.

  My stomach clenched. I knew they really wouldn’t do it, but their faces said they would if I let them. Maybe even if I didn’t.

  Ignoring them, I plopped on my back on the floor between the coffee table and television, my head propped up with a throw pillow. I craned my neck and saw a faded yellow butterfly on the underside of the table. A crayon ghost, drawn by a smaller girl. I always forgot it was there. It made me kind of sad, made me think one day it would fade away to nothing, and by then I wouldn’t remember it had ever been there at all.

  Becca flopped down beside me but didn’t say anything. Gia and Rachel did the same on her other side. When my mom got home, we were still not really talking, just watching MTV. Then Gia and Rachel left, so it was just me and Becca.

  Mom came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishrag, and said, “Girls, I’m making chicken and macaroni and cheese for dinner. Becca, would you like to stay and eat with us?”

  “I can’t tonight, but thank you.”

  “Of course,” Mom said. “And I hope you know you’re welcome to have dinner here anytime.”

  Becca smiled, but when my mom turned away, it fell off. She got up, put the pillow back on the sofa, and headed to the front door.

  “You don’t have to go yet,” I said.

  “No, I do.”

  “Come on, stay. You said your mom was probably working late tonight, and you love my mom’s mac and cheese.”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Why not?”

  She met my gaze. “Because I don’t want to.”

  I stepped back. Crossed my arms. “Okay. Please be kind?”

  She made a strange face, like the way an old person looked at you if you made too much noise.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I said.

  “Maybe I don’t feel like being funny,” she said, and pulled the door shut.

  After dinner, I went up to my room and practically tripped over Becca’s backpack in the middle of the floor. I tossed it over one shoulder and thumped downstairs.

  “Becca left this, so I’m going to take it over to her house.”

  “Come right home after,” Mom said. “Or call if you’re going to stay there.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  When I got close to Becca’s and saw her mom’s car, I slowed my steps. I was getting ready to knock when her mom yelled. I couldn’t tell what she was saying, but she sounded angry, and not you-forgot-to-unload- the-dishwasher angry. Becca shouted back, then things got quiet. I knocked, but not too loud.

  Her mom opened the door a crack. She didn’t tell me to come in, just called Becca and pushed the door shut again. I scuffed the toe of my sneaker on the welcome mat. Maybe they should’ve had one saying GO AWAY.

  Becca opened the door the way her mom had. “What?” she said, her voice flat.

  “You left this”—I lifted her backpack—“at my house.”

  She grabbed the backpack with her left hand, which was weird. She was right-handed, same as me. But her right arm was bent and held against her chest
.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “You’re wel—”

  She closed the door. I stood there for a minute, waiting to see if she’d reopen it, but she didn’t.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  NOW

  I pad into the kitchen and stop in the middle of the room. The counter is crowded with more food than Ryan and I could eat in a day, let alone one meal. Bacon, waffles, toast, French toast, sausage. Jam, maple syrup, butter, Tabasco sauce.

  From his place at the stove, where he’s scrambling eggs, Ryan says. “I made Sunday breakfast. And I might have overdone it. A little.”

  “I see that.” I shamble to the coffeemaker and fill my largest mug. Wait for him to finish the eggs, load a plate, and carry it into the breakfast nook. For a time, we eat in companionable silence, and I feel safe in a way I haven’t for days.

  “Don’t forget, you still owe me a movie trailer,” he says, getting up to top off our mugs.

  “I know,” I say, but I did forget.

  When he returns, he says, “I know you can’t talk details, but is work okay?”

  “Uh-huh. Why wouldn’t it be?” I say, taking a too-big sip of coffee and scorching the roof of my mouth in the process.

  “No reason, just wondered.”

  He takes a bite of French toast, but I sense he’s waiting for something and steel myself for a conversation about money or the missing check. I hope not, because I don’t want to have that discussion this early on a Sunday.

  “Babe?” he finally says. “Who’s the red lady?”

  The world tilts on its axis. My vision turns hazy, and I think I’m going to faint—how Victorian—before everything sharpens into focus. Wood cabinets, steam from my mug, the sweet smell of syrup. The here and now. I try to keep from choking on a mouthful of eggs that now taste of sawdust. Please, let me have misheard. Please, please, please. I swallow and arrange my voice into an even cadence. “What?”

  “The red lady. You were talking about her last night in your sleep.”

  “I was talking in my sleep?” I spear a triangular piece of waffle, sure Ryan can hear the pounding of my fear, see the panic.

  “Yeah, you do it every once in a while. It’s kinda cute.”

  “What did I say?”

  “Something about a red lady and her face. I didn’t catch the rest ’cause you were mumbling.”

  He waits, open and curious. My thoughts tumble over each other. I was talking about the Red Lady? What did I say? What did I reveal? A sudden compulsion to tell him everything surges inside me, but I push it down. It’s too late for the truth. I’ve been lying for too many years.

  “She’s … she was a story my friends and I told when we were kids. Not a big deal.” I take a sip of coffee.

  “I almost woke you up because you seemed scared.”

  “Scared?” My voice is nonchalant with only a glimmer of interest. It sounds convincing as hell.

  “Yeah, you were saying ‘no’ and twitching around. You don’t remember it at all?”

  “No. Honestly, she was just a ghost story, an urban legend sort of thing.” I can’t prevent the defensive tone. “I was talking to my mom last weekend about some of my old friends. Guess it stirred up memories.”

  He cocks his head. “No other reason?”

  “For the dream? No, not that I can think of.”

  “Okay,” he says. “Just asking. Anyway, can’t remember if I told you already or not, but I’m going back to Mike’s today.” He pinches his fingers together. “We’re this close to finishing his kitchen, and I just want to get it done.”

  While he showers, I put away the extra food. He kisses me on his way out, and I say, “Did I say anything else last night?”

  “No. Nothing I could make out, anyway.”

  I search for duplicity and see none. Guilt curdles on my tongue. This is my husband, for god’s sake. Yet I can’t help the suspicion. What else have I said? What else has he heard? As I watch him drive away from the kitchen window, I catch a glimpse of myself in the glass.

  Red Lady, Red Lady, show us your face.

  My arms landscape with goose bumps. I don’t remember dreaming about the Red Lady, don’t remember dreaming about anything at all. It makes me feel weak. I should be made of stronger stuff. I’ve been through worse. God, have I been through worse.

  I finish cleaning the kitchen and take a quick shower. Grab my keys and GPS the address for the Lauren who doesn’t answer her phone. I cleared a couple hours from my calendar tomorrow afternoon, but Ryan will be at Mike’s for a while. My laundry can wait.

  * * *

  The neighborhood was probably nice once, but those days are long past. Even after my key fob chirps, I tug the handle of my car door, just in case. The apartment building smells strongly of soiled diapers and stale beer, and on the wall leading to the bottom-floor units, there’s a brown streak I hope isn’t what I suspect. The fluorescent lighting in here doesn’t do much to improve the gloom from the overcast day.

  I knock on the door quickly, and from inside a woman says, “Just a minute!” I step back, arms stiff.

  Her voice comes closer, the words low, but heavy with irritation. The woman who opens the door, holding a cell phone at shoulder level, is a gray-streaked blonde, about the right age. But the slight resemblance to Becca holds more to the coloring and build rather than her actual features. Pale skin, slim in a wiry way. Eyes pinched and sharp. Alert. No recognition. I’m about ninety-nine percent sure it isn’t her. But it’s been a long time. Who’s to say this isn’t how Becca would’ve aged if she’d had the chance?

  “Yeah?”

  “Hi, I’m looking for Lauren Thomas,” I say.

  “You got her.”

  “Originally from Towson?” I restrain the urge to wipe slick palms on my thighs.

  Her eyes narrow. “What’s this about? You from CPS? If so, I already told the lady on the phone what I saw. Them kids are home alone all the time.”

  “Oh, no,” I say. “I knew Ms. Thomas when I was a kid,” I say. “It’s been a long time, but I was friends with her daughter.”

  “You got the wrong person.”

  “I’m sorry to take up your time,” I say. But I don’t move away. “I’m Heather, by the way.” Nothing on her face save annoyance.

  “Whatever.” Her cell phone is on its way back to her ear when she holds it out again. “If you find her, tell her to stop listing my address as hers, all right?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You ain’t the first person to come here looking for her.”

  I jolt back a half step. “I’m not?”

  She sneers and says, “That’s what I said, didn’t I?”

  “When? Who was it?”

  “A couple months ago, and my boyfriend answered the door, not me. It was some lady, that’s all he said.”

  She’s already closing the door when I stick out my foot. It works, and the door bounces back.

  “What the fuck, lady?” she says.

  “Please. Do you know what she looked like? The woman who came here?”

  “I don’t know a goddamn thing, and even if I did, I ain’t telling you shit. You don’t move your foot, I’m calling the cops.”

  I yank my foot clear, and she slams the door as I’m about to apologize. I hightail it outside in case she decides to make good on her threat anyway, and there’s a man standing next to my car, back to me as he peers in the driver side’s window.

  “Hey,” I say, when I’m only a few feet away. “That’s my car.”

  He turns like a plastic skeleton, all jerk and jiggle. Tall, painfully thin. Dirty-blond hair. Scabbed skin. He reeks of body odor and rotting teeth. My guess: meth.

  “Can I borrow a couple bucks?” he says.

  “No,” I say. “Please move. I need to leave.”

  He leans against my car instead. “Why you gotta leave? Can’t you stay and talk?”

  “No, I can’t. Move.”

  “Sure you ain’t got money?
” he says, taking in the purse hanging over my shoulder. “All I’m asking for is a dollar or two.”

  “Get the fuck out of my way.”

  He steps a little to the side, but close enough that my shoulder brushes his when I reach for the door. His hand lands on my bicep, squeezes. “Why you gotta be that way?”

  This close, his breath is noxious, full of nicotine and decay. I wrench my arm free, unlock the door, and fling it open, practically throwing myself inside and locking it behind me. I start the car and race out of the parking spot, sending him staggering to the side. His mirth follows. I’m hot and blotchy with fear and anger. My shirt’s sticking to my back. My armpits are damp. But I’m fine. He was just a pain in the ass. He didn’t hurt me. Nothing I haven’t encountered before.

  As the apartment complex disappears in my rearview mirror and my physical reaction fades, the import of what this Lauren Thomas said hits me again. There’s someone else, another woman, looking for Lauren. Not just me.

  * * *

  Monday afternoon, I’m getting ready to leave the office with directions to the last Lauren Thomas on my list when a text arrives from Gia with a bunch of dates. SEE, I’M SERIOUS! reads the accompanying message.

  My thumb hovers over the delete button. This is what I wanted, but I wanted it on my terms. I pick at a finger, stopping short of drawing blood this time; there’s already a healing scab. Although most of the dates are further out, she has this Sunday listed and Ryan and I have nothing planned.

  BRUNCH THIS SUNDAY? I message back, adding a smiley face.

  It’s too soon, but what the hell. Cat and mouse. While waiting for her response, I open my desk drawer, peek down at the half-heart necklace. If Gia’s doing this … she’ll pay.

  I’m closing the drawer when she texts ABSOLUTELY! After we set a time and location, I head out, asking Ellie to tell callers I’ll answer them tomorrow, barring an emergency.

  This Lauren lives in a run-down rowhouse in Dundalk. Postage-stamp front yards. Street parking. The instant she answers the door, it’s clear she isn’t the right one. This woman is tall and broad hipped. Dark haired. Swallowing my disappointment, I use the same query I used yesterday, but she crosses her arms and cocks a hip.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” I say. “One last question, please. Has anyone else come looking for her?”