The Dead Girls Club

by Damien Angelica Walters

  “Will do,” I say.

  My cell phone rings and I jump, but let the call go to voice mail since I don’t recognize the number. They don’t leave a message. I can tell Nicole wants to keep chatting, but I say I need to prepare for my sessions.

  “Call me later if you want?” she says, and I toss an “Okay” over my shoulder.

  The girls are already in the meeting room when I get there. Samantha’s sitting next to Abby, leaning close, the two speaking in fervent whispers. According to Samantha’s file, her background is similar to Abby’s—financial stability, private schools—but they couldn’t be more dissimilar. Abby’s the only girl in the room who resembles a child more than a young woman: cheeks rounded, body more straight than curved. It makes her appear younger than she is. Her eyes, though, belong to someone decades older.

  A few months ago, her parents discovered she was trading oral sex for pills. They were, of course, shocked. Abby went to private school and wanted for nothing. She did her homework, called if she was running late. You’d never have guessed she’d been abused by a close family friend when she was young. She never said a word until she was caught with drugs. Never said a word because her abuser had said he’d kill her family if she did and she believed him. Why wouldn’t she? We teach kids to listen to grown-ups.

  I get closer and hear Samantha say, “My cousin knows somebody who saw him, the real Slenderman.”

  “There isn’t a real one,” Abby says. “He’s just some Internet thing, and those girls killed their friend because of him.”

  “I’m telling you, he’s real,” Samantha says. “And that girl didn’t die. They’ll just have to try again when they get out of jail. Sometimes there has to be a sacrifice.”

  “Samantha!” I say, harsh enough to make the others fall silent and stare at me. “That’s enough. We have more important things to talk about here.”

  “Sorry,” she says, but she’s smirking.

  After I leave, I realize I forgot to tell Nicole what happened. But I doubt urban-legend nonsense counts as antagonizing. I doubt Samantha believes Slenderman is real. She’s a little too old. When you’re twelve, it’s different. You can believe in something so strongly you make it real, and then you can’t tell any difference between the truth and the story.

  * * *

  My drive to Evelyn’s, a neighborhood restaurant close to Gia’s house, doesn’t take long. I’m early, but its’s okay. I’m comfortable. This place is a known entity for Sunday brunch. The restaurant serves only breakfast and lunch and the food is good, the portions hearty. It’s sunny and warm enough to sit outside, so I ask for a table out front. Every time the door opens, out waft the aromas of bacon, syrup, and coffee, and I order a cup of the last.

  I sip my drink, one hand traveling to my waist. I woke with marks, four of them, along my side. Not deep enough to draw blood, but close; the red is pebbled with darker spots about to break the surface. Even now, as I touch gently through my clothes, the marks sting, and I’ve been unable to escape the flow of memories. Becca tried to hide scratches on her body from me, but I saw them. Bruises, too. Were there other wounds, other signs I missed or can’t remember? Probably. Kids are very good at hiding the marks of dysfunction. And they usually only get better as time goes on.

  I know things were worse for Becca that summer, for whatever reason. Maybe puberty, maybe her mom falling deeper and deeper into her glass. Maybe both or neither. Whatever the underlying issues, they both paid the price. And then some. I should’ve told someone, never mind what I promised Becca. I promised I’d help her, too, and I didn’t do that either. I’m drenched in guilt, no matter who took the official blame.

  Please be kind and rewind.

  We never said goodbye, not once, not even at the end. But it wasn’t supposed to end that way. It wasn’t supposed to end. Tears thicken my throat, and I wash them away with a big, too-hot swallow.

  Gia rounds the corner, beaming when she sees me. I rub my palms under the table and gird my mental loins. She’s in a striped top and slim-fitting navy-blue pants. Hair in a loose bun. After we order breakfast—French toast and bacon for me, the same for her plus a yogurt parfait—she says, “It’s so good to see you again.”

  My eyes prickle again. This shouldn’t be easy. This shouldn’t feel good. I bite the inside of my cheek until my teeth leave impressions.

  We end up chatting about husbands and work and parents and life and nothing and everything. More than half my food cools on the plate, but I don’t mind. I’m down to the last three bites when a family approaches and with them a girl about thirteen, give or take a year in either direction. She has pale hair, pale eyes, and delicate features, and the resemblance to Becca is slight but enough. A second too late, I realize I’m staring. Gia smiles, but there’s neither good humor nor cruelty there.

  “She reminds me of …” I say.

  She nods. “It’s strange. Until I saw you in the bookstore, I hadn’t thought about her in years. Now I can’t get her or that summer out of my head.”

  She reaches over the table, and her hand on the back of mine is warm.

  “I understand,” I say. “I’ve been the same. That summer shaped us in many ways. It was the last time we were all friends.” In for a penny, in for a pound. I drop my voice. “Do you remember the Red Lady?”

  She scrunches her face. “She was the witch story, wasn’t she?”

  “She was.”

  “I don’t really remember details, but I remember the gist.” She, too, lowers her voice. “And sneaking in that empty house? What were we thinking?”

  “Oh, come on,” I say. “It was fun.”

  “Our merry little band of criminals,” she says.

  Slowly, I rub my palms together, my skin gone clammy. “And the ritual we did? With the candles and all the chanting?”

  A faraway look from Gia. “Vaguely. Pretty sure it’s a law in the rule book of girls. Bloody Mary in the mirror, all that woo-woo ghost story stuff.”

  “We pricked our fingers, said some silly chant, and afterward we all had bad dreams.”

  “Wait, I do remember. And Becca insisted it was all real, didn’t she? Then got mad at you when you said it wasn’t?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “I can’t believe we never got caught sneaking in.” She sets her fork down, picks it up. “I can’t believe we never told.”

  “Why would we have, though?” I say.

  “True, but I’m just surprised Rachel didn’t say something, especially after all the stealing drama.”

  She looks at me like I should know what she’s talking about, but I can’t help frowning.

  “The stealing?” It sounds like a bad eighties horror flick.

  She’s frowning now, too.

  “Didn’t you know?” she says. “Rachel’s dad caught Becca taking cash out of his wallet. Apparently money had been going missing for a while and they figured it was one—or all—of us. But they weren’t sure, not until he caught Becca in the act. She said Rachel told her to do it, which was a lie, but it turned into this huge thing, and afterward they wouldn’t let us hang out with her anymore.”

  I sit back. Rake through my hair. “But … I thought it was because of the stories.”

  “The stories?” One corner of her mouth lifts. “Yeah, I think she ended up telling her parents about them, but that’s not why they were so upset. I can’t believe you didn’t know. I’m pretty sure all our parents talked about it. Mine were up in arms, like yanking a five-dollar bill from a wallet was tantamount to murder.”

  The words hang in the air, clinging like a bad smell.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, blinking rapidly. “I wasn’t thinking. I—”

  “It’s okay,” I say.

  “I mean, I may not have kids, but I can’t imagine hurting your own. Did she ever tell you what was going on? Back then?” Her eyes are filled with genuine curiosity.

  “No, she didn’t,” I say.

  You can’t ever tell anyo
ne.

  My fingers curl toward my palms, the edges of my nails digging into my skin.

  “Would you like a refill?” the waitress says, holding a carafe, and Gia and I answer by sliding our mugs toward her.

  After she leaves, Gia runs a hand across her breastbone, pinkening the skin. “I don’t remember talking about it much when it all happened. Do you?”

  “No,” I say.

  Given her quick swallow, I wonder if she’s remembering how we didn’t speak once I returned to school, many months later. We would sometimes say hi if we passed in the hall, but never more than that.

  She shifts in her chair, plucks her napkin from her lap. If she leaves on this note, with this past darkness hovering over the table, we probably won’t ever talk again.

  “Okay, enough,” I say. “No more morbid talk. We’re supposed to be catching up and having fun.”

  “I second that.”

  The rest of the conversation is safe. Innocuous. Recommendations of restaurants, niche stores, parks. Long after our plates have been cleared away, the pause before imminent goodbyes lingers.

  “We have to do this again,” she says. “Please tell me you want to too?”

  “Definitely.”

  When she hugs me, she presses her palms tight into my back for a brief moment. And then we’re going our separate ways. I start my engine but leave the car in park. I want this to have been a normal brunch with an old friend. No ulterior motives. Would she sit with me, eat with me, talk to me, if she knew what I did?

  I text Ryan. ON MY WAY HOME.

  HOW’S NICOLE?

  I feel a pinch of guilt as I reply SHE’S GOOD. Telling him I was meeting an old friend would’ve been fine, but it was easier to lie. Fewer questions to answer.

  I call my parents, and after his greeting, Dad says, “Hey, guess what? You know the old field? The county sold the land to a developer.”

  I grip the phone even tighter. The field sold? No, that can’t be right. “Are you sure?” I say.

  “Uh-huh,” Dad says. “They’re going to build townhouses. Big ones with garages on the bottom floor. Probably have them built in a weekend the way they do things nowadays, but better houses than an unused field, I guess.”

  I try to come up with something to say, but words won’t come.

  “Hey, your mom’s here, so I’m turning over the phone. Love you.”

  “Love you too,” I manage.

  Mom says hello twice, and I shake my head hard. One disaster at a time. “Did Becca ever steal from us?”

  “What?”

  “I remembered something, and I’m not sure if it’s right or not. Did Becca steal money from you and Dad?”

  “You’re serious? You called to ask that?”

  “Did she?” There’s a long silence. “Mom?”

  She sighs. “Yes, we had money go missing a few times.”

  “You never told me.”

  “Because it wasn’t much. The two of you were already having problems when we found out, so we made the decision not to say anything. Why?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why are you asking? What does this have to do with your patient?”

  She’s got me there. “Stealing can be a sign of a troubled kid,” I say. It isn’t really an answer, but it is true.

  “You need to let this go. There’s no reason to be so fixated on it,” she says.

  “I’m not fixated, I’m—”

  “You are,” she says. “If that’s all you needed, I have to go,” she says, not waiting for me to say goodbye in return.

  What the hell? That was weird. All I did was ask a simple question.

  I try to focus on driving but rub my palms over and over again on the steering wheel. Construction. In the field. I never thought that a possibility. And before they start building, they’ll dig. I have to go back and look for the knife again. If I can’t find it, time will surely have erased anything leading back to me. Fingerprints, DNA—there should be nothing left but rust. Even if they find it, they won’t know what it was used for. They’ll toss it out.

  But what about her, and why can’t I remember?

  My hands keep moving. Hell is murky indeed.

  * * *

  When I pull into the office parking lot, only a few spots are occupied, including one bright-red SUV taking up two. The SUV belongs to an accountant in a firm on the top floor. One of those loud, abrasive men who drops sexual innuendos into every conversation and tells women to smile. He tried the latter with me once; I gave my best professional leave me the hell alone face in return. He hasn’t done it again.

  The air holds a chill, a promise of the autumn days to come. The sky is a darker shade of blue, daylight slowly creeping in. I catch movement from the corner of my right eye and whirl around, apprehension cemented in my chest. Nothing but parking lot and a few cars. Another bit of movement, farther to the right.

  Dogwoods, their leaves turned burgundy for the season, border each side of the lot. I scan the trees and surrounding bushes. Nothing out of place. No one moving. The morning shadows offer only scant concealment, but I can’t shake the chill or the sensation of being watched. Cars move on Route 100; a woman calls out a cheery “Good morning!” in the parking lot on the other side of the dogwoods; leaves rustle. My name travels the same breeze. A low, indeterminate voice. I jolt backward, my heel wobbling on a loose pebble. I did not hear that. There is no one here but me.

  There is no one.

  My skin feels too small, my shoulders curling painfully in. I’m not sleeping well, so I’m on edge. Seeing and hearing things.

  A maroon sedan pulls into the parking lot, and I will myself to walk into the building with my back straight, strides even. My mouth remains dry on the elevator ride up, but once inside the office, the fear bleeds out. I’ve squeezed my keys tight enough to mark my palm with jagged grooves, a strange set of semi-stigmatic wounds. Gauging from the light peeking beneath Christina’s closed door, she beat me here. I stand at my window, peering through the slats until I see Ellie get out of her car. Then I twist the blinds open hard enough to make them rattle and shake. Happy fucking Monday.

  After my second patient leaves, I make a quick trip to a nearby home improvement store for a shiny new shovel, and when I come back, there’s dirt on the floor near my desk and the filing cabinet. A scattering of brownish-black. Dry and mostly atop the carpet, not embedded. Butterflies gather in my belly. I know it’s just dirt, but it wasn’t there before. I don’t have any plants in my office. Nothing’s on my shoes. And I locked my door before I left.

  I open my desk drawer, shuddering an exhale when I see the half-heart necklace. Then I roll my eyes. My patients are kids. Kids often have crud on their shoes. I sweep up, tipping the dustpan over my trash can. The pattering sound the dirt makes when it strikes the crumpled papers inside makes my fingers twitch. All I can think of is being trapped in a hole while the dirt falls down and down and down.

  A little while later, I’m organizing my inbox when Ellie brings in the mail. After the delivery, she remains by my door, leaning against the frame.

  “Do you need anything else?”

  “Oh, no, sorry,” she says, flushing. “I’m running across the street to the deli to grab some lunch. Want anything?”

  “No,” I say. “I brought leftovers, but thank you, and Ellie, was anyone in my office earlier while I was gone?”

  “No,” she says, shaking her head. “Your door was shut, so I assumed you locked it. Everything okay?”

  “It’s fine,” I say. Kids, I remind myself.

  She closes the door, and I nudge the mail with my elbow. A toppling Jenga tower, envelopes slide every which way across my desk. On one, my name and address written in neat capital letters. I don’t need to pull the other envelope from the drawer to know it’s a match. Time halts; the buzz of the fluorescent lights amplifies until it’s all I hear.

  This envelope is larger than the first, yet no less generic. Standard brown, nin
e by twelve inches, with a gummed flap. Same black ink, no smudge this time. No return address. Smeared postmark. Deliberately smeared, without a doubt. I can even imagine how it happens: the postal worker stamps it at the counter, the sender asks to check the address and runs a thumb across the fresh ink, the postal worker takes it back without looking and tosses it in the proper bin.

  The contents aren’t heavy, but bulky, crinkling slightly when I push. In my mind, I throw it out, carry the trash can to the dumpsters behind the building, toss it in with all the other rubbish. Brush my hands, banishing it from skin and thought. I don’t need to see what’s inside. It’s nothing I need or want.

  I dangle it by one corner over the bin. But I can’t let go.

  I don’t even bother with the letter opener. Inside is a piece of sketch paper, folded many times into an irregular rectangle. Slow and careful, I unfold it, the paper crackling. It smells of time—old basements and musty attics. It smells of childhood dreams gone wrong. Of wishes made on birthday cakes that never come true.

  It’s a drawing of Becca and me from the back, our hands clasped together, walking toward the empty house. I rest my elbows on the desk. Prop my fingers beneath my chin. Try to keep memories from rushing in. Try to keep from screaming. The drawing was there in the house that night. She’d hung it on the wall. I’m the one who took it down.

  Becca and I are in the foreground, the house farther back than it was in truth. Done in colored pencil, it’s faded where it was creased, yet faded in old creases too, where it’s been folded even smaller, small enough to perhaps fit into a pocket. I hold it close to my nose. In that instant, I feel her hand in mine, hear our tandem breath, see her eyes and the conviction there.

  Even with the passage of years, some of the pencil marks still appear sharp, defined. Our hair was drawn loose, but where Becca’s is flat against her back, mine is swirling in tendrils, as though I’m walking through my own private windstorm. And there are no marks of delineation on our hands, so they appear as one. Guilt claws at my heart, ripping holes too big to ever stitch closed.