The Girl Clay

by Amy Cross

  Praise Attaroth.

  PART THREE

  Today

  Opening my eyes, I see that the cold light of dawn has begun to shine through the ice crystals that cover the bedroom window like tiny translucent scars. For a moment, I feel like a god staring at a tiny universe that grew during the night, and that's already being melted away by the morning warmth.

  I don't know how, but at some point I must have fallen asleep.

  As soon as I try to move, I feel a sharp pain shooting through my shoulders. I've learned over the years that although it's possible to sleep when you're freezing cold, your body tends to stiffen during the night. Rolling onto my back, I wince at the agony in my hip, which I guess is going to throb dully for a few days. Damn it, I'm definitely way too young to be having hip problems, but when you live on the streets you end up developing a few ailments here and there. I'm twenty years old but I must have the aches and pains of someone twice my age. I trashed my hip on my very first night on the streets, before I knew the best way to sleep when you're outside in sub-zero temperatures.

  The discomfort is almost familiar, almost possible to ignore, as I prop myself up on my elbows and look around the room.

  The boy is gone.

  I guess that figures.

  Light scatters ghosts.

  For a moment, I can't help thinking about Aaron, far away in his house. He's probably enjoying a smoke right now, letting the pain ebb from his body just a little as he sits in his dirty, unwashed bed. I hope the weed is bringing him the relief he deserves, and I hope I can get some more and take it to him before his condition deteriorates much further. First, though, I need to get to a city, and I also need to find some money. I have a few options, of course, but I don't exactly relish the prospect of hawking myself about again. I hate anything that reminds me of old Jacob Kenseth and his grubby hands, the way they used to run across my flesh and -

  “Kiss me, Clay. Kiss me like you mean it.”

  Suddenly I hear the sound of voices from downstairs.

  “Thank you so much for giving us an early viewing,” a woman's voice says. “I know it must have put you out.”

  “Please,” replies a man, sounding disgruntled, “I'm sure he'd give us a viewing at midnight on New Year's Eve if he thought he could shift this place.”

  “Actually,” says another man, “you'd be surprised. We've had a lot of interest in the property, despite its notoriety.”

  “Whatever,” the first man says. “Let's get this done. Why was the front door open? Please don't tell me someone's broken into the place.”

  “Of course not,” the first man says, sounding a little cautious, “I... I unlocked it before you arrived, that's all.”

  Taking care not to make any noise, I climb off the bed and make my way over to the door. My heart is racing and I'm desperately trying to work out how the hell to get away, but first I need to know what I'm dealing with. The last thing I need is a confrontation, but as long as this is just a realtor showing a couple around, I can probably keep out of the way.

  “Has the house been done up since the last family left?” the woman asks, as I hear footsteps in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs. “Well, not 'left', but... You know what I mean.”

  “I don't believe so.”

  “Apart from a fresh coat of paint over the blood,” says the first man.

  “What you have to remember,” says the realtor, “is that this house is brimming with potential. In fact, it's positively over-flowing with the chance for someone to come in and put their own mark on the place.”

  “It's creepy,” the first man replies.

  “Let's give it a chance,” says the woman. “Why don't we take a look at the kitchen, honey? What's the guide price again?”

  They continue to talk as they head through to one of the other rooms downstairs. I figure I could maybe make it down and out the front door before anyone catches me, but I'd rather wait for them to go out into the garden; at least that way, I should be able to get away without being seen at all. Generally speaking, these days I prefer to have as little contact as possible with people in the real world. As I lean out into the corridor outside the bedroom, however, I spot a shape over by the far window and I realize that the little boy from last night is now standing in the half-light, staring straight at me.

  “Go away,” I mouth.

  No response.

  From downstairs, there's the sound of laughter. Fake, obnoxious laughter, but laughter nonetheless. At this rate, that realtor might actually make a sale.

  “That's the garden,” I hear him saying, “but... Huh, looks like the back door was left open.”

  “Great,” says the first man. “You're showing us a house that's been broken into?”

  “The garden looks nice,” the woman interrupts, clearly trying to make the best of things. “It's a bit cold to go out there, though. Can we take a look upstairs?”

  “Fuck,” I mouth, stepping back into the bedroom as I realize they're coming back through to the hallway. As they continue to talk on their way up the stairs, I glance around the sparse bedroom, looking for somewhere to hide. I hurry to the window and try the latch, but it's frozen solid, and by now the visitors are already outside the door. At the last moment I duck down under the bed, rolling through a disgusting patch of fluff and dirt just as three sets of feet appear in the doorway.

  “Are you sure no-one's been in here?” asks the female voice. “Why's there a blanket on the bed?”

  “I'm sure it's nothing,” says the realtor. “In fact, I think I left it there last week when I came to air the place out a bit.”

  Liar.

  The woman walks over to the bed, stopping with her feet just a few inches from me. Seconds later, she presses down on the mattress above me.

  “It's warm,” she says, sounding worried.

  The other man comes over and checks.

  “She's right. Someone's been here.”

  “I'm sure no-one's been here,” the realtor says, hurrying over and pressing down on the mattress. “I'm promise you, this is just... raccoons...”

  “And that's supposed to make us feel better?” the man asks.

  “One of the reasons for the lowered list price,” the realtor continues, “is that the house will require a certain amount of work.”

  “We could knock out some walls,” the woman replies, “just to change the energy around a little. I know it's not perfect, Peter, but we can actually afford the deposit and then with the payments...” She pauses. “We can make it our own.”

  Looking over at the door, I spot a fourth pair of feet and I realize that the little boy is here. I guess the others can't see him, not even as he steps into the room. Great, this couple are on the verge of buying a haunted house. I just hope the ghosts stay quiet and out of the way, rather than making their presence known.

  “Is it cold in here?” asks the woman suddenly. “Like, colder than it was a minute ago?”

  “You want the blanket?” the man asks wryly. “It's probably got AIDS and Hep-B on it, or maybe just raccoon juice, but apart from that...”

  “Why don't we look at the other rooms in the house?” the realtor asks, steering them back over to the door, straight past the little boy. “There are four bedrooms in total, which makes this place absolutely perfect for anyone who's thinking of starting a big family.”

  They continue to talk as they make their way along the corridor, and I clamber out from under the bed as I realize that I need to either creep down the stairs and run, or just wait here and hope that they leave soon. Wincing at the pain in my hip, I look up at the little boy and find that he's staring straight down at me with the same dead, dulled eyes I first saw last night.

  “Go away,” I mouth silently. “Go!”

  In the distance, the realtor is still trying to convince the skeptical couple to take the house.

  Reaching down, I try to massage the top of my left leg, hoping against hope that it might give me a little relief
against the pain. What I need, though, is just to get warm, and that's not likely to happen any time soon. The colder the weather gets, the worse my hip is going to hurt, and I don't even know where I'm going to sleep tonight; all I do know is that I need to find somewhere that's less exposed to the elements, and I also need to start seriously working on a plan to make money. I'm hungry, and I need to get more weed for Aaron.

  “Hold that thought!” the realtor calls out suddenly, sounding much closer than before.

  I turn to scurry back under the bed, but it's too late: the realtor steps into the room and stops, his face filled with shock as he sees me.

  “Is there an attic?” the woman calls out.

  The realtor stays frozen in place, as if he can't quite believe that I'm here, before turning and looking back along the corridor.

  “Yeah,” he says, “I... Just give me a moment and I'll take you guys up to have a look, just... Just keep looking at that back bedroom, guys, okay?”

  “I was just sleeping here,” I whisper, already trying to work out how to get away. Glancing over at the little boy in the corner, I realize that I'm still the only one who can see him.

  “Jesus Christ,” the realtor says, looking over at the window for a moment. “Oh fuck, God, why today of all days?”

  “I'm not going to hurt anyone,” I tell him, getting to my feet. “I just want to -”

  “It's a lovely house,” the woman says, her voice sounding much closer.

  “Get down!” the realtor hisses.

  Ducking back down behind the bed, I listen as the realtor heads back out and talks to the couple some more, and a moment later I hear him pulling down the steps that lead to the attic. To be fair to him, he's good at keeping the conversation going, and I'm kind of impressed by the fact that he didn't just freak out when he saw me. I hold my breath, trying to stay as quiet as possible, until I notice the little boy coming around the bed and staring down at me once again. The craziest thing is, this isn't even the first time I've had to hide under a bed while a ghost watches me, although the last time things were a little different.

  Ten years ago

  “As the siege enters its third day,” the reporter continues, her voice sounding crackly over the tinny old radio, “officials say they're hopeful that members of the Cult of Attaroth will resume negotiations at some point over the next twenty-four hours.”

  “And is there any sign that police are considering a move into the compound?” asks the news anchor.

  “Not as yet, but there's definitely an increased military presence this morning. Several armored vehicles arrived at the northern perimeter just before we came on air. Now, no-one in charge is willing to go on record about the possibility of armed intervention, but as we've seen in the past there is certainly a set of circumstances that could result in the compound being stormed. If the cult members were to go through with certain threats, for example, or if gunshots were heard, I'm sure we'd see a very sudden reaction. We do know, however, that the cult's website claims a god named Attaroth is going to pluck the souls of the cult members out of their bodies as he passes over the compound, and there's obviously great concern that a mass suicide attempt might be part of the plan.”

  “What about the threat posed to people outside the compound? Do police believe the cult to be armed?”

  “'That's something I asked a police representative earlier, and he was very guarded in terms of what he was willing to say to me. Several assault rifles are believed to be in the compound, and there are fears that the cult's leader, Jacob Kenseth, might also have amassed a significant number of improvised explosive devices. We've seen robot bomb clearance devices arriving this morning, which suggests that officials are worried about booby-traps having potentially been placed around the edge of the compound as well as inside. Everyone here is surely keen to avoid a repeat of the scenes we saw many years ago at the Waco siege, so extreme caution is likely to be used at every step.”

  “And what about the child? We've heard conflicting reports that a young girl, aged ten or eleven, might be among the cult members, and if that's the case it's just horrible to think what she might be going through.”

  “That does seem to be the case,” the reporter replies, “although we don't yet know the identity of the child. Residents of the nearby town, Rover's Ridge, claim to have seen a young girl on numerous occasions, including as recently as a couple of days ago when one cult member, possibly the child's mother, went to a local store. Now, given the serious criminal charges pending against Jacob Kenseth regarding certain allegations, the presence of a child is obviously extremely -”

  “Clay!”

  Looking up from my hiding place under the bed, I see that Mom is standing in the doorway. She hurries over and reaches down, grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me out so she can snatch the radio from my hand. I let out a cry of pain as I feel a splinter from the floorboards cut into my wrist, and when I look over at the door I realize that another figure is standing in the shadows, watching.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Mom hisses, kneeling next to me. “Where did you get this radio?”

  “It was in one of the rooms,” I reply, determined not to cry. Over by the door, the shadowy figure is already starting to fade.

  “This is the mainstream media,” she continues, switching the radio off and holding it up for me to see. “We've talked about this before, Clay, this is the propaganda mouthpiece of the world we're trying to leave behind. If you listen to them, you'll just end up being fed lie after lie. Is that what you want?”

  I shake my head.

  “What did they say about us?” she asks.

  “I don't know.”

  “Clay, tell me.”

  I pause for a moment.

  “They said... They said Mr. Kenseth is a murderer. They said he went to prison for murder but then he got out because there was something wrong with the evidence.”

  “Bullshit!” she hisses.

  “And they said he's wanted in some other states for...”

  My voice trails off.

  “For what?”

  “For things he did to people.”

  “What kind of people?”

  “People like me. Little girls and little boys.”

  “You know that's bullshit too, right?” she replies, opening the back of the radio and taking out the batteries. “That's one of the classic ways they try to smear great men. You know he'd never do anything like that, don't you?”

  I open my mouth to tell her what he's already been doing to me for the past couple of years, but somehow the words catch in my throat. Mr. Kenseth always told me to keep it a secret between the two of us, and I know I'm not even allowed to tell Mom. I wish she'd guess, though.

  “They're trying to poison people against us,” she continues, slipping the batteries into her pocket before taking the radio's antenna and twisting it until it breaks off. “They want the whole world to think that we're disgusting criminals. That's how they're trying to paint us as a bunch of radicals, but it won't work, not when we ascend to the higher level that Attaroth promised. It's coming, it really is, I swear.”

  “Do you really believe all of that?” I ask.

  “All of what?”

  “The stuff Mr. Kenseth says. Do you think Attaroth is real?”

  She stares at me for a moment, her eyes filled with shock.

  “It's just...” I pause for a moment. “If he's not -”

  Suddenly she slaps me hard on the side of the face, and I fall back against the side of the bed. Tears well in my eyes, but I force myself not to run away.

  “Don't say things like that!” she hisses. “Don't ever question whether our one true god is real! He can hear you, you know! He's all around!”

  “I'm sorry,” I reply, my voice trembling with tears, “I didn't mean it!” I look over at the door again, but the shadowy figure has disappeared.

  Hearing a thudding noise outside, I look up at the ceiling as the room shakes for a momen
t. Over the past twenty-four hours, I've come to recognize the sound of a helicopter, but they're buzzing the building closer than ever and I'm starting to get worried that soon something really bad might happen.

  “What do they want?” I ask, turning to Mom. My cheek still stings from the slap, but I'm desperate to make the conversation normal again so she won't be mad at me. When Mom gets like this, it's important to talk her back down.

  “They want to crush us,” she replies. “They want to suffocate us and...” She pauses, before taking her locket in her trembling fingers. “Do you remember what we talked about, Clay? About what to do if Mr. Kenseth tells us we've reached the moment of ascension?”

  I nod.

  “And what did he tell us to do?”

  I stare at her.

  “What did he tell us, Clay?”

  “Drink what's in the locket,” I reply cautiously, even though the words make me feel uncomfortable.

  “That's right. And do you remember why we have to drink what's in the locket?”

  “Because Mr. Kenseth says we'll...” I pause again, trying to remember what we were told.

  “In order to ascend to the next level of existence,” she says after a moment, with tears in her eyes, “we have to shed our old bodies, and we all have to do it together. It might seem scary, Clay, but I promise you that it's all going to be worth it. When Mr. Kenseth tells us that the time has come, I want you to be really brave and drink with me, do you understand?”

  I nod.

  “No fears, no hesitations, just...” She takes my hands in hers and squeezes my fingers tight. “We're the lucky ones, Clay. We get to take our places on a whole new level of consciousness, and we get to walk hand-in-hand through the gates of paradise. Isn't that exciting?”

  I nod again.

  “Good girl,” she whispers, leaning forward and kissing me on the forehead. “Always know that I love you, Clay, and that I'm doing all of this for you. You're my shining little diamond in the rough.”