The Girl Clay

by Amy Cross

  I nod, and once again I swear I can feel Kenseth's greasy hands under my clothes, rubbing and squeezing my flesh.

  “I just wish we'd helped her,” he continues.

  “Are you sure she was dead?” I ask.

  “With half the back of her head missing? Hell, yeah. Ever since that night, whenever I've found myself doubting whether ghosts exist, I always think back to that moment. I guess it's one of the reasons I like going out to the compound with Tom and doing some ghost-hunting, you know? I want to see her again, and I want someone else to see her, so I know I'm not crazy.” He pauses again. “Do you know the funny thing? I don't wanna spook you even more than I have already, but in some weird kinda way, you actually look a little bit like her.”

  “I do?”

  “Just around the eyes, and maybe the mouth and...” He stares at my mouth for a moment, before starting to lean closer.

  Instinctively, I turn away.

  “Sorry,” he says, keeping his face close to mine, “I guess that was the least sensitive and most creepy time to do that, huh?”

  “Pretty much,” I reply, although I instantly feel bad. Turning to him, I can see from the look in his eyes that he's going to try again. He's clearly not an out-and-out creep, and I'm sure someone else would be more receptive to his advances. “I don't do this kind of thing,” I say finally. “Not for... I mean, not with...” I pause as I realize that there's no way I can explain it to him; hell, I can't even explain it to myself, not fully. Part of me wants to tell him the truth, though; to let him know that I'm that little girl, that in some weird way that I don't understand I'm still here, still alive, still dealing with everything that happened at that compound.

  “I should go,” he says finally.

  “You should.”

  “I should.”

  I nod.

  “So...” Another pause. “Do you want me to go?”

  “I think, all things considered, it's the best bet.” I pause for a moment, wondering whether I could just change my mind and let him stay. “All things considered,” I add finally.

  “That's a shame,” he replies.

  “It is.”

  “So who are you really?” he asks. “I know what you told Debbie, but there's got to be more to it than that. People don't just turn up at Silverglade without knowing the history, but you seem to have literally just wandered along the road and stopped here. I mean, it doesn't quite make sense.”

  “It's complicated.”

  “Meaning you don't want to tell me.”

  “Meaning you'd never believe me.”

  “Well, maybe you'll change your mind some time.” He takes a step back. “Are you still gonna be around tomorrow?”

  “I think so.”

  “So long as the mystery man's paying your room and board, huh?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, I guess we'll bump into each other again,” he replies with a faint smile. “It's not like there's much to do in Silverglade, so unless you're sitting in your room or out on another ghost-hunt, you kinda have to be in the bar. See you around.”

  “See you around.”

  As he turns and walks away, there's a part of me that wants to call him back, to try – no matter how hopelessly – to have a normal moment with another human being. It's not as if I'm scared of sex; after all, I've sold my body plenty of times over the years when I'm short of money, and I even fooled around a little with Aaron once or twice. The problem, I guess, is that doing something so normal would make me feel like even more of a freak. Besides, there's no point getting involved with someone, not since I can't even count on still being around in a few hours' time. Heading into my motel room, however, I can't help wondering why and how Ben, unlike pretty much anyone else ten years ago, was apparently able to see me so soon after I was shot.

  Great. Yet another thing about myself that I just don't understand.

  Once I've pushed the door shut, I pause for a moment, listening to the silent buzz of my dark motel room. Seconds later, I hear an engine starting in the parking lot, followed by the sound of Ben's truck pulling away. He probably thinks I'm some kind of weird, frigid idiot who's got all these hang-ups about sex, but at least he doesn't know the truth. Making my way over to the bed, I stop when I realize that there's a gentle breeze blowing through the room, and when I look over at the window I see that the curtains are gently fluttering. I swear I shut the window earlier, but when I walk over to take a look I find that the latch has been propped open. After looking out at the parking lot for a moment, I pull the window shut. At least there are no ghosts in this room. I can always detect a ghost from -

  Suddenly I hear a faint bump. Turning, I look across the dark room, my heart racing as I try to tell myself that the sound was all in my head. There are no ghosts here, I swear, but finally I'm able to make out a faint, dark figure over on the other side of the bed.

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  No reply.

  I take a step closer. I'm used to ghosts, and in some sick kind of way I'm almost used to Attaroth, but I don't sense either of them. Finally, with a slow sinking feeling, I realize that while I might be very good at detecting the presence of ghosts and demons, there's one type of creature that sometimes manages to slip under my radar.

  People.

  Lunging for the door, I feel a pair of arms grab me from behind and pull me down onto the bed, before a hand is clamped over my face and I'm pushed down hard. Struggling to get free, I feel more hands on my body, as two more figures rise next to me and help to keep me from getting away.

  “You got her?” a female voice hisses.

  “Now what?” replies another.

  “Now we get her the hell out of here,” the first voice says, leaning down until I can just about make out her wild, staring eyes. “Go make sure the coast is clear.”

  “Is it really he?” asks the third woman.

  “Oh, it's her,” the first woman replies with a smile. “No doubt about it. I can see it in her eyes and I can feel it when I touch her.”

  “He's going to be so pleased,” says the second woman. As she leans closer, I'm able to get a glimpse of her face and I see to my horror that Debbie is one of my assailants. “He's waited so long for this moment,” she says, grinning from ear to ear. “Ten long and hungry years.”

  “Then tell Ben and Tom to get the truck ready,” the first woman continues, pushing me down hard as I try to break free. “Mr. Kenseth is going to be so proud of us for getting her back to him. All that -”

  Before she can finish, I slip my leg free and kick her square in the jaw. Wriggling free, I throw my weight at one of the other woman, slamming her into the wall. As Debbie tries to grab me, I duck out of her way and run to the window, which swings open as I climb through. Breathless and with a sharp pain in my hip, I tumble down onto the pebbles that run along the motel's forecourt, but there's no time to stop and draw breath: the lights of a nearby truck are already on me, and I can hear the women shouting at one another in the room behind me. Running along the side of the room and into the shadows, I make my way down the side of the building and quickly find myself on the dark, unlit shopping square. Racing to the center, I stop for a moment and look around, trying to work out the best way to get the hell out of this place.

  And that's when I see them.

  Standing in the shadows at the edges of the square, there are people, barely visible in the moonless night. For a moment I figure they must be ghosts, but slowly I begin to realize that they're people from the town who have seemingly gathered to watch me being chased down. Hearing sounds behind me, I turn just in time to see Debbie and the two other women hurrying from the motel, and seconds later the light from Ben's slow-moving truck begins to show on the road that runs along the side of the building.

  “Clay,” Debbie calls out, “it's not what you think. We only -”

  I turn and run, hurrying across the square in a desperate attempt to get around the side of the pharmacy a
nd back to the main road that goes past the diner. If I can get out there, and maybe onto one of the vast fields that surrounds this town, I might have a chance to -

  Suddenly a hand reaches out of the darkness and grabs me, pulling me back and then sending me crashing down to the ground. I land hard on my back and all the air is knocked out of my lungs; rolling onto my front, I try to ignore the pain in my hip as I struggle to my feet, gasping for air. There are footsteps nearby, coming closer and closer, but I just need another couple of seconds so I can get the hell out of here.

  “You're going to feel so silly,” Debbie says, standing over me. “When you realize how much work we've all done for this moment, you're going to be overwhelmed by love.”

  Still breathless, I look up at her and see the wide-eyed expression on her face. A shiver passes through my body as I realize that it's been ten years since I last saw someone with the same expression.

  “It's all coming together so very perfectly,” she continues, holding her hand out toward me. There's something in her palm, some kind of metal device; at first I figure it's probably a gun, but suddenly the end lights up bright blue and there's a building, whining buzzing sound. “Don't worry, Clay,” she adds. “We're going to take you home.”

  With that, she fires the electroshock gun at my chest. The charge hits me hard, knocking me back into the dirt. Blinded and disoriented, I scrabble around for a moment, but I know I'm surrounded now. No matter how hard I try to get up, my entire body feels broken and damaged, and I sink down into a pit of absolute quiet and darkness.

  PART SEVEN

  Ten years ago

  “Stop!” I scream, sitting up and reaching out to push him away before suddenly realizing that there's no-one here.

  Turning, I look across the room and see that I'm alone in some kind of empty office space. There are desks and chairs all around, and a wall full of windows offers a view of the city from high up. All the desks are covered with computers and files and documents, but it's as if a whole office-full of people have suddenly disappeared, leaving the place feeling spookily empty.

  I must have fallen asleep.

  No, not asleep.

  Something else.

  Getting up, I look around. My body feels tired and sore, and when I try to walk forward I find that my legs hurt. Stopping next to one of the desks, I lean against the side for a moment.

  How did I get here?

  “This way!” a voice calls out. “Come on, I don't have all day.”

  Looking over at the far side of the room, I realize that the man is waiting for me in there. I freeze for a moment, terrified by the thought of seeing him again. I want to run, but at the same time I feel as if I'm frozen to the spot.

  “Are you deaf?” he asks. “Get moving! Or do I have to come over there and get you?”

  Turning, I race past a row of desks before pushing open a door and emerging in a corridor. I slam the door shut and then I look both ways for a moment, before running to the far end and reaching out to open another door.

  “Hello, Clay,” the man says, grabbing my arm from behind.

  Twisting free from his grip, I turn and run again, heading back into the office until suddenly I reach the door and, just as I'm about to pull it open, I almost run straight into the man.

  “How long are you going to keep doing this?” he asks. “Don't you get it? I'll always be waiting for you, wherever you go.”

  I turn to run yet again, but this time he grabs me by the arm and holds me in place.

  “Let me save you the trouble,” he says, pulling me across the open-plan office. “I brought you here to show you a world you'll never know. You're a little girl, Clay, and little girls usually grow up to be big girls and women, and eventually they get a job, have a few boyfriends or maybe girlfriends, they mess around with drink and drugs and other dull little activities, and then they settle down and have babies of their own and the whole sickly cycle of life goes on. There are a few people who do things a different way, of course, but this is definitely the most common method of organizing a life in the western world.”

  He pulls me along, leading me between the desks.

  “You won't ever have a life like this. From the moment you were born, it was obvious that you could never fit into such a world. You were different, and I'm trying to work out why.”

  “Let go!” I shout, trying to pull me arm free. “You're hurting me.”

  “No I'm not,” he replies, stopping and turning to me. “If I was hurting you, you wouldn't even be able to speak. You'd be in a world of pain that would up-turn your reality completely and most likely strip all the remaining sanity from your mind.” He leans closer. “Permanently.”

  “Where's my mother?” I ask, trying to hold back the tears that are welling in my eyes.

  “Gone,” he says firmly, “like ashes in the rain. You could have gone with her, but you and that idiot Kenseth fouled things up, didn't you? I offered you everything, a whole new reality, but the pair of you just couldn't take the final step. Do you realize how foolish I look now? For a god, good P.R. starts with reliable disciples.”

  Suddenly a T.V. flashes into life on one of the nearby desks, showing a news channel.

  “And the cult at Rover's Ridge,” the presenter says, “believed in a god named... Attaroth?”

  “That's right,” says a woman in a smart-looking suit, identified by a banner as Dr. Rachel Sutherland. “Attaroth is a minor deity from a few old pagan religions.”

  “A minor deity?” Attaroth says, sounding half amused and half disgusted. “I should wipe her off the face of the planet for that insult. Maybe I will, when I'm done dealing with you.”

  “So this wasn't a mainstream group by any means?” the reporter asks.

  “There were a few cults and sects in the early medieval period who worshiped Attaroth,” the other woman replies, “but most of them were either tried for heresy and burned, or simply faded away. Certainly until this cult appeared at Rover's Ridge, the name Attaroth had faded into the history books.”

  “So why did they pick this particular mythical figure as the head of their cult?”

  “Mythical figure?” Attaroth replies. “Did you hear that, Clay? Mythical figure? And what do they mean by a few cults and sects? It's as if humans have no concept of ancient history.”

  “My guess,” Dr. Sutherland explains, “is that the leader of the cult, Jacob Kenseth, specifically went looking for something obscure, something that had no real baggage in the modern world.”

  “Idiot,” Attaroth says, as the T.V. flickers off. “Kenseth didn't go looking for me, I went looking for him. I allowed myself to be ignored and forgotten for too long.” Letting go of my arm, he walks over to one of the other desks before turning back to me, and he seems genuinely annoyed. “This is what happens, you see, when humans are allowed to run around without anyone keeping them in check. They start forgetting their real gods and making up new ones. My word, Clay, do you have any idea how foolish and tangled your people appear from the perspective of a true god?”

  “Are you really a god?” I ask, my voice trembling with fear.

  “What do you think?”

  I stare at him, and although I keep telling myself that there's no way an actual god is standing here with me, I can't shake the feeling that this man is different to everyone else I've ever met.

  “I'm one of the real ones,” he says finally. “I thought Jacob Kenseth would be the right man to get my name out there again, to make people recognize that I'm real. My mistake was thinking that all humans are basically the same, but now I realize that while most of you are dumb little creatures, one or two are even dumber than the rest. In Jacob Kenseth, I apparently picked a fool of epic proportions, and now look at what's happening.” He sighs. “People watching these news channels are hearing the name Attaroth and writing me off as some kind of fiction.”

  “But if you're a god,” I reply, “why can't you just...”

  “Why can't I what?”
he snaps.

  “Why can't you just do what you want?”

  “There are rules, Clay,” he replies. “It's petty, I know, but there are certain things that just have to be done a certain way. What I need is...” He pauses for a moment, eying me with suspicion until a faint smile starts to cross his face. “Then again,” he says finally, “maybe this whole mess wasn't a complete waste of time. Maybe it was fate.”

  “Can I see my mother or not?” I ask. “Please, I just want to be with her.”

  “Your mother was an idiot,” he continues. “She took you to live with a cult run by a pervert whose hands wandered, and she knew what he was doing to you -”

  “No,” I reply, “she didn't. He made me promise not to tell and I didn't!”

  “She still knew,” he replies. “Trust me, she knew, she was just too scared and too stupid to do anything about it. She'd wrapped herself up in so many lies, she couldn't find a way out. Anyway, she's old news, she's gone. You're alone now, Clay, at least while you're down here.” He makes his way over to me and stares for a moment, as if he's studying me again and trying to understand me. “I know what you are,” he says finally. “It took a while, but I finally know what you are and why you can't die.”

  “Why?” I ask, even though I'm scared to hear the answer.

  He crouches in front of me, staring at me with a mix of caution and wonder.

  “You,” he says after a moment, “are a perfectly normal reaction to a perfectly horrific situation. Don't you get it, Clay?” He reaches out and puts a hand on my shoulder. “You're a scar on this world.”

  Today

  “No!” I shout, struggling to pull away as three of them man-handle me out of the truck.