It Begins

by Richie Tankersley Cusick

  “There,” Angela told her. “There on your hand.”

  Startled, Lucy looked down.

  She stared at the narrow black welts on the back of her right hand and between her fingers, at the misshapen black stain on the skin of her palm. In one more quicksilver flash, she saw the girl in the open grave, remembered the girl’s hand closing around her own …

  “I … I don’t know,” she heard herself whisper. “When I fell, maybe. That’s what happened … I tripped … and I must have bruised myself when I fell.”

  For an endless moment there was silence.

  “That’s no bruise,” Angela said at last.

  She pulled the Corvette back onto the street and peeled away, but Lucy scarcely noticed.

  Because the thing on her hand really didn’t look like a bruise.

  It looked like a burn.

  Like something had burned itself right into her skin.

  4

  He’d come back one last time.

  Just to make sure she was dead.

  Some killers didn’t like to come back, he realized, for fear of being seen, being connected in some way, being caught—these dangers, of course, were of no concern to him.

  But after he’d done what he had to do, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. He’d stood at his window watching the rain, replaying her voice over and over again in his head—her pleas for mercy, her screams of pain. And suddenly he’d begun to grow restless. Restless in a way he couldn’t understand, a strange uneasiness in his veins that made him pace in the dark and jump at small sounds and warily watch the shadows.

  And so he’d come back.

  One last time.

  She was just as he’d left her, naturally, and this soothed him a little. He’d stood over the crumbling grave and he’d stared down at her, and he’d stood for such a long, long time, waiting to see if she’d speak, if she’d move, if her eyes would open, if she’d look at him in the old familiar way he’d so loved being looked at.

  But she didn’t move.

  And she didn’t say his name.

  The water and the mud were over her face, from the walls of the grave caving in, and if he hadn’t put her there himself, he’d never have known she was there at all, he’d have thought she was just a pathetic mound of soggy earth at the bottom of the yawning hole.

  He really was so amazingly clever.

  The old graveyard. A violent storm. No one in Pine Ridge would even consider venturing into this place tonight.

  So he’d thrown his arms wide to the rain, and his hair had blown wild in the wind, and he’d sucked in the darkness, until it filled him and sated him and consumed him and—

  And then that restlessness again.

  That vague, creeping uneasiness, gnawing in the pit of his soul.

  He’d actually felt a moment of doubt.

  And so he’d lowered himself into her grave.

  He’d knelt down beside her and wiped the mud from her face, and he’d studied her in death, all the while wondering about her final moments of life.

  She would have lingered awhile. Been aware of the warm blood pumping from her throat, leaking out between the torn chunks of her flesh, spurting with every heartbeat, then growing weaker … weaker … until it became merely a thin trickle, melting into the soggy earth.

  The thought made him smile.

  She was no threat to him now.

  She was dead, and he was free.

  And so he’d leaned over, oh so gently, and he’d put his mouth upon hers … cold lips together …

  And then he’d kissed her.

  One last time.

  5

  God, it was freezing in here.

  It must be me, Lucy thought, as she slid lower in the claw-footed tub, closing her eyes, trying to relax beneath the bubbles. The bathroom was large and luxurious just like the rest of the house, but even with central heating, and even with the water as hot as she could stand it, she couldn’t seem to get warm.

  What am I going to do?

  She could smell takeout pizza wafting up from the kitchen, and her stomach gave a queasy lurch. She could hear the muffled sound of the TV downstairs, and Angela’s rock music blaring from the next room. And though Aunt Irene was now en route to yet another very important meeting, Lucy could still picture that formidable frown waiting for them when she and Angela had gotten home. Lucy had been relieved when Irene ordered her straight upstairs and into a hot bath. She hadn’t felt like explaining any more details about her evening.

  So what am I going to do?

  She felt drained and bone-tired. Like her whole body had gone comatose and her brain had fizzled out. The cemetery … the girl … the warning … everything seemed like a distant dream now, or something she’d seen in a horror movie. An out-of-body experience that had happened to someone else’s body …

  “Hey!” Angela banged on the door. “Don’t use up all the hot water!”

  It was almost too much effort to answer. Groaning, Lucy roused herself and called back, “I’m not.”

  “And don’t go to sleep and die in my bathtub.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Dinner’s ready.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Don’t you like pizza?”

  “Not three nights in a row.”

  Gently she massaged her forehead. She could imagine Angela leaning against the other side of the door, filing her fingernails and admiring the shape of her hands. No wonder her cousin looked practically anorexic, she thought—there hadn’t been a single healthy or home-cooked meal in this kitchen since Lucy had been here.

  The music abruptly shut off.

  “If you die in there, you’ll bloat and be all wrinkled,” Angela informed her.

  Lucy sighed. She listened to Angela’s footsteps fading down the stairs, then she closed her eyes and drifted lower into the water.

  I have to do something.

  I have to tell somebody.

  She couldn’t call from here, that was certain. She didn’t have a cell phone, and it would be too risky trying to call the police from a phone inside the house—too easy to be traced.

  But besides that, something else was bothering her.

  And even though she’d forced herself not to think about the obvious truth of the matter, she couldn’t avoid it any longer. It had been lurking there in the farthest reaches of her mind, a mocking shadow keeping just beyond consciousness, ever since she’d made her gruesome discovery.

  But now she had to face it.

  Someone killed that poor girl.

  Someone had murdered that girl, and not mercifully.

  The death wound hadn’t been clean or swift; someone had hacked at her throat, leaving her alone and helpless and frightened, leaving her to bleed to death in the rain.

  Which meant the murderer was still out there.

  And if I tell, he might find out.

  And if he finds out it was me, then he’ll kill me, too.

  Trembling, Lucy readjusted the loose coils of hair she’d pinned on top of her head. She wrung out her washcloth, molded it to her face, and eased farther down into the water, resting her head against the back of the tub.

  Could he have seen me? Could he have followed me?

  Again she thought back, trying to convince herself she was safe: it had been so dark, storming so hard, she’d had the hood of her jacket pulled down around her face. And if the murderer really had been close by, wouldn’t he have stopped her then? Done whatever he had to do to keep her from leaving?

  No, something told Lucy that she and the girl had been the only ones out there in the cemetery. At least for those brief, terrifying moments.

  Still …

  A gust of wind rattled the bathroom window. Lucy jerked the washcloth from her face and sat up straight, her heart pounding.

  At least you were with her at the end … at least she wasn’t alone …

  As the overhead light flickered, Lucy grabbed for her towel on the ra
ck. Holding her breath, she waited. Within several minutes the lights slowly regained brightness, so she dried off quickly, pulled on her nightgown, and hurried through the connecting door into her bedroom.

  Not my bedroom, she reminded herself grimly. My prison.

  For the first two days after she’d come here, she’d simply stayed in bed, sleeping and crying, then sleeping again, missing her mother so much that her soul felt raw. The containers of takeout food that Irene regularly left on her dresser went virtually untouched. She hated the stark white walls and carpeting. She hated the sleek white furniture that looked like something straight out of a decorating magazine. She’d been so depressed, she hadn’t even bothered to put out any of her favorite personal things. What she’d brought with her was still packed in boxes and suitcases, stored upstairs in the attic, all of them painful reminders of her happy life that had died.

  “I’m sure you’ll love your room, Lucy,” Irene had assured her on the plane ride here. But Lucy had hated it at first sight, hated everything about it, including the sheer-curtained sliding doors that opened side by side out onto a little wrought-iron balcony, making her feel both exposed and accessible. She even hated the giant mulberry tree that grew beside it, the one that scraped and clawed at the railing and eaves and made it sound as though someone were trying to break in and kill her every single night.

  God, Mom, what were you thinking, sending me here?

  Sighing, Lucy shut off the overhead light and left just the lamp burning on the nightstand by her bed. She could hear Angela slamming cupboard doors in the kitchen and then tromping back up the staircase.

  Lucy gritted her teeth and counted to five.

  Angela’s CD player blasted through the upstairs, vibrating the floors, rattling the windowpanes. Ten ear-shattering seconds of rage and defiance—Lucy knew it was ten, for she’d clocked it many times—before the volume cut off and silence reigned again, everywhere but in Angela’s headphones.

  It’s a miracle she hasn’t gone deaf by now, Lucy thought glumly. Rubbing her ears, she walked over and stood in front of the sliding doors.

  Her room was at the back of the house, separated from Angela’s by their adjoining bathroom, and at the opposite end of the hallway from Aunt Irene. From here she could look down onto the manicured lawn; the brick patio and terraced wooden deck; the glassed-in hot tub; the swimming pool, covered now for the winter; the landscaped flower beds and mulched pathways and discreetly camouflaged woodpile, all coated with a thin layer of frost. At the rear of the lawn stood a low stone wall with a gate, and beyond that, a narrow pathway led through dense woods to a private stretch of lake. Despite the heavy rain, a pale gray fog had begun to ooze through the trees. Lucy watched it, strangely fascinated, as it wound its way toward the house, smooth and silent as a snake. There was no moonlight. Only an occasional burst of lightning managed to rip the storm clouds and illuminate the landscape below.

  Shivering, Lucy started to turn away.

  And then she saw something.

  What is that?

  Frowning, she leaned closer, squinting hard through the glass.

  Had she imagined it? That very slight movement just beyond the wall? As though one shadow had separated itself from all the others … as though it were hovering there, like a wisp of pale smoke, just on the other side of the gate …

  Come on, Lucy, get a grip.

  Of course there were shadows out there—millions of shadows out there—and of course things were moving. Fog and wind and rain and—“Some animal,”

  Lucy whispered. A deer, probably. She’d spotted an occasional deer in the yard since she’d been here. Irene hated them, said they caused major damage to her expensive shrubs; she’d forbidden Angela to leave out food of any kind.

  “Just a deer,” Lucy told herself again, more firmly this time.

  And yet …

  Frowning, she pressed closer to the doors, lamplight soft behind her. “Peaceful and private” —isn’t that what Irene had said about this neighborhood? Yet Lucy could feel a vague sense of unease prickling up her spine. As though something far more ominous than a deer was out there in the woods … watching her.

  Don’t be ridiculous … it’s because of what happened tonight … you’re only imagining things.

  She thought of the girl. Of her own promise. She wondered again what she should do. She didn’t want to stand here looking out anymore, but she couldn’t seem to turn away from the dark.

  Her breath quickened. She could feel her heart fluttering in her chest. Only moments ago she’d been freezing, but now a peculiar warmth was spreading through her, hot liquid in her veins. Her favorite nightgown, much too thin for these unforeseen autumn nights, now seemed unusually constricting. She opened the first three buttons down the front and leaned forward, resting her forehead against the glass.

  Something moved on the corner of her balcony.

  Gasping, Lucy’s head came up, and she peered anxiously out into the night. Just the tree … that stupid tree hitting the railing … nothing morel But even as she tried to reason with herself, she was already tugging at the doors, sliding them open to the wind.

  Rain swept savagely into the room. With a cry, Lucy grabbed both doors and after a brief struggle, managed to lock them in place. Then she backed away and sat on the edge of her bed, soaking wet.

  What on earth were you thinking?

  She was cold again—cold to the bone—and besides that, she felt unbelievably stupid.

  “And paranoid,” she reminded herself glumly. “Don’t forget paranoid.”

  As her mind flashed back to the cemetery, she tried to block it out. No wonder she was seeing watchers in the woods now, and lurkers on the balcony, and danger in every shadow. And thank God Angela was buried in her headphones right now, completely oblivious to the rest of the world—Lucy wasn’t up for any more confrontations or excuses.

  Leaving her gown in the bathroom to dry, Lucy toweled off and changed into a warm pair of sweats. Then she shut off the lamp and tried to cocoon herself deep inside her blankets.

  She lay there, wide-eyed, too exhausted to sleep.

  She lay there feeling numb, and each time a vision of the dead girl floated into her mind, she tried to think of other things. Home before. Mom before. My perfect and wonderful life before. She’d had friends … she’d been popular … she’d had fun, and she’d had ambitions. What were her friends doing now, she wondered sadly. She’d withdrawn from them more and more during Mom’s illness, and since she’d come here to live, she’d scarcely thought about them at all—hadn’t written, hadn’t even called. She’d promised a few of them to keep in touch, to send them her address—why hadn’t she?

  Because I hate it here so much. Because I’m so miserable, and I don’t want them to know how horrible my life is now …

  Her thoughts swirled and faded. The storm continued to rage outside her windows, and after a very long time she finally drifted off.

  She wasn’t sure what woke her.

  It was a feeling rather than a sound.

  A slow, cold chilling at the back of her neck … a vague sense that she wasn’t quite alone.

  Lucy struggled to open her eyes. She was lying on her side facing the sliding glass doors, and as lightning flashed beyond the rain-streaked panes, the room went in and out of shadow.

  “Lucy,” a voice said softly.

  Raising herself on one elbow, Lucy stared. She could see the curtains blowing in, billowing like lacy feathers, though she knew it was impossible, that she’d already shut those doors, already bolted them tight against the wind—

  “Lucy …”

  Her eyes widened in alarm. A sob caught in her throat.

  “Mom?”

  She tried to struggle up in bed, strained her eyes to see. And yes, the curtains were moving, fanning out like delicate wings, only there was something else there, too—a hazy figure silhouetted against the glass—she could see it now, though it was flimsy and formless, as sheer
as those fine gauzy curtains …

  “Mom!” Tears streamed down Lucy’s cheeks. “Mom, is that you?”

  “Listen to me, sweetheart.”

  And it was her mother’s voice, but so sad, so sad. Why does she sound like that, so terribly sad and hopeless …

  “Mom—”

  “Be careful, Lucy,” the voice whispered, and it was already fading, scarcely more than a breath. “You’re going to a place where I can’t help you …”

  “What do you mean, Mom? No, wait! Don’t leave! Please don’t leave me!”

  Lucy flung out her arms, reaching … reaching …

  But the mournful shadow was gone now …

  And the curtains hung pale and soft and deathly still.

  6

  A knock.

  Two loud knocks, and then another, firm and persistent, hammering their way into her warm, cozy dream.

  “Go away,” Lucy mumbled.

  She was decorating the Christmas tree in their apartment. Mom was baking gingerbread men for all her fourth-grade students, and they were both singing carols at the top of their lungs, and Mrs. Manetti from downstairs was bringing up homemade soup later for all of them to share …

  “Wake up, Lucy. You’ll be late.”

  “Go away,” Lucy said again, only this time the dream faded down a dark tunnel, and her eyes opened to hazy light and someone standing in the open doorway to the hall.

  “We’ve already discussed this,” Irene said firmly. “I said I’d give you one week to settle in. Today you’re going to school.”

  “Today?” She was wide awake now, the announcement finally sinking in, along with a feeling of panic. “But it’s Friday—why can’t I wait till next week?”

  “Because one day will be difficult enough to get through. And you’ll have the entire weekend to recover before you start fresh on Monday.”

  “But it’s too soon! I’m not ready!”

  “You can ride with Angela, so hurry up.”

  Irene didn’t wait for a response, and this time Lucy didn’t give one. She lay there with her face buried in the pillow, too stunned to move. Her eyes felt swollen, as though she’d been crying … her whole body felt achy and stiff. She wondered if maybe she was catching the flu, yet there was a vague sense of uneasiness nagging far back in her mind.