Final Girl

by Michelle Schusterman

  “What’s going on?” I asked nervously. Dad swallowed, then smiled sadly at me.

  “We kept the fact that Edie was coming a secret from you because we wanted it to be a surprise,” he said. “But the surprise was supposed to be . . . bigger.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Dad’s eyes flickered over to Grandma before meeting mine again. “Your mother was supposed to be here, too.”

  A short burst of laughter escaped me, and they both looked startled. But this had to be a joke, right? The idea of Mom here in Seoul, hanging around the Passport to Paranormal crew . . . it was like trying to picture Captain America in Arendelle. Didn’t fit. Different worlds. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

  “Wait, seriously?” I asked. “Why?” As soon as I said it, the answer hit me. Because Dad thought I’d torn up his contract. Because he thought I wanted to be with Mom. I opened my mouth to argue, but Grandma spoke first.

  “Because I pushed her to,” she said. “Your mother left almost a year ago, Kat. Since then, you’ve seen her once—at Thanksgiving, when you and Jack visited. And you agreed to come to her shower in March, too. You shouldn’t be the only one who . . . who makes an effort.”

  I didn’t respond. I had absolutely no idea what to say to that. I didn’t even know what Grandma meant.

  “So when I told her last month that I was joining you in Seoul,” Grandma went on, placing her hand gently on my back. “I asked her to come. She said yes. I bought her plane ticket and made all the arrangements . . .” She sighed. “Then yesterday, she called and said there’d been an emergency. A wedding planning emergency, nothing serious,” she added quickly when my eyes widened in alarm. “Something about the caterer, I don’t know . . . but I do know it couldn’t possibly have been so urgent it couldn’t wait a week.”

  A strange new mix of emotions started churning through me. The same hurt I always felt when Mom did stuff like this. But also, relief. Grandma’s disappointment in my mother was obvious. She blamed Mom, not me. It didn’t lessen the hurt, but it was weirdly comforting.

  Dad shifted in his chair. “I’m sorry, Kat,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t sure about telling you, but your grandma insisted.”

  “We’re being honest,” Grandma told him. “I don’t need you guilt-tripping yourself anymore, either. I swear, between the two of you—”

  “What do you feel guilty about?” I interrupted, staring at Dad.

  A muscle twitched in his cheek. “Talking about your mother like this with you. Ever since she left, I’ve . . . I never wanted you to feel like you had to choose sides. I didn’t want the fact that I was upset with her to upset you.”

  I blinked. “She’s the one who left. Why would I be upset with you?”

  “No, I mean later,” Dad said. “When she moved back to Chelsea. When I’d invite her over to see you and she wouldn’t come. When she told me she’d gotten engaged and asked me to tell you, instead of doing it herself.”

  My throat felt dry and scratchy. “I didn’t want to talk to her then, though. I wouldn’t, when she called.”

  “I know.” Dad smiled sadly at me. “But, sweetie, she could have tried harder. Six months was a long time. I can’t imagine going that long without seeing you . . . you’re my daughter. I would’ve found a way. I think I put that burden on you, when it was really your mother’s fault the two of you weren’t talking.” He wrinkled his nose. “Ugh, see? I feel guilty just saying that. Father of the year, like everyone’s saying.”

  I barely heard what he said after your mother’s fault. Dad blamed Mom, too. He blamed her for how long we’d gone last year without speaking. And he was right—I had thought that was my fault. I’d thought Grandma and Dad thought that was my fault, too. Mom called every few weeks, and I’d refuse to talk. That was it.

  It had never dawned on me that maybe she should have tried harder.

  “Well, I don’t feel guilty at all about saying this to both of you.” Grandma paused, sitting up straighter. “I love my daughter. She’s a beautiful, talented woman with many wonderful qualities. But she can also be very, very selfish.”

  We were silent for a moment. I kept waiting for tears, but I was . . . okay. Not happy. Not sad. But okay.

  “And,” Grandma added, “Shelly Mathers better hope she never meets me, because I have a thing or two to say to her about that father of the year business.”

  “What father of the year business?” I asked, looking from her to Dad.

  Dad rolled his eyes. “Her review of the Beijing episode. She had a few unflattering opinions about me using my daughter as a publicity stunt. Or putting her life in danger by exposing her to a deadly doppelganger,” he added dryly. “Whichever it is . . . she’s not sure. Either way, a whole lot of people apparently think I’m a terrible father. I’ve got some trolls of my own now.”

  Aaaand here came the guilt again. But this time, I was right to blame myself. “I shouldn’t have joked about dying on the finale,” I said. “It was . . . I didn’t think about what people would say about you. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not like we couldn’t have edited it out,” Dad told me. “But we didn’t anticipate so many viewers taking it so seriously . . . as if I’d actually put your life in danger. Point is, it’s not your fault, sweetie.”

  I tried to smile at him, but I knew he was wrong. And not just about it being my fault.

  I might actually be in danger. I hadn’t thought about it until Dad said it, but so far, everything the Thing had done had been to try to convince Dad to move back to Chelsea. He was pretty much ready to do it, too. If something bad happened to me on the finale, that might be just the push he needed.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SO YOU THINK YOU CAN BLOG

  P2P WIKI

  Entry: “Poltergeist”

  [Last edited by Maytrix]

  A poltergeist is a particularly wicked type of ghost intent on wreaking havoc on anyone who comes into its space. Unlike ghosts, they are not typically human in origin, and reasons for their manifestations can vary greatly.

  AFTER a late lunch, Dad and Grandma headed out with Jess and Lidia to conduct a few interviews about the asylum we’d be investigating tomorrow. Oscar and I did a short algebra lesson with Mi Jin, who seemed a little distracted. After giving us an essay assignment for social studies, she pulled out her laptop and started typing furiously, brow furrowed. Working on her screenplay, I realized with a pang of guilt. She was probably nervous about showing it to Grandma. And the Thing’s notes couldn’t have boosted her confidence.

  “Time!” she said an hour later, snapping her laptop closed. “Hand ’em over.”

  Oscar and I dutifully handed her our papers. I turned to Oscar, tossing my pen down on the desk.

  “Grandma’s suite has a pretty nice TV. Want to see if anything good’s on?”

  “Um . . .” Oscar glanced at the time on his phone. “Maybe later? I’m gonna use Aunt Lidia’s laptop while she’s out.”

  “’Kay.” I stifled a yawn. “Text me when you’re done. Bye, Mi Jin.”

  “Bye, Kat!” Mi Jin gave me a quick smile before turning back to her screenplay.

  Up in the suite, I kicked off my shoes and dumped my bag on the couch before flopping down on Grandma’s bed. Five minutes later, I’d found what looked like a pretty decent Korean horror movie with English subtitles. Five minutes after that, I was sound asleep.

  The next thing I knew, a shriek woke me up with a jolt. Disoriented, I stared frantically around the suite before remembering the movie. On the TV screen, a screaming girl was climbing a ladder with some sort of grayish demon-creature right on her heels. I grabbed the remote and hit mute, then tried to go to sleep again.

  But adrenaline was still racing through my veins. I lay perfectly still, watching the demon claw at the girl’s calves and eventually drag her down into the darkness below, listening to
my too-quick heartbeat. Then I realized that wasn’t the only sound I could hear.

  Click. Click-clack click click. Click.

  I didn’t move. Just looked slowly, deliberately around the room, searching for the source of the soft clicking. My eyes fell on the laptop, which sat open on the desk. The dashboard to my blog was on the screen, opened to a new post. Words I couldn’t see from here were appearing in the blank space.

  Someone—something—was typing.

  An odd calmness settled over me. My pulse slowed, my hands were cool and dry. Quietly, stealthily, I slipped out of bed and tiptoed over to the couch. I pulled the Elapse out of my bag and flipped it on, making sure it was in video mode before making my way over to the desk.

  I trod as softly as possible, my eyes flickering between the laptop in the viewfinder and the laptop itself. As I closed in, I could read the words in the blog post. Just two words, typed over and over again.

  SAVE YOURSELF SAVE YOURSELF SAVE YOURSELF SAVE YOURSELF SAVE YOURSELF SAVE YOURSELF SAVE YOURSELF SAVE YOURSELF SAVE YOURSELF SAVE YOURSELF SAVE YOURSELF SAVE YOURSELF SAVE YOURSELF SAVE YOURSELF

  It was mesmerizing, watching letter after letter appear. So mesmerizing that several seconds passed before I noticed movement in my peripheral vision. I glanced at the mirror, and my breath caught in my chest.

  The Thing sat at the desk, typing methodically on the laptop. It was wearing a nightgown this time, its long braid—the one I’d cut off, the one my mother loved—hanging over its shoulder. It didn’t notice me at all; or if it did, it didn’t show it.

  I took a step to the side, framing the whole scene in the viewfinder. The empty chair in front of me. The other version of me in the mirror. And the reflection of me, the real me, next to it, capturing both of us on camera.

  This was unreal. It was even more shocking than the footage Jess got on the bridge. Me and my “doppelganger,” side by side.

  A few seconds later, the Thing stopped typing. It stood, and I took another step back. I watched the mirror closely as it walked past me, turning to capture as much of it as possible before it disappeared beyond the frame. I hurried to the other side of the mirror, but it was gone.

  My hands trembled as I removed the memory card from my camera and slid it into the laptop. As the video uploaded, I scrolled down to the bottom of the blog post. After thinking for a moment, I added:

  Everything above this was written by my doppelganger. It’s been leaving comments online for the last few weeks as “The Real Kat Sinclair.” Watch video below for proof.

  Once the video was embedded, I hit play. And there it was, clear as day. Two Kats, captured on video. I almost laughed out loud. No one could say this was faked. Well, they could try. But this wasn’t a blurry image in a photo or a two-second shot of a girl surrounded by fog who looked like me if you squinted. Faking something like this would be expensive. The muted horror movie still playing out on the TV didn’t even have special effects as good as what I had captured just now.

  I let the arrow hover over Publish, then frowned. One of the adults, usually Dad or Lidia, had to approve my posts before I could publish them. As much as I wanted to put this blog post up now, I had to wait.

  I hit Save Draft, then shot a quick text to Oscar.

  KS: Come to Grandma’s suite NOW!

  I waited nearly a minute, then remembered how eager he’d been to use Lidia’s laptop. Quickly, I opened video chat and spotted the green Online dot next to Oscar’s name. He was probably talking to Thiago.

  Sighing, I started to close the window, but another green dot caught my eye. I glanced at the time and did a little quick math in my head. It was a bit after three in the morning in New York; he couldn’t actually be online . . . right?

  Only one way to find out. I clicked Call next to Jamie’s avatar and waited, holding my breath. After nearly ten seconds of ringing, the window suddenly expanded—and there was Jamie, rubbing his eyes, hair sticking out all over the place.

  “Kat?”

  “Sorry, were you sleeping?” I asked stupidly. “I mean, I know it’s late there—or, um, early—but I noticed you were online and, uh . . . something kind of weird happened? And I need to talk to someone about it.”

  Now Jamie looked wide awake. “The Thing again?”

  “Yeah.” I launched into the story, the words spilling out of me. The more I talked, the more tired I felt. Not just tired. Exhausted. Like every single one of my bones was increasing in density. My vision kept blurring, and when I blinked, my eyelashes seemed to be weights, pulling my eyelids down.

  “And you recorded all of it?” Jamie asked eagerly. “You checked the video?”

  “Yeah, it’s even better than . . .” I trailed off, yawning hugely. “Sorry. Better than what Jess got on the bridge.”

  Jamie frowned. “Are you okay? You look like you’re about to pass out.”

  “I’m fine, just really sleepy.”

  “Isn’t it, like, the middle of the day there?”

  “Mmhmm.” I could see Jamie’s bed behind him. Curling up under a pile of blankets seemed like the most inviting thing in the world. “Sorry again for waking you up.”

  “Don’t be,” Jamie said. “This is exactly why I left video chat open.”

  “For . . .” I paused for another gigantic yawn. “For me to creep you out in the middle of the night?”

  “Well, yeah.” After a second’s hesitation, he added: “What are boyfriends for?”

  The word boyfriend took a moment to register. A blush crept up my neck, and I realized he was smiling kind of nervously, waiting for me to respond.

  “For emergency doppelganger sightings, I guess,” I said, smiling back at him. “Straight out of a sappy romance movie.”

  Jamie laughed, then stopped when I yawned yet again. “Seriously, why are you so tired?”

  “I don’t . . .” I covered my mouth with my arm as another yawn hit. “. . . know. I was taking a nap when the Thing showed up. I just need to . . . to lie down for a sec . . .”

  I couldn’t fight my eyelids anymore. Jamie was saying something as I rested my head on my arms and closed my eyes. “Just for a sec,” I murmured again, and sank into a deep sleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE ZOMBIE AWAKENS

  From: trishhhhbequiet@mymail.net

  To: acciopancakes@mymail.net, timelord2002@mymail.net

  Subject: That blog post

  um. are you ok? mark and I are kinda worried . . .

  From: acciopancakes@mymail.net

  To: trishhhhbequiet@mymail.net, timelord2002@mymail.net

  Subject: Re: That blog post

  I’ll be fine once I’m back home where I belong. With my mother.

  WAKING up was like trying to climb out of quicksand. I struggled to reach consciousness, fighting against vague dreams of dark creatures pulling and clawing at my legs. When I finally pried my eyes open, it took a few seconds for them to adjust.

  This wasn’t my hotel room. Or my bed.

  And someone was in the room with me.

  The memory of what had happened before I’d fallen asleep hit me, and I sat up with a gasp, like I’d been slapped in the face. Over in the desk chair, Grandma glanced up, very clearly startled.

  “Well, good morning, sunshine!” she exclaimed. “I was going to give you five more minutes before trying cold water.”

  Disoriented, I took in the sunshine streaming in between the curtains, the fact that Grandma was wearing different clothes than she had been when I last saw her, the tiny coffeepot brewing on the desk next to the open laptop.

  “It’s . . . morning?” I asked groggily. “Did I spend the whole night here?”

  Grandma chuckled. “You did indeed. Fell asleep talking to a young man online . . . your father had some words to say about that, I can tell you.”

  “Jamie
,” I said, suddenly feeling a little panicked. “I . . . fell asleep while I was talking to him?”

  “Mmhmm,” Grandma said. “He was worried, so he got in touch with Oscar, who came up here and found you conked out at the desk.”

  “And he . . . told Dad?” I asked, trying to put the pieces together.

  “Oscar woke you up,” Grandma said. “And apparently, you were quite irritated. A cranky zombie, I believe, were his exact words. You got into my bed and no one could wake you for the world. Lucky for me, that couch turned out to be quite comfortable.”

  I rubbed my eyes, then squinted at her. Despite her light tone and easy smile, I could tell Grandma was trying to hide the fact that she was worried. Then I saw my blog on the laptop screen. Two words jumped out, and my blood went cold.

  SAVE YOURSELF

  “Is that . . . d-did it . . .” I stuttered, crawling forward on the bed. “That blog post, is it . . . published?”

  Grandma took a deep breath. “You published it last night, yes.”

  “No, I didn’t.” I sat back on my heels. “I didn’t, I hit save, then I called Jamie . . .” But there was no use defending myself. Apparently, the Thing wanted its post and video out there. Swallowing, I looked at Grandma. “Were Dad and Lidia mad?”

  “No, sweetie. Not mad.” Grandma reached out, brushing a strand of hair off my forehead. “Just . . . concerned.”

  “Because of the . . . my doppelganger.” I was wide awake now. What did the fans think? Were they saying even worse stuff about Dad? “I know what Mi Jin says about doppelgangers, but I don’t think I’m actually going to die, I shouldn’t have said that, I . . .” I took a deep breath and sat up straighter. This was it. Time to tell the truth. Grandma watched me, her eyes filled with worry.

  “It’s not a doppelganger. It’s an artificial ghost,” I told her. “Like Brunilda Cano, the ghost of a possessed nun that Professor Guzmán created. And Roland! He made one when he was a boy, the ghost of a librarian who was never real—his brother made up the whole thing. And mine, the one in the video, it’s . . .” I wanted to say it. I was going to say it. “It’s . . .”