Prom Date

by Diane Hoh

  Alarmed by the look in the eyes regarding her, the girl in yellow took a step backwards. But she remained defiant. “You are really insane, you know that?” Her first mistake.

  “Don’t say that again!”

  “I … I didn’t mean it. But I am going to the prom. Of course I am.”

  “Oh, are you? I don’t think so.”

  The girl’s eyes narrowed. Her voice was cold and remarkably unshaken as she said, “I don’t know what your problem is, but I’m going back down. Right now. Let me pass!” Her defiance was her second mistake. But then, she was quite used to getting her own way.

  “I can’t do that. Not until you promise. Promise me you’ll break your date with him, so he can take me. Do that, and I’ll let you leave.”

  The girl in yellow, finally accepting that she was in real danger, instinctively took another step sideways. In her sudden fear, she forgot about the decrepit, weather-beaten railing. Her third mistake.

  The instant her side slammed against it, the section of the railing gave way, crumbling like stale bread. Unprepared, she lost her balance and tumbled sideways, off the edge of the deck. She made no sound beyond a small, startled gasp. At the very last second, one well-manicured, ring-laden hand flew out and clutched a post.

  Above her, hands flew to a mouth open in shock and horror. The fall, clearly not part of the plan, had created in the observer a frozen helplessness that did the victim no good at all.

  The girl in yellow dangled by one hand, legs kicking frantically against the solid white stone of the lighthouse, her free hand clawing wildly at the wall for something to hang onto, seeking something substantial to clutch. “Help me!” she cried. “Please, help me!”

  The figure standing on the deck above her immediately sank to her knees to lend a helping hand, crying, “Hold on, hold on, don’t fall, I’ll get you, hold on!” Both hands reached out, bent down …

  And then pulled backwards slowly, as the shock and horror left the face and were replaced by something very different. “What am I doing? Why am I helping you? You wouldn’t help me. I begged you, and you said no. You said I was crazy.” The figure sank back on her heels, hands in her lap, eyes staring down into the face of the dangling girl. The girl in yellow’s eyes were so full of terror, they should have melted even the hardest of hearts.

  But they didn’t. “No, no, I just don’t think it would be right for me to help you,” the voice said slowly, thoughtfully. “You can understand that, can’t you? I mean, you weren’t being the least bit cooperative. Not the least bit.” The voice gathered speed. “And the thing is, it’s not my fault you fell. I never touched you. It’s not my fault, right?”

  The horrified shock on the face of the girl’s only hope of rescue had slowly but clearly turned into something very different. Slowly, gradually, the look in the eyes staring down at the white-faced victim clawing at the lighthouse wall, legs still now because kicking made it harder to support her weight, became that of a fox who has unexpectedly trapped its prey and is surprised by its good luck. A look of cold cunning. That look, in turn, changed again, became undisguised delight. Or, more accurately, maniacal glee at such good fortune.

  The girl in yellow watched the face changing and her last shred of hope died. She knew then that she was going to do the same. She was going to die. Now. Right now. Because the face of the only person who could save her from plunging down upon those cruel, jagged rocks directly beneath her, a face that only moments ago had been white with shock and terror, was no longer quite human. Every shred of decency, of kindness, of forgiveness, of compassion, was gone, replaced by the unmistakable look of a predator.

  And what she thought then was, I will get no help from such a face.

  The figure above her stood up. The black, pointed tip of a shoe moved forward, ever so slightly and, nudging gently, began uncurling the fingers clutching the post. One finger left the post. Two …

  “It wasn’t my fault. I never touched you. You just fell, that’s all.”

  The girl was not petite. The body that looked so perfect in sweaters and skirts, designer jeans and T-shirts, formal dresses, was too substantial to be supported by a mere three-finger grip when gravity was tugging at it with great force.

  The figure still on the deck suddenly reached down and snatched away the yellow headband the girl was wearing, and pocketed it. Then she straightened up and the toe slid forward one more time. “I am sorry, though. But you should have been more careful.”

  “No,” the girl whispered, tears of anguish streaming down her face, streaking her makeup, “no, please, I’ll do what you asked, I won’t go to the prom, I won’t …”

  “Liar.” The tip of the shoe pulled back and swung forward, hard, aiming at the remaining three fingers. It connected with a crunching sound and the hand slid free. The girl fell down, down, upon the wet, salt-sticky rocks below.

  She screamed once on the way down, a helpless, hopeless shriek of terror.

  “You were right.” The voice sounded different now. “This place is dangerous.”

  As the figure turned away from the railing, a small object fell from her pocket. She bent to pick it up, then changed her mind and nodding, let it lie, half hidden beneath a worn wooden bench.

  Then the shoe that had kicked out at the hand turned with its mate and the pair of them made their way back down the circular staircase, in no particular hurry.

  Chapter 5

  SHE’S DEAD. DEAD! IT’S not what I planned and I didn’t mean it to happen but it did and it wasn’t my fault and I can’t stop thinking that maybe now I’ll get what I want. What she wouldn’t give me.

  It was so easy.

  What am I going to do?

  I can’t stop shivering, and it’s not even that cold down here. The wind can’t get inside. No one can see me here, hiding in this place, can they? They won’t look for me here, will they?

  They won’t look for me at all. Won’t be looking for anyone, because when they find her, they’ll think it was an accident. No one knows I was with her. I’m the only one alive who knows what happened, and I’m not telling. Not ever.

  When they find her, I’ll go back out then. I’ll leave my hiding place and join the crowd that will come flocking down to the water to see what’s happened. They’ll think I was with them all the time, that I never left the picnic.

  I’ll have to be very careful to act like all the others. If they cry, I’ll cry. If they don’t, I won’t. Just like them, I’ll act just like them. No one will notice anything weird about me, I’ll make sure of that.

  But I feel weird. I feel so weird. But look how it’s turned out for me. Better than I thought. I think … I think that if this doesn’t work out the way I want, and it might not because sometimes things don’t, I could do this again, and again, and again, until I do get what I want. It’s so easy. Easy to make things look accidental. And no one would ever suspect me. I’m much too clever for that.

  That look on her face … I’ll see that in my dreams, maybe even while I’m awake, for the rest of my life. And I’ll hear that scream even when I’m listening to music or taking part in a conversation or cheering at a ball game. It will ring in my ears as if it were happening at that very second instead of in the past.

  I shouldn’t punish myself like that. It really wasn’t my fault. She should have been more careful. And I certainly couldn’t help her after she refused to help me. That wouldn’t have been right. Not right at all.

  But she’s dead. Gone. Forever. Out there in the water somewhere, floating like a bright yellow buoy.

  There, the shivering has stopped. Because I feel strong now. Stronger than I ever have. I can do anything. I can have what I want.

  And now I have a date for the prom.

  Chapter 6

  ON THE RUTTED DIRT road across the park, the scream stopped Margaret and Mitch in their tracks. The chilling sound married the whistling of the wind and became an eerie, anguished wail that faded as quickly as it had begun.


  The two stood in wary silence. Across the road in the park, a raucous softball game stirred up dust. Spectators screamed and shouted, urging on their team. Some distance behind them, a more frenetic volleyball game was taking place. More shouting, more screaming. Margaret waited for all of the players to stop what they were doing and listen to see if the wail of hopeless terror came again. It didn’t. Had none of them heard the awful sound?

  Mitch was the first to speak. “What was that?” His voice was low, his dark head tilted slightly as if he were still listening.

  Margaret’s heart resumed its beating. “I don’t know.”

  The sharp crack of a bat sounded from the park. The screams that filled the air then as the runner flew from home plate to first base and then on to second seemed, to Margaret, very unlike the one they’d heard a moment earlier. That had sounded anything but playful to her.

  But Mitch’s body relaxed and he said, “Oh, that’s what it was! The game. Whew, had me going there for a minute. Sounded like someone having their worst nightmare, didn’t it?”

  And for just a moment, it was such a relief to be presented with a harmless, even comforting explanation for the bone-chilling shriek, Margaret tried very hard to believe that he was right.

  But she knew, somewhere deep inside of her, that he was wrong.

  “Yes, it did sound like someone’s nightmare,” she said, turning around to face the Point. “And it didn’t come from the ball games.” She pointed toward the lighthouse.

  “It came from there.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.” Dread sounded in her voice. “We have to go check.”

  Someone shouted at Mitch just then, urging him to join the game.

  Margaret saw him hesitate. He didn’t really agree that the scream had come from the Point, and she could tell that he would much rather play ball than return to the lighthouse to investigate.

  “I can go back by myself,” she said, and began walking. Fast. Almost running. If she was right about where the scream had come from, she was probably also right that it meant something terrible.

  Mitch was beside her in seconds. Didn’t argue with her, didn’t tell her she was nuts, just ran along beside her. Margaret felt a little better. She wasn’t anxious to return to the lighthouse alone if there was trouble there.

  They were halfway there when Caroline stepped out of the woods, her hands filled with wildflowers already beginning to wilt. When Margaret told her where they were going and why, she said, “I didn’t hear any scream. You can ask Lacey and Scott when they get here. They’re in the woods somewhere, too.”

  “We’re not waiting,” Margaret said urgently. “You can, if you want. Bring them to the lighthouse when they get here, just in case. We might need help.”

  “You’re probably getting all upset over nothing,” Caroline bent her head to sniff the bouquet in her hands. “Could have been someone screaming at the park. It’s a picnic, Margaret. People scream when they’re having fun.”

  But Margaret was already running again, this time faster. Mitch was right behind her.

  They found nothing in the lighthouse. Their footsteps echoed hollowly up the metal stairs, and although they repeatedly called out, no one answered them.

  And when they reached the observation deck, it, too, was empty, occupied only by the whistling wind.

  They were about to leave when Margaret noticed that a top section of the railing was gone. “Mitch? Look, the railing is broken.”

  “That railing’s been rotting for years.”

  “I know it has. But this part of it wasn’t broken just a little while ago, when we were up here. Come and look.”

  “You’re right,” Mitch agreed. “This piece wasn’t gone. I know, because this is where I leaned my elbows until you told me not to. Must have fallen off after we left.”

  Footsteps pounding up the metal stairs signaled the arrival of Scott, Caroline, and Lacey. When the door opened and the three joined Margaret and Mitch, Margaret showed them the missing railing section.

  “So it fell off after you left,” Scott suggested. His face was wet with sea spray, his red hair wild.

  “Maybe.” Careful not to lean against the rickety railing, Margaret peered over its edge. The others did the same.

  They all saw it at the same moment. Far below, floating in the churning, foaming water as it pounded up against the rocks, a yellow long-sleeved jacket, the back and sleeves water-laden, puffed up like balloons.

  They were too far above it to see any more than that.

  “It’s just a jacket,” Caroline said nervously, backing away from the railing as if she expected it to attack her. “That’s all it is, just a jacket.”

  “Probably,” Mitch agreed. “Can’t tell from here. But we’d better go down and check.”

  Margaret could tell from his voice that he wasn’t convinced Caroline was right.

  It was impossible to go down those shaky stairs quickly. The descent seemed to take forever, as if someone were continually adding additional stairs as they moved downward.

  When they emerged into sunlight, Caroline said, “I’m not going down there. To the water. I know it’s just a jacket, of course it is. But you guys go look. I’ll wait here, okay?”

  “I’ll stay with you,” Lacey said hastily.

  Leaving them standing beside the stone steps, Mitch, Scott, and Margaret hurried along the rough, uneven ground and down a path leading to the beach.

  Margaret’s heart was drumming unevenly in her chest. Caroline was probably right. There couldn’t be anyone inside that jacket being buffeted by the rough waves and the rocks. Because if there were, that person couldn’t possibly be alive. The possibility of someone from the picnic being … dead … was something Margaret wasn’t willing to face.

  The climb down the path was a difficult one. The ground was uneven and rocky, and wind and salt spray battled them every inch of the way. As they neared the spot where they had seen the jacket, giant waves crashing into the huge boulders lying at the edge of the water cascaded upward and out, drenching all three of them. Margaret’s hair and face were soaked and sticky with salt.

  Please, she prayed, stepping carefully, please don’t let anyone be inside that floating jacket. Let Caroline be right, please.

  They finally made it to the edge of the water.

  And Margaret could see, then, that Caroline was not right.

  The shiny yellow jacket was not empty. Someone was still wearing it.

  Chapter 7

  “OH, GOD,” MARGARET WHISPERED as the three stood at the water’s edge staring in shock and disbelief. “It’s Stephanie. It’s Stephanie Markham.” She knew it even before she saw the long, tangled mass of dark hair splayed out like seaweed around the head that bobbed, face up now, among the thunderous waves. “That’s her yellow jacket.”

  The trio stood, paralyzed with horror, on the rocky ledge, assaulted by a constant spray of salt water and the tugging of the angry wind. Their eyes were riveted to the spot in the churning, silvery waves where Stephanie Markham’s left ankle was firmly imprisoned in a narrow crevasse between two huge rocks.

  After what seemed like hours, Scott said to no one in particular, “If her foot wasn’t stuck between those boulders, she’d be out to sea by now.”

  Mitch and Margaret made no reply.

  Although the force of the water had washed away whatever blood there had been, sparing them at least that, there didn’t seem to be a single facial bone left intact. The smooth olive features so admired at Toomey High had puddled into a boneless mass of sodden flesh. Had that not been Stephanie Markham’s yellow jacket, had that not been her dark hair, none of the three could possibly have been certain who that was being buffetted by the rough, wind-driven waves like refuse from a shipwreck.

  Her eyes were wide open. If her head had not been turned slightly toward the shore, she would have appeared to be gazing up at the sky. Instead, the glassy, doll-like stare led directly to the
very top of the lighthouse.

  All three heads turned automatically to follow Stephanie’s sightless gaze.

  “She fell from there.” Mitch wasn’t asking a question. He was making a statement.

  Margaret nodded. “The broken railing. That,” she sucked in her breath, “was the scream we heard. Stephanie falling.” Shuddering, she turned away from the lighthouse.

  “I don’t get it.” Mitch continued to stare at the white tower. “Steph would never have gone up there alone. She hated the place. Anyway, she never went anywhere alone.”

  “Well, she couldn’t have been with anyone,” Scott argued. “They would have helped her. Run to the park and brought people back to save her. Something. No one did that.”

  “I know that.” Mitch wiped salt spray from his face with his sweatshirt sleeve. “I’m just telling you, I’ve known Steph all of my life, and she would never have gone up into that lighthouse alone.”

  Caroline came up behind them so quietly, all three jumped when she asked in a tremulous voice, “Was I right? I was, wasn’t I? It’s just a jack—” Then she, too, saw. She let out a sickened cry. “Oh, no, who is it?”

  “Stephanie Markham,” Margaret was the first to say.

  “Is she … is she …?”

  Of course she was. How could she possibly still be alive? “Yes. She’s dead.” Margaret turned to Mitch. “We have to do something. We have to get her out of there.”

  “No.” Mitch wiped salt spray from his face with the back of his hand. “I don’t think we should touch her. We have to leave her just as she is until the police arrive.”

  “The police?” Caroline squeaked. “You mean an ambulance.”

  “I mean the police,” Mitch insisted. “She’s dead, Caroline. And it looks as if she fell from the deck, but I’m telling you, as a close friend of hers, that she would never have gone up there alone. So, it’s time to call the police. Eddie says if you ever find a body and you don’t know exactly what happened, don’t touch it.”