“I’ve seen that before. . . . ” Skylar said, frowning, as though trying to remember. Then she nodded. “My aunt tried to give it to me. Or at least, something like it. I lost it in the woods the night of my bonfire party in the Haunted Woods.”
“Drea had one. . . . ” Em said, struggling to get the words through her strangled throat. “Sasha had one. I had one.”
Skylar picked up the pendant and twirled it in her hand. “What’s it for?”
“I think . . . I think some people believe it helps to ward off the Furies,” Em said. Her hand still stung, but it was worth the pain. This was a clue. Surely this was a sign that she was right, and that Nora did have information about the Furies. “I’m not sure how well it works. Let’s see what else is in here.” She breathed a sigh of relief as she watched Skylar put the snake pin down.
They sifted through the next few layers in Nora’s trunk. Several antique books about flowers, and one about mythology—Em recognized it as a title she’d seen in her research. A few pieces of clothing, a shawl, a silvery top, a pair of ladies’ gloves. There was a stack of photographs wrapped in ribbon at the bottom of the chest.
“That’s my aunt,” Skylar said, directing the light onto the photo at the top of the pile. It was a picture of three women smiling.
Em peered closer. She definitely recognized Skylar’s aunt, but she also knew one of the women next to her: it was the angry librarian from the Antiquities Library at the University of Southern Maine. Em and Drea had had an unfortunate run-in with her; once she learned that they were researching the Furies, she had kicked them out unceremoniously.
“I know that woman,” Em said.
“That’s Hannah Markwell.” Skylar took the picture and held it near her face. “She’s a librarian, I think. She’s a friend of my aunt’s. They geek out over books together.” Skylar rolled her eyes and for a second, Mini-Me Gabby was back.
The third woman was also a brunette. A pretty smile, a strong nose, striking features, but there were worry lines around her eyes. She looked so familiar. Em turned over the picture to see if there was more information on the back. Just three names—Nora, Hannah, and Edie.
Edie. The name rang a faint bell. . . . Em sat there for a moment, puzzling over the photograph. Looking at it seemed to spark an inexplicable feeling of déjà vu. She stared into the static eyes of the third woman, willing herself to remember. And then it came to her, so obvious that she was appalled that she hadn’t seen it immediately. This woman was the spitting image of Drea.
“Oh my god,” she said softly. “Give me that,” she said, grabbing for the flashlight.
Skylar looked up from a pile of yellowing papers and handed it over. “What is it?”
“This woman, Edie . . . She was Drea’s mom.” Em licked her lips. Her mouth felt suddenly dry. “Drea believed she was a victim of the Furies, years ago. And Nora knew her.” Em looked up. “I was right, see? Nora must know about them.” Her heartbeat picked up again. “We need to talk to her as soon as possible. When does she get home?”
“If she knew how to stop them, don’t you think she would have already?” Skylar asked softly. Her wig was slightly off-center, exposing her cheeks and her scars: fine and fissured, as though her skin had been covered in spiderwebs. Hearing the hurt and abandonment in Skylar’s voice, Em felt ashamed.
She reached out impulsively and squeezed Skylar’s hand. “She might not know how to stop them,” she said, “but any help is better than none.”
Skylar nodded. “Okay. I’ll call you when she gets back.”
Em slipped the black-and-white photo into her purse. She felt the impulse to keep it as a token. An unspoken promise to Drea that she would win this fight.
Em looked up as she got to her feet, panning the flashlight back and forth. As she did, the light fell on a doll’s face and Em swore she saw the doll blink at her—the eyelids lowering once over those dark, glassy eyes. There was a distant sound of silvery laughter and a gust of wind that came through—suddenly, violently—and made the doll propel forward and fall facefirst onto the floor. Em’s heart rate surged as the flashlight slipped from her hand and the light went out once it hit the floor. Her muscles turned to jelly. They were in complete darkness.
“Oh my god!” Skylar screamed, groping for the flashlight. “Where is it? Where’s the light? I can’t find it!”
Was the doll moving? It was hard for Em to tell in the pale moonlight. The slumped figure seemed to shift ever so slightly, causing Em to recoil. She backed up into the standing dress forms, all of which teetered on their bases from the impact. “Never mind the light,” Em said. “Find the door. Where’s the door?!”
Em tried to pull Skylar to her feet but she wrenched away from Em’s grip—reaching blindly into the dark spaces between boxes. “No, no, I see it!” Em watched Skylar’s tiny frame practically disappear behind a box, only to reappear with the flashlight in hand. But it wouldn’t turn on, and Skylar stood there, shaking it violently as if willing it to work. Em kept her eye trained on the lifeless doll, which seemed to inch closer every moment she wasn’t watching it
“Let’s go,” Em said, yanking on Skylar’s wrist and leading her through the makeshift aisle between boxes—many of which were knocked over in their panic. The attic was so cluttered. Em stopped short, approximating where the door should’ve been. Then another gust, even stronger than the first, followed by a splintering crash. Em screamed and dropped to the floor, running her hand over the wood planks.
“Skylar, is it here? How the hell do we open this?”
“There’s a round handle that looks like a knocker.”
“I need the light!” Em said. She couldn’t control her voice and could feel it rising.
“I know, but I can’t get it on!” Skylar yelped. The wind blew through again and Em’s hair whipped around her head—getting into her mouth and eyes. She grabbed the flashlight and shook it violently. Finally: a beam of light. She panned the floor and found the handle—wrought-iron and ornate. Skylar dropped to her knees and pulled, but it wouldn’t give.
“It’s stuck. Oh god. We’re trapped!”
“Let me try,” Em said, pushing her aside. With one hand she pulled and it sprang open with a thud. “Go!” she yelled at Skylar, who tumbled through and nearly fell rushing down the ladder. Em followed closely behind, glancing once more at the doll, whose head was cocked on the floor at an awkward angle, one eye wide open, staring at her.
* * *
Back at her house, Em forced down a few bites of late-night chicken and pasta with her father, struggling to pay attention as he discussed the pros and cons of hiring an SAT tutor and some hilarious sketch he’d seen on The Colbert Report. Her senses were on high alert and her heart still hadn’t stopped racing since she’d fled Skylar’s house. Every scrape of knife against dinner plate, every drip from the faucet into the sink, she heard like it was being blasted in stereo next to her ears.
“Not that hungry, huh?” he asked, noticing her practically full plate.
“I ate with Gabby,” Em lied. She’d barely been able to take a sip of her milk shake.
He cleared his throat. “Listen, Emily, while it’s just the two of us . . . I wanted to let you know . . . you can talk to me.”
She couldn’t take this now—not more pity. Not more empty promises. She picked up her plate, brought it to the sink, and scraped a gob of cheesy pasta into the garbage disposal. “I’m fine, Dad—don’t worry. I’m feeling better every day,” she insisted.
“Your mother and I were thinking about taking a little trip, a long weekend in April or something,” he said hopefully. “Maybe down to New York, or up to Montreal. Are you up for it? Just the three of us, a little change of pace? I think we could all use a recharge.”
“A recharge,” she repeated. “That sounds . . . ” She felt a hard rock of sadness lodge in her throat, and had to force out the final word: “Nice.” Then she headed upstairs to her bedroom.
* * *
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Alone again, she stood in front of the mirror for a long time. She could practically see through her own skin. Her eyes were dark and dewy. So this is what a dying person looks like, she said to herself, bringing an unsteady hand up to her face. She stayed like that for a moment, unable to move.
In the shower, she made the water lukewarm, then tepid, then downright cold—trying to ease the feverish heat that enveloped her body. The droplets felt like they were falling onto skin that wasn’t hers. Em let herself collapse against the white tile wall. Her tears mixed with the shower water and it all went down the drain.
She tossed and turned again that night. Hot. Tangled. Sweaty. On her stomach and on her back and on her side. Nothing allowed her the sweet relief of rest. Every time Em closed her eyes, the terror seized her all over again, and all she could see was that fallen, lifeless doll, staring—unblinking—in the darkness.
CHAPTER NINE
It’s not like he was spying.
JD was running late, tearing apart the house for his American History notebook that he needed for an open-book quiz. He was studying in the den the night before and finally found it there under one of Melissa’s sweaters. Nearly flying out the door, he stopped short when he saw Crow, cupping his hands against Em’s kitchen window. Ducking back onto his porch, JD scanned the area and spotted Crow’s truck, just past Em’s driveway, halfway hidden by trees.
JD squinted. What the hell? Was Crow seriously stalking Em? How long had he been there?
First he gets all cozy with Ascension’s bizarre mystery girls and now this?
No one was home to witness Crow’s creepiness—he could see that both of Em’s parents’ cars were gone, and he’d seen Gabby pick Em up this morning while he was eating breakfast. Should he call the cops?
Without thinking much at all, he started striding across the lawn. JD had the right to tell Crow to get the hell off the Winters’ property. And while he was at it he would tell him to leave Em alone, that he wasn’t good enough for her in any universe. JD trusted Crow about as far as he could throw him, and for the first time in his life, JD was itching for a fight.
But before he got too far, he saw Crow turn and go back to his truck, moving stealthily across Em’s lawn. In an instant, JD decided that he wasn’t going to school after all, at least not right away. He sprinted back to his Volvo, waited a moment so that he wouldn’t be right on Crow’s tail, and followed the red-and-silver pickup truck down the road. Even if he got a black eye in the process, JD was going to finally tell Crow what he thought of him. He was going to find out how he knew Ty. He was going to prove—to himself, and then to Em—that Crow really was bad news.
Behind the wheel of his Volvo, trailing Crow out onto the main road, JD felt a momentary twinge of What the hell am I doing? But recalling the sight of Crow peeping into Em’s windows, JD’s feelings of paranoia flooded back.
When Crow put his blinker on to indicate that he was turning into the cemetery, JD was mystified. A strip club, sure. The seedy motel by the highway where everyone knew out-of-town drug deals went down, okay. But the cemetery? JD eased up on the gas and pulled back to a distance where he hoped his presence was less obvious.
JD stopped the Volvo by the entrance of the graveyard. He got out and closed his car door carefully, peering down the lane to see that Crow had parked just next to a big oak tree in the new section of the cemetery.
JD crept closer. The grass made soft squishing sounds below his boots. Here among the gravestones, the air seemed cooler. There was a fine mist swirling through the graveyard, low to the ground, and the heavy smell of wetness, of damp dirt, hung around him. Only a few trees stood on the property, and they were still without their leaves, lending them a stark quality against the grayish sky. JD wasn’t superstitious in the slightest, but there was no denying that this place was creepy. He had the same feeling here he’d gotten walking through the abandoned warehouse with Ty—as though he were being watched. If he believed in ghosts, he’d definitely expect to find them here.
He grimaced a little, thinking of the last time he’d visited this burial ground: a few weeks ago, when he’d followed Em to this very spot and found her hunched over Sasha Bowlder’s grave with a knife in her hand and a dead snake by her feet. A dead snake—just like the one in that creepy book he’d found on Em’s bed. It had said something about the Furies under the picture. . . . He shivered and pulled up the hood of his jacket. He hated thinking about Em like that—not just vulnerable, but teetering on crazy. He’d never seen her so shaken.
JD stopped and hid behind an oak tree, watching as Crow approached a newly dug grave and kneeled in front of it on the freshly packed dirt. Crow bowed his head for a moment and for the first time seemed human, like he wasn’t putting on a show or trying to be all anti-establishment. He just . . . was, and JD felt a prang of sympathy. Then, just as quickly as he’d come, Crow stood and brushed off his knees—then turned and headed back to his truck.
For a split second JD thought to confront him; out of principle he didn’t want his anger to dissipate. But what was the point? Let him go, JD thought. It suddenly seemed wrong to start a fight surrounded by headstones.
As soon as he saw Crow’s truck pull out of the cemetery, JD walked down to the grave. When he read the words on the headstone, he felt like he’d been punched in the gut.
Drea Feiffer
Beautiful daughter, friend, individual.
Gone from us too soon.
The sight of it gave him chills. It seemed somehow like an offense that she would be here. This didn’t do justice to the person she was: unique, curious, brilliant. No. Drea’s ashes should’ve been shot into space, floating across the universe—or scattered in the ocean to move with the currents. Something . . . bigger. Just not here, buried in this old, crumbling place under layers of soil.
He stooped down and ran his fingers over the cool stone. His chest ached. Gone forever.
“I’m sorry,” he said out loud. And he was. He was sorry for almost kissing her, for not kissing her, for not being a better friend. For not saving her from the fire in the gym. For choosing Em. Who had not chosen him back.
He hung his head, lost in his thoughts—but pulled away when he heard something nearby, a voice. A faint murmuring. He jerked upright.
“Hello?” he called out. The fog seemed to consume his words; they dissipated almost as quickly as they’d left his mouth. “Is someone there?” Had Crow seen his car and doubled back to confront him?
No response. JD squinted down the row of graves, focusing on keeping his breath even and quiet. He strained to hear the voice again, to try to place where it was coming from. Took a few steps in the other direction.
Then the sound came again, traveling like leaves caught in a swirling gust of wind, fading in and out in a spiral. He caught fragments of words, and the high trail of someone’s laughter. He stood weighted down, like every ounce of his blood had turned into a liquid metal. Move, he told himself. More snippets of a girl’s voice, melodious, as through from a music box. Otherworldly. JD had seen his share of scary movies, but nothing could have prepared him for the way his heart was pounding in his chest right now.
“I can hear you,” he said, a bit louder. He balled his fists and turned in a circle, unsure what direction it was coming from. Every headstone seemed to grow taller, the sky grayer. As far as he knew, he was the only person in the cemetery now that Crow was gone. If Crow was gone. No other cars had been parked when they got there, nor had any arrived in the past few minutes.
And then he spotted her, not ten yards away. A girl, sitting with her back against a huge, bare-branched maple tree that towered over a white-stone mausoleum across the way. How long had she been there? She was in navy-blue sweatpants and a white T-shirt, and her hands and feet were covered in dirt. Her blond hair was stringy and her body looked gaunt. JD made his way toward her.
“I see you,” she said in a singsong voice. She pulled at the grass around her but didn’t
look up.
He stopped short and waited for her to say more, but nothing came. He took slow steps toward her and finally, she raised her head, startled—as if she hadn’t called out to him just moments ago. She scrambled to her feet and he could see that she was about his age, with dirty-blond hair and a blank gaze. He could tell she’d been beautiful once. Her eyes were green, but bloodshot. JD swallowed hard.
“Are you—are you okay?” he stuttered. He saw a long, angry scar along her hairline and his stomach went tight.
She turned away from him again, staring intently at a patch of grass for seemingly no reason. She whispered something, to herself or to him, he couldn’t be sure. But he took one more step closer, straining to hear what she was saying.
“From blood the seeds are borne and from blood they will be buried,” she murmured as though reciting something—a poem, or a spell. It was eerily similar to the words in the book he’d seen on Em’s bed.
“Hey . . . Hi. Are you all right? You must be freezing. Can I get you some help?” In the pocket of his Windbreaker, JD closed his fingers around his cell phone.
The girl swiveled again, but this time her expression was different—softer, more lucid, like she somehow recognized him. She reached up to tuck her hair behind her ears, smearing dirt on her cheeks in the process. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking embarrassed. “Did you say something to me?”
JD looked around; it was an empty graveyard at nine o’clock in the morning. “I asked if you needed help?”
“Oh, well, now that you mention it, I think I should call my aunt.” She smiled a wide, toothy smile—the kind you’d see in some sort of beauty pageant—and cocked her head slightly. It was weird how quickly she had shifted from Crazy Girl in the Cemetery to Miss America at a Dinner Party.
JD fumbled for his phone. This girl could be on drugs or insane or maybe she was just a wild hippie chick, but whatever she was, he didn’t know what to do with her. “Sure,” he said. “You can use my phone.”
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