Eternity tft-3

by Elizabeth Miles

  It felt surreal that this could be JD’s life. It was like a film he’d once loved as a kid, but as he watched it now, everything felt forced—the script, the dialogue, the settings. As if everything he’d understood about the film no longer connected to the person he now was. Sitting there, feeling the cold metal through his jeans and overlooking the whole of his high school campus, JD thought about Chase and Zach, and how jealous he had been of that whole crowd. Of their clichéd high school experience, of the effortlessness with which it all came. He used to think he’d have to do something really freaking amazing in order to win Em’s heart. To stand out amid all that perfect normalcy.

  But now, here he was—waiting to meet Walt Feiffer, who still hadn’t showed. And he was doing it for Em. To save her. All that crap from before . . . how he’d felt passed over. It was meaningless now. He could barely remember what it felt like to be that guy.

  He rubbed his arms against his thick canvas jacket and checked his phone. 8:20. Drea’s dad was twenty minutes late. There was no answer when JD tried calling the Feiffers’ landline.

  A whistle blast pierced the air and the field hockey girls moved from warm-ups into drills. The sun rose higher in the sky and JD stood up, craning his neck and wondering if he should go back out to the parking lot to look for Walt. Had he misunderstood their plan?

  Mr. Feiffer had been drunk at both the funeral and his house. Had he drunk too much last night and passed out? There was a decent chance he had forgotten all about their meeting.

  No, that didn’t make sense—Walt was the one to have suggested the meeting in the first place, and now he was almost half an hour late. JD tried calling Drea’s home phone again. Nothing. He had a bad, bad feeling. His boots clanged against the metal as he jogged back down to the parking lot. Seeing no sign of Walt, JD made the split-second decision to pay the Feiffers’ a visit. He needed to hear what Drea’s dad had to say.

  The feeling of unease only got worse as he drove up to the Feiffers’ house, his heart hammering in his chest. The place had seemed run-down yesterday, but when JD pulled into the driveway it looked as though it was on the verge of collapse. No one answered when he rang the bell (though he hadn’t expected anyone to), and when he leaned over the stoop railing to peer into the front window, he didn’t see any signs of life. Everything was still. Lifeless.

  A sense of foreboding flickered in JD’s stomach. The front door was locked, so he made his way around to the back door, which swung open. There was no sound in the kitchen except the faint buzzing of an invisible fly.

  He knew instinctively that it was useless to call out, but he did anyway. An itching sense of fear tremored through his whole body. “Mr. Feiffer?” There was no one here. Nothing. No response.

  Except for a sudden, loud, shattering crash just to JD’s left. He jumped; his neck stung from twisting it so hard and so fast.

  Jesus.

  But it was nothing. A plate, slipping from the top of a pile of dishes in the sink and breaking into a hundred pieces on the Feiffers’ tile kitchen floor.

  His hands were sweating. He palmed them on the back of his jeans. JD moved through the kitchen, conscious of the tiny sounds his sneakers made on the squeaky linoleum. Just before he crossed into the living room, he grabbed a frying pan off the counter. Just in case.

  “Mr. Feiffer?” he said again, pushing through the door onto the matted carpeting. Every hair on his body stood up straight.

  The smell hit him first. Stale. Not yet rancid, but something like a trash can—like coffee grounds and wet newspapers and a dog’s breath mixed together. He gagged, brought his hand to his nose.

  Oh god. The reeking odor of the place was making him delirious as he stepped cautiously down the hallway—he almost thought he heard the distant sound of shrill laughter. He tightened his grip of the handle of the frying pan.

  Another step.

  Another.

  “Mr. Feiffer?” he tried one last time. “Are you—”

  But the words were ripped from his throat.

  Because there was Walt Feiffer.

  Sitting upright in his recliner. Eyes open, but unseeing. His face red and twisted and completely frozen. Pinned to his shirt, right above his heart, was a red orchid.

  “Oh shit. Oh my god, oh shit, Mr. Feiffer, oh god.” JD’s voice sounded wild and strangled even to his own ears.

  Walt Feiffer was dead.

  JD stumbled backward into the hall, his legs like heavy blocks he had no control over. And then a wave of dizziness hit him and he hunched over, gagging. He was on his knees now. His face was burning from the feeling of having to puke or cry or in some way get what he had just seen out.

  Another one dead.

  He heaved, trying to catch his breath in the wretched air.

  Slowly, his breath started to get to normal. He tried to steady his mind. What do I do what do I do what do I do . . .

  Call the cops. Of course. Of course.

  Unable to take his eyes off the body in front of him, he called 911. It seemed to take forever for someone to pick up.

  “I’m calling to report . . . a man. A dead man.” JD ran a hand through his hair. “Sixty-one Hanover Way . . . Yes, I’m certain he’s dead. . . . Yes, I’ll stay here.”

  He hung up and headed down the hall toward the front door, avoiding the living room entrance. Just then, a figure—in the window. There. Someone’s face. He could have sworn he’d just seen eyes, shining against the glass.

  Had Mr. Feiffer been murdered? Was the killer still here?

  “Get out of here,” he told himself. “Get the hell away.”

  But he knew deep in his blood. He knew what kind of killing this was.

  This was the work of the Furies.

  There was no longer any doubt: The Furies were real, and they had done this. That awful red flower bloomed just next to Mr. Feiffer’s heart, like an enormous spot of blood.

  He’d missed his chance.

  Mr. Feiffer was gone. And with him, JD’s chance of learning about the banishment ritual.

  Drea was gone.

  There was a good chance that Em, too, would soon leave him.

  Gone.

  He had to talk to her. Had to find out who—or what—was doing this.

  JD stumbled to the front door and opened it, taking deep, grateful breaths of fresh air. He collapsed to a seated position on the stoop.

  It wasn’t until the police cruiser pulled up that he started to think about what he would say to them. JD stood up and steadied himself.

  “Drea Feiffer, Walt’s daughter, was a friend of mine,” he told them when they asked. “I’ve been visiting Walt now and then. Just checking in. He’s been having a tough time. When I came by today . . . this is what I found.”

  “Had he seemed different to you at all recently?” A female officer named Breton was talking to him while her associates milled around inside.

  JD stared at her. “His daughter just died. Yeah. He seemed different.”

  She blinked. “So . . . changes of mood? Appetite?”

  JD exhaled. “I don’t know. I didn’t really know him that well.”

  “And did he seem depressed?” she persisted.

  It occurred to him that the police must suspect he’d committed suicide. But how? By suffocating himself? There were no marks on his body—that, JD had seen. It was almost like he’d been . . . scared to death.

  But what could JD say to convince them differently? He’d mentioned something about mythological goddesses who really had it in for him. . . . Not so much.

  “I saw him yesterday,” JD said, hearing his voice get thinner with anxiety. “He was fine. . . . He was alive.”

  “Uh-huh.” She scribbled a few notes. “Well, we’ll keep looking. Let us know if you think of anything that might help. Did you notice anything strange about the house when you arrived?”

  He shook his head. “Not really. . . . The front door was locked and the back door was open, but that’s not too weird.” Sh
ould he mention the flower? Should he mention the Furies? Should he tell the cops that he suspected this was a homicide? That this death—and several others—were all connected to the same three girls, and that he knew how to find them?

  “Well, we’re going to try to find Walt’s next of kin and do some investigating on our own,” Breton said. “But we’ll probably call you down to the station for a more official statement sometime in the next day or so. In the meantime, get yourself home.”

  Before he left, JD stole one last look at Drea’s father. I’m sorry, he thought. I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.

  * * *

  He parked in a short gravel driveway right by the Behemoth, off Silver Way. His hands were still shaking. For the first time in his whole life, he almost wished he was a smoker. He could use a cigarette.

  As he opened the car door and stepped into the gravel-dust-filled air, he tried not to think of the last time he was here, but his hand involuntarily went to the scar above his eyebrow.

  Why had the Furies killed Walt Feiffer? Was this a vendetta against Drea’s whole family? He wanted answers, and he was going to find them in the only place he could think to look.

  Melissa had said Ty’s house was back here in the Haunted Woods.

  The gray-red sunlight was waning; twilight would be falling soon. The woods were deep and after a minute or two, he could no longer see the Volvo when he turned back in the direction from which he’d come. He popped the collar on his jacket and continued walking.

  He’d gone maybe a mile in—around a cluster of birch trees and over a fallen oak—when he saw something moving in his peripheral vision. He whipped around . . . but there was nothing there. Just thick, heavy trees, practically dripping with fog.

  Another few steps, another fleeting shadow out of the corner of his eye. His skin prickled. But it was another false alarm. It was just him, alone, in this dark labyrinth of forest. JD stood still for a moment, listening. The rustling around him became a cacophony—insects, leaves, wind, and birds—a marching band with an indecipherable beat.

  And then bam, just like that, Ty was right there, right in front of him.

  A twist of fear seized him; he willed himself to stay calm. Where had she come from?

  “Well, well,” she said, stepping over a mossy log. Her thigh-high boots, black leggings, and silver tunic were incongruous against the natural backdrop. She looked more like Em than ever, and yet there was something not-Em about her, something hard and superficial. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.”

  Could they read minds? Had she already figured him out?

  “I, ah, I asked Melissa where your house was,” he said sheepishly. “Thought maybe we could hang out tonight.”

  “Lucky me,” Ty said brightly, smiling her polished smile. “And lucky you. No one wants to get lost in these woods. Trust me. Want to come in for a bit? I can show you, we found these crazy old maps of how the town used to look. . . . ”

  He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, blinking hard to clear a feeling like honey that was entering his consciousness. Despite himself, he was drawn to her. Remember why you’re here, he reminded himself. For answers.

  He nodded and began to follow her along a path covered in dead and decomposing leaves. JD tried to pay attention to details along the way; he might need to come back here. A left at the craggy oak tree, the one with a disc of fungus growing out its side. Slight right after the huge rock covered in a carpet of deep-green moss.

  His heart rate picked up as the house appeared suddenly before them, in a clearing that JD could have sworn he’d passed through on his way to the ice pond where Mr. Landon died. Except the other day, it had been empty. Well, almost empty. There had been three ancient stone markers in the center of it, and dry grasses rustling at the edges. Now, however, he faced a big, old, decaying house with a clapboard roof, a house that had history in every nail, in every brown shingle. It was boxy and big, with a stone chimney and black shutters framing the windows. It stood tall with energy—like it was somehow alive. Granite slabs lined the walkway to the front door, which was adorned with an ornate gold door knocker.

  “Here we are,” Ty said. “Home sweet home.” Her voice was a sing-song but had a cutting edge to it, like syrup poured over a knife.

  Inside, the whole place smelled of flowers. Cloying, sweet, and overpowering—like one of those girls who poured a bottle of perfume on herself before leaving the house.

  Ty showed them into a living room filled with Victorian furniture. The color scheme was oppressive—all reds and maroons and browns. JD stood stiffly, not sure where to look, where to sit, or what to say. There was a feeling that all this stuff was frozen in time—that to sit down would mean getting stuck in another era. This place was sucking the air right out of his lungs.

  “I’m not sure if Ali told you, but this place used to be in our family,” Ty explained. “All this stuff isn’t quite our style.”

  “It’s incredible,” he said, just to stay something. He had to get her out of here. Had to look around. For what, he wasn’t sure. “Could I have a glass of water?”

  “Of course.” Ty laughed. “What a terrible hostess I am. I’ll be back in a minute. I’ll get us something to drink and I’ll dig up those maps I told you about.”

  JD watched her walk down the hallway. When she came back he would ask her again how she knew Drea. Why she was at the funeral. Whether she’d ever met Drea’s dad. He was going to force her to show her hand.

  He moved over to a large bookcase that stood near the bay window in the front of the house. It was filled with leather-bound tomes and glass-encased knickknacks. A curvy hourglass lay on its side on one of the shelves, its white sand forever suspended. Next to the bookcase, a gargoyle bust. Then a floor-to-ceiling window that looked into a giant backyard garden bursting with those hideous crimson orchids. Against the barely blooming branches of early spring, the flowers looked out of place and foreign. Just like these girls in Ascension. JD thought back to Mr. Feiffer’s words: It must finish where it began.

  He moved through the room slowly, feeling as though he were swimming through something thick and dark.

  Next to the window, tucked away in a back corner, there was a small display case with several items on a swath of red velvet.

  He stooped to get a closer look, trying to understand why these seemingly ordinary items were being showcased. A worn copy of Shakespeare’s Othello with the initials H. L. inscribed on the cover. An earring, simple and silver, sitting on top of a ripped piece of paper, one marked by heavy charcoal smears. Two small pink oyster shells. A tin of Altoids. A stamped envelope. A patch, meant to be sewn to a backpack or a jacket, in the shape of a football. JD was so close that his breath fogged up the glass. He paused for a moment, listening for footsteps in the hall. Nothing. The house was eerily silent, every room cloaked in soundproof sheets of velvet.

  There seemed to be hundreds of items in the case, but the next one on this shelf made his breath catch in his throat. He would have recognized it anywhere. A gold squiggling-snake brooch. Where its eyes should be, two tiny pieces of red stone. He’d seen it hundreds of times—pinned to Drea Feiffer’s clothes.

  He shrank back from the case, his mind racing, certain now that he was in a bad place—that this house, and its inhabitants, were evil. It was all starting to make sense. The football—Chase Singer. The charcoal drawing—Sasha Bowlder. The pin—Drea. Now that he thought about it, he wouldn’t be surprised if that copy of Othello was connected to Mr. Landon. JD’s blood went cold. What was he looking at? Prizes? Trophies?

  Pieces for some kind of demented scrapbook?

  These girls were the killers. JD steadied himself against the mantel above the fireplace, trying to get his thoughts to come one at a time, rather than all at once. The current was fast and there was no jumping to shore.

  Before he turned away, another item in the case caught his eye. Up in the right-hand corner was a pen. Not just any pen. The fancy o
ne, embellished with silver swirls, that he’d given to Em as a gift two Christmases ago. It was the kind of pen you kept—refilling it with ink when it ran dry, using it only to write down your most important secrets. He remembered how she’d looked at him when she opened the box on Christmas morning, still wearing her striped pajamas.

  This is for a real writer, she’d said, her eyes glowing shyly.

  That’s why you should have it, he’d responded.

  And there it was, lying lost in the Furies’ case of terrible triumphs. He balled his hand into a fist and raised it high above his head, compelled to smash the glass, retrieve the pen, and get the hell out of this haunted house.

  Suddenly, Ali appeared right next to him, close enough to make his arm hairs prickle. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  He stumbled backward, knowing that his face betrayed a look of both shock and fear. JD tried desperately to appear unfazed. “Hi! I, ah, didn’t know you were here. I was just . . . ” He trailed off, unable to come up with an excuse.

  “I heard you two come in,” she said, smiling coyly.  “I thought I’d come say hello. I’ve got to keep a pretty close watch on her these days.”

  On Ty? Me too, he thought.

  “Yeah, I ran into Ty out there in the woods. . . . She’s just in the kitchen,” JD said, pointing vaguely. “I think.” His mind was racing. Should he excuse himself and make a break for it? Being here with Ty and these trophies was bad enough. Now he had two of them to deal with? And what if Meg was home too . . . ? There was a seesaw tipping back and forth in his stomach, and JD felt vaguely seasick.

  Ali’s eyes narrowed. Her lashes and eyebrows were so light that her eyes appeared as pricks of black on a white canvas. The room hung with silence as heavy as the drapes. “You know, you should be careful,” she came right out and said at last. “If Ty’s paying attention to you, that means she wants something. And when she wants something, it’s never good.”

  A wave of cold broke over him. “What does that mean?” He wondered if he should say something about the trophies, call her out on being connected to the murders, or simply run.