Mary (Bloody Mary)

by Hillary Monahan

  “Help me. Help me,” Jess rasped as Mary started walking her toward the mirror.

  I tossed the salt to Kitty so I could better grip my stool leg. “Don’t use it until I tell you to,” I ordered. I circled Mary. She tittered at me, her eye narrowing as she dragged the struggling Jess across the room. I thought about hitting her with it like a baseball bat, but it wasn’t thick enough to do any real damage. It was pointy, though. I eyed Mary’s body to pick my spot. She must have read my thoughts, as she swung Jess around in front of her, using Jess’s body as a shield.

  “Don’t move, Jess,” I whispered. Jess stopped struggling and went deadweight, causing Mary to stumble forward. I lifted the spike over my head and ran at her, aiming for her eye. There was a wet sucking noise, a squish, and Mary’s scream echoed through the basement, loud enough to shake the foundations of the house. She relinquished her hold on Jess to grab her own face, groping at the wood impaled in her eye socket.

  “NOW, KITTY, NOW!” I screeched, grabbing a stunned Jess and pulling her out of harm’s way. Kitty swept in with her salt, throwing handful after handful to force Mary to retreat. There was a last, ear-blasting bellow before Mary turned for the mirror and dove into its quivering depths.

  Kitty flung salt at the mirror until it turned solid. Mary was back where she belonged, on the right side of the glass. We fell silent; the only sound filling the room was Jess’s weeping. I looked over at where she lay in a crumpled heap. Her hand was still bleeding, and there were claw marks in her back, just as there had been in mine. If what Cody said was true, my tag had been replaced by the promise of a better, fresher victim.

  I grabbed the salt from Kitty and walked into the adjacent bathroom. I didn’t lay a line. Instead I approached the mirror over the sink and waited. I was nervous—Mary was surely pissed at me after what I’d done to her face—but she didn’t come at me, not even when I put my hand against the glass in invitation. It was a normal, boring reflection staring back at me now.

  “Hey, Shauna, she’s out here still. She’s trying to get out and she looks really mad. I think she’s coming back for you!” Kitty yelled.

  “No,” I said, reemerging from the bathroom and glaring at Jess’s huddled form. Pitiful as she was, I felt only anger. Cold, hard anger that she could be so selfish and stupid. “She’s here for Jess.”

  While I’d been in the bathroom, Mary had pulled the spike from her face. There was a huge hole where her eye used to be. My stomach lurched when beetles crawled from the orifice to fly off into the smoky haze surrounding her.

  Jess looked at the mirror and then at me. Her hand reached for me, fingers wrapping around my ankle to give it a squeeze. Her blue eyes were rimmed red, her skin paler than usual. Tears and snot covered her face. “Help me. Please. I was only doing it for you. I wouldn’t lose you to her. You’re like my sister.”

  “Shut up,” I said. “Just shut up and go home, Jess.”

  “But—”

  “Shut up and go home,” I repeated, my look hard.

  Jess got to her feet, her fingers skimming over the cut in the back of her hand. Two bright spots of color flamed on her cheeks as she turned to address Kitty. “I’m sorry. I wanted her to go for Becca or Laurie, but they…I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have let Mary have you, either. It just…I’m sorry. Please. I can’t lose everything. Not now. Not if she’s…” Jess craned her neck back at the mirror, shuddering when she saw Mary’s face pressed to the solid glass, her hands clawing at the surface like she could dig her way through. “Not if she’s going to hurt me. I was trying to help. I swear.”

  I braced for Kitty to do the nice-girl thing and forgive her. I figured she’d take one look at Jess and then try to talk me into relenting. Kitty shook her head and pointed at the stairs. “Go,” she said quietly. “Go home, Jess.”

  “But, Kitty—”

  “Leave. Please.”

  Kitty’s rejection sent Jess into a rage. Her face went so red it was almost purple, the veins in her temples and neck cording. Her hands balled into fists, the tension making the cut on the back of her hand ooze fresh blood onto the carpet. “Fine. FINE! I don’t need you. I’ll figure it out. On my own, if I have to. I’ll do it on my own.”

  She stomped toward the steps, climbing them two at a time to get away from us. The moment she was out of sight, Mary disappeared from the mirror at our side, intent on following her newest victim. Jess’s sobbing drifted down the stairs right before the house door slammed. A car engine revved a moment later, tires squealing across pavement as Jess pulled out of Kitty’s driveway.

  “This is weird to say,” Kitty said, squatting so she wouldn’t shred her pants with the glass. “But I feel like we’re not done. Like we need to figure out how to get rid of Mary forever. If not for Jess, then for the people around her.”

  “Or the next group of girls who don’t know what they’re getting into,” I agreed. It wasn’t a happy thought, but a necessary one, and I sighed. I sank down next to Kitty to lean into her side. She slung an arm over my shoulders and we hugged. And then we cried. It wasn’t just for Anna and Bronx and all the fear and misery of the past week; it was relief, too, that the nightmare was over for now. At least for tonight, I could sleep in my bed and not wonder what was on the other side of the mirror looking out at me.

  I lifted my head to glance around the room, looking for a paper towel or a napkin somewhere among the debris. The room was a wreck. I climbed to my feet and started picking through the carnage, doing my best to avoid glass and wood and everything else that wanted to impale me. “Your dad is going to kill you,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, he is. I don’t even know what to say to him, but…ugh. It’s the least of my problems, I suppose.” Kitty went upstairs to grab some trash bags, the broom, and a vacuum. We went to work cleaning after that, removing as much of the debris as we could. The couch and bar stools were ruined as well as all the alcohol. The pool table was shredded, and the carpet next to it sported Mary’s tarry-blood footprints.

  It wasn’t until I pushed the couch back into place beneath the mirror that I found the red notebook. Jess must have brought it in with her when the girls were summoning Mary. I sat on the single remaining cushion and tossed the cover open. Kitty came to stand beside me, her hand on my shoulder as I leafed through. All of Jess’s notes were there about the summoning rules, and the two letters we’d already seen, but there was an addition since the last time I’d peeked at the pages.

  A picture. This wasn’t a photocopy, but a real picture from a long time ago. It was Mary Worth standing alone in front of the Southbridge Parish. It was hard to believe this was the same girl from the group shot we’d seen. Her eyes were large and intense beneath her dark brows. She’d lost too much weight, the round fullness of her cheeks replaced by harsh angles. Her dark hair was tangled and unkempt, and there was a smear of dirt along her chin. She wore a white dress, but it was in poor condition, the bust covered in a series of splotchy stains.

  “She looks so mad,” Kitty whispered. I agreed. Mary did look furious. Her head was tilted down so she could look at the cameraman from beneath her eyebrows. Her hands were balled into fists by her sides. She was full of a fury she could barely contain.

  “Jess is related to her, you know,” I said. “Mary’s her great-aunt times five or something.”

  Kitty’s mouth dropped open. “She…Wait, what?”

  “Yeah. That’s why she’s been so crazy about this. That’s why she probably has this picture in the first place. Mary’s her relative.” I flipped the picture over. Mary Augustine Worth, February 16, 1847–October 28, 1864 was written on the back.

  “That’s unreal. It explains so much, though.”

  “Explains, yes, but doesn’t excuse,” I said.

  Kitty took the picture from me to get a better look, then shuddered and handed it back, her finger tapping against Mary’s glowering face. “I can see the start of the ghost there,” she said. “I can see the resemblance. No
t in the last picture, but this one, yes.”

  So could I. I stuffed the photo back into the notebook and closed it. An envelope tumbled out of the back, landing at my feet. It was thick, like it’d been overstuffed. I picked it up and lifted the flap. Inside was a stack of coarse yellow papers time had worn thin at the edges. It was written in Mary’s hand, but unlike the other letters, this was an original.

  I glanced at the date on the first page, the ink faded but still legible. October 27, 1864, it said. The day before her death. Which meant clutched between my fingers, in sweeping, formal script, were Bloody Mary Worth’s last written words.

  October 27, 1864

  Constance,

  I understand why you cannot come, and while it is difficult for me to be joyful about anything these days, this baby is a blessing. Your offer to send Edward in your stead is sweet, but you are too close to delivery, dear sister, and I would not risk you or that precious child for anything in the world. Once I have a fine niece or nephew, you can sweep me away from this slice of Hell. Until then, take care of yourself and your baby.

  The pastor would not relent on Mother’s funeral, but he is ever incapable of decency. The stain upon her character persists despite my protests, and as such, she was not allowed to be buried with “decent Christians.” I advised the constable that Pastor Starkcrowe was seen walking with Mother before her disappearance, but the constable is assured of the pastor’s innocence. He, too, believes Mother cast herself into the river. You can guess my opinions on the matter. Pastor Starkcrowe is a lecher of a man far too comfortable with his cruelties. I only wish others would see him for who he is.

  I mourn our mother every minute of every hour. She was far too good for this world—too kind to live amongst such injustice. She deserved better than an unmarked grave outside of town. I visit her remains daily to ensure no animals desecrate her. The rocks are piled high. I will care for her to the best of my ability while I toil in Solomon’s Folly.

  To answer your question, yes, there have been more incidents. I grow accustomed to the dark, though with winter coming, it will be colder and more unkind. I plan to tuck blankets in the cellar in preparation. Boots, too, for when the water rises, and perhaps a candle and flint. It is strange the things you can tolerate given enough exposure. The basement with its beetles and bats does not terrify me as it once did.

  No, what plagues me most lately is my capacity for anger. Before I was sent to “repent” yesterday, the pastor struck me across the mouth with the back of his hand. He flayed me from cheek to lip. It did not move him to pity. He dragged me to the basement despite my bloodstained dress.

  Elizabeth bore witness to our exchange. She had the audacity to taunt me through the door again. I didn’t answer her provocations, but I cannot claim this as an attestation to character. I was simply too enraged to speak. My hatred for the pastor, for Elizabeth Hawthorne, and for every girl like her has grown bone-deep and all-consuming. I despise that our mother was so wronged and suffered the final indignity of a non-Christian burial. I despise that God is an absentee shepherd who has forsaken me and those I love.

  I am a creature born of injustice and fury.

  I must finish my writing now, as the pastor has rationed my lantern oil. He was assigned my guardianship in the wake of Mother’s death. Every night he locks me in my room so I cannot escape, but I do not mind. The door between us grants the illusion of separation. It keeps him out as effectively as it keeps me in.

  Perhaps tonight I will sleep. Last night, my cheek ached and Elizabeth’s taunts were too fresh in my mind. They still echo through my head, that singsong lilt of hers making it all the more obscene. I would scratch my ears from my skull if it would make the memory of it go away, but I think it would stay with me regardless.

  Some things are simply too cruel to abide.

  Bloody Mary.

  Bloody Mary.

  BLOODY MARY.

  Acknowledgments

  A lot of wonderful people helped get this into print.

  Thank you, Christian Trimmer, for bringing me into the Hyperion fold. What a fantastic book family. Thank you, Tracey Keevan, for taking my little piece of coal and polishing it to a fine gleam. Thank you, T. S. Ferguson, who was the first editor to tell me, “Modernize this.” It got me on the right path. The fact that you became my friend along the way is amazing.

  Thank you, Crystal, Lauren N., Renée, Brian, Nikki, Christi, Claire, Melinda, Laurie, Lara, and Reuben, for lending me your eyes. Thank you, WFR crew, for putting up with constant cut-and-pastes. Thank you, Scott Storrier, Matthew Finn, and Marty Gleason, for always listening. Thank you, Becky Kroll, Chandra Rooney, Evie Nelson, and Sarah Johnson, for tearing me apart to make me better. I wouldn’t trade your cruelties (or friendship) for anything in the world.

  Thank you, Miriam Kriss, for picking up a book from the slush pile X years ago and saying, “I like them.” I am forever in your debt for making this particular dream a reality.

  Thank you, Greg Roy and Eric Tribou, for spending countless hours dead-eyed while I droned on about books. You are my second family and I love you.

  Thank you, Lauren Roy, my sister from another mister and best friend. I have no idea which deity I pleased to get you in my life, but I’m thankful every day that you’re around. You are a spectacular person and make me better by association.

  Thank you, David Finn, for tolerating me day in and day out. You’ve believed in me, my books, and this strange life we share. That means more than I’ll ever let on. I hope you’re paying attention because this line is for you: you’re a superhero.

  Thank you to my family, who’ve been so supportive. I love you all. Mike and Mike—you’re two of the most wonderful dads a girl could ask for. Drew Cole, I’m so lucky you came into my life when you did and helped me grow into a quasi-normal human. And Mom—whenever someone says something good about me or my work, I want you to claim a piece for yourself. I would not be the person I am without your steel, your love, and your rapier wit.

  And last but not least, thank you, Dot, for tapping away in that front room for so many years. Yours are some big shoes to fill.

  About the Author

  Hillary Monahan lives outside of Boston. Mary: The Summoning is her debut novel. Learn more at www.hillaryjmonahan.com.