The Hawthorns don’t live far away, but not far away means driving through the main part of town. On the way I look around and note how remarkably grand looking the town is for such a small population. A lot of the buildings are constructed with beige bricks and have their business logos painted, and for some places engraved on the buildings. It all seems older and more crudely built, but when you compare them to the more modern buildings, with bright electric signs in other cities, this place just looks beautiful, more serene. Even the supermarket we are driving by looks like it fits right in.
The drive takes around ten minutes, and when we get there, I am first out the door. We get to the front door and I nudge the doorbell with my elbow. Mrs. Hawthorn opens the door and welcomes us inside with a faint smile. She doesn’t look so well. Her normally groomed short hair looks messy, worse than bed hair, and she’s without makeup. As much as I missed the Hawthorns, my eagerness to see them turns into worry as I see how dark their house has become, even with the lights on. We enter the house and I look around. I am so used to seeing the wall mirror in their living room, but now it is covered. Their television that's usually on all day is off. Even their coffee table, normally strewn with books or newspapers or whatever they were reading at the time is empty. I dread the day I have to practice shivah.
The others gather about in their living room. Shana walks in and gives me a smile that matches her mother’s. She also looks very messy, but it looks like she at least ran her fingers through her hair to keep most of the strands straight. I hand the food to Mrs. Hawthorn who thanks us and then takes it into the kitchen. I walk up and hug Shana. “Missed you,” I say.
“Missed you too. It's probably not a good thing to say, but I've wanted your company even more than my relatives’. It's been unbearable,” she says. It's a few extra seconds before she lets go. It's only now that I get a good look at her. Her skin color has paled, and although I don't see any signs of a nosebleed, I can tell she is sick. I want to comment on it, ask if she needs us to bring some medicine (although her family probably already has some), but she proceeds to thank my family for coming. We all move into the kitchen as Mrs. Hawthorn and Mom dish out the food to everyone. Shana's eyes actually light up as she sees the falafel sticks. Mom's falafel sticks are one of her all-time favorites.
As we eat, Dad gets the conversation going. It's customary to speak about the deceased during the shivah.
“So,” he starts.
“Denise was always the charmer, wasn't she?” he says. I wince, that's probably not the best way to start the conversation.
Mr. Hawthorn is the first to respond.
“Yep, she was a little gremlin in her younger years. I think we spoiled her a bit,” he admits. Good, no tears are coming, at least not yet.
“I remember when we first met. Denise asked me for a quarter so she could play the crane game,” says Dad.
Mrs. Hawthorn laughs, but I can tell it's forced “She only played that game once, and hated it because she lost.”
“Then we come to find out,” Dad continues. “She asked Sarah for a quarter too when I was away,” he says.
“She ended up swindling a quarter out of every one of you,” says Mr. Hawthorn.
“She even tried Adam,” I add in.
“She was clever for a three year old, just imagine if,” Mom starts. I can tell she was going to say something along the lines of “Just imagine what ruse she'd pull three years from now.” It's a little too late, and I can see that I'm not the only one that looked down in my plate in response. Luckily no one bursts out crying at the thought. I think it's mutually understood that Denise is dead though and with the last couple of days when their family visited, they probably have had a lot of practice, both crying it out and trying not to cry.
I look at Shana, trying to make eye contact, and it looks like she's the one taking it the worst. I see that same gloomy gaze she had on her face when we first found out about the accident. I'd hoped she feel a little better about it by now. I know it's normal and perfectly rational for a person to feel like it's the end of the world when one of their family members dies, especially a child, but I hate seeing Shana like this. I've only known her four years, but this girl is like- no she is my sister, and her mood rubs off on me like grease. I wish I was sitting next to her, I'd reach over and pat her on the back or something, but she is across from me. I reach over and lightly kick her to get her attention, and when she looks at me, I give her one of those smiles that shows her exactly what's on my mind, empathy, and my desire for her to feel better.
She tries to return the smile, but her mouth only wobbles in response and she looks back at her plate. I see she's only managed to eat half of one of her falafel sticks, and hasn't touched her alfredo. I bite my tongue and look at my half-emptied plate. I wish there's something I could say, or sing, or- I wish I’d brought my guitar, no I wish I was allowed to bring it. We could do something like play Complicated, and although it would make her feel worse for a second, I think it would help her cry the rest of it out.
The rest of the meal is full of my parents starting conversations about Denise that end short, at least none of them end on a sour note like the first. Mom and I wash the dishes for the Hawthorns, and my Dad stays with them to keep the mood from becoming awkward. If I was mourning, I sure wouldn't want to wait for my best friend to clean up before speaking to her again. I'm sad to say that it isn't just the food on Shana's plate that had to be dumped down the garbage disposal. I think the Hawthorn's have become good at hiding just how hurt they still are by the tragedy.
I hear coughing, and recognize Shana's voice behind it. She is sick too, but her parents aren't.
“My, oh my,” comments Mom, drying her hands off on a towel now that we've finished the rest of the dishes.
“I swear everyone's getting sick. Do you think the flu is going around?” she asks.
“I've never had a nosebleed from the flu,” I answer, and realize how rude I just sounded.
“I think it's something else. The people I've seen don't appear nauseas, just..,”
“Weak and sad,” Mom finishes for me.
“Yeah,” I say, her words ringing a note in my mind. Mom and I head back into the living room, and we see Dad chatting with Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorn, but I don't see Shana.
“She went upstairs,” says Mrs. Hawthorn, who saw me looking. I nod and begin to head upstairs.
The Hawthorn's house is very different from ours. They have wooden stairs with no carpeting on them unlike our house. At the top of the stairs, the lights are off, and the place is just as dark as it feels. Shana's room is down the hall on the left, and the only light upstairs is coming from it. I walk over to the door, which is slightly ajar, and push it open.
Shana is sitting on her bed, crying. She has a tissue in her hand, and she's using it to wipe the tears from her face, but I can see spots of blood on it. I walk over and sit on the bed with her. We make eye contact, and although I can't find the right words to say, I get my message across. “Shut the door,” she says. I get up and do so. I see Shana's guitar case resting in the corner behind the door. There's a little bit of dust on it, so I know she hasn't touched it. I don't think I could have followed that rule of Shivah though. If Adam died, the first object to help comfort me would be my guitar.
“I wish we could play,” I admit. Shana is crying harder, she's sobbing now. “Shana, what's- what can I do to help?” I ask, sitting back down and rubbing her shoulder.
“I think I'm going crazy,” she says.
“No, it's normal to feel this way.” I say, but even I'm not sure if that's true. She looks at me and shakes her head. “It’s not normal to see things,” she says.
“See… It’s not normal to see?”
“No, I'm seeing… her,” she says. I turn my head when she says that.
“Denise?” I ask, even though that's the obvious answer.
I catch her nod out of my peripheral vision. “I can't go an hour without her appea
ring. I can't sleep without her coming for me,” she says.
“Have you told your parents?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I can't... I've tried crying it out, and I've tried ignoring her, but she won't go away,” she explains.
“Maybe you should try talking about-” but I stop, realizing what I am saying. I really am no good at words.
“It's not like I'm just seeing her around though. She's... haunting me,” she says.
“Haunting?” I ask. She nods, wiping another tear from her cheek.
“Yeah, like I've done her some wrong,” she says. I look down at the bed, thinking, but she grabs my shoulder and looks me directly in the eye. “She wants something,” she says.
“Do you know what it is she wants?” I ask.
“At first, even before the funeral... she wanted my help. Now I think she's angry.” The word 'help' rings a bell. Jason said that Kenny needed his help, and that he was going to help him, but how?
“She won't let me sleep, she won't let me eat. She's in my dreams, she wants me to leave,” she continues.
“Leave? She wants you to go somewhere to help her?” I ask.
“She wants me to go into the forest,” she answers.
“What's in the forest?” I ask. She shrugs.
“I don't know. I don't think she's ever been there. I think I’m just… losing it.”
I shake my head instinctively. I never recalled anything unusual or significant in the woods. There's nothing like a graveyard or historical event that anyone would take an interest to there. Then again, I've never been deep into the woods. I mostly have only been there for a run, and even the trail I found was only by chance. I missed the bus from school so I took the trail home instead of calling my parents. When I found that the trail turned off course, I just cut through the woods, and came out a quarter mile from my neighborhood. If there is something in there, anything of importance, I've never seen or heard anything about it. I look up and realize that Shana is still waiting for a verbal answer.
“I think it's just the emotional stress of the situation. I'd be seeing things too,” I say.
“I've been seeing things,” I correct, thinking of the entity I've been seeing, the one that Jason thought was Kenny.
She shakes her head though.
“I can feel her. When she touches me it... it hurts,” she says. Then a thought hits me.
“Does Denise look... normal? When you see her?” I ask.
She shakes her head again.
“She's dark now. It's like she's shrouded in death,” she answers.
“When she touches you... is it like being shocked?” I ask.
Her eyes widen.
“You've seen her too!?” she asks loudly, amazement in her eyes.
I shake my head quickly, realizing her excitement may not be such a good thing.
“No, I've just. I've seen something else, but it's never... talked to me, or anything, it's like it's talking to someone else,” I answer, but suddenly wish I hadn't said that either.
“Who's it been talking to?” Shana asks. I want to say Jason. After all it's my instinct to tell Shana the truth.
“I can't hear it, but when I saw it, it’s like it was talking to… Leanne.”
“Well her baby brother got sick and died. Maybe,” she thinks aloud, but stops. She must not be sure what conclusion she should come to.
“Shana, let's just not worry about it, I'm sure that with time. With time Denise will go away. How are you feeling? Do you need medicine for your sickness?” I ask, trying to veer off topic.
She shakes her head.
“We got some already. I've been taking antihistamine,” she answers.
“It's not working though,” she admits.
“Then tomorrow I'll try and bring some Dayquil or something,” I say.
“Bring Nyquil,” she says. Oh right, she can't sleep. I can see Shana's mind is still on what to do about her sister. I know in my mind that Shana seeing her sister, Jason seeing his brother, and me seeing… what I’ve been seeing, is no coincidence. There's something going on.
“Oh yeah. Ms. Alder wants you to finish your essay. I told her you couldn't but she wanted me to ask anyway. I have to get mine done tonight,” I say, staying off the Denise topic.
She shakes her head and reaches under the bed. “Our relatives all visited at once, each afternoon. I had to do something to pass the time when I ignored Denise,” she says. She pulls out a small pile of papers from underneath the bed.
“You did your essay?” I whispered in surprise. In shivah you're not supposed to work or do schoolwork.
“I did our essays. Just don't tell my parents,” she says, handing me a few of the papers.
“You'll want to copy it down yourself though, so it's in your handwriting, and I put some spelling errors in there for you too.” I smile at her as I stuff the essay in my shirt. This is at least one good sign that Shana is still Shana.
“You want me to sneak you your homework too?” I chuckle.
She moves her head back and forth as if pondering.
“Just come? Keep me company?” she says. I nod.
“Every day,” I say. She smiles.
“I haven't seen Denise once since you guys came.
“We tend to ward evil spirits away,” I joke. The door opens, and I turn to see Mom entering.
“We need to get going,” she says rather glumly. Perhaps they ran out of good things to say about Denise and can't handle the awkward silence any more. Before I can respond, Shana hugs me tight.
“Come here straight from school.” I am about to ask if she still wants food but then I realized just how little she ate of her favorite dishes today and figure I won't say anything.
“Promise. I'll walk if I have to,” I say. Mom escorts me downstairs and we see Dad putting his jacket on, saying his goodbyes to the Hawthorns. Mom and I take our turn and then head out. Dad has already started the car. The drive home is silent, aside from the radio talk show. It's a local radio channel and three guesses on what's still the main subject for the local news? Right.
As I gaze out the window my mind is stuck on Denise, or at least the Denise-apparition. I've got to figure out what's really going on. Maybe the hallucinations really have something to do with the sickness, or maybe ghosts are just real? I've always taken an agnostic approach to ghosts and things like that, but if these visions aren't ghosts, then what are they?
As we get close to home the radio starts to fade out. Static! I look right and left, looking for… it. Dad is closing in on our driveway when he slams on the brakes. Does he see it?
“Adam!” he roars. He and Mom both jump out of the car. I follow suit. We get out and I walk up to them. There is Adam, cast and all, walking in the middle of the road. It's like he didn't even see us! As I approach, my parents are saying things like
“What's wrong with you?” “Where's your Bubbe?” or
“You're going to tear open your stitches,” but I'm not focused on them. I'm still looking for it, but I can't find it, or sense it, anywhere.
“I'm going to check on Hannah,” says Dad. “Alyssa, take your brother inside,” he orders as he busts in through our already open front door. Mom goes back to take care of the car. I walk over and take Adam's good hand, but it's limp, as if he's not holding back. He's not even looking at me, or us. He's looking down the road... at the forest. Suddenly his hand shocks me. Not a normal contact shock, but that static wave comes through me. He snaps out of it before giving me a confused and terrified look, but he doesn't say anything. He starts to walk along with me, and we go inside the house.
I can hear Dad yelling at Bubbe.
“What were you doing letting him run around in the road? He shouldn't have been out of bed at all!”
“Well I tried to feed the child but he was too sleepy so I laid him down and went up to bed myself!” she shouts back. I decide to let them argue as I escort Adam upstairs and back into bed. It's not her fault. It's something
to do with that static shadow, these ghosts, and the illness that's going around. After I tuck him in I feel something slide out of my shirt and I check to see the front page of the essay Shana wrote in my name has fallen.
“Oh right, gotta copy this,” I say reluctantly. I chuckle to myself. If I'm too lazy to copy it, then I'd have had no chance to write it myself. Where would I be without Shana? My little moment of humor leaves me as I see the despairing topic she wrote about; The Salem Witch Trials.
7: The Tree
I don't like how melancholy Shana's essays are. The first time we were discussing the project the mood was cheerful, but when I look at these essays I feel saddened. It feels like Shana really does have ghosts haunting her, almost dictating what she writes. Our roles in the Salem Witch Trials are very different. She's one of the women accused of witchcraft, and gets executed for it, but I am a woman who only sympathizes with the witches. I feel like that plays into what happened when she lost Denise, and I kept Adam. She's not jealous, but she's been hit harder than I have.
The story tells about how she's accused and I work hard to protest and defend her, but in the end I'm hanged as well. Is she trying to tell me something with this? Is that why she wrote the essays so diligently? Is this her way of telling me not to help her? It's ironic, I can figure out that something supernatural is going on around here quickly, but I can't read in between the lines my best friend has written.
I almost don't want to turn these essays in, but if I care about our grades, then I really have no choice. Beggars can't be choosers, as my Bubbe likes to remind me when I’m being picky. I'm walking from the bus to the school with Shana's essay, and my copied version, when I see something. There is a cop questioning one of the students at the school. I get closer and recognize the officer as Deputy Yew, the policeman who drove Shana and me to the hospital.
The Slender Man Page 5
