Deadly Little Voices

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  I BOLT FROM THE LABYRINTH and out of the woods, grateful for the lamps that light the way. I can hear twigs snapping on the ground as Ben follows me, but I don’t turn back for a second, even when he attempts to apologize—yet again.

  I make it around to the front of the retreat building when it finally dawns on me that I have no idea how I’m going to get back.

  “I’ll give you a ride,” Ben says, at my side now.

  “Fine,” I say, unable to look at him. “Can you take me back to Knead?”

  “I’ll take you wherever you want to go. And, for the record, I know I’m not your favorite person right now, but someday you’ll see…this is only because I care about you.”

  If only I cared as much about myself. Maybe then I wouldn’t open up to him, allowing myself to get hurt by him once again.

  Ben hands me his helmet and then drives me to the pottery studio.

  “Can I call you later?” he asks, once I get off his bike.

  But I don’t even dignify the question with an answer. Instead I peel off his sweatshirt, toss it back in his general direction, and head inside the studio.

  Svetlana seems happy to see me, telling me how scared she was for me earlier, and asking if there’s anything she can do. Spencer is there, too, but he seems far too preoccupied with his bronze ballerina to worry about me.

  “Bad day?” he asks, adjusting the respiration mask on his face.

  I assure them I’m fine and then call my mom, wishing that Kimmie were here. I tell Mom that I’m leaving Knead to go grab a bite with Adam, which is practically the truth (minus the grabbing-a-bite part)—only Adam doesn’t know it yet.

  Mom says it’s fine if I’m home by ten, and so I call Adam and ask him to meet me at the Press & Grind, anxious to get his side of things.

  I head down the street, able to see the Press & Grind from more than a block away, and wondering if Danica might still be working.

  When I get there, the place is pretty quiet. There’s a group of knitters sitting in a corner, a lady working on her laptop, and some guy doing homework.

  The guy glances up at me. He’s good-looking, probably in his late twenties, with brownish blond hair and deep blue eyes.

  I give him a slight smile when he continues to stare at me, wondering if I should say hi—if maybe he’s one of my mother’s clients that I’m not remembering, or maybe someone from the Sanskrit reading club that she used to lead.

  “Can I help you?” the girl at the counter asks me.

  I turn away from him to order something, noticing how familiar the counter girl looks.

  Unlike the guy doing homework, this girl I’ve definitely seen.

  “Hi,” I say, racking my brain, trying to place her. “I’ll take a large vanilla latte. And could you also tell me if Danica Pete is working?”

  “Are you a friend of hers?” she asks, typing in my order. Before I can answer, she scrunches her freckled face and then lets out a sigh. “Carl,” she calls, waving the manager over.

  “I think I made a mistake.”

  Carl voids the error on the register and asks me to repeat my order. “And will that be all?”

  I shake my head. “I was wondering if Danica Pete might be working.” I continue to gaze around.

  The guy doing homework is looking in my general direction—but whether at me, at the girl, or at Carl, I can’t really tell.

  I turn back, still awaiting Carl’s response, but he’s no longer standing behind the counter.

  Did someone call him to do something? Did he go out back to get Danica for me?

  I watch as the counter girl starts to make my drink. “Do I know you from someplace?” I ask her. “You look so familiar.”

  The girl shrugs and puts a lid on the drink, barely looking me in the eye.

  “Wait, do you go to Freetown High?” I ask her.

  “No,” she says, turning her back like maybe I’ve irritated her.

  At the same moment, Danica Pete comes out of the back room with Carl following close behind. “Three words,” she says, coming to stand right in front of me. “Leave. Me. Alone.”

  “I only want to talk to you,” I say, keeping my voice low.

  “You’ve already talked. We’ve already been through this.” Her apron is stained with cinnamon powder.

  Carl points to the door. “Take it outside.”

  “No need,” she says, getting right up in my face. Her pale blue eyes are wide. “I don’t want your so-called help. I don’t want you coming by my house, or trying to talk to me at school, or making up stupid stories because you supposedly want to be my friend.”

  “Danica, you’ve got me all wrong.”

  “Do I?” she asks.

  Before I can respond, Adam touches my shoulder from behind, having apparently just come in. “Is everything okay?” he asks.

  My face feels flushed. My insides shake. Meanwhile, Danica disappears into the back room, leaving me in the proverbial dust.

  Yet again.

  * * *

  “What was all that about?” Adam asks, once we step outside.

  I rub the front of my head, which has begun to ache, suddenly realizing that I left my coffee on the counter. “Do you think we could go someplace quiet to talk?”

  “Sure thing,” he says, nodding toward his Bronco. He opens the passenger-side door and I hop right in, grateful for the getaway ride.

  Adam drives around for a while before pulling into the parking lot of a golf club. “So, what’s up?” he asks, cutting the ignition.

  “Ben told me that you two talked,” I say, forgoing the Danica details for now.

  Adam manages a nod, clearly embarrassed, as if I’ve suddenly caught him in a lie. “It was really no big deal.”

  “What did he say to you?” I ask.

  He talks in circles for several seconds, mentioning some of the stuff Ben said earlier—how Ben only wants what’s best for me, how he asked Adam to keep tabs on me while he was away, and how he’d “die” if anything bad happened to me. “He seemed really sincere, Camelia.”

  “So, does this mean that you and Ben are friends again?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, but maybe he hates my guts a little less.”

  “Well, I guess that’s a start.”

  “A very good start,” he says, and looks away, as if maybe he’s not telling me everything.

  “So, please tell me that the update on Project Ben wasn’t the only reason you called me.”

  “Thanks for coming to meet me,” I say, suddenly realizing that I hadn’t yet said it.

  “Anytime.” He smiles. “But next time, if you could wait until after I order a brownie to get yourself kicked out, that would be ideal.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” I smile, too.

  “So, do you want to go get a bite and talk about Danica? Remember, I’m willing to help out however I can.”

  “I know,” I say, grateful for his friendship.

  “But…?”

  “But I guess I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed.”

  “So, let’s talk about it. I mean, don’t shut me out. I want to help you solve this thing.”

  “I know you do,” I say, thinking how ironic it is that he should say this, because it wasn’t so long ago that I said something similar to Ben about feeling shut out. “And I’m grateful for your help. Believe me.”

  “So, then, what’s the deal?” he asks.

  I gaze out the window at the vacant golf course, knowing that regardless of what Ben said to him today, Adam is always in my corner. But now that the former friends have indeed talked—now that Ben’s given Adam his permission to spend time with me—I kind of want to be alone. “Can we talk more tomorrow?” I ask him.

  Adam doesn’t answer. Instead, he drives to my house in silence, perhaps feeling every bit as lost as I did months ago, when Ben was keeping secrets. I know I should probably reassure him that everything’s okay between us, but he pulls up to my house, and I wish him a quick good night,
relieved to finally be home.

  I HEAD INTO THE KITCHEN, where my parents are engaged in a seemingly civil conversation, complete with eye contact and encouraging body language. Mom laughs at something Dad’s just said, and Dad reaches out to touch her hand.

  “Hey,” I say, hating myself for interrupting them.

  “Did you have a nice time with Adam?” Mom asks. “Where did you two go?”

  “It was fine,” I say. “But I actually have to run. I need to finish up an already overdue essay for English.”

  “Would you like a snack?” she asks.

  I’m starving, but since I’d like to give them more alone time, and since I was supposed to have had dinner out with Adam, I lie and say that I’m stuffed, knowing I’ve got some emergency snacks tucked away in my backpack.

  In my room, two granola bars later and three pages into my Wuthering Heights essay, I can’t stand it anymore.

  I need to call Kimmie.

  I pick up the phone and dial her number, but she doesn’t answer, even when I call back two more times. I leave her a message, and then I try Wes’s cell. He isn’t picking up, either.

  The phone still clenched in my hand, I consider giving Adam a call, wishing I’d taken him up on his offer to talk more. But I already told him that I wanted to be alone.

  I told Ben that I didn’t need any help.

  I tell everyone that everything’s always fine with me.

  But now that I am alone, that I have no help, that things aren’t fine, I feel like I’m stuck in a deep, dark hole with no one to dig me out.

  I grab my aunt’s journal, desperate for some sort of a connection. I page through to the middle and read one of the entries.

  February 14, 1984

  Dear Diary:

  It’s Valentine’s Day, and in school we had to make cards for someone we care about. I made one for Jilly. Using chalk pastels, I drew a great big heart man with Cupid’s arrows for his arms and legs, and mini-hearts for the eyes, nose, and mouth.

  I sat away from everybody else because Mrs. Trigger thinks I’m scary. It’s true. Ever since I did that portrait of blood running from my wrists, she moved my seat to the corner, and she barely ever comes around to check my work.

  I thought the heart man would make her happy, but it wasn’t long before things took a bit of a turn. Using my fingers to blend the colors, I got sucked into my work. That’s when the voices started coming. They told me to make a star on my wrist.

  I didn’t question why. I only wanted the voices to stop. And so I grabbed a black marker and drew the star shape on the underside of my wrist, where the veins are, hoping it would do the trick.

  It didn’t.

  The voices continued for the rest of the day: through gym class, lunch, English, and math.

  They kept telling me the same thing over and over: make a star, make a star, make a star, make a star, make a star, make a star, makeastar, makeastar, makeastar, makeastar, makeastarmake astarmakeastarmakeastarmakeastar makeastarmakeastar…

  Later, when I got home, I grabbed some supplies and locked myself in the bathroom. I ran the shower water to drown out the voices and stuffed rubber erasers into my already aching ears.

  Still I could hear them.

  And so, unable to even think straight, I grabbed a marker and drew X’s over my ears as a last resort.

  I don’t remember what happened after that. But Jilly found me some time later, naked on the bathroom floor, the shower water still running (I have no idea if I ever actually got in), and with those huge X’s over my ears.

  Love,

  Alexia

  I close the journal, wondering if it’s normal for me to understand just how she feels.

  If my shortness of breath is because I’m coming down with a cold.

  If this dizzy sensation will subside in an instant.

  Or if this is the beginning of crazy.

  I count to ten, trying to get a grip, wondering if the star could purely have been a coincidence, or if I had this power even back then—when I was six, when I drew a star on Miss Dream Baby’s back.

  A moment later, the scratching sound returns at my wall. I move out of bed and cross the room. Aunt Alexia is obviously awake. Has she somehow sensed that I was reading her journal?

  Is it possible that she wants to talk?

  My hands trembling, I press them against the wall, tempted to scratch back. But then I gaze over at my cell phone, and decide to try Kimmie again.

  She still isn’t picking up. I leave another message and then dial Wes’s number. He’s still not answering, either.

  Sitting on the edge of my bed, I bury my head between my knees, feeling more alone than I ever thought possible. Meanwhile, the scratching sound gets louder, tearing across the length of my wall, practically speaking to me on its own.

  I slip the phone into my pocket and move out into the hallway, hoping that Mom and Dad might still be up. But it seems they’ve already gone off to bed.

  Not knowing where else to go or what else to do, I go down to the basement, eager to lose myself in my skating sculpture. I spend several seconds moistening the clay, trying to get myself into the moment, even though I feel like I’m jumping right out of my skin.

  I add texture to the skater’s skirt, definition to her calves, and more detail to her hands. I grab an X-Acto knife from my jar of tools, feeling confident that the skater’s nearly done. I’m just about to carve my initials into the base when I notice a smudge of red by the skater’s foot.

  I check my sponge, in search of the source. It’s clean. The table’s clean, too. I start to wipe the smudge away when I notice more of the color. On my hands; all over my palms.

  Deep red.

  Like blood.

  With DM written right through it.

  I STARE AT MY TREMBLING PALMS, at the letters written through the redness, wondering what the initials mean. Die much? Danica M-something?

  My pulse racing, I look around my pottery studio. Aside from my hands, everything appears normal. So, then, where did this redness come from? And who scribbled the letters across it?

  A moment later, my cell phone rings in my pocket. I want to answer, but my brain is no longer in sync with my body.

  It’s several seconds before I’m able to reach for the phone. Before I’m finally able to snap back to reality.

  Before I see that my palms are no longer red. They probably never were.

  “Hello,” I answer, hoping it’s Kimmie at last.

  “Come upstairs,” a voice whispers from the receiver.

  I pinch the gooseflesh on my arm to make sure this isn’t a dream. “Aunt Alexia?” I ask, wondering if she’s okay.

  “Come see,” she says; her high-pitched voice is followed by a giggle. And then she hangs up.

  I hang up, too. And hurry upstairs. Through the kitchen. The light over the sink illuminates the area just enough for me to find my way.

  I stand at the end of the hallway. Her bedroom door faces me, makes me dizzy, and steals my breath.

  I recheck my palms—still clean—and then I start down the hallway. The floorboards creak beneath my feet. A shadow moves on the floor and plays in the crack below her door.

  She’s waiting for me.

  Standing directly in front of her door now, I raise my fist to knock. But then a light flashes in my bedroom, just to the right of me. I take a step inside. My lamp is off, but a light shines in from the street. I move to the window over my bed and peer out from behind the drapes.

  Someone’s out there, in a car, blocking the street. Headlights shine toward my window.

  Bright, then dull, then bright again.

  I double-check my window to make sure it’s locked. And draw the drapes. My first thought is that it’s Wes, just being his obnoxious self, especially since I called him earlier. But it quickly dawns on me that Wes would never be that insensitive. Nor would he ever risk the chance that my parents might catch him.

  The headlights remain shining throug
h the four-inch gap of my drapes, illuminating my entire room. I’m pretty sure it isn’t Adam either. I can normally hear the roar of his Bronco’s engine from at least a couple of streets away, even with the window closed. I sneak another peek, trying to tell if it might be the Ford Taurus that Wes and I followed. But before I can, the car’s lights move away from my window as the driver backs up, turns, and finally speeds off down the road.

  With the headlights gone, the room is dark. I close my eyes, trying to remain calm.

  Meanwhile, a gnawing sensation eats at my gut.

  I open my eyes, able to sense something more.

  And there it is: on my wall, directly in front of me. The letters DM glow in the darkness.

  And send shivers down my spine.

  THE INITIALS ARE LARGE, taking up half the wall in front of my bed. It looks like someone painted them quickly. You can see where drips of paint ran down the wall and bled into a puddle on the floor.

  I click on my night-table light, and the letters disappear—just like that. Whoever painted them must have used glow-in-the-dark paint, intending the clue for my eyes only.

  I look toward the wall that separates Aunt Alexia’s room from mine, wondering if she’s still waiting for me. Slowly, I move out into the hallway, knowing I should tell my parents about the car.

  The house is quiet and dark, and the hum of the dishwasher is the only sound I hear.

  Keeping my bedroom door open for light, I raise my hand to rap gently on their door.

  But then I turn to look.

  Aunt Alexia is there, standing in her doorway. Staring straight at me.

  “What took you so long?” she asks.

  I open my mouth, but I can’t find the words. Meanwhile, I feel dizzy again.

  Aunt Alexia turns her back, leaving her door wide open, perhaps eager for me to follow.

  And so I do.

  I venture into her room. My eyes zoom in on her bed first. The blankets have been tossed to the floor. The sheets sit in a heap at the headboard, and the pillows are stacked up at the foot. I gaze around the rest of the room, suddenly realizing that I don’t see Aunt Alexia anywhere.