Monsters Among Us

by Monica Rodden

  He shoved her.

  It came out of nowhere. One second his hands were on his head and the next they hit high on her chest, his palms at her collarbone, toppling her backward.

  She fell back onto the brick walkway with a cry she barely registered, her hands coming behind her too late but scraping themselves to blood just the same. She stared up at him, dazed.

  “Fucking Instagram,” he spat at her. “You know how many times the cops already talked to me? Came here and freaked my parents the fuck out? Hannah wouldn’t even talk to me. Still barely talks to me. Fucking Instagram,” he said again. “I didn’t fucking do it!”

  He moved again, and she cringed back, her shoulder blades against the walk, but he just spun around to the door, slamming it behind him.

  She could see the faint glow of the porch light past her feet. Her breath was shallow, her chest tight. Every part of her was vibrating with tension.

  Then she was up, running, sprinting so fast up the street that when she got to her front door it had been a minute and yet an hour, her heart beating hard even though she felt her body like a hollow shell for something that had long since died.

  The room smelled like smoke and something underneath it, something rotten, like food left out in the heat. There was a heavy weight on her chest. She couldn’t breathe. Her eyes were closed. No, open. A dark room, then not; a flash of light. Dark again. Laughter. She groaned. Her throat was hot, bile creeping up her back teeth. Fever. Must be a fever. Sick at home. Medicine and blankets and a remote so she didn’t need to move.

  Mom. Mom. Mom.

  Her legs moving. No, being moved. Too many blankets. Too warm. She needed to pee, to vomit, to soak in cold water until her skin went from red to white again.

  But everything was black except the eyes an inch from hers, rising up past her field of vision and then back down. Up and down. They glowed, those eyes, and she turned her head so she didn’t have to look at them. There was a slice of light under the door. Then the door opened. She saw a face. Heard a low shout from the eyes above her, and the door closed again.

  Everything fevered like a nightmare borne of illness and infected blood. Half real and half in shadow. It was a burning and a drowning. A death without the dying. A murder in the dark. But after, the corpse got up and ran away.

  Still alive.

  Still alive.

  For now.

  * * *

  —

  When she walked inside, her mother thankfully was still out, but the shower running upstairs told her that her dad was awake. She got her phone, kicking herself for not bringing it with her, and saw the texts, the missed calls from Henry and Andrew. She couldn’t imagine what to say, couldn’t make her hands type out so much as a word. She shut off the phone before walking upstairs, her mind full of that night, the knowledge of it suffocating all other thought.

  Eyes. Pairs of eyes.

  More than one.

  She knocked over the table in the hallway. Small and round. Antiques of her father’s. Collectables: eBay and auctions. Everything oiled and arranged. She wondered if anything was new from the sale he’d gone to earlier.

  New. She bit back a laugh. New old things. Paying more for something that was brittle as winter branches, rusted through and rotting like a corpse—

  She took the items from the carpet and put them back on the table, looking anxiously at her parents’ closed bedroom door.

  Nothing. But her hands were shaking, the objects knocking against the wood as she set them down. Fear like cold water, her fingertips pale purple, her mouth tasting of blood.

  The last item was narrow steel, sheathed in leather. She held it in the flat of her hand, then curled her fingers around it. It wasn’t fragile at all. Instead it was hard-edged, solid.

  The bones of her chest felt bruised from where he’d pushed her. A girl flat on her back, staring up at the darkness.

  Not again, she thought.

  Not ever again.

  She did eventually text Andrew and Henry. Scared they might get worried and stop by, she sent them both messages saying she’d explain everything at the funeral. Judging by their responses, they didn’t want to wait, but she was too tired to even think of putting it all into words, either in texts or calls or in person. She was so drained she wanted to sleep forever.

  She spent the rest of Wednesday almost entirely in her room, going downstairs only to eat dinner and try—in vain, she was sure—to reassure her parents that she was fine, just upset about the funeral tomorrow. They ate garlic chicken and pasta. Her mother was tired from work but then kept wanting to talk about Amy’s mother. Her father, meanwhile, was distracted; her mother kept asking him to pay attention, and he would nod at her in agreement, which seemed to make her more upset. Catherine swallowed each mouthful of food thinking she probably wouldn’t falter if the chicken morphed into cake, the pasta into almonds. Her mind had taken on a strange, severe focus quite unlike the distant, passive melancholy she’d gotten used to recently. She was seeing the world in dark lines and right angles. The way forward had never seemed clearer to her.

  Her parents didn’t ask her about the funeral planning meeting she was supposed to be at; she never told them she’d agreed to go, and they weren’t involved in it, so it was simpler than it might have been otherwise to skip it. Yes, Pechman would be officiating the funeral tomorrow, but at least that would be a larger group. She could avoid him and any of his questions, let herself blend into the grief of the crowd.

  She went to bed early. She kept what she’d taken from her father’s table under her pillow, one hand clutched around it, so that when she woke up her wrist and hand were numb under the weight of her head. Her room was dark, but her curtains were open. The moon outside her window cast a white glow onto her bedspread. She blinked at the light, feeling dazed, a kind of disquiet you only get from broken sleep at odd hours.

  Just past four in the morning. Thursday. Amy’s funeral was in eight hours.

  She wondered what she would do if Matt Walsh turned up.

  She picked up the knife—an 1860s bowie knife from the Civil War complete with scabbard—with one hand.

  Maybe it wasn’t completely authentic, but she didn’t much care. In the moonlight, free from its leather casing, it cast silver shadows across her face and throat, just above the faint bruises Matt had left on her.

  * * *

  —

  The coffin was dark brown and gleaming in the stained-glass light. A framed picture of Amy sat on a table next to it, which was typically used to hold bread and wine for Communion. The picture looked like a school image, posed and professional, Amy’s skin and eyes clear, her smile a little tense, her shoulders high. Catherine wished they’d used her Instagram picture instead.

  Catherine sat with her parents in a pew toward the middle. Henry, with his parents across the aisle, kept trying to meet her eyes. Andrew was nowhere in sight. Pechman was talking. Actually, he was sweating a little; she thought if he took off his suit jacket, there would be stains under the arms.

  Catherine shifted in the pew, pulling her dress down over her knees. She didn’t like that the coffin was there. Part of her felt like any moment Amy was going to show up, telling her some joke about overly personal food blogs or Gordon Ramsay’s crazy hair and being completely surprised at all the fuss everyone was making. I’ve been here this whole time. Didn’t you see?

  But she wasn’t here, Catherine told herself. Her body was, in that coffin, maybe wearing a dress she and Catherine had picked out together, a thousand years ago. But Amy—who she had been, the very essence of her—was gone.

  Because of Matt Walsh?

  He hadn’t turned up. She’d been looking for him since arriving at the church, brushing off Henry and staring around until her pulled-up hair started to strain against its pins. She saw Hannah and her parents, though; she wo
ndered if they realized how conspicuous it was for them to be here when Matt wasn’t.

  Halfway through the service, it began to pour. She listened to it, let it drown out the music, the preaching, and the prayers. She’d put the knife in her bag. It just fit, but she’d had to stuff a makeup bag over it, and for good measure, a scarf, just to keep it hidden from view. She kept checking to be sure it was there, her hand reaching underneath, not stilling until she touched leather, or the wood of the handle.

  But the funeral progressed without a hitch. Without Matt Walsh.

  * * *

  —

  The reception was where she started to unravel.

  An unbearable almost-hour of standing dizzy in Amy’s kitchen, which didn’t smell like anything anymore, and making small talk that wasn’t small. Andrew showed up to it, having missed the church service just like before, but Catherine hardly cared. Nor did she care that Henry’s parents left right after the funeral, as they were going to their cabin in the Cascade Mountains. A two-plus-hour trip they couldn’t put off any longer if they wanted to make their skiing reservation booked weeks ago so sorry beautiful service, still can’t believe it, yes thank you we’ll be safe on the roads, this rain just won’t let up will it?

  She could hear the tumult of the rain and Amy’s mother sobbing, and people murmuring in strange, slow voices that made her want to shake them and make them talk like human beings. She heard the scrape of silverware on square white baking dishes and the listless trickle of fruit-flavored water from the decanter on the table. People milling around the hors d’oeuvres, their breath smelling of cold meat and deviled eggs.

  I’m losing my mind, she thought dimly as Henry and Andrew asked her quietly what was wrong, who did she think did it, what had her text meant?

  She looked at both of them, wanting to tell them that Amy’s kitchen used to smell like spices and there were always thin lines of flour in the hardwood closest to the oven but now they were gone.

  “Get me out of here,” she said instead.

  They did.

  * * *

  —

  They went to Henry’s house, since his parents weren’t there.

  “I still can’t believe they left,” Henry said as they settled themselves in the living room, shaking rain from their hair, their clothes. “Well, actually I can. Anything awkward, anything she can’t control or throw money at, she’ll bail, my mom. I knew she wouldn’t stay for the reception. And of course Dad will do whatever she wants.” He rolled his eyes as he flopped into the large armchair by the wall, Molly sitting by his legs with a yawn. “When I get married, I won’t be such a pushover, I swear. Andrew, you can sit, you know.”

  Andrew, who had been hovering in the space between the kitchen and living room, gave a little start, then sat on the couch with Catherine, admittedly as far away from her as possible.

  “Catherine?” Henry asked, leaning forward, trying to meet her eyes. “You okay?”

  She closed her eyes and, to her horror, felt tears in them. Her mother had seen how upset she was. She hadn’t liked the idea of Catherine’s leaving the reception, but then Mrs. Lester had touched her arm to ask something and Amy’s mother was crying in the background again and in the end, she had relented.

  Catherine couldn’t get that sound out of her head. That high, keening wail that was like an animal dying. It made her feel a sorrow quite separate from her own, one that carried guilt like a reminder: You are not the only one who hurts. Or did you forget?

  That reminded her of hell again. Being flung into a tree by an angry God. And you were so lost in your own pain you couldn’t see that you were surrounded by trees, a whole forest full of friends and neighbors—strangers, too. All around you, trees.

  Catherine turned to Henry. “I want a drink.”

  “Yeah, okay. You want soda? There’s some in the garage—”

  “No,” Catherine said. “I want a drink.”

  She felt Andrew looking at her, saw Henry raise his eyebrows, but she found she didn’t care. If she didn’t have something she wasn’t going to be able to do this. Not after the silence of Amy’s funeral, the scream of the reception. Not with bruises against her own bones again. She felt like she was one moment—one memory—away from shutting down entirely. But she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t be like Amy’s mother, sitting and sobbing, unable to speak. She had to tell them about Matt Walsh, about the Instagram messages, about what had happened last night, about what she thought had happened to Amy.

  And she would. She just…needed something to help her do it.

  “I want a drink,” she said again, and this time, Henry understood.

  * * *

  —

  He came back with a large bottle of Dry Fly Straight Bourbon 101. It was a deep orange-amber color, and he poured them all generous measures into small, wide glasses he took from a high cabinet. She drank, trying not to think about the last time she had tilted her head back like that and let something burn its way down her throat.

  She didn’t intend to get drunk, but her muscles were softening, her thoughts slowing. The whiskey had warmed her, and the glass in her hand (her second, now empty) smelled faintly of vanilla and spices. It reminded her of Amy, in a good way. Not a coffin in her memory, but a comfort.

  She told them everything. The messages from Matt. Her, going to his house. Him, yelling at her, pushing her down. She had Henry pour her a third glass. She was warm all over, her eyes watering not with tears but with tiredness, and found herself leaning back into the couch cushions, slipping off her flats and curling her legs under her. She took her hair down from its pins, feeling the tension leave her temples, her scalp. Her eyes closed. She wanted to disappear.

  “This smells like her,” she said drowsily, holding the glass up. “Like baking with her. God, we…we were always in the kitchen, making stuff, barely went out. Amy was so chill. I loved just…being with her. Hanging out. Baking. Her mom was mad about it sometimes. Not sad, like she is now. Did you hear her? How sad she was? But before, she was mad.”

  The boys were blurry watercolors before her. She felt Molly’s head on her leg, a heavy, warm weight.

  She stroked Molly’s ears, her stitched-together neck. “Okay, not…mad. Upset. Amy getting sick. Throwing up.” She put a hand to her mouth, wondering if she was going to throw up. “But it wasn’t…wasn’t my fault. Like Molly. Molly’s sick, and that’s not your fault. But her mom would text me at eight in the morning….It wasn’t…my fault. Was it? Because Molly—”

  Henry took the glass from her. “Come on,” he said.

  “No.”

  “Catherine.” He was kneeling before her, his hands on hers. “Come on. You have to lie down.”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” she said again. Her face was hotter now, burning. “Amy,” she said, tasting salt in her mouth. “Amy.”

  “I know,” Henry said, pulling her to her feet. “I know.”

  Andrew watched Henry half lead, half carry Catherine upstairs, presumably to lie down, Molly following them anxiously. He pictured it quite easily—Henry pulling the covers up to her throat, saying something close to her face. Henry, Andrew had discovered, was someone of action. In the maintenance closet, during that tense church meeting, Andrew had been too nervous to move, even after they watched Ken walk down the hallway and Henry’s phone lit up. But Henry hadn’t hesitated, darting into the hallway and into Pechman’s office before Andrew could say a word.

  If it had been Henry instead of him in the dorms that night, it might have been different. But Andrew? He just hid behind a door. Every goddamn time.

  He knocked back the rest of his drink, then stood up from the couch just as Henry walked back into the living room.

  “Going somewhere?” Henry asked him.

  Andrew found it hard to look at him. Instead he nodded, glanced around for his co
at, then realized he hadn’t taken it off. “Home,” he said, finally meeting Henry’s eyes.

  “Harper’s place?”

  Harper. Like Henry knew the guy. “No,” Andrew said. “I mean, yes, just to grab my stuff. But then I think I’ll head back. Home,” he added, because Henry was looking at him like he was speaking Japanese.

  “O-kay,” Henry said, dragging out the word a little. “Any particular reason why?”

  Andrew said nothing.

  Henry raised his eyebrows. “Are you even going to tell Catherine?”

  Again, Andrew said nothing. He was beginning to think that for the past few weeks, everything he’d done, everything he’d said, had been a mistake.

  “Right,” Henry said, and now his voice was cold. “So you’re going to leave me to tell her you bailed.”

  “I’m not bailing.”

  “Are you even going to tell Harper what Catherine just told us? About this Matt guy?”

  “He already knows,” Andrew said, slightly relieved to be able to answer a question. “The cops know about Amy’s social media.”

  “Okay. But do they know about Matt freaking out on Catherine?”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “And what about everything Catherine told us about Pechman? All the money shit and cover-ups. You sure they’re not looking at James or his dad?”

  “That’s what Bob said. I can talk to him again, I guess.”

  “No offense, but you don’t look up to talking to anyone about anything right now. Actually, you look as bad as Catherine.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Henry sat back down in the armchair. Sitting while Andrew was standing should have made Henry seem smaller, diminished, but it didn’t somehow. He looked up at Andrew with a steely smile. “Andrew Worthington,” he said, and there was something soft and gentle in his voice that Andrew didn’t trust at all. “I’ve been wondering about something. Maybe you can help me with it.”