by Daka Hermon
I stare at the document. My eyes widen. “One thousand eight hundred fifty-four dollars,” I whisper. We’re that far behind?
Once Mom’s savings ran out, we fell behind on our bills. We still haven’t recovered.
The woman shifts from foot to foot. She glances at a laminated card taped to her clipboard. “At Tennessee Water and Electric, we understand that sometimes customers fall behind on their bills due to unexpected and inconvenient circumstances.”
My hand clenches, crumbling the papers. I wonder what category my mom’s death would fall under. Unexpected or inconvenient?
“We want to work with you to keep your energy costs down, and help you manage your bill. Ending your service is always the last resort, as this would make it difficult to later reinstate your account,” she reads.
No electricity. No water. We can’t live here if they turn everything off. What would we do? Where would we go? I blink hard. The woman is blurry. Inhale. Exhale. Chest burns.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I stagger past her and onto my porch. My trembling fingers fumble with the door lock and after several tries I’m able to get inside. My breath is loud in my ears.
I slam the door closed. The world tilts back and forth as I stumble down the hall and into my room. I bump my nightstand and a puzzle box falls to the floor, scattering pieces all around me. Gasping, I fall forward onto my bed and a defeated cry erupts out of me.
Everything is so messed up! I ball up the bill and hurl it across the room. One thousand eight hundred fifty-four dollars. I punch my pillow. Carla’s face swims through my vision. My fist pounds the pillow again. Zee’s chant rings in my ears. He’s supposed to be my friend, but he’s different now. Scary. The real Zee might never come back. Punch, punch, punch.
Sweat trickles down my face. If my mom were here, she’d know what to do. She’d make everything better, but she’s gone. Everybody leaves. Nothing stays the same. Nothing fits anymore.
“I wish I could disappear.” I rub my chest and gaze at the picture next to the baseball trophies on my dresser. My mom’s smiling and healthy face stares back at me. What would she think if she saw me like this? She wanted me to be strong, but I’m not. “I’m sorry, Mom.” My voice cracks.
Time ticks away as I finally regain control. So much for my month-long record of no major panic attacks. With a weary sigh, I climb off the bed and, one by one, place the puzzle pieces back inside the box. Landscapes and space scenes were my favorite, but my mom loved the wildlife and food designs. Every night, even when she was sick, we’d work on a different puzzle. We completed all of them except …
I tug the piece from my pocket and stare at it. It’s blue and orange. A tiny portion of the sun setting behind a mountain. I press it to my heart. Mom. Three hundred and ninety-seven days.
Eventually, exhaustion swallows me up. I crawl back into my bed, determined to forget today. As I drift into a restless sleep, Zee’s creepy words overtake me, almost as if he’s whispering in my ear. In some deep corner of my mind I realize this isn’t Zee’s voice.
“Now it’s my time to seek and play. New rules you’ll have to learn and obey. Get ready for mischief to begin. One by one, until I win. Tonight begins the game of sorrow. The fears begin when you wake tomorrow.”
“No!” I jerk awake and fight off the tangled sheets, panting. I scramble back until I slam against the bed frame. My blurry eyes zoom around. I’m in my room. Safe. Bright beams of sunlight shoot through the blinds, forming a cage around my bed.
Images from my freaktastic nightmare flash through my head before fading away—darkness, cold, a feeling of being trapped and unable to breathe. I shiver and tug at my T-shirt stuck to my sticky skin.
“Zee.” I collapse against my headboard. This is his fault—all those creepy threats. He got into my head. Stop it! Not gonna think about him or yesterday. Today will be better. It definitely can’t be worse. I wipe the sweat off my face and glance at the clock on the nightstand: 11:56 a.m. I slept for a long time, but it doesn’t feel like it. And no matter how much I want to rest some more, I can’t. Too much to do. Like figure out how we’re gonna pay the bills.
With a weary groan, I roll out of bed and rummage through a pile of semi-clean clothes on the floor. I pull on the first thing my hands touch and shove my feet into ratty kicks. Should probably shower but I’m already dressed and we need to save money on the water bill anyway. Besides, Lyric won’t care if I smell a little. Hope he doesn’t keep me in the mall all day and really hope he won’t talk about Zee the whole time.
After quickly brushing my teeth and washing the crust from my eyes in my small bathroom, I grab my puzzle piece off my nightstand and stuff it in my back pocket. I open the door and step into the hall. The house is deadly quiet, which means Victoria is gone—again. With school and her work schedule, I hardly see her.
I hurry past my mom’s bedroom. Its day 398. I switch on the television in the living room to drown out the count echoing in my head.
I enter the kitchen and grab a bowl of cereal. A high-pitched tone blares from the television. Beep. Beep. Beep. I peek around the corner. The monitor is white and a message scrolls across the bottom of the screen in large black letters.
ALERT, ALERT, ALERT. MISSING … SHAE DAVIDSON, FROM BOYLE HEIGHTS, AGE TEN. PLEASE CONTACT YOUR LOCAL POLICE DEPARTMENT WITH ANY INFORMATION. ALERT, ALERT, ALERT.
The spoon slips from my fingers. Milk splashes all over my face. Shae’s school photo appears onscreen. She’s smiling in front of a forest backdrop with her hands folded on a tree stump. Several other pictures appear—Shae in a ballet outfit onstage, Shae in one of those kid pageant things, Shae in a pink bedroom, surrounded by dolls.
I set my bowl down and it misses the counter. Crash. I dash into the living room and slide to a halt inches from the television. Channel Nine News reporter Misty Morgan appears. Her blond helmet of hair fills most of the screen, but I can see a line of news vans parked in the background.
“I’m reporting live from outside the house of Rosiland and Carl Davidson, whose ten-year-old daughter, Shae, disappeared yesterday, around three in the afternoon, from the Lake Winnepesaukah campgrounds. A frantic search is currently underway to find this precious little girl,” Misty says with a thick Southern accent.
“What?” I shout at the screen. “That can’t be right, she—”
“Shae was last seen with members of her dance team after a performance at the camp. Police and volunteers have organized a search party and are currently conducting interviews with Lake Winnie counselors and Shae’s fellow campers. I’m here with Mrs. Davidson to find out how she’s dealing with this horrific situation.”
Shae’s mom steps forward. Her hair is pointing in every direction and tears pour from her swollen eyes. She grabs the Channel Nine News mic from Misty’s manicured hands. “Whoever you are, please bring back my precious baby. We love her so much. I’ll do anything. Pay any amount. Please. I love my daughter.” Mrs. Davidson falls to her knees, wailing.
The camera cuts away, then refocuses on Misty Morgan, who winces. She leans down and retrieves the mic. “As you can see, Mrs. Davidson is clearly distraught and the community is in shock,” says Misty. “This is the second child to vanish from this area, but thankfully Zechariah Murphy was found safe after his mysterious year-long disappearance from Kidz Art Kamp. We can only hope and pray Shae will return much sooner than that. If anyone has information that can help, please contact the police. Back to you in the station, Rob.” She smiles, somberly, flashing unnaturally white teeth.
I switch off the television. What is going on? The news is saying Shae disappeared around three from Lake Winnepesaukah, but that’s over a two-hour drive from here. Zee’s party was at four and Shae was there. I saw her. Talked to her. It doesn’t make any sense.
There’s a sudden flash of movement in the corner of my eye and I spin around. The living room is still—scuffed hardwoods, popcorn ceiling, dusty furniture, dying plants. N
othing seems out of place, but … someone just walked over my grave.
That’s what my mom used to call that creepy feeling you get when you know something is wrong, but don’t know exactly what it is.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK. The front door rattles on its hinges. I stumble back, hitting my leg on the edge of the coffee table. “Owww.”
“Justin,” a voice yells.
Heart pounding, I exhale a shaky breath. It’s Nia.
I limp across the room and fling the door open. Nia stands on the porch, and behind her is Quincy, wearing his school backpack. Why is he here?
Nia pushes past me, pulling Quincy inside after her. She throws herself onto the couch. Quincy flops down on a chair. He clutches his backpack to his chest.
“Did you hear about Shae?” Nia asks.
“Shae,” Quincy repeats sadly.
“I just saw it on the news.” I rub my throbbing leg. “They said she was away at dance camp, but—”
“What’s that about? I mean, we saw her, right? Didn’t we?” Nia is practically shouting.
Her borderline panic rubs off on me, and I quickly replay yesterday over in my mind. Yes, Shae was definitely there. She was the one who suggested Hide and Seek.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Nia says. “And guess what … Carla is missing, too.” She points at Quincy. He nods once.
I swallow hard. “What?!”
“I ran into him on the way here. He was running away to search for his sister.”
“What do you mean?” I’m about to lose it.
Quincy’s mouth opens and closes. Opens. Closes.
Nia springs forward and shakes him. “Use your words. Use your words.”
“Uh, Carla wasn’t around when I woke up and I can’t find her.”
“But Misty Morgan didn’t say anything about Carla.” I lean against the arm of a chair since my legs won’t hold me.
Quincy lowers his head. His shoulders touch his ears. “My parents think she ran off. She does that sometimes, but she tells me first and she’s usually back after a few hours. And she, uh, left something. She would never take off without it.”
“Justin, we were with them yesterday and now they’re gone.” Nia bites her lip. “What if we need to be interrogated by the police? Should we turn ourselves in?” She gasps. “What if we’re suspects?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I hold up my hands. “We didn’t do anything.” Did we? Oh man, my brain is fried.
“What if some psycho is targeting kids in our neighborhood?” Nia whimpers. “You put up all those missing flyers for Zee and created that website so people could post if they saw something. Are we gonna have to do that for Carla now, for Shae?”
No, this is different. It has to be. “Quincy, where would Carla go? Did she say anything?”
He scratches the back of his neck. “Well, uh, she was pretty mad about the party, you know, with Zee and everything. She said it was his fault she got bit.”
“Bit?”
“She got a mark on her wrist last night, like a bad sore. She said she must have gotten it when she hid under the porch.”
“How is that Zee’s fault?” Nia asks.
Quincy shrugs.
“What did it look like?” I say.
“It was bumpy and swirly.” Quincy’s thick eyebrows meet in the middle as he thinks. “Like a cinnamon roll.”
“That sounds like ringworm,” says Nia. “Gross.”
“No, it was different.” Quincy shifts on the chair, setting his backpack on the floor next to his feet. “Carla said it burned real bad, and it felt like something was, uh, moving under her mark.”
I rub the back of my tense neck. A mark. Why does that sound so familiar?
“What?” Nia asks me. “What is it?”
Startled, I turn to her. “It’s just … Nothing.”
“No, not nothing,” says Nia, pointing a finger at me. “What are you thinking?”
I run a shaky hand over my face. “You remember when Zee flipped out? He kept repeating that weird chant. ‘Out of the darkness, no more light, now it comes to steal your life.’ Then he mentioned something about a mark. What if—”
“It wasn’t a bite?” Nia says with wide eyes. “What would that mark mean?”
“Look, it’s stupid. Forget it. Nothing scary is happening.” I don’t sound as convincing as I want to.
Quincy slowly raises his hand like he’s in school and wants the teacher to call on him.
“Yes, Quincy,” Nia says.
“Last night, did anyone have a bad dream? Like hear something say weird stuff?”
“What kind of stuff?” Please don’t let it be the same, please don’t let it be the same.
Quincy swallows hard. “Now it’s my time to seek and play. New rules you’ll have to learn and obey. Get ready for mischief to begin. One by one, until I win.”
“I had a nightmare and heard the same scary words,” Nia whispers and hugs herself.
I sink onto the couch. This is bad. Real bad. “How is that possible?”
“Did Zee curse us or something?” asks Quincy.
My mom used to say, “When it rains, it pours.” That means that when bad stuff happens, more and more bad stuff happens. She was right. I’m drowning in a sea of scary.
“Let’s go.” Nia jumps to her feet, grabs Quincy by the arm, and tugs him toward the door.
“Wait! My backpack!” he cries.
It’s on the floor next to the chair. He races back to get it and tugs it onto his shoulders.
“You too,” she says to me.
“Go? Go where?” I’m fine right here. Inside. Not searching for trouble.
“To see Zee. We need answers,” she says with her “duh” face.
I shake my head. Nope. Not going back over there. Doesn’t she remember what happened yesterday? Zee could be dangerous and I hate seeing him so … different.
Nia pushes Quincy out the door and turns to glare at me. Chin out. Hands on hips. Foot tapping to her own frantic beat. Not good.
“We need to find out what’s going on,” Nia says. “Do you want to just sit around and wait for something bad to happen? What if something happens to me while I’m out looking for answers? Would you be happy you stayed home then? I sure don’t want anything bad happening to you.”
“Nia, I—”
“You’re my very best friend and I love you. Not love love, ’cause that would be gross, but I do care about you. We’ve known each other since we were born. You never forget about me and you always listen to me even when you don’t want to. You hear me.” She tugs on my right ear.
I blink. Blink again. She’s talking so fast I only catch every other word.
“We’re so close it’s like we’re related. Wait! That would be so cool! Victoria could be my big sister, too. She’s way cooler than my two brothers. Maybe we should have a DNA test. Did you know DNA stands for deoxyribonucleic acid and—”
“Okay, okay, okay. Let’s go.” I’ll do anything to make her stop talking. “But I want to say this is the stupidest, craziest, worst idea ever.” Just putting it out there so she can’t get mad when I yell, “I told you so.” Which I will, if this goes bad. I have no shame.
“Cool.” Her sudden smile goes from ear to ear. She flips her braids over her shoulders and marches off.
My eyes narrow. I’ve been played. Well done, Nia. Well done.
The moment I step outside, the humidity punches me in the face. Even though the gray clouds have stolen most of the sunlight, it’s so hot I immediately start sweating. Glad I didn’t bother with a shower. Woulda been a waste of time and water.
My steps falter as I jog down my driveway. Something feels off, like something has shifted though I can’t figure out what. A tan cat bolts from under a car and scurries up a tree. From a high branch, it hisses at me and cowers against the tree trunk. Weird.
I take my time catching up with Nia and Quincy. He stares up the road, his shoulders slumped. I’m no fan of Carla, but she’s
his sister and best friend. Now she’s gone and we have no idea what happened to her. It’s like Zee all over again.
Nia pats him on the back and whispers something in his ear. He nods and stands up straighter. She’s good with people, with being supportive and stuff. Every kid should have at least one friend as awesome as Nia.
As we cross the street, steam hisses from the manholes, blanketing the area with an eerie fog. The spooky atmosphere magnifies my sense of doom as we walk up Zee’s front porch steps. The welcome home decorations look even sadder than they did yesterday.
Nia knocks on the door; it drifts open with a bloodcurdling squeak. We stand in the doorway and stare inside.
Nia gasps.
The coffee table is overturned and its broken legs dangle from exposed nails. There are small, fist-shaped holes in the wall. A mound of dirt is the final resting place of an uprooted plant. A lamp hangs off the side of the tilted couch by its tangled cord. The screen on the television is shattered.
A chill slides down my spine. “Oh man.”
“Who did this?” Quincy whispers.
“Mrs. Murphy? Zee?” Nia’s voice quivers as she starts forward.
My hand trembles as I grab her arm. “Wait. We can’t go in there.” This is the classic what-not-to-do scenario in every scary movie.
“Police.” Quincy backs away, pulling on my free arm.
Yeah. What he said.
“What if someone’s hurt? We need to help,” says Nia.
“Let’s help from across the street. With a phone call,” I say.
Quincy tugs on my arm. I tighten my grip on Nia. We’re a human chain.
“Hey! Let go!” Nia squirms.
“No way.” I pull her back. “We are not going—”
“Not you,” cries Nia.
A hand grips her other wrist. Before I can react, we’re yanked forward into the house and I pull Quincy along with me. The door slams shut behind us.
I scream and almost faint. Not even gonna lie.
Quincy falls to the floor, curling into a tight ball. He rolls into the nearest corner.
Nia’s turbo-charged arms and legs windmill and kick at a dizzying speed. “Get away from me. I will hurt you. I know kung fu, karate, and jujitsu. I will tae kwon do you up in here!”
