by Shannon Kirk
PRAISE FOR GRETCHEN
“Gretchen terrified me, made me laugh, made my jaw hit the floor . . . This book is a nightmare, a delight, and a mischief-making, nasty-nice, fairy-tale pixie, all wrapped into one insidious package.”
—Emily Carpenter, author of Burying the Honeysuckle Girls and Until the Day I Die
“Every page of Shannon Kirk’s intricate thriller Gretchen is a finely crafted piece of a puzzle. With her signature skill, Kirk transforms a heartbreaking study of abandonment, grief, and madness into an exquisite, horrifying riddle screaming to be solved.”
—Amber Cowie, author of Rapid Falls and Raven Lane
“Spine-tingling and deliciously creepy . . . Gretchen has a way of getting into your head, making you frantically turn the pages to find out what she’ll do next, and who she’ll let live.”
—Hannah Mary McKinnon, author of Her Secret Son and The Neighbors
PRAISE FOR IN THE VINES
“Only the crazy-brilliant mind of the super-talented Shannon Kirk could channel Stephen King and Edgar Allan Poe—and create this unique and contemporary horror–mystery–love story. Only a skilled writer like Kirk could dive into the dark madness of the mind and soul—and come up with this chilling tale of broken hearts and desperately twisted love.”
—Hank Phillippi Ryan, Agatha, Anthony, and Mary Higgins Clark Award–winning author
“Flowers in the Attic meets ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’ with a dash of Psycho, Shannon Kirk’s In the Vines is as dark, tangled, and twisty as the title would suggest. A fascinating portrayal of madness, wealth, and decaying family legacy, Kirk’s superbly crafted gothic thriller will have you gasping the entire way through. This is an insanely good ride into the mind of a madwoman . . . just remember to hang on, lest you not make it back out.”
—Jennifer Hillier, author of Jar of Hearts, nominated for ITW best novel 2019
OTHER TITLES BY SHANNON KIRK
In the Vines
Method 15/33
El Plan 15/33 (Spanish sequel to Method 15/33)
The Extraordinary Journey of Vivienne Marshall
“Carter Hank McKater Takes a Sedative at One in the A.M.”
(short story in The Night of the Flood)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2019 by Shannon Kirk
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542041348
ISBN-10: 1542041341
Cover design by Laywan Kwan
Max, thank you for listening to the early outline of Gretchen.
You have no idea how much your interest motivated me.
This story, like all my stories, is for you. Love, Mom
CONTENTS
START READING
PART I
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
PART II
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
PART III
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Supplemental reading about...
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
This is the worst part,
Reckoning with what I’ve become
A half being
The unsaid one
Unmentionable
Unintentional secret
This is the worst part
I am the worst part
Halved here,
Half of the life
You will not live
—SCK, 10/18/18 (excerpt from “The Worst Part,” poem)
PART I
CHAPTER ONE
LUCY
Mom and I are living in our tenth state. Some middle state in the Midwest, and I don’t even care to remember the name of the specific one we’re in right now. I feel the pattern calling. I just know we’ll be running toward our eleventh state soon.
I never know when it will set in, what triggers the drop in my stomach, the sudden glaze of black that envelops my guts. Heavy curtains falling in my brain. But when dread comes calling, it’s like a predictable pattern, some wheel Mom and I are stuck on. Us two, a couple of spokes.
Someday, I hope we can break this pattern and stay in one state. But I’m fifteen, living in our tenth state, in my third high school already, and I felt it this morning. I felt the dread calling again, the click gaining closer to reset the pattern. Again. Again, again. Again. Around the loops and voids of our lives.
When the click happens in our pattern, it’s a variation of the same theme: Mom or I think someone recognizes her or me, or goddess forbid, both of us. A woman pumping gas lets it overfill because she’s staring too long at Mom, seemingly trying to place her. Or the cashier in a pizza place says, while handing a large pepperoni over the counter, “You remind me of . . . hmm . . . someone.” Or I’m grocery shopping and run into a bunch of kids from some new school, and one says to another as I pass, “The new girl looks like . . . who’s she look like? An actress? That actress? I know I saw something . . . a picture, a movie? Right?”—a throwaway line to anyone else, but to us, a red flag. We are rarely together in public, so one always reports these red flags to the other. It’s how we’ve been able to stay on the run for thirteen years.
Because I don’t look like anyone in any school I’ve ever attended, and I don’t know of any actresses who do either. Also, Mom makes me wear colored contacts to hide my violet eyes.
I felt the pattern turn turn turn this morning. All I was doing was the regular, a collection of meaningless morning actions: making toast—from bread I baked homemade—and steeping French-press coffee. Standing by the open window of our latest rental cottage, the bright morning sun heralded heat for the day. The sill was warm, so I set my hand there as I waited on the toast to pop. Something about my hot palm, the morning sun’s brightness, the scent of baking bread, the cozy closenes
s of the pantry’s galley counters . . . maybe all of it together conjured a buried memory. Whatever clicked the dread to descend, I felt the distinctive drop in my stomach, an acknowledgment that led to my heart racing. I saw the whole day roll out before me and held my breath—and this sickening anticipation always makes me want to hurl.
I bent in the pantry, placing my hands on each of the facing counters, such that I was a diving bird with wings spread. I closed my eyes and counted to thirty. Imagining the course of the day, I saw Mom and me running back to the cottage. I went through the motions in my mind of the fevered packing, the beat of my legs in panic to get to the car while it was dark and shadows could hide us and neighbors wouldn’t see us, stop us, ask questions. I heard in future memory my mother calling the landlord with our preset emergency excuse. Something about a rare jackdaw in the wrong climate of some vague state—some genius bird Mom must document for her book of birds. That’s the latest planned excuse, because that’s the current lie we’re living. And there’s always some truth to the lie, easier to remember.
The smoke alarm screamed from my burning toast. I waved a tea towel for the smoke to clear. And once the screaming alarm stopped, I scratched Allen’s fat-cat tummy and gave him a treat I’d concocted from leftover salmon. Then I ran out to Mom, who was waiting in our crappy, brown, used Volvo to take me to my third high school. I’m a freshman, soon to be sophomore. Two years ago, she stopped homeschooling me, although with tons of restrictions. My last two finals are tomorrow to end the school year.
As I got in the car this morning, I didn’t tell Mom I felt the pattern coming into play. I’m hoping I’m wrong. I’m hoping we can stay longer. I like it here. I mean, it’s not paradise, but it’s comfortable enough. And a legit Jenny’s in my class. I like Jenny.
I flipped Mom a fake morning smile as I got into the Volvo’s passenger bucket seat, and I wondered whether I was right to feel the dread at all, all the flashes of anticipation and anxiety I’d suffered in the short time I took to burn toast. I wondered if we ran tonight, if anyone would clear the charred bread from the toaster and dump the perfect brew of Costa Rican beans I’d left to waste in the pantry.
Mom dropped me at school; I closed the door on the brown Volvo from a sketchy dealer—one we hit up when we took the train two towns over five months ago. We paid in cash. We always pay in cash.
As I walked to the school’s front doors, I plucked my silver jellyfish pendant, the floaters solid and wild S shapes. With my other hand, I placed my palm on the head of the jellyfish on my T-shirt, my favorite T-shirt, my favorite sea life. It calmed me to concentrate on holding an image of a jelly, a tough survivalist, surviving literal millennia on this planet, all alone and practically invisible, and yet solid, indestructible—like I’m supposed to be.
The school day droned on, the fluorescent lights zapped brain cells, the cleaning solution in the girls’ bathroom stabbed up my nose with a relentless, toxic lemon, and the day grew brighter and brighter and blinding outside, so either the atmosphere sedated me into being a student zombie or the dread inside me waned. I even found myself comfortable enough to talk nonsense with Jenny. We ate our lunches outside because it’s been such a long winter and the teachers said we all needed a good dose of vitamin D.
Jenny and I grabbed our cheeseburgers and headed to a green bench under a willow. She has this beautiful face with millions of teeny freckles and the deepest cockeyed dimples. The dimple on her left cheek is higher than the one on her right. Her blonde hair hangs in one fat braid. She might be a milkmaid in another land and another century.
“Hey,” Jenny said, in a cautious tone and sneaking me a closer look, which nobody does. Nobody gets too close. She’s the only girl I’ve held snippets of conversations with at this school, the only one I’ll sit with in silence during lunch and outside during recess. Basically, our relationship is sitting together, not talking very much, and reading books.
“So I was wondering if you wanted to hang at my house this weekend?” Jenny said as we took our seats on the green bench.
“Maybe,” I said, unwrapping my lunch-lady cheeseburger. “Sounds good. Let me talk to my mom.”
I didn’t look straight on at Jenny. Too personal. She might get too close. She might detect my blue eyes are phony fakes. But I did note her hiding a relief of a smile at my answer.
I convincingly pulled off acting excited when Jenny suggested I stay at her house this weekend, because there’s always some truth to the lies. I said I’d get back to her tomorrow, and when I said this blatant lie, I tamped down the dead black dread trying to rise in me again.
Kids here in my tenth state are used to me now. They don’t gawk and probe anymore. The mystique has worn off, the glamour too. The boys learned long ago that no matter how many times they asked me out, the answer would always be no. And the girls who might be jealous of my shiny black hair and my long legs and my fake blue eyes, or who might want to be my BFF, all keep their distance out of respect. After all, they’re cautious, given my backstory—that I watched my father die a gruesome death in a foreign country (devoid of details and any specific location and can’t be rebutted by a search on Google), and I’m “grieving” and “need space.”
False. Most all of it false. I can’t confirm the whereabouts of my birth father or whether he’s alive. The only kernel of truth here is he’s in a foreign country, we think, I think, because that’s what Mom says.
I’d love to go to Jenny’s house and let her single-parent mom make us homemade cheesesteak sandwiches out of prime-cut, thin-sliced, perfectly marinated beef, with aged cheddar from Vermont, and on fresh-baked rolls. To watch a classic like The Princess Bride while sipping icy Cokes and reenacting the albino priest who says “Mawaige.” I hold many granular and specific imaginary-friend scenarios in my mind. Jenny’s like other Jennys, other Emmas, other Sophias, along the way: naturally pretty, but she doesn’t hawk her looks; quiet in public, but riotous underneath; troubled in some domestic way, but rising above, in her own way. She reads a lot and alone at recess, like me. She wields her own created strength—she doesn’t need your strength to bolster her—and she does this without broadcasting her personal fight so as to pile on accolades for herself. She doesn’t need them. Every school has about one Jenny/Emma/Sophia. Gems. But I can’t have gems as friends for real. I wish I could. I wish I were worthy to gain strength by osmosis in being close to them.
This particular Jenny is the crème de la crème. The best one I’ve encountered yet. I wish I could pack her up and take her everywhere I know we’ll have to go.
I wish I didn’t have to lie to her on the green bench today.
Now, here I am, and school is done. Here’s Mom in the brown Volvo, waiting in the pickup line. I walk to the car. The windows are down. Here now, right now, as I approach, the roller coaster begins. Click, the dreadful click, of the pattern is coming. Setting my palm on the jelly on my belly does nothing to calm me. My jelly pendant wards nothing off.
“Lucy, love you, Bug,” Mom says, calling out to me by leaning over the passenger seat and talking through the open window.
“Hey, Mom,” I say as I set my backpack in the back seat and pop myself into the front passenger’s.
“Hungry? Want to get an ice cream? Go down to the lake? Enjoy the sun?”
“Sure. Sounds good. But I got my Spanish and biology finals tomorrow, so need to get home sort of soon.”
I don’t want ice cream. I’m feeling like I could hurl. I know, I just know. It’s coming. The run. But Mom’s in a good mood, and I don’t want to shake her mood. I can’t shake her mood, that’s part of the deal. Plus, she rarely allows us out in public together, and I’m finding of late, I want to push the boundaries of our restrictions. I’m not sure why.
“Such a good girl, Lucy. Okay. A quick ice cream by the lake.”
She’s humming along to the tinny original version of “Turn! Turn! Turn!” by the Byrds, and I watch the sun shadows and flickering light danc
ing between the spaces of lime and leafy trees. I prefer the updated, acoustic version of “Turn! Turn! Turn!” performed by Sara Niemietz, but we play Mom’s songs when we’re together.
As I always do as soon as I’m out of school, I pop out my blue-tinted contact lenses and throw them in the saline case in my pocket.
“Wear your sunglasses at the park, then,” Mom says. Meaning, don’t let anyone see the real color of your eyes. She will keep her own colored lenses and sunglasses glued on her face, as she always does in public.
We get our cones, walk across a village street to a park on the lake, and sit on a bench. A group of mallards squats in the grass next to us, pecking at a pile of cracked corn. It’s sunny and we have ice cream and Mom is smiling, but I have a dissonance of dread inside, so my skin is electric with tension. I fight my hands from shaking and my stomach from flipping. We look happy on the outside, and I’m playing my part for her, but my smile is false. This sunlight is fake. Nobody knows how you really feel in the very center of yourself.
“Got to use the bathroom,” Mom says, rising from the bench. “Be right back.” She heads behind us and across the street to the ice-cream shop. I remain on the bench, staring at the lake.
My cookie-dough ice-cream cone has lots of dough chunks, so I’m basically chewing my ice cream. I try to concentrate on the chunks of dough and literally nothing else. I tell myself this morning’s dread premonition was not real, was just me allowing worry. I tell my brain to turn it off. Turn it off. Turn off the worry. No worry. I flip my sunglasses to the top of my head because a tree shades me and obscures the true colors of the water and the boats on the lake.
A red Frisbee whizzes overhead and is sailing fast, seems it might land in the water. A man’s voice shouts behind me, “Get it, get it, get it. Hurry!” And now a boy, actually a teen, maybe my age, is running toward the high-flying Frisbee. He’s jumping, but he’s too late and the Frisbee is too high. After a precipitous descent, a drastic wind pushes the Frisbee to earth, and the Frisbee lands in the water but, thankfully for the teen, close to shore. The man who shouted for the teen to “get it” is beside my bench, bending at the waist and inhaling deep buckets of air to catch his breath. He’s disrupting the sitting ducks, who are quacking and scuttling away and scattering their kernels of corn.