“Damn,” Yusef mumbles.
“School expelled me pretty fast after that. My ex said he was going to come clean, say I got the weed from him, but . . . he never did. My parents dumped their entire savings into helping me get better. People started treating us like social lepers. Parents wouldn’t even let their kids come over to play with Sammy and he was already so . . . alone.”
Yusef stiffens, setting down the camera. On the screen, the kitchen is still empty, no movement, and no sign of Piper. I sigh.
“OD’ing is the type of mistake you never shake. Because the only person who believes you’re really better is you. But I guess I deserve it. ’Cause at the end of the day, I wanted to be high more than I wanted to be home hanging out with my little brother. I chose the high over Sammy. I embarrassed my family, put us in debt, forcing us to move here. So I don’t deserve nice things like colorful dresses, friends, boyfriends, or even track. I deserve to just be miserable. But . . . when we were still in Cali, all those days of me doing homeschooling and rehab, locked up in my room, Buddy and Sammy they were there for me, you know? They never treated me like a fuckup, even though that’s how I felt. Well . . . feel, even now.”
Yusef nods slowly, inching forward as if to catch me.
“I can’t lose Buddy.” I cough out the sob, the dam crumbling. “I can’t lose Sammy. They’re the only ones who don’t care what kind of fuckup I am. They think I’m awesome! Do you know what that’s like? Someone who thinks you’re hella dope no matter how many times you screw up?”
Yusef sighs. “I don’t think you’re a screwup.”
“Yes you do,” I cry. “You hate me! And I deserve it.”
“I didn’t say all that. Just ’cause I’m not feeling you, don’t mean I ain’t feeling you, feel me?”
I blink. “That . . . makes absolutely no sense.”
We laugh, his forehead leaning against mine.
“You’re not a screwup, Cali,” he breathes, tracing a finger along my jaw.
I shudder at his touch, shutting my eyes as fresh tears well up.
“Yusef . . . I don’t deserve someone like you.”
“Why do you keep trying to punish yourself just because you made a mistake? That’s the opposite of what anyone who cares about you would want you to do.”
“How do you know that?” I whisper, desperate for answers.
“Because I . . . wait. Wh-what was that?”
“Huh?” I say, eyes fluttering open.
Yusef stares at the monitor, examining it closely.
“Yooo,” he whispers, a fist to his mouth, pointing, and I follow his finger.
Back in the kitchen, everything remains seemingly still. But in the far left corner, the bottom cupboard door near the sink waffles slightly before opening on its own.
I gasp, grinning at Yusef. This is it! The proof we need to show Mom that there really is a ghost. That I’m not seeing things or just being a nutcase. Yeah, it’s hella creepy, but I could almost burst into tears the relief is so sweet. I gotta call Sammy and tell him we did it!
“Wait a second,” Yusef mumbles, squinting. “What’s that?”
At the top edge of the cupboard door, a small hand appears, gripping the wood tight. My heart flies up to my throat. I recognize that hand. The gnarly knuckles, the dark burnt skin, the fingernails . . .
“What the fuck?” I mumble, leaning closer.
Another hand appears, then a bare foot touches the floor, as if steadying itself, crooked toes drumming . . . before an old woman crawls out of the cupboard, limb by limb.
“Oh shit!” we shout in unison, flying back in our chairs.
The woman is small, her thin hair choppy sprouts of gray, face haggard and back hunched. She glances from left to right, stretches, then moves gingerly in tattered rags posing as clothes. On the apron tied around her bony frame, you can just make out the pie stitched on the front.
“She’s wearing my sweater,” I mumble in absolute shock. The cream cable-knit one I thought the laundry had eaten, so filthy it’s almost unrecognizable.
The woman opens the fridge and takes out the oat milk, drinking straight from the carton, then mashes a banana into her mouth. Next, a yogurt, followed by handfuls of my guacamole, and I’m ready to vomit.
“I gotta get Unc, he needs to see this!” Yusef says, fumbling out of the room.
The woman seems comfortable, in no rush, as if she’s done this plenty of times before. She tries biting into one of the apples we brought back from the farm and winces, holding a hand to her cheek.
I think of the tooth in my pocket as Piper enters the frame, unfazed by the woman’s presence, and my blood turns to ice. They talk, calmly at first, but Piper seems confused, shaking her head . . . refusing something.
Just then, my phone rings. Mom.
“Mom, I was about to call you. You’re never going to—”
“Mari! GET—RIGHT—NOW!”
“What?” I say. The line is terrible.
“Someone—house! Get Piper—GET OUT!”
Piper says one final word to the woman before padding away. The woman watches her, then takes a key out of the pocket of her tattered apron and heads down into the basement.
Piper was telling the truth, all along. No one believed her. And now she’s in that house . . . alone.
“Found—in Bud—OUT! NOW!”
The woman’s voice springs to my memory.
“GET OUT MY HOUSE!”
The phone slips out of my hand as I bolt toward the door.
“Cali!” Yusef calls to my back. “Wait!”
But I’m already down the driveway, arms pumping, trying to beat my own record . . . back to Maple Street.
Twenty-Three
THE LIGHTS ARE on. Every single one. The house is a torch in the distance. The front door wide open, dry leaves blowing inside.
“Piper!” I scream, taking the porch stairs two at a time, noticing Sweets is smashed into a pumpkin pancake. “Piper, come on! We have to go!”
I charge toward the kitchen, where I last left her. The TV is on, Scott Clark spitting his vitriol. The entire floor is empty. But the basement door is open.
Oh no.
“For vengeance is in the hands of the Lord but as he makes you in his liking, he expects you to act on his will and do what he deems necessary. He speaks through his angels, the prophets and community leaders who have been anointed . . .”
I stare down into the abyss. It’s not as black and never-ending as it usually is. A soft light glows below.
“Piper?” I say in a trembling voice. Silence. But she has to be down there.
With ragged breath, I tiptoe down the steps. The thin wood creaks and moans under my weight. I grip the aged railing, afraid a board will give in and I’ll fall right through, breaking a leg or worse.
“Piper?”
A wall of broken wooden chairs and tables surround the bottom of the steps like a dam, towering to the ceiling, Alec’s moving crates tucked in the corner. But behind it all, the light glows brighter. I slip through a narrow entry, my insides a chaotic mess, and find the rest of the basement . . . sparse. A near empty space, the floor dusty, the air damp and cold, smelling of rotting food. A thick coating of dust blankets the bare bookshelves. My foot kicks an empty can and it rolls off to the side, where other empty cans of soup and vegetables lie near a rusted tricycle. And in the far corner sit two makeshift beds, made of charred rags and sheets, a bedbug paradise. The single candle flickers as I stop short.
On one mat is Mom’s zucchini spiralizer. Along with Alec’s watch, the hammer with the red-and-black handle . . . the list goes on. A treasure trove of stolen goods. Something familiar catches my eye. Near a pillow made of faded curtains is an old tape recorder. Similar to the one Mom used to use reporting for the town’s journal when I was little. She would let me record notes and funny voices on it. Which is the only reason why I know how it works. I press play.
“Mari! Mari, come here! Quick!”
Oh my God . . .
“Piper,” I whimper, backing away. I run up the stairs, barreling around the corner and up to the second floor.
“Piper, where are you?!” I cough out a cry. Her room is empty. Maybe she’s hiding; she has to be in here somewhere, she just has to! I dive under the bed then shove open her closet. On the floor are blankets, stretching out from a hidey-hole in the corner, along with empty chip bags, juice boxes, and Lunchable containers.
She was living in here!
Head buzzing, I run into the bathroom, throwing back the shower curtain. No Piper. The guilt is heavy, weighing down my lungs as tears bubble up. I left her alone and now the Hag—or whoever that is—has got her!
The sour smell hits me like a brick to the face. I cover my mouth, gagging, bending over the sink to catch any chucks, as I finally recognize it. It’s human. Raw body odor mixed with shit and . . . blood. The metal copper scent is so strong, it’s unmistakable.
Behind me, something shifts. It’s slight but noticeable. I freeze, gazing up into my reflection. The large bathroom is still, sparkling clean, nothing out of place. But the linen closet door is cracked open. And in that dark crack, one giant yellow eye is staring back at me.
Holy. Shit.
The contents in my stomach curdle as I stand paralyzed for what feels like eternity. I bite my tongue to smother a cry, then attempt to play it cool, casually looking away, pretending I saw absolutely nothing. I turn on the faucet and splash some cold water on my face. But my heaving chest and trembling hands must be giving me away.
She knows I can see her! Shit, shit shit . . .
A thin river of blood slowly snakes out of the closet, flowing down the grooves in the checkered bath tiles toward my sneaker. It pools quickly at my heel and I stiffen into wood. The door slowly creaks open wide. And behind it is not a little old lady . . . but a giant man. The same man who was standing in my room the night of the party.
“Demons hate anything happy.”
My body won’t turn around. Nothing in this world could make me turn around. We lock eyes in the mirror. Half of his face has the texture of dark molded clay. The fire seared meat out of his cheek, neck, and hair, skin misshapen around muscles and veins, his left ear gone. Beside him, blood rains down onto the floor with soft thuds. Two of his fingers are missing, as if ripped off . . . or bitten.
Buddy . . .
Light catches something metal by his boot and I crumble. In his one good hand, he grips the handle of Mr. Stampley’s ax.
An ax. He’s holding a got damn ax!
Silent fire alarm bells ring through my head as he places a single finger over his lips. Then, in one blink, he charges, shreds of clothing flying behind him like dangling streamers, the ax scraping the tiles. The scream that escapes my mouth is bloodcurdling as I bolt out of the bathroom.
“W-w-w-wait,” he yells.
He speaks. He has a voice! He’s real. And that realization makes it all so much worse. The size of a bison, his heavy steps are like earthquakes chasing after me. He smells revolting but familiar and even in my panic as I run for the door, I realize . . . it’s the stench from the basement, leaking through the vents. We’ve been smelling him all along.
Down the stairs, I slip and slam into the wall, and he jumps in front of the exit. I skirt around him, toward the kitchen, picking up speed. I’ll run through the glass back door if I have to, then I’ll . . .
Something ropes around my throat, yoking me, and I catch air before landing on my back. I gurgle up a scream and he yanks me by the collar, dragging me into the kitchen. I flail and kick wildly.
“NO!” I scream, elbow connecting with the back of his leg. He stumbles, toppling like a tree, his giant fist ramming into my stomach, knocking the wind out of me. My eyes are blinded by stars as I curl over.
“W-w-wait,” he stammers, rising to his feet, his eyes panicked, the ax still in his hand.
I look up into the face of my soon-to-be killer just as another set of steps run into the house.
“Marigold!” Yusef screams from somewhere as a shovel swings through the air and whacks the man across the head. He winces, drops the ax, and covers his one good ear. Yusef swings again and I scramble from beneath him. The man tackles Yusef to the ground with a grunt.
I’m up on my feet, grabbing Mom’s cast-iron skillet hanging from the ceiling, and swing at the man’s head, but it merely ricochets. I hit again and again until something cracks behind us and the hall closet door flies open.
“LEAVE MY BABY ALONE!”
The old woman bursts out the closet, screeching, her arms flailing. Stunned by the sight, I’m frozen in place until she leaps, sinking two sharp teeth into my shoulder.
“Ahh!” I scream, jerking left, then right, trying to shake her off. But she clings to my body like a monkey, convulsing and gnawing, nails digging into my neck. I pull at her hair and it comes out in handfuls.
“Helppp!” I cry, slapping her head, her hands, anything I can reach.
Yusef dodges the man, jumps up, swings the shovel and hits the old woman in the face. She falls hard on the floor with a clunk, leaving my shoulder slick with spit and blood.
“MA-MAAA!” the man screams.
Mama? I think, just as he charges at us, his face contorted in rage.
“Watch out!” Yusef yells, pushing me aside.
WHOOSH!
The ax cuts through the air, the blade singing. I duck and it slices into the counter with a crack.
WHOOSH!
I roll out of the way, the man swinging the ax left and right, aimlessly.
“Back off!” Yusef shouts, holding a chair up as a shield. “Run, Mari!”
The man shoves him one-handed and Yusef’s head whiplashes into the wall, his body going limp.
“NO!” I cry, running for him, but slip on a pool of blood from the man’s missing fingers and eat the floor.
WHOOSH!
The ax slices into the hardwood, inches from my head. Panting and sobbing, I quickly roll and army-crawl behind the sofa. He stalks over, the house shaking with each footstep. He throws the sofa aside like it was made of cardboard, holding the ax over me, ready to hack me into pieces.
This is it. I’m going to die.
I think of Sammy and Mom as I close my eyes, bracing for impact.
POP POP
Gunshots make us all whip around to the open front door.
Mr. Brown stands in the yard, smoke swirling from his gun, pointed in the air. He stares inside the house, bewildered by the sight.
“Ms. . . . Suga?” he gasps, his eyes wide.
The old woman coughs, flopping over like a rag doll.
By the counter, Yusef moans, and I spring for him.
“Shoot him! Shoot the man!” I scream, diving over Yusef. But when I look up, there’s no one there. The back door is open.
The man is gone.
Twenty-Four
MS. SUGA IS sitting on a chair placed in the middle of the family room, EMTs and police surrounding her. She stares transfixed at the floor, dead behind the eyes, drool dripping out the side of her mouth. The Hag is not as terrifying as my imagination made her to be. In the light, she’s nothing but a pitiful old lady. Being that she’s barely ninety pounds soaking wet, they don’t handcuff her. But they didn’t see the way she popped out of that closet.
“Definitely going to need stitches,” the EMT says to me. “And a tetanus shot.”
In the dining room, the EMT treats my shoulder bite while another gives Yusef a once-over, holding an ice pack to his head.
“Did you recognize him?” I overhear the officer ask Mr. Brown out on the porch.
“No,” Mr. Brown says. “But judging by his size . . . he has to be Jon Jon, the youngest boy.”
“The one they said was touching kids?”
“Um. Yeah,” he mumbles.
Yusef and I
share a look.
“Did you see which way he went?” the officer continues.
“No. I was . . . damn. Is that really Ms. Suga in there?”
Pain flares as the EMT applies pressure to the bandages on my bite.
Police searched every room of the house. Every closet, under beds, and in the basement. No Piper. And the man, or Jon Jon, vanished right before our eyes. He wasn’t a ghost. Just like Ms. Suga’s not a ghost. They’re real, and they’ve been living with us this whole time.
“I just . . . can’t believe she’s still alive,” someone whispers in the kitchen.
“Me either. What, she gotta be eighty by now, right?”
Alec paces around the dining room, hands on his hips. “You can’t just make her tell us where Piper is?”
Mom folds her hands together, tears in her eyes.
“Sorry, sir, she’s still not talking. But we have several units canvassing the area. We’ll find your little girl.”
In the lobby of the twenty-four-hour animal hospital, Buddy somehow managed to hack up the two fingers he ripped off Jon Jon’s hand. Mom took one look at the fingers and bolted for the car. They raced back to the house, arriving just as Mr. Brown let off a warning shot.
“Alec!”
Mr. Sterling stands in the doorway, dressed in another sharp black suit, as if he sleeps in them.
“Mr. Sterling?” Alec says.
“I came as soon as I heard,” he says, his voice chipper. “Thank God you are all okay.”
“Piper is still missing,” Mom corrects him, an edge in her voice.
“Oh my. How horrible. But I’m sure she’s fine. Our police force is the best in the country. They’ll find her.” He glances over his shoulder. “You have quite the big crowd out there, waiting.”
Outside, dozens of neighbors stand behind the caution tape, gawking at the house. A hum of nervous voices travel inside. Our once-isolated block looks like an outdoor concert.
White Smoke Page 24