The Girl Who Wasn't There

by Nick Clausen

  He flails his arms, stepping back and forth, trying desperately to activate the doors again.

  They finally react, gliding apart once more—but this time, they only open one inch before slamming shut again.

  “What’s wrong?” Andy demands shrilly, almost with tears in his eyes now. “Why won’t you open?”

  He grabbles at the doors, trying to force his fingers in between them to pry them apart, but to no avail.

  He steps back, panting, staring at the doors as they attempt to open a third time, then a fourth and a fifth, but every time they’re slammed shut, as though some invisible force is outmuscling the electrical system.

  As soon as Andy thinks the thought, he realizes this is exactly what’s happening, and he backs away, his heart pounding in his throat.

  It’s her … she won’t allow me to leave …

  He wheels around, expecting to see a ghost girl standing there, but he’s still alone.

  The building is completely silent—except for the strained opening and shutting of the doors behind him.

  Andy steps forward tentatively as he looks in all directions, scanning the library for any windows. They’re all way up high, too high for him to reach. For a moment, he considers running to the bathroom and locking himself in there, but it’s small and has no windows, and the thought of him being stuck in there is claustrophobic.

  There is only one way out of the library, and that way is being blocked; which means he’s trapped.

  A new flood of fear rushes through his body, sending out icy darts of adrenaline all the way to his fingertips.

  “Who are you?” he whispers to the empty air, his voice shaky. “Why are you keeping me here?”

  Andy holds his breath and listens. There’s no answer, except for the roaring of his own pulse.

  “What do you want from me?” he demands a little louder.

  Still, no reply.

  The doors behind him have given up the fight and stopped trying to open. Andy moistens his lips with a clammy tongue and swallows dryly.

  Why doesn’t she answer me? Or show herself?

  Maybe she can’t. Maybe the only way she can communicate is …

  He goes back towards the armchair, walking slowly, all his senses poised. He’s ready to turn and run at the slightest indication of something ghostly showing itself. But nothing ghostly does, and he finds the book exactly where he left it.

  Andy sits back down, his back and buttocks drenched with sweat underneath his clothes, his fingers cold as icicles as he picks up Solaris. The text on the page is yet again normal, and the dialogue between the two characters plays out exactly as you would expect it to, no mention of the name Lisa.

  Andy clears his throat, then whispers. “Can you … can you hear me?”

  He expects the text to change right in front of his eyes, the letters morphing into some other message.

  But the text stays the same.

  Andy frowns. To his surprise, he’s both relieved but also a little disappointed that he didn’t get an answer.

  Maybe she can’t do it while I’m looking.

  The sudden impulse makes Andy shut the book then open it again. And there, on the middle of the page, one single line, completely out of context, screams up at him like a drop of blood on a clean bedsheet.

  »yes«

  Invisible ants appear on Andy’s lower back, crawling up along his spine and spreading out over his shoulders. He glances around, looks behind the armchair, but finds no one.

  He’s completely alone.

  And yet he’s not. Someone is here. Talking to him.

  “What … what do you want?” he croaks, the words barely audible.

  He closes the book and opens it again.

  »talk«

  Andy blinks at the word. He had expected something a little more dramatic than that.

  “You just … you just want to talk? Okay. I guess we can talk a little.”

  He clears his throat, wondering how to small-talk with a ghost.

  “So, uhm … did you talk with anyone else than me?”

  He closes and opens the book.

  »no«

  For someone wanting to talk, Lisa Labowski comes off as awfully curt. Perhaps, Andy wonders, it’s not easy for her to talk through the book. Afterall, it must take some effort to change the words on the page. He decides that he should probably be the one doing most of the talking.

  “So, have you always been here?” he asks. “Ever since you died, I mean.”

  »yes«

  Andy ponders that reply and exactly what it entails.

  How many times has he visited the library? How many hours has he spent here? Every time he has been carelessly strolling around the shelves or sitting here reading a book, an invisible ghost girl has been very close by. Watching him. Maybe she has even touched him. It’s a crazy thought.

  Another question pops into his mind. “Haven’t you been awfully lonesome? I mean, all those years since you died, with no one to talk to.”

  For the first time, Lisa offers Andy more than a single word reply.

  »no time«

  He’s pretty sure what the answer means, that time stands still when you’re dead, or at least moves very differently. Maybe those eighteen years Lisa Labowski has been here in the library haven’t felt like eighteen years at all.

  But that answer begs still another question. “Where are you exactly? I don’t get it … If you’re dead, how can you be here in the library and in the books?”

  He shuts the book and opens it again. Lisa’s reply makes no sense at first.

  »church bells«

  Then he hears it. The bells from the church across the street are ringing out.

  Andy checks his phone, but the battery is dead. He looks instead up at the clock on the wall. “Oh no, it’s six already! I’ve got to go. It’s my mom, she’ll worry if I’m out too long. But … I’ll be back again tomorrow. Maybe, you know, I mean, if you feel like it—we could talk some more then?”

  Andy’s hands are shaking a little as he closes and opens the book—but this time, it’s not so much from fear.

  »yes«

  “Cool,” Andy says. “I’ll come right over from school.”

  He brings the book with him as he leaves the library.

  Andy notices nothing of the world around him all the way home. More than once, a car honks at him, as he’s about to make a turn or cross the street without looking. His thoughts keep going back to the conversation he had with Lisa Labowski.

  It’s difficult to grasp there was a real girl behind the short lines. At least real in a sense. Not living, but still somehow able to communicate with him from somewhere … from where, exactly? That last question didn’t get any answer.

  Andy imagines how Lisa must be able to enter the books in order to change the text. Maybe she sees the universe of the book exactly like he sees the real world. Like a space traveler who can jump from one dimension to another.

  This image in his mind spawns a host of other questions. Like, is it only the books at the library, or can Lisa visit any book in the world? Could she be in his backpack right now? Andy doesn’t think so. He believes Lisa is somehow tied to the library.

  There are also more far-reaching questions to be answered. If Lisa Labowski is really living some sort of afterlife, is she the only one? Could there be others? Do all people get to live on in books when they die? Or could it perhaps be only people who love books and read a lot, like Andy himself? And are there other people out there who have encountered a dead person living in a book?

  The more he thinks about it, the crazier everything seems. Like something a child made up in his imagination. Still, his belly feels bubbly with anticipation at the thought of going back to the library tomorrow. He is almost—

  Andy’s thoughts are abruptly disrupted as he turns into the driveway of the house. The front door is yanked open and his mom comes rushing out. She runs to him and pulls him into a crushing embrace, almost t
ipping him over, her breath coming in rapid gasps.

  “What … what’s the matter, Mom?” Andy asks. “What’s wrong?”

  Mom’s hands are fondling his back, squeezing his sides, checking his arms, and Andy realizes this isn’t a hug.

  “Are you okay?” she breathes in his ear. “Are you hurt? Did anything happen to you?”

  “I’m fine,” Andy says, trying to pull back. But Mom grips him firmer, strokes his hair and checks his skull as though looking for bumps or bruises. Andy shoves her back. “Relax, Mom. I told you, I’m not hurt.”

  She grabs him by the shoulders, and as their eyes finally meet, Andy sees that his mom is not simply worried; her face is contorted in an awful grimace, causing her to look almost like a stranger to him. “Where have you been? Where have you been, Andy? We were worried sick! I spoke with all the neighbors, and your father is out looking for you, and I was just about to call the police … Where have you been?”

  Andy gapes at her. “But … but I’ve just been at the library, like I alwa—”

  “Don’t you dare lie to me!” Mom exclaims, tightening her grip around his upper arms, her voice growing half an octave higher. “We’ve been at the library and you weren’t there. So where were you, Andy? Did you go home with anybody you don’t know? Did you talk to any strangers? Did anyone give you a ride in their car? I’ve told you over and over again never to say yes to anybody who—”

  “Mom, please!” Andy almost yells to outshout her. “I was only at the library. I promise! You must have been there right after I left.”

  “Then why don’t you answer your phone?” Mom’s voice is close to a pitch of hysteria, and her grip is hurting him. “I called you like ten times—why didn’t you pick up?”

  “My battery is dead,” he says.

  “Your battery is always dead! Or your phone is in your bag, so you didn’t hear it, or it’s on silent, or you forgot it at home, or …” She sighs, shaking her head violently. “Sometimes I think you do it on purpose.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  “Sorry doesn’t cut it. You’re not—”

  “Helen? Oh, I see you found him.”

  Andy turns his head to see Paul Herbert come trudging across the street. The old widower lifts his dingy old cap, exposing the bald head for a second. “Where was he?”

  “He came home on his own,” Mom says, straightening herself, but only lets go of one of Andy’s arms—like she’s afraid he might take off. “He says he was at the library. We must have just missed him when we were there.”

  Paul Herbert raises his thick, white eyebrows in a look of relief. “I see. Well, I’m glad he’s fine.”

  Mom nods, absentmindedly brushing her bangs aside. “I’m sorry we got you worried too, Paul.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Paul Herbert says, sending Andy a brief smile. “And don’t be too harsh on him now, Helen. Boys his age so easily forgets time, and—”

  “Thank you for your concern, Paul,” Mom says, turning to go back inside, hauling Andy along.

  The Silence is extra oppressive that evening as the family sits down to eat dinner. Andy feels Mom glancing at him every few seconds, almost like she expects him to disappear into thin air if she takes her eyes off him for too long.

  Cindy is home and has joined the family for dinner—both of which happen still less often. Andy still hasn’t gotten used to her new haircut: Cindy’s hair is long on one side, buzzcut on the other. She also wears a lot more makeup around her eyes than she used to, and her clothes are mostly black and worn-looking. She pokes at her food with her fork for five minutes, then excuses herself and takes her plate to the kitchen. A moment later, Andy hears her running up the stairs. Sometimes, Andy wonders if Cindy has even noticed Rebecca is gone. In a way he envies his older sister for her ability to simply not care. Since Rebecca disappeared, Cindy has seemingly been more concerned with her looks than mourning their little sister. Andy hasn’t seen her cry even once.

  Suddenly, Mom puts down her knife and fork and says: “Well, let’s talk about it.”

  Dad looks up from his plate. “About what, hon?”

  “What do you think, Henry? About your son’s behavior.”

  “Oh, right.” Dad looks at Andy. “It wasn’t very smart, Andy. You had us all very worried. From now on, we need you to keep better track of time, okay?”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  Dad nods, then resumes eating.

  Mom glares at Dad. “Is that all you’re going to do about it?”

  Dad looks up once more, shrugging. “What do you want me to do, Helen? The boy knows he messed up. He promised not to—”

  “Yeah, well, apparently we can’t count on his promise, can we? He promised to follow Rebecca home from school, and look what happened.”

  Andy feels like Mom just punched him in the gut. A moment of thick Silence slugs its way through the dining room, until Dad finally says something.

  “Helen,” he sighs. “Please think about what you’re saying …”

  “I’m not the one who needs to think!” Mom exclaims. “How can we ever feel at ease if we can’t know whether our son will come home again or not? Or don’t you even care? Don’t you care if Andy also disa … disa …” Mom can’t get the word out. Her lips start to quiver.

  “Calm down, hon,” Dad tries and reaches across the table.

  Mom moves her hand away and breathes sternly a few times. Then she looks at Andy. And there it is again, that strange expression on her face, and suddenly, Andy can see it very clearly, that it’s no longer his Mom. Not really. The eyes are all wrong.

  “If your father won’t be strict with you, I’ll have to,” she says coldly. “You’re grounded for the entire weekend.”

  Andy shrinks at the thought of two whole days as a hostage in the looming Silence. And what’s worse: He won’t be able to keep his promise to Lisa.

  “It’s about time you learned to think about other people, Andy,” Mom goes on, her voice lower and less angry, but somehow that’s even worse. She looks him straight in the eye, a look of anguish on her face. “Your actions have consequences. Can’t you see how terrified you make us when you don’t come home on time and we can’t reach you? After what happened to your sister … don’t you ever think about that?”

  Andy looks down at his plate, his chin begins to jump up and down. He fights back the tears with all his might, but they squeeze out anyway. He feels like jumping up and running upstairs.

  But he doesn’t.

  He just sits there, his head lowered as he starts to sob. He doesn’t run to his room, for in a way he understands the punishment is just.

  What he has sensed ever since that terrible day, what has been hovering over his head like a heavy cloud, what he has been reading off of the faces of everybody in his life, has finally been stated outright by his mom.

  I promised to follow Rebecca home from school, and look what happened.

  The words echo in his mind, causing his face to burn and the tears to flow faster.

  It’s my fault Rebecca disappeared. It’s all my fault.

  Later that evening there’s a knocking at Andy’s door. He’s on his bed, reading Solaris—though he can hardly concentrate on the story, as his thoughts keep going back to Rebecca.

  The door opens and Dad looks at him. “Can I come in?”

  “Sure.” Andy sit up and discretely wipes his cheeks, but the tears from earlier have dried up.

  Dad closes the door after himself and goes to sit down at Andy’s desk. “Your mom didn’t really mean what she said—you know that, right, Andy? She’s just afraid, that’s all. Afraid of losing you and afraid that Rebecca won’t come home.”

  Andy nods, digesting the words. He believes the second part to be true, the part about his mom being scared. He’s not convinced about the first part though.

  Quietly, he asks: “Do you believe Rebecca will come home, Dad?”

  “Of course I do,” Dad says promptly. But to Andy, he d
oesn’t sound very sincere.

  He broods for another moment, as he feels the words bubbling up from deep inside, and then he finally says it outright: “I know it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have gone into the library that day.”

  The confession hangs heavily in the air. Dad doesn’t reply right away, just stares into empty space.

  Andy badly wants him to say something, anything. He can even agree with what Andy said—as long as he doesn’t just keep quiet. Anything is better than silence.

  But Dad doesn’t say anything.

  “Dad?”

  Dad blinks. “Yeah?”

  “What if Rebecca doesn’t come back?”

  “Don’t think about that, Andy. She’ll turn up.”

  “Yes, but … what if? What will happen then?”

  Dad looks to the window and the dim evening sky outside. He sighs deeply and says: “Then I guess we’ll just have to live on without Rebecca.”

  Then, as though the conversation is over, he simply gets up and leaves the room with no more words, not even looking at Andy before closing the door again.

  For several long minutes, Andy just sits there on his bed, feeling his heart beat heavily in his chest.

  How could Dad say it like that? How could he even pretend like everything will eventually return to normal if Rebecca never comes home? Of course it won’t. Nothing will ever be normal again without Rebecca.

  The thoughts keep going around and around, and Andy feels fresh tears building up in his eyes. He’s just about to give in and begin to cry, when something changes.

  Something inside of him.

  It’s like a shift, subtle but significant.

  A feeling he hasn’t felt before arises and fills him up, strong enough to drown out the impending sobs and force back the tears; it even pushes aside the guilt. Andy is not quite sure what the feeling is, but he’s suddenly reminded of Lisa Labowski.