The Fade

by Demitria Lunetta

  “I didn’t. I just didn’t want to live without you.”

  “You’ve known this whole time that we weren’t really here.”

  She nods. “It was like waking up for me. I left my body and found you on my bed. It was like being alive was a dream and this was real. You had no idea, so I felt that was part of the reason I was here with you. I knew I needed to protect you from the truth.”

  I try to see, to really see. Something shifts and I notice the dust on my desk, the cobwebs in the corners near the ceiling, the yellowing of my old drawings. I face my mother. I can see her still, but I can also see the wall through her.

  “It’s been hard on you,” I say.

  “I’ve watched over you, but I’ve also watched over Shannon, over your dad.”

  “But he doesn’t know we’re here, does he?” My heart is breaking for him, but I try not to show it.

  “I heard Shannon tell him she felt us here. She’s convinced our ghosts are lingering.”

  “Have they seen you or me?”

  “No.” She smiles. “But you do make quite a racket sometimes, banging into walls and thumping around. You even move solid objects….I don’t know how you do things like that. I can’t.”

  I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of it. “Mom, have you seen others? More ghosts?”

  She gives me a confused look. “Your sister is fine, if that’s what you’re worried about. She’s alive and well.”

  “I’m not talking about Shannon. I’m talking about the other girls that look like Shannon.”

  She shakes her head. “No, honey. We’re the only ones here.”

  I wish that were true. “Can you tell me how I died?” I ask, and she flinches slightly.

  “Your dad and sister came home and found you asleep in your bed. Except you weren’t sleeping. The coroner indicated that you’d fallen and hit your head. You must have gotten up, thought you could shake it off, but you had a concussion. When you went to lie down…you never got back up again.”

  But that doesn’t seem right. I try to remember, but it’s hard. “Could someone have hurt me?” I ask. “Could it have been done on purpose?”

  “Your injuries were consistent with a fall,” she says in her best nurse voice. “There wasn’t anything to indicate someone had hit you.”

  I think back to that day. Remember the hands I felt on my back. I thought it was one of the Grabbed Girls, but they don’t do things like that. They can’t push a person down the stairs. And even if I’m wrong, even if they could, I don’t think they would.

  My mother’s form is fuzzy; she looks as if she’s coming apart at the seams. I try to calm her.

  “I remember…,” I tell her slowly. “I went down to the basement to prove I wasn’t scared. I slipped and fell. I even remember getting up and going to my room. I didn’t realize I had a concussion. It was so stupid of me to go to sleep.”

  “It’s not your fault.” She sweeps me into a hug. Even her touch feels flimsy, her normally strong grasp delicate.

  “I’m scared,” I tell her.

  “You have nothing to be afraid of. I’m right here with you. I always have been, and I always will be.”

  “No.” I easily break out of her grip. “I’m scared for you.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m fine….”

  “You’re fading away, Mom. You’ve stretched yourself too thin, and now you’re almost gone.” She backs away from me, but I forge ahead. “You need to move on.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, not while you’re still here.”

  “You stayed with me when I needed you, but…” I swallow. “I don’t need you anymore. I’m dead. Nothing can hurt me now.”

  “Leave with me. Don’t you feel the pull?” Her eyes get distant. “What’s keeping you here, anyway?”

  “There’s something I have to do…and I’m really close. I just need a little more time.” I don’t admit that I don’t feel what she does.

  “Then I’ll be here until you’re ready.”

  “I don’t think you should.”

  “You make it sound so simple.”

  I remember what Coop said about his grandmother leaving right away. “If you feel the pull of your doorway, I think it means you’re ready to move on. You must know, deep down, that I’m safe.”

  My mom has walked to the window and is staring outside. Through her, I can see Shannon in the front yard, playing soccer with her boyfriend. Dad sits on a chair, beer in hand, resigned. Shannon kicks the ball to him and he looks up, a faint smile playing on his lips.

  “Come on, Dad,” she calls. “Let’s teach Jim a lesson.”

  “Not fair! Two on one!” Jim yells back. Grudgingly, Dad stands, puts down his beer, and kicks the ball back to Shannon.

  “What would Dad want?” I press. “What would Shannon want? Not for you to be stuck here between life and death.”

  Mom watches them awhile longer, then finally says, “Okay, Haley.”

  I let out a whimper, not sure if I’m relieved or worried. But I can’t let my mom doubt herself now. “I’m so happy. You’ll be free.”

  My mom nods. She focuses behind me. I turn to find a white door. She walks toward it, and I can’t believe she’s really going to leave, but she stops next to me, puts her arms around me, and hugs me tight.

  “It’s calling to me,” she admits. “I want to go through.”

  “Then you should,” I tell her, trying to sound strong for her. “And I know we’ll be together soon.” I pull away, knowing that if I asked her, she would stay for me. She’d stay until she faded away to nothing.

  I walk with her the last few steps to the doorway. “Come with me now,” she pleads.

  “I can’t. It’s yours. Mine will come soon,” I promise.

  She nods once, kisses the top of my head, and steps forward. As soon as she’s through, the doorway disappears, as if it never existed.

  A deep sense of loss fills me, and I let out a sob. I have never felt so alone. I have to find out who killed those girls…who killed me…before I disappear.

  SHE HELPED HER mother.

  It gives us hope.

  We want to leave.

  We want our tunnels of light.

  We want our passage to beyond.

  No matter what it holds.

  Anything is better than this half life.

  I TELL COOP about my mom—that we spoke, that she’s moved on. I also tell him that I believe I was pushed down the stairs.

  Murdered.

  He looks so sad, so helpless.

  I tilt my face up and kiss his chin. He shivers. He lowers his mouth to meet mine. My lips tingle, and when his face pulls away, I can see his breath as he exhales.

  “This is impossible,” I tell him. Warmth creeps through me. It’s ridiculous to feel anything for Coop. I’m not alive. I’m not real.

  “Haley, if there were any way I could be with you, I would.” He wraps his arms around me, and I rest my head on his chest. He smells like art paper and pencils and paint. “I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you.”

  I break from his hold and look up at him. “We never had a chance.”

  “We didn’t. But you do.”

  I’m being pulled in so many directions at once. I want to save the Grabbed Girls, and I want to save myself. But I also want to just stay here with Coop. I want to be here always. I settle for being here now.

  * * *

  The Coopers’ garage is sparse: one corner holds a few tools, some large boxes, and a lawn mower; another is filled with file boxes, a lamp, and a well-worn leather armchair. That must be where Coop’s dad sits to pore over information, desperate to find some new clue to his daughter’s disappearance.

  I sigh. What do I hope to find out in the next few hours that Mr. Cooper
hasn’t discovered in the last six years? I know Coop doesn’t think I’ll find anything in his dad’s files, but I have to look through them myself. I have to know everything if I want to find out the truth and finally let the Grabbed Girls rest.

  Coop is at the hospital, and his dad is at work. Not that his dad can see me, but I don’t want to chance him wanting to look at the files while I’m in there. I take a quick walk through their house. Chris is playing video games, and Mrs. Cooper is loading the dishwasher.

  I settle in to the garage and start to go through the files, careful not to move things around too much. Statements from family members, neighbors, teammates, teachers, classmates—it just goes on and on and on.

  Kaitlyn’s family didn’t even report her missing for two days. They thought she was at a friend’s house. Then they assumed she was out partying. Her parents didn’t even recall when they’d seen her last. Her brother said she was in the basement with her friends.

  There’s a picture of them all together. The dad is super handsome, with a strong jaw and piercing eyes; the mom is tall, with an easy smile. The whole family looks like they could be models, like their portrait came in the frame.

  There are scribbled notes in the corner. Apparently Mr. Cooper thought Kaitlyn’s dad, Cole Pratt, could be to blame for the girls’ disappearances.

  Could I be wrong? Could it be Mr. Pratt and not Mr. Grant who is responsible? Mr. Pratt wasn’t exactly a faithful husband. He had multiple girlfriends on the side. And one of those girlfriends was able to give him an alibi for when Brandy went missing, though Mr. Cooper thought it could have been a false statement. I close the file. It sucks that Kaitlyn’s dad cheated on her mom, but that doesn’t make him a murderer.

  I pull out the box marked FRANZ. Brandy was second to disappear, and that was when Mrs. Franz got involved and the case was kicked to the FBI. What had Mr. Cooper done to get copies of these files? It couldn’t have been legal.

  It’s hard to read through these. Poor Mrs. Franz. She knew her granddaughter was missing within an hour, and Brandy fared no better than Kaitlyn.

  I find a statement taken from their track coach, who was cleared after his alibis for two of the disappearances checked out. “Those four were our stars,” he said in his statement. “Everyone looked up to them. I can’t imagine anyone who would want to hurt them. The whole team was like a family.”

  It’s soul-crushing to read about the girls’ lives. I want to take a break before I look through Emily’s files, but I don’t know how much time I have before Mr. Cooper gets back. These papers are the most rumpled, the pictures the most worn. Notes are scrawled everywhere, and some of the writing is smudged with water damage. I can just picture Mr. Cooper poring over these documents again and again, crying over his lost daughter.

  I finally get to the box on Gigi. I open the top file and find that Gigi is just a nickname. Her real name is Georgina Grant. I nearly drop the file.

  Gigi is Mr. Grant’s daughter.

  Did Mr. Grant kill his own daughter? The horror washes over me. Did Mr. Cooper suspect Mr. Grant at all? Why all the focus on Kaitlyn’s dad, but not on Gigi’s dad?

  I’m interrupted by the garage door opening. Mr. Cooper is home. How long was he gone? I should have paid more attention to the time.

  On instinct, I hide behind one of the big boxes in the far corner. Mr. Cooper gets out of his car and looks around. I know he can’t see me, but I still feel exposed.

  He reaches into his car, grabs a paper bag, pulls out a bottle, and takes a huge swig. He lumbers a few heavy steps toward the files, then collapses into a chair. Leaning forward, he grabs the box I was just rummaging through. He looks around, and I’m terrified he’ll notice it’s been meddled with. He could blame Coop, and I don’t want Coop in trouble.

  As he’s moving the box, he accidentally drops it, and files spill everywhere. “Goddamn it!” he yells, and kicks at the rest of the boxes. I tense, but then relax when I realize there’s no way he can be certain I messed with them now.

  He swears again, and stumbles through the side door into the house. I head home, wondering how someone could hurt—kill—their own child. I need to be with my dad.

  I’M GLAD I felt the urge to check on my dad…or maybe I just knew I needed to say goodbye. Dad has taken a job in St. Louis. He’s going to sublet an apartment there and let Shannon live in the house. He and Shannon and Jim (who I guess lives here now) sit around the table.

  Breakfast is so sad.

  I sit with them, but they have no idea I’m here. They talk about me. Shannon mentions the drawings she mailed to Raina and asks Dad if he wants to take any with him. He says he’ll have a look…then, for some reason, goes on to recount every bad thing I’ve ever done, including dredging up the time I was four and thought I could be a gymnast. I tried to do a front flip, completely missed the pillows I’d put out to land on, and fell into his new computer, knocking the monitor off his desk and onto the floor. I was lucky it didn’t fall on me. He starts crying. I’ve never seen my dad cry.

  “Haley was such a klutz,” Shannon says. She’s trying to be strong for him. She even lets out a small laugh, and Jim joins in. Dad gives them a halfhearted smile.

  He leaves after that, and for some reason I feel abandoned. I don’t know how Shannon is holding up so well.

  Later, I’m alone in my room when Shannon staggers in. She sits on the bed and wipes her eyes.

  “Shannon, are you…crying?” I ask. “I’m so sorry.”

  She takes a drink from a glass she’s brought with her and continues to cry softly. “Are you drinking…wine?” I ask. I just hope she doesn’t end up like Mr. Cooper, trying to drink away the pain.

  “Haley…” She sniffles and takes another sip. “Haley. If you’re here, draw me something happy.”

  I shake my head. I have nothing happy in me to draw.

  * * *

  Gigi is the next to visit.

  I’m not surprised this time, but I can’t help the jolt of dread that shoots through my body when I catch her standing in the corner of my room.

  “I know who you are,” I tell her, daring to approach.

  She turns. Her arms and legs pivot at unnatural angles.

  I take a step back, my courage failing. “You’re Mr. Grant’s daughter.”

  She moves toward me, her movements jerky, as if she’s a limp puppet on a string. Her face is not as mangled as Brandy’s, and I can make out the thin scar on her pale skin. “Did he give you that scar? Did he hurt you?”

  Her whole body shakes, as if her bones aren’t solid enough to hold her up. She shuffles past my desk, and I can see it through her. She doesn’t have bones at all; she’s made of something else…the same thing as dashed hopes and nightmares.

  “Please, answer me if you can,” I beg. When she doesn’t respond, I ask, “What do you want to show me?”

  Her journey to the doorway is painfully slow. Each step causes her body to twitch, arms askew. I follow carefully and am relieved when she disappears through the basement door. I wrench it open and hurry down the steps, colliding with her apparition.

  Again I’m transported to a long-ago memory.

  Again I’m in the basement.

  But there’s only Gigi. None of the other girls. And this time there’s no distortion. They’ve gotten better at communicating, or I’ve gotten better at receiving.

  She looks like she just came from school: a backpack is slung over one shoulder, open. She sniffs at the air, walks toward the far wall, then reaches out a hand and touches the wood paneling.

  “Gigi, are you down here?”

  I turn to find Mr. Grant looming in the basement doorway. The girls disappeared six years ago, but the man standing before me looks at least twenty years younger.

  “I told you not to hang out here anymore,” he says angrily.


  She sticks up her chin, defiant. “I was just—”

  “You were just nothing. When I tell you something, you listen.”

  “Sure, Dad,” she huffs, adjusting her backpack on her shoulder.

  Mr. Grant holds the door open for her and, after she steps through, plays with the broken lock. He shakes his head. “How could they be so careless?” he mutters.

  I’m shaking, partly from disgust and partly because the basement is freezing. I manage to stand and fold my arms around my torso, but the cold is penetrating. All the warmth has been banished from the room.

  I eye the corner where Gigi was examining the wall. There’s nothing there. No sign that anything happened. What did she see?

  I walk slowly to the wall and touch the icy wood panel. Mr. Grant had easy access to the basement, knew the lock was broken. How was he not caught? How could he kill four girls and not leave a trace? Where are the bodies?

  I have to get into Mr. Grant’s basement. Maybe he transferred the bodies there. If he did it during the day, when everyone was at work, he could have brought them through the side yard. How could he be sure no one would see him, though? And how did the cops not check? No, it’s doubtful he would take such a risk. So they must still be here.

  I feel around on the floor for a loose panel, but no luck. Next, I stomp around, listening for a hollow sound to indicate a trapdoor, or even just a hidey-hole. Nothing.

  I turn and kick something across the floor. I follow it and pick it up: Gigi’s small, sparkly wallet. All the memories, all the clues, and they still haven’t shown me what I need to see. Why can’t they just talk to me?

  There must be something wrong. Maybe they’re too weak.

  I hug the wallet to my chest and let out a shaky breath. “I’m so sorry that happened to you,” I whisper into the darkness.

  But she’s gone, finished with me for now.