***
The memory of her stood outside. The building on Eidolon sat in front of her. It was raining, the water racing through the cracks on the sidewalk.
She closed her eyes and bent her head back. She couldn’t feel the rain on her face. Couldn’t feel the chill of what she was sure was an endless dark. Her body felt light, the aches and pains she’d associated with life gone. She took a deep breath and then exhaled.
She opened her eyes.
The sky was a twisting, turning storm of black and grey. Clouds folding and dipping only to reach through their brethren and dive back again. It was monstrous. What evil would look like, she thought. But there were no swarming, fighting bodies. Thank god.
Her eyes caught the building.
She stopped.
Peabody squatted on the top. Impossibly large, he waited, his elbows out, his too large hands gripping the edges, his feet planted on the opposite corners on the back of the building. His body no longer thin and elegant, it was bloated and round. As if he’d feasted. A still hungry spider with a belly full of flies.
His head swiveled, searching the street below. Seeing her, he stopped.
In a breath, the feet had moved and the hands had reached, the round stomach sliding over the windows and scraping against the brick as he’d skittered down the building.
Now he paused in front of her. His mouth opened, the jaw popping wide, the rows of sharp, tiny teeth glinting yellow and red in the dark. With a belch, it opened wider, an avalanche of souls spilling forward to land on the avenue in a jumbled, twisting tumble of arms and legs and skulls cracking against pavement.
At once, they were on her. Teeth biting, elbows knocking, fingers gripping and fighting to tear and shred, Eidolon now a battlefield. A living nightmare of snapping bone and the wrenching of flesh against flesh. The constant crashing of waves. A howling of wind. A deep rumbling of earth.
Her knees bent, the weight of them forcing her down. And as the crowd covered her, she heard him. Her beloved Benji. Somewhere safe. Somewhere far from the fight, from the storm. Somewhere where elbows wouldn’t jab and jaws wouldn’t bite, Benji’s voice, though small and without hope, screaming
“NO . . . NO . . . NO . . . NO . . . ”
APARTMENT 1E
UMBRA
There was something living in the walls.
Still wearing her only black dress, a rose taken from the cemetery in one hand, her bright pink backpack in the other, she’d watched the stain in her new bedroom. Round and raised in the middle, like a bubble, it was different than the others.
And it was alive.
She’d known it the moment she’d walked in. Had felt it as she’d turned to put her backpack on the creaky bed. Had expected, when she first saw the stain two weeks ago, to see a face, two eyes, lips, a nose and cheeks and teeth, pushing from the wall.
But there’d only been a wide brown circle. A stain that wasn’t a stain. One that wasn’t long and dark like the others. One that hadn’t dripped from the ceiling to the floor. One that sat alone, removed from the others. Just like her.
“What kind of name is ‘Umbra?’” were the first words Gran had said when the big lady with the onion bagel breath first dropped her off. The State had decided this was where she had to be. With her dad as flat as a pancake under the car in the garage and her mom, after belting back her fifth Jack and Coke of the morning, shredding her throat by eating the glass, she’d had nowhere else to go.
“Worthless cunt never could hold her liquor,” Gran had said with a laugh.
Had she known there’d be a new home, a new school, new classes, and new kids, all making fun of the skinny girl with the boney knees who walked too slow and read too much, she wouldn’t have sorta accidentally wished her folks dead.
Which, by the way, she had huge questions about. Because everyone knew it would suck to not have a mom and a dad—even her mom and dad—so why would she do something like that? And could she even do something like that?
Because you know what? If she could do something like that, she definitely would have done things differently. If she could.
This was before the stain that wasn’t a stain. Before the police came. Before the ambulance with its flashing lights.
This was when she was little and dumb, before the State decided where she’d live.
The big lady had given her a nod and a push forward, her teeth clenched in a tight smile. So she’d trudged to her room as Gran had signed her name on the dotted line while she and the stranger from the State had whispered about “adult things.”
And in the safe quiet of her new room, in this stain that wasn’t a stain, she’d found a friend.
“So,” Onion Bagel Breath had said as she’d stood in the doorway, “everything okay?” She’d looked at the woman doing her best to ignore the stains, the dirt and dust, the peeling wallpaper and cracked window.
And she’d forgotten it all. Didn’t worry about the smell and the way the bed creaked. Or the thin mattress and scratchy blanket. Had no longer felt trapped by the low ceiling and the wind sneaking past the cracked window to lift the torn curtain. The stain that wasn’t a stain had helped her feel welcome. Safe and secure. Protected. No longer alone.
“Yeah,” she’d said to the woman who’d already left. “It’s okay.”
But before that, before dad getting smooshed and mom freaking out and the big lady from the State, before the funeral and all those super-simple cheese sandwiches with Gran, before the beginning of the end on Eidolon, there was Miranda Jacobs.
***
“You gonna cry, baby?” The little girl kicked her in the shin. “Huh? Gonna cry for us, baby?”
Umbra stood with her arms crossed over her chest, her head ducked. She could hear the silence all around her. No one was playing on the monkey bars or throwing the ball against the wall. No one was running or chasing or play fighting. Although she wouldn’t look, although she refused to look, she could feel everyone looking at her. Watching her.
“Huh?” A mean push, Miranda’s friends laughing as they stood behind her. “What’s that? Can’t talk, baby?”
Umbra bit her lip and shook her head.
A second kick to the shin. “Don’t know the words?”
Slap, slap, push, slap, punch.
Kick.
She felt her face grow hot and her eyes water with tears. Her neck and cheeks turned red. She prayed the bell would ring soon. She prayed recess would end and everyone would have to stop looking and she could get back to her desk and her books and her very sharp pencils. She was tired of her shins bruising and her chest feeling tight. She was tired of gritting her teeth and clenching her fists. She was tired of living with a target on her back. At home. At school. Always the one kicked or poked or pushed or slapped or smacked or yelled at or punched.
And she was tired of praying.
Another kick. Another push.
She prayed Miranda would stop. That she would stop and shut up and just die and leave her alone. Just leave her alone so she could escape to the library. In her heart of hearts, she prayed that this mean girl would hurt. Hurt like she was hurting. That her throat would close and her heart would swell and blood would explode in her chest and rush through her body and gush out her eyes and nose and ears and mouth. That there’d be so much blood she’d shut up and go away and leave her—
A moment later, the screaming began.
“Are you sure you didn’t do anything?” Miss Hessler leaned in close, her elbows on the table. “Anything at all? Think!”
She was thinking and she knew that if she put her elbows on the table her teacher Mr. Peters would yell at her. But obviously if you were an adult you could do anything you wanted.
“Umbra? Sweetie?” The woman waited, her fingers squeezed together so tight the skin was turning white.
She was doing her best to listen to the principal sitting on the other side of the big desk. She really was. But the woman looked tired. Her hair was brown with bits
of silver peeking through. Her eyes were heavy and had dark, puffy circles under them. Her face was pale, the pink blush on her cheeks and the red smeared on her lips reminding her of those clowns she’d sometimes see in her books. The creepy ones. Even the sweater with the thread coming loose around the neck and the dried ketchup stain on the sleeve looked tired and old and finished. “I told you I didn’t do anything,” she said.
“Now, Umbra—”
“I was the one getting kicked. I was the one getting pushed. And punched. I told Mr. Peters and he told me to ignore it. And I did. I ignored it. And I didn’t do anything!”
Miss Hessler sighed and closed her eyes, her fingers rising to massage her temples.
“But it was the truth,” she said later that night as she sat in front of the stain that wasn’t a stain. “Like I meant for all that blood to come out? Like I somehow meant for Mean Miranda to stand there like an idiot as it shot from her mouth and her nose and her ears and her eyes and everything? I just wanted her to shut up and leave me alone. That’s all.” She stood and faced it. “I was just as shocked as everyone. Honest!”
She sighed. She’d rather be sitting in front of it, but it was too high to see clearly from the floor. She’d wanted to bring one of the kitchen chairs into the room so she could look at it face to face, but Gran wouldn’t let her. Especially after she explained why.
“What on earth do you mean ‘Can walls talk?’” Gran had said as she’d dragged her eyes away from the TV. “What kind of question is that? Of course they can’t talk!” The old woman smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. It made Umbra feel stupid and small. Like a baby.
“I just want to read to it,” she’d said.
“Why on earth-” Gran had laughed, the sound sticking in her throat. The laugh becoming a cackle and then a cough, her skeleton fingers dragging a crumpled wad of tissue from her sleeve as the green spittle sprayed from her lips to land on her chin. “Dumb as shit and crazy as a loon.” And then she’d laughed some more.
She’d slunk back to her room.
“You can talk, though.” Umbra stood and pushed close to the stain. “I know you can. All I have to do is listen. And read you books. So you can learn words. And I’ll tell you about me. Whatever you want to know.” She placed her hands on the brown circle, her fingers feeling the slight bubble in the middle. “Then you’ll talk. I know you will.”
She sighed. Her head hurt and her eyes were sleepy and her shoulders felt tight. She’d walk to bed, but her legs were heavy and, right now, it felt like too much work. She just wanted to stay with her friend. She swallowed a yawn and looked over at the digital clock. The one that clicked when the minutes changed.
It was late. Too late. She had school in the morning and she should be in bed. “I hate school.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “And I hate Gran. She smells weird. She smells old.” She closed her eyes really tight. She didn’t want to cry. “I miss Mom and Dad, even though they were horrible sometimes. Even though they yelled. And slapped and punched and kicked me. Like Miranda. But I miss them. I do.” She fought back another yawn. “Except Mean Miss Miranda. I don’t miss her. Not even one little bit.”
She pulled close. “And I like you, I do, but I don’t like it here. If I knew they’d put me here, I don’t think—” She stopped. “I would have been more careful with my wishes.”
She leaned her forehead against the wall. “Because you know what?” She pressed her lips to the stain. “Because I wanted them to die. I know it sounds awful. I do. But I did. And Miranda, too.” Her heart thumping, she took a deep breath. “I just closed my eyes and really hoped they would go away and die and they did. I did that. With my head. With my prayers. Maybe even with Jesus.” She stopped. “Is that wrong?”
She rested her cheek against the stain. “I’m afraid I might be bad.” And even though she was tired and didn’t want to, even though no one was around and no one cared, she cried, her tears smearing the circle of brown.
This was when the stain responded. This was when the bubble grew and the edges spread, the circle larger. As if it had felt her sadness. Had heard her. Liked her stories. Or fed on her guilt. Or enjoyed the fact that she had secrets like it did. Dangerous secrets. Wrong secrets. Or was happy that she wished for death and that her wishes had power.
“I just wish I knew you.” She wiped the tears from her cheek and, her hand wet, laid her palm flat over the breathing bubble clinging to the wall. “Like, really knew you. Will you tell me who you are?”
The stain deflated. The breathing stopping. Whatever had come to life suddenly went quiet. The brown circle on the wall went back to being nothing but a brown circle.
“I’m sorry.” She stepped away. Watched it. Hoped it’d do something. Anything. “Someday you’ll tell me. Someday you’ll show me.” She turned and crawled into bed, pulling the thin blanket up to her chin. “I hope so.”
And, alone and friendless once again, she fell into a quick sleep.
***
The room dark, her eyes on the TV, Umbra took a bite of her cheese sandwich. Gran was ignoring her. Still. She’d tried to talk about her day, but Gran wouldn’t respond. It was like she didn’t even exist. If she’d ever wondered what it was like to be a ghost, now she knew.
She didn’t like it.
The old woman coughed, her fingers diving into her sleeve to get the balled up tissue and hold it to her lips. A minute later, the coughing stopped, the wheezing grew quiet, and Gran went back to staring at a TV that stayed forever mute.
Umbra focused on her sandwich, chewing quietly. Tonight Gran’s coughing and wheezing and sniffling seemed worse than usual. And, from what she could catch, Gran had been “healthy as a bleedin’ horse” before moving to the one bedroom on Eidolon. But now she was very skinny and very pale and her skin was covered with red circles of icky, flakey skin that sometimes bled if she moved her arms or stretched her legs to go to the toilet. The thin hair on her head had turned snow white and her breath wheezed sometimes, especially after she coughed. Which she did. A lot.
Dressed in the same old housecoat—faded flowers stained with soup and spit and sick and blood—she sat in the same chair all day every day, the TV always on and always on mute. No longer saw her friends for whatever the messages on the answering machine invited her to do.
“Carol? It’s Joan,” the lady in the voicemail had said. “Are you okay, hon? Betty, Ruth and I are looking for a fourth for bridge this Friday. We’d love to see you. Call me, okay? Okay.” But Gran never did. She just sat in front of the TV, her bowl of soup sitting ignored beside her. The used tissue balled in her fist or pressed to her mouth as she coughed and wheezed and gasped.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Gran looked at her. Her eyes were small and dark. And her lips were curled. Almost like she was trying not to laugh. Or like she was just waiting for the moment to say something cruel.
“I dunno.” She shrugged and, feeling small and stupid for the millionth time, wanted to hide. But she was curious, again, so she’d asked if walls could talk. Again. “Why wouldn’t they?”
“Walls would have to know words. You think walls know words?” Gran said. “Of course they don’t. And how in the goddamn hell is a wall supposed to speak if it doesn’t know words. Or have a mouth. Or a soul.” She dragged the tissue across her runny nose, her lips in a sneer. “Of all the idiotic, worthless, stupid things to say . . . ” And then she laughed as Umbra sat quiet.
“It’s okay,” she said, swallowing the last bite of cheese and bread. “I was just asking. That’s all.”
More laughter as Gran pressed the crumpled tissue to her lips. “That’s all?”
She shrugged. “It’s just sometimes I feel—”
“You feel?” Gran struggled to catch her breath. “Oh, just shut the hell up. The last thing I want to hearabout is how you feel. Goddamn, girl, you always were an odd one.” She drew her housecoat in, wrapping her arms around her chest and hugging tight, her hands rubbing her arms. “Just .
. . strange. The way you sat there, in your crib, staring at the ceiling. Or stood in the front yard looking at the house. Like there was something there to see when it was only a goddamn ordinary piece of shit rental. But you kept looking as if it was something other than a house.” Gran shook her head. “Stone cold weirdo. That’s what I told your mother, the stupid bitch, and that’s what you were. What you still are.” She sighed and looked over at her. “The way you stared. Holy hell. At me, at what’s her name, your mother. Even your father. That’s what made me sit up and take notice. It was like you were looking into us. Not at us. Into us. Mother of god, that made my skin crawl.”
Gran leaned forward and grabbed the remote, changing the channel, though the TV stayed quiet. “That’s one of the reasons, hell, that was the main reason, truth be told, I never came over. That and your mother, of course. But the both of you? Together?” She shivered. “Holy Christ. Gave me the goddamn heebie-jeebies. How your father put up with you, god only knows.” Her eyes stayed on the TV. The room was quiet. Too quiet. A long moment passed as Umbra sat, wondering if Gran was finished being mean.
“You don’t remember do you?” Gran cleared her throat.
“Remember what?” She sat, her cheeks flushing red. She thought of thinking about considering different ways to get this mean old woman, this bitch, as Mom used to call her, out of her life. And then, not wanting Onion Bagel Breath to move her around again, decided it’d be best to do nothing. “I dunno—”
A cruel laugh from Gran as her hand rummaged in the cushion of the chair. “Of course you dunno, dumb as shit Umbra. You dunno anything.” A fistfull of new tissue in hand, she wiped her chin and her top lip as her breathing steadied. “You were, what, three, maybe four? Still shitting in a diaper, for Christ’s sake. Took forever for your mom to fix that little problem, but there you were, sitting in shit, out in the front yard playin’ in the dirt. Remember?” Gran looked at her. Her eyes grew small as she watched her. “Hmmm?”
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