The Box in The Cuts: A Supernatural Mystery

by Debra Castaneda

  The Box in The Cuts

  A Supernatural Mystery

  Debra Castaneda

  Copyright © 2020 Debra Castaneda

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  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.

  ISBN: 978-1-7353420-0-9

  Cover design by: James, GoOnWrite.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Author's note

  About The Author

  Chapter 1

  With so many ways to die—school shootings, car crashes, suicide—how does it make sense that two seventeen-year-old girls can burn like human torches? No sense at all. No witnesses, no cameras to catch the moment, no evidence left behind to explain what killed them.

  We're all scared. All us girls living in the small Northern California town of Hillside, waiting for what comes next after graduation. The “victims”—as the police call them—went to private schools. Victim number one, Emily, and victim number two, Nicole, didn’t know each other, also according to the police. I was friends with Nicole in elementary school.

  Dread is my companion. It's there when I shower or walk to class. It's there when I check my phone for the millionth time. It's still there when I finally turn out the light and close my eyes.

  And that's when things get bad. Really bad. That's when I can visualize every single, disturbing detail from every news story I can find. How Emily Miller was found on the bathroom floor at home, a big pile of gritty ash and a single arm.

  But it's what happened to Nicole DeSilva that makes me feel like tiny fish are nibbling at my intestines. She's nothing but two legs poking out of a mound of ash on the couch where she'd sat watching TV. In the family room where we used to play. But that couch. It was pretty much fine except for the scorched part.

  None of this makes sense. Not to me. Not to any of the experts working on the cases.

  It’s the last class of the day and I should be paying attention because we have a test coming up. Instead, I’m reading another story about the deaths on my laptop. Suddenly, cell phones begin vibrating on desks, in backpacks and pockets.

  “Oh my god,” the girl next to me says.

  Phones are held out, passed around, so we can all see the texts coming in from other parts of the school.

  Something happening in Building C

  Someone screaming

  Buskin yelling at everyone to get out

  Body found. WTF is going on

  Mr. Hertz reads a message on his phone, then runs to the door and locks it. Then he sprints to the windows and yanks down the blinds. A few students leap up to help him.

  I text my friend Chloe Yang. She should be in class in Building B. But nothing. No answer. Everyone, for once, is quiet. There's no need for Mr. Hertz to remind us to shut up. Foreheads scrunched. Shoulders up, tense. Is it a shooter? There are no closets in our classroom. There's nowhere to hide if we need to. The room suddenly feels hot and my mind is racing, trying to anticipate what’s going to happen next.

  Phones go crazy again. More text messages.

  Police here

  Yellow tape going up

  And then we hear it. Not the terrifying sound of gunfire, but the whine of a fire truck in the distance. Two fire trucks. More. And then they rumble up, but we can't see them because the blinds are closed. Mr. Hertz peeks out the window. When he turns to us, he shrugs, shakes his head.

  Finally, an announcement comes over the speaker. It's principal George Buskin. Also called Puskin, Nutskin and other names. He just started last year, but already everyone hates him.

  Buskin has an annoying whiny voice. “Students, there's been an incident on campus and the authorities have been called. Building C and the immediate area around it are off-limits. As such, we will have an early dismissal. Students, please collect your things and leave the campus.”

  That's it. That's all he says, which is typical Buskin. And because he hasn't said much, everyone's left to fill in the blanks.

  We burst out of class. It's like a scene from a disaster movie. Students stampede down the hall. A girl slips on something, grabs my arm, and nearly pulls me down, but I manage to yank her up and stay on my feet.

  There's pushing and shoving as everyone heads for Building C. We don't get far. Police officers with serious stare-ahead eyes are standing in front of yellow tape at the end of Building B. There's nothing much to see.

  “What's happening?” a skinny tall guy says. I can't remember his name, but he's on the student council and likes making speeches.

  I shrug. “I have no idea.”

  “Why not?” he asks. “Aren't you the school reporter?”

  “Co-editor,” I correct him.

  “Don’t you think you should go over there and find out what's going on?” he says impatiently.

  I ignore him and push through the crowd and walk up to the closest officer, a short bald guy who looks tired and grouchy. “Excuse me, officer. My name is Samantha Reyes. Senior. I'm co-editor of The Clarion newspaper. Can you please tell me what's going on?”

  The policeman raises his eyebrows. “Do you have a press pass, young lady?”

  My heart sinks. “No. But whatever is going on, I think the students have the right to know and-”

  “And I think you can stop right there and turn around,” he says.

  “But officer…” I begin to protest.

  His expression softens. Just a bit. He leans toward me and says, “Look. I couldn’t talk to you even if you had a press pass. The public information officer is the only one who’s authorized to talk to the media, and she’s not here yet.”

  “Can you at least confirm that a body has been found? An accident, maybe?”

  He crosses his arms in front of his chest. “No. No, I cannot do that. Now young lady, I think we’re done here. If you can go back and stand behind the yellow tape, I’d appreciate it.” I stare at him for a second. His expr
ession is clear. He’s not about to change his mind.

  I nudge my way back through the crowd in the general direction of the parking lot. Our high school is built into a steep hill. Steps everywhere. Someone probably fell. Maybe one of the old teachers had a heart attack. No reason to believe another girl has died. Not at school. Both Emily and Nicole died at home.

  I'm digging out my car keys when Chloe messages our little group of four. Friends since elementary school. We act like nothing has changed, but we can all feel it, even if we're not talking about it. Our tight little knot is loosening, beginning to fray around the edges, expecting to head off in different directions after graduation. It's like we're practicing for a future where we're not the biggest things in each other's lives, something that would have been unthinkable in freshman year. Chloe was the first to pull back. And now this.

  U have to see this. Meet me at The Cuts. Now.

  Chapter 2

  I reverse course and make my way through a crowded, noisy hall where I run into Madison Olson and Destiny Lawrence.

  “What's going on?” Madison asks me. Even with my boots on, she's much taller.

  “No clue,” I say.

  “This is weird. For Chloe,” Destiny says. And it is. It's not like her. I can feel the panic set in. A rush of adrenalin.

  We run. We crash out at the back of the school where The Cuts greet us. Back when the big campus seemed as unfriendly as an alien landscape, we'd hide out there.

  It's a place for the punky freshmen, the edgy sophomores. There are as many cigarette butts as pine needles on the uneven ground in The Cuts, a wooded area that connects to the dirt paths used by kids who live on the west side.

  Once, The Cuts seemed magical. But now it's smaller, dimmer, and dirtier than I remember. We don’t belong anymore, but we don't care. We need it so we're taking it back. About a dozen kids are sitting around, cross legged. They're dressed like they're trying out for a part in a punk rock musical.

  Madison orders them to leave. They scramble to their feet and stare, their mouths dropping open. It's as close to an Amazon Viking Warrior woman as they'll ever get.

  Madison is six foot one with light brown hair that's sometimes short, sometimes just above her shoulder. But she's grown it out, and she's standing there with her hands on her hips and a badass high ponytail that streams down her back. She's also started experimenting with some electric blue eyeliner which gives her a fierce look.

  “Now!” she says. And they clear out. Fast. “And next time, clean this place up. It's a shithole,” she calls after them.

  Then we all turn to Chloe, who's sitting on a log, with her head between her knees. Destiny crouches beside her and pats her back. “You okay?”

  Chloe shakes her head and holds out her phone. Her long black hair hides her face. Madison is about to snatch the phone when Chloe says in a muffled voice, “No. Sam first.”

  Madison glances at me and shrugs. I take a deep breath and take the phone from Chloe's hand, which I notice is trembling.

  “Shit, Chloe. What’s on here?”

  “Just look,” she says, lifting her head. Her face is puffy from crying, but she still manages to look beautiful. She has a perfect oval face and a flawless complexion. A complex, creative girl with movie star looks. It makes things that much more complicated for people just getting to know her, especially guys.

  I tap at her phone, see the photo. It's suddenly hard to breathe. My head feels like an eggbeater is in there, scrambling my thoughts. There's a weird tingling in my chest.

  If I didn't already know what happened to Emily Miller and Nicole DeSilva, my mind probably wouldn't be able to make sense of the picture. A bathroom stall door open, dangling off its hinge. A blackened mess on the tile floor. On that pile two jeans-covered legs stick out with white Vans Classic Slip-Ons pointed up at the ceiling. And even though there's not much left of whoever it is I'm staring at, it's a girl. I know it is.

  There's only the one picture and I've seen enough. I forward the photo to myself, then hand Chloe's phone to Madison, who takes a quick look, swallows, and then shows it to Destiny, who claps a hand over her mouth.

  “How'd you get that?” I ask Chloe. My phone feels contaminated with that photo on it. I shove the phone in a side pocket of my backpack.

  “I was walking into the bathroom when Mrs. Sandoval, the math teacher we had in freshman year, came running out. She was screaming. Really screaming. It's like she didn't even notice me. So, I went in to see what was going on. I didn't expect that.”

  No. No one could. Emily and Nicole had died at home, alone, not at school in the middle of the day.

  “Does anyone know you took the picture?” I ask.

  Chloe shakes her head. “Just you guys. What should we do with it? Give it to the police?”

  This isn't something I even need to think about. Before Madison or Destiny can open their mouths, I say, “No. Absolutely not. They'll take their own pictures. But now we know what really happened in that bathroom.”

  Chloe raises her eyebrows. “You don't think they're going to tell us the truth?”

  Madison sinks down on a log across from Chloe and snorts at this. “Yeah, right. Not if Puskin can help it.”

  She's not wrong. George Buskin is all about protecting his reputation and the reputation of the school. But this is news. Big news. And even Buskin can't control that.

  I join Madison on the log. It's the same one we used to sit on, experimenting with cigarettes and taking sips of throat-scorching Scotch Madison sneaked from home. The combination made us throw up, and just the smell of smoky liquor makes me gag to this day.

  “Well, the police are in charge,” I say. “Not Buskin. Not with something like this, anyway. I don't know. I just think we should keep this to ourselves.” The girls nod. All three of them. I'm relieved, but I'm not sure why.

  “There's something else,” Chloe says.

  “What?” Destiny asks. Like she's afraid of the answer.

  Chloe throws back her head and blinks a few times before answering. “I don't know. It's going to sound crazy, but when I was in there, in the bathroom, I can swear I wasn't alone. It was the weirdest feeling.”

  Destiny gasps. “Who else could be there?”

  Chloe sniffs. “I’m not sure. I was standing there, trying to take the picture, but it was hard. My hands were shaking. But it was more than just being in the same room with…” She hesitates. “With the body. Something was in there. Something hateful.”

  When I glance over at Madison, she’s staring at Chloe, frowning, doubt written all over her face.

  My attention quickly shifts to Destiny. She jumps to her feet. “Something?” she nearly shouts. “What’s that supposed to mean?” The sudden noise startles a bird in a tree. It cheeps and flies away.

  Now it’s Chloe’s turn to frown. “It’s true. I felt something. Like a presence. You can believe me or not. I don’t care.”

  The color drains from Destiny’s face. For a moment, I think she’s going to faint. She seems just as upset as Chloe, who discovered the body. Madison glances at me uneasily. All of this is beginning to sound unbelievably strange.

  I try asking Chloe a few questions of my own, but that’s all she would say out there in The Cuts.

  Chapter 3

  Chloe’s talk of a presence in the bathroom when she saw the burned body is all I can think of as I sit waiting for a press conference to begin. The thing is, I believe her. And I know that Destiny does, too.

  Having seen the picture that Chloe took makes it hard to think straight. I’ve been debating whether to tell my co-editor Alfie Marquez. It’s almost seven o’clock now and I still haven’t said anything.

  We’re sitting at the back of a City Hall meeting room, waiting for the police chief to make an announcement. He’s already released a short statement that a body had been found, but that’s all. Except I already know what happened to whoever it was in the school bathroom. I can’t bring myself to tell Alfie. I c
an’t handle his reaction. It’s possible he’ll want to publish the photo. A big exclusive. I keep my mouth shut.

  Nearly every seat is taken. All the San Francisco TV stations are there. So are the newspaper and radio reporters.

  We're at the back because Alfie spotted Principal Buskin in the front row when we walked in.

  Our principal is not a true believer in the free press. At least, not when it comes to the school paper. If he had his way, we'd only write about stuff that makes him look good. Two legs sticking out of a pile of ash on the cold, hard floor of a school bathroom isn't one of those things.

  I'm worried if he spots us, he'll make us leave. Or order us not to write anything about the press conference. Alfie is glaring at the back of Buskin's zucchini-shaped head. Like he's willing him to turn around. I sink lower into my seat.

  I still have on my jeans, striped sweater and boots that I wore to school. Alfie, on the other hand, went home to shower and change. White shirt open at the collar. Black pants, a bright blue jacket I'd never seen before. Designer, probably. Vanessa Marquez has no problem buying the good stuff for her only son.

  Alfie's wavy brown hair gives him a bit of a wild look. Women, even a few of the older ones, turn around to get a better look at him. Alfie pretends not to notice, so I jab him in the ribs. He shrugs. He's used to getting a lot of attention.

  I am immune to Alfie's hotness. That's what happens when you're exposed to someone too long. Our mothers are best friends, co-owners of a hair salon. When we were babies, they pushed us around in a double stroller. And this year, we are co-editors of The Clarion.

  While we wait for the press conference to start, I do a search on my phone for the latest news stories about the burning deaths in Hillside. I scroll past a dozen headlines, which I've already seen. But way, way down, something catches my eye.

  “Baffling deaths of teen girls in a small California town. A case for spontaneous human combustion?”

  I click on the link. It's one of those cheesy tabloids, the kind with boobs, baby bumps and celebs. But the story has pictures of Emily and Nicole and an aerial shot of Hillside. The post is just a few hours old.