by Frazer Lee
* * *
Breathlessly, she opened the door. It was dark inside. Too dark to see properly.
“Lena?”
Victoria took a couple of tentative steps into the storeroom and heard glass crunch beneath the sole of her shoe.
Not good.
Turning around, Victoria felt along the wall beside the doorframe in search of the light switch. She found it and clicked the light on. Turning back to the room, Victoria let out a strangled cry at what she saw illuminated there.
The floor was awash with dark blood. The storeroom looked more like some nightmarish abattoir. Victoria’s eyes followed the pool of blood to where Lena sat, slumped at the foot of the open med cabinet. She was bleeding out. Jesus, she must have lost liters of the stuff. Syringes littered the floor around Lena’s still body. One still dangled from Lena’s forearm, and Victoria gagged as she took in the carnage that had been visited upon poor Lena’s body. Her arms, her wrists, had been torn to ribbons. It was as though someone—
Lena? No it couldn’t be Lena, no one would do that to herself. Least of all her. She’s tougher than that. Was tougher….
—had been trying to dig something out of Lena’s flesh. Victoria threw up, and she had to grab on to a nearby shelf to stop herself from collapsing in sickness and fear.
She backed, trembling and sobbing, out of the room.
Then, Victoria felt a cool breeze on the back of her neck. She put her hand there. Her hand turned cold, too. Victoria looked down and saw a dark shadow looming all around her. She turned on her heels and saw the girl—
The gray girl!
—standing just a breath away. Her features were indistinct, but Victoria knew it wasn’t Emily. This was something else. Something inhuman. As though hearing her thoughts, the girl reached for her and Victoria saw how emaciated the girl’s fingers looked. Her fingernails were lined with dirt. Like she had crawled out from the grave. As that bony hand reached for her, Victoria screamed. She swatted in terror at the hand and ran away, in fear for her life.
Victoria didn’t stop running until she reached another door, and only then slowed her pace to pass through. It was the sliding door of the refectory. As Victoria slid it shut behind her, she glimpsed the darkly distant figure of the gray girl in the corridor. She was following her.
Victoria hit the light switches and then looked for a latch on the door—
If only I’d grabbed those goddamn keys!
—but there wasn’t one. She glanced frantically around the refectory, her heart beating in time with the flickering of one of the strip lights. All the furniture was bolted to the floor; no way that she could barricade the door. Feeling queasy from fear, Victoria pushed on between the dining tables, and to the back of the room. There was the door to the kitchen. Victoria prayed to gods she didn’t really believe in that the fucker wasn’t locked.
Hallelujah, Amen.
It was unlocked, and she didn’t waste any time ducking inside. The only light in the kitchen came from an emergency exit lamp above a door, its eerie green glow doing nothing to calm Victoria’s frayed nerves.
She dashed to the emergency exit door and slammed both her hands against the metal door release. Then she realized her mistake. The door was chained and padlocked shut from the inside. She would have to confront the girl in the refectory, or find somewhere to hide. But Victoria couldn’t face going back out there. She was too afraid that those claw-like hands might latch on to her.
Mind made up, she skirted around the kitchen’s work surfaces. There were some larger storage bins and cupboards closer to the ovens. Victoria dropped to her haunches and opened one of the cupboards. She might be able to fit inside. Anything other than facing the apparition that had been following her since she’d found Lena’s bleeding body. Anything to avoid a similar fate at those cold, dead hands.
There was a flicker, followed by a flash. Victoria thought it might be a lightning storm – and then she remembered that the kitchen was windowless. The flickering continued, along with the tink-tink sound of the fluorescent lighting tubes overhead, and she realized that someone had turned the light on in the kitchen. She listened intently and heard the faint creak of the door as it closed. She was still facing the kitchen cupboard.
Tink-tink.
Her heart had almost stopped beating in her chest, she was so terrified. Too frightened now even to look, Victoria clamped her eyes shut. She felt warm tears spill down her cheeks. Heard a distant whimper, and then realized it was her own voice. She could feel that chill in the air again, could feel it penetrating her skin. She knew what was coming, and every second was loaded with dread as it passed.
Tink-tink. Buzz.
The specter took its time.
Cold fingers brushed Victoria’s cheek and she screamed. She felt those fingers wrap around her face, on either side. Her scream sputtered and died in her throat as she felt her head being twisted around.
And Victoria opened her eyes.
* * *
She sat up in bed, all pink pastel and plush throw cushions.
She looked around at all her gender-stereotyped belongings, neatly laid out on cerise shelves. The little alarm clock, also pink, told her it was still nighttime. Just before one a.m.
A pervasive, unpleasant smell made her nose wrinkle.
Confused by the strange odor, and feeling half-asleep, she walked over to where her robe was hanging. Her toes thudded against something heavy and soft on the carpeted floor. Strange. Why was her dad sleeping facedown on her floor like that? Weirdly, her gymnastics trophy lay on the floor too, by his side. She course-corrected and walked around his ever-so-still body, so as not to wake him.
Victoria took her robe down from the little plastic hook on the back of the door. She clambered into her robe. Following the hissing sound, she drifted out of the room.
Holding on to the handrail because she was feeling so woozy, Victoria yawned her way downstairs and headed for the kitchen. She passed the line of framed photo portraits on the wall. A half-dozen versions of herself, pictured through the years from chubby-cheeked kid to young adult. Smiling. But not really smiling.
Victoria’s throat was dry and she needed a glass of cool water. She entered the kitchen. The lights had been left on, their reflections gleaming off the polished tile floor. Squeaky clean, just how Mom liked it. But instead of the quiet of the hour, Victoria could hear an intense hissing sound. As she moved into the domestic space, she saw her mother sitting on a breakfast stool. Her upper body lay slumped across the kitchen island, with a near-empty liquor bottle next to her. She appeared to be unconscious.
Victoria yawned, and a bad taste clung to the back of her throat. She really did need that glass of water. Strange, she thought she had walked to the kitchen sink, and yet here she was, over by the cooking range. Her limbs were so very heavy, and she felt so tired all of a sudden. Victoria felt something cold and hard in her hand and looked down to see she had turned one of the gas dials. Matter of fact, they were all open. The hissing sound intensified, along with the toxic levels of dryness clutching at her throat.
She approached the kitchen island and reached out a leaden hand in the direction of her mother. All the while the hissing grew louder and louder. She was standing right next to her mom now. Feeling lightheaded, Victoria sat down beside her. She touched her mom’s shoulder. But her mom did not react. Victoria pulled her mother’s shoulder back, gently but firmly. Her mom’s head lolled over to one side. Yellow streaks of vomit glistened on her exposed cheek. Her eyes were fixed open in a sightless gaze.
All that Victoria could hear was the hissing.
Victoria stood up, walked from the kitchen to the back door, and out onto the rear porch. She heard the wooden gate bang shut behind her, though she didn’t remember even passing through it. She was halfway across the front lawn when the blast knocked her from her feet and onto
her face. She tasted dirt and her nose felt numb from the impact. A sharper taste than that of the soil invaded her senses. Her nose was bleeding into her mouth. She liked the taste. Savored it.
Victoria rolled over onto her back, which felt oddly numb. She wondered if the skin had been burned away from her back. It certainly smelled as though it had. Meat residue blackening on a summer barbeque. She lay there, propped up on her elbows like a sunbather, and watched the house go up in a massively glorious ball of flame. The gas explosion rocked the earth beneath her and she laughed. She thought of the line of photographs at the foot of the stairs. Pictured them peeling and disintegrating in the heat and the flames. All those past versions of her, gone forever.
She watched the house burn until her eyes stung. And then she watched it some more. When the smoke finally made her blink, she felt tears at the corners of her eyes. She wondered if her father was still conscious even as his body burned, facedown on the floor of the bedroom in which he had hurt her, so many times. She hoped so. Her mom was already dead before the gas ignited, which seemed apt somehow. Mom had lived her life in ignorance, always looking the other way. Never listening to what Victoria had so desperately tried to tell her. Not a care to notice the warning signs. Her last voyage to the bottom of a liquor bottle had taken her down, long before her cremation.
As the heat from the fire began to dry the tears on Victoria’s face, she realized without doubt that they were tears of joy.
She blinked, and then opened her eyes.
The house had gone, the blaze replaced by a halo of light from the reformatory kitchen overheads. Cold breath cooled her face and her eyes filled with abject terror at the sight of the gray girl’s fathomless, empty eyes staring into her own.
Chapter Nineteen
Is This Hell?
I keep on moving so that the shadows can’t gain on me.
At every turn, I hear an echo of that awful sound, repeatedly in my head.
Thunk, thunk, thunk.
I try to put Annie’s dead face from my mind. Try not to linger on the way her lips had already turned pale blue by the time I’d found her, hanging from the dead tree in the recreation yard. I try to ignore the gray phantom that must have tormented her in her last moments.
But I can’t.
Why aren’t my ears ringing? I wonder if they ever will again, after all that I’ve witnessed during this night. I wish I could retreat, instead of running. I crave the numbness, now, in a way that I never have before. Floating out of body and out of time would be just the thing, please and thank you. But in truth, my senses feel sharper than ever. I’m aware of every breath I take, and each footfall I make as I rush down the corridor.
I find the door to the medical store wide open. Blood covers the floor. Lena’s body is slicked red with blood. Jesus, there are so many needles everywhere. What the hell happened in here?
She happened.
The thought arrives with such stark clarity that I whirl around to see if someone has whispered it into my ear. But I’m alone on the threshold to poor, dead Lena and so much blood. I don’t want to go inside. Don’t want to tread in all that blood. I feel as though it would be the wrong thing to do. The blood still belongs to Lena, and to Lena alone.
I back away from all of the broken glass, all of the horror and death inside that depressing little storeroom, thinking what a waste of a young life, and how Lena was the last of us I’d have expected to die here at Greyfriars Reformatory. The clever way she got us all out of the locked dormitory – that was neat. We’d still be locked inside and arguing about how we were going to escape if not for her. The way she kept watch each night, by the dormitory door, makes me think she wasn’t looking out for Saffy, or for herself. Rather, I think she was looking out for all of us. For whatever reason, I believe she saw herself as a protector. Sure, she was happy to have Saffy be the alpha, probably because Lena wouldn’t be interested in that self-aggrandizing nonsense. Lena was always there, only speaking when she needed to. She was tough as nails, she was resilient, she kicked ass.
And now she’s dead.
I’m nowhere near as resourceful as Lena was. Her survival skills would have made her a useful ally. My best shot at surviving the wilderness outside the reformatory. But she’s gone, and I’m on my own now.
Then I notice the bloody footsteps leading away from the medical storeroom, and begin to figure that Victoria must have come here first. She must have been looking for Lena’s help too. I’m already walking, and following the blood trail before I even realize it.
The bloody footprints become an expressionistic flourish as I follow them around the corner into another corridor. Victoria must have slipped as she navigated the corner. Must have been going at quite a pace, and I bet I know who, or what, she was running from.
The corridor darkens as I walk further. There are no lights on in this part of the building. Not sure exactly where I am now because I’m feeling a little light-headed all of a sudden. Not in my usual way. This is something else. There’s a sick feeling in the depths of my stomach that makes me swallow. I keep walking and become aware of a noxious smell in the air. Is that what’s making me feel unwell, I wonder?
I see the familiar door to the refectory and get my bearings. The door is halfway open. From inside, a light flickers. The smell is strong now, and unmistakably gas. I take what breath I can before I reach the door and go inside. The light flickers madly overhead – a malfunctioning starter lamp in one of the overhead lights – and the potentially deadly combination of toxic gas and erratic electricity sets my teeth on edge. I find my way between the refectory tables and a memory of my fight with Victoria comes back to me. It strikes me that we were both focused on the wrong fight. Instead of battling each other, we should have been finding ways to team up. Stronger together, not apart.
I push on toward the kitchen door and I know I’m going to have to breathe soon. But not yet. I clamp my arm over my mouth and nose and kick the swinging door into the kitchen open. A loud hissing alerts me to the fact that the stove gas switches are all open.
Victoria is on the floor, a crumpled mess at the foot of a stainless-steel storage unit.
I move in her direction as fast as I can. A shadow spreads and sweeps across the wall to the left of me. I don’t stop to look. I hear a metallic clang as a pan or some other utensil falls to the floor somewhere behind me. Again, I don’t hesitate. Eyes on the prize. Stronger together. Not apart. Holding my breath, which wants to burst free from my agonized lungs, I quickly close each of the gas switches.
I stoop and curl my free arm under Victoria’s upper body. I try to lift her and have to remove my other arm from in front of my face because she’s a deadweight. Clutching her tightly with both arms, I pull her up from the floor. Her head lolls forward, chin balancing on her chest, and I wonder if she’s dead already.
I can’t hold my breath any longer. I have to breathe. I open my mouth and gasp.
The putrid stench of the gas is overpowering.
I hold on to Victoria and drag her limp body backward through the kitchen. Her heels drag across the hard floor surface, making it harder for me to move her. My head is swimming now from the effort of dragging her, and from breathing in so much gas. I have to take another breath and this one nearly finishes me. I tumble back through the swinging door and into the refectory. I lose my footing and slam down hard on my ass. Victoria’s dead weight topples on top of me. I cry out at the pain and feel Victoria moving on top of my legs.
She’s alive.
“Victoria?” I rasp, my throat burning as I speak her name.
She replies with a groan. It’s not much, but it’s the most human sound I’ve heard for what feels like a long while. It urges me on somehow, encourages me to double my efforts.
“Can you walk?” I ask.
She grunts, and then nods, as I get to my feet and help her to stand. We lean on
each other for support and stagger across the refectory toward the still-open sliding door. It might just be the effect of the gas playing tricks on my powers of perception, but the room looks much bigger than it did before, and the door much farther away. The strip light flickers overhead and I wonder if it’s all been in vain after all. Surely the place will go up any second with so much gas in the air, and no windows.
“Come on! A spark from the light might be enough to make the gas explode,” I say.
Victoria increases her pace along with mine.
We struggle on together and reach the door. Maybe I really did turn off the gas just in time.
After tumbling through the door, we fall to our knees together in the corridor. Even the musty odor of the reformatory smells blissfully sweet after the tainted air of the kitchen and refectory. I breathe in and out a few times to clear the nasty taste from my airways. Then I turn and slide the refectory door closed. Victoria has taken on much more of the gas than me. She crawls to the corner of the corridor and throws up. The vomit keeps coming. Her upper body convulses as she dry heaves. Her throat is making sounds more likely to come out of a blocked drain, and I’m feeling pretty queasy myself now.
“All done?” I ask.
She dry heaves again.
There’s clearly nothing left for her to puke up, but her body needs to be rid of the poison in her system. She groans and sits back against the wall before wiping the perspiration from her forehead. She looks pale and drained. Victoria looks at me groggily, eyes streaming with tears.