TRINA: I speak Spanish. Try German.
JEREMY: Da.
TRINA: That’s Russian.
ANTHONY: Are you two going to argue the entire time? Jeremy’s here to help.
TRINA: He didn’t even know Becca.
The others look a bit taken aback at the vicious edge to her voice.
VANESSA: N-neither did I.
Trina shakes her head. Jeremy shrugs, but he looks uncomfortable.
ANTHONY: Trina, do you—should we talk? For a minute?
TRINA: No.
ANTHONY: Are you—
TRINA: We don’t need to talk. Where the hell is Mel? Is she really not coming?
Anthony gives Trina a concerned, speculative look, which she ignores.
NICK: I tried texting her, but she didn’t answer.
TRINA: I really thought she’d change her mind. I mean, Jesus, I know she hates me right now for some reason, but—
NICK: It’s not your fault. It’s just that you embody everything her parents want from her and that she can’t give them.
TRINA: What?
KYLE: Yeah, you’re too perfect. It’s irritating.
Trina visibly blanches, her hands curling into fists for a moment before relaxing one finger at a time, the effort palpable.
TRINA: I’m not perfect.
KYLE: Captain of the girls’ softball team, shoo-in for valedictorian, perfect attendance, perfect teeth, perfect manners . . .
NICK: And you want to be a doctor, and Mel’s parents want her to be a doctor, and . . .
Trina throws up a hand to stop him.
TRINA: Enough! Jesus. I get it. But even if she hates me, she should be here for Sara.
NICK: Not Becca?
TRINA: We all know this isn’t for Becca. She’s gone.
JEREMY: Damn, this is getting heavy. Should I go stand over there by the not-friends-with-Becca tree?
ANTHONY: Which one is that?
JEREMY: I’ll pick the one that looks the most ashamed of itself. For Trina’s sake.
VANESSA: D-did you guys hear something?
Everyone falls silent for a moment. And then laughter breaks through the silence, along with crashing footsteps. Trina flinches and whirls toward the sound, prompting a startled chuckle from Kyle.
ANTHONY: Well. I think Mel decided to come after all.
VIDEO EVIDENCE
Retrieved from the cell phone of Sophia Henry
Recorded April 18, 2017, 11:41 p.m.
The phone’s camera focuses on the dimly lit face of Sophia Henry. The background is indistinct.
SOPHIA: Okay. We’re here. In the middle of nowhere. In the dark.
A flashlight beam sweeps across Sophia’s face, and she winces.
SOPHIA: Hey! Watch that thing.
MELANIE: [Laughing] Sorry! It wasn’t on purpose. So is this it?
Sophia switches to the forward-facing camera and pans around a small clearing in a dark forest. Two young women stand nearby. Melanie “Mel” Whittaker is tall and thin, her dark curls under a purple knit cap, the only splash of color in an otherwise black ensemble. She has brown skin sprinkled with dark freckles, and her features have the kind of elegant severity prized in models. Miranda, a white girl with long hair dark enough to look black in the poor light, stands next to her in a blue windbreaker, looking off into the woods. Mel holds a large flashlight, sweeping it around the trees.
SOPHIA: Surprise, surprise. A whole bunch of trees. I’m shivering in fear. Terrified.
MEL: Oh, come on. You have to admit it’s pretty spooky. The dark woods at midnight . . .
Mel’s eyes are a bit too bright, her gait sloppy, and her voice overly loud in the quiet woods.
SOPHIA: You realize the message didn’t say anything about midnight.
MEL: That’s because it goes without saying. Come on, Sophia. Get into the spirit of Christmas.
SOPHIA: It’s April, and this is a waste of time. There’s nothing here.
MIRANDA: We’re in the wrong spot.
Miranda moves off through the woods, not waiting for the other girls or the light. They scramble to follow, Sophia muttering indistinctly under her breath as the camera bobs and weaves, picking up their silhouettes sporadically.
MEL: Hey, who’s that?
Another light bobs between the trees.
MEL: Hey! Who’s up there?
NICK: It’s just us.
The camera stabilizes as the two groups meet. Trina’s mouth is a tight, straight line, her lips pressed together. Anthony shakes his head as Mel staggers slightly, entering the clearing.
MEL: Nicky! The gang’s all here. Plus bonus crew. Sup, Jer?
JEREMY: Mel.
TRINA: Are you drunk?
MEL: Nooooooooo. Maybe.
SOPHIA: Yep.
TRINA: And you are?
Trina crosses her arms and fixes Sophia with a flat stare. Nearby, Kyle is still recording.
MEL: She’s Sophia. She’s with me.
TRINA: She’s your date?
MEL: Yeah. She’s my date. This is a date. Is that a problem?
Trina shakes her head, a look of disgust on her face. Her voice shakes as she speaks.
TRINA: Only you. Only you would show up drunk and bring a date to—
NICK: Can we not fight? Just for tonight? Let’s just focus on figuring out what’s going on.
SOPHIA: Somebody’s messing with us, that’s what’s going on. Getting a bunch of idiots out into the woods at night for the lulz.
Mel rolls her eyes.
JEREMY: Dumb question, but—why are there three of you?
MEL: How is that your business?
JEREMY: Well, you did just say it was a date. Which is normally a two-person affair.
VANESSA: W-we’re supposed to be in pairs. Partners. Remember?
MIRANDA: It won’t be a problem.
VANESSA: Are you sure?
TRINA: Seriously, Mel. You brought a date.
MEL: So did Nick.
TRINA: Nick brought his girlfriend. That’s different. You brought a date to look for Becca.
SOPHIA: Wait, Becca? That missing girl? You know her?
TRINA: Mel. Really?
SOPHIA: You didn’t say you knew her. You said this was just for fun.
MEL: It is. Because it’s just some dumb prank.
NICK: You didn’t come because of Becca?
Mel doesn’t answer. She pushes her hair back from her face and lets out a breath.
MEL: Look, I . . . I don’t believe in ghosts or in Lucy Gallows. So that means that I don’t believe there’s any chance that Becca is somehow . . . out here. I wish she was. But she isn’t.
NICK: Then why come?
MEL: Because.
She stretches a manic smile across her face, her eyes flashing with pent-up emotion.
MEL: It. Is. Fun!
She lets the smile drop and scratches the back of her neck, a quick, nervous gesture.
MEL: Where’s Sara, anyway? I thought she’d be the first one here.
SOPHIA: Unless she’s the one that sent the message in the first place.
ANTHONY: She wasn’t.
SOPHIA: I dunno. She’s pretty weird.
VANESSA: She’s n-not weird, she’s j-j-just—
SOPHIA: J-j-just freaking bizarre. D-d-duh-damaged, if you ask m-m-me.
Mel wheels, eyebrows raised incredulously.
MEL: Wow. Okay. Sophia, this isn’t a date anymore.
SOPHIA: What?
MEL: I don’t date assholes. Firm rule there.
SOPHIA: Lighten up. It was a joke.
MEL: And the punch line was that you’r
e an asshole. Thanks for letting me know.
SOPHIA: Fuck you. And fuck all of this. I didn’t want to come out here in the first place. Have fun with your stupid ghost hunt.
The phone drops, hanging beside Sophia’s leg as she walks, but continues recording for several seconds as Sophia stomps away through the trees.
MIRANDA: I told you it wouldn’t be a problem.
5
THE LIGHTS AND voices up ahead draw me forward through the dark woods. My mouth tastes strange, like I have a penny tucked under my tongue. That’s Trina’s voice. Mel’s. Anthony’s. They’re here. They came.
All of them.
I enter the clearing where they’ve gathered, staying in the shadows for a moment. They didn’t come together—not a single one of them. But they’ve come. It seems like proof of something. Like we’ve been broken, but we can still be mended. Like we can be whole again.
Anthony sees me first. That seems right. A look like relief breaks over his face. He gives me a nod, a bob of his head that pulls the others’ attention around, too, and then they’re all staring at me, all silent.
“You came,” I say.
“Of course we came,” Trina says. No one seems to know what expression they should be wearing—Trina’s smile teeters, strangely fragile; Mel stares at the ground; and Anthony keeps nodding a little, as if he can’t bring himself to stop. Mel’s refusal to meet my eye hurts more than I want to admit. I force myself to look away from her, to pretend it doesn’t sting. She’s here. That means something, doesn’t it?
Not what I wish it could. But something.
Kyle waves awkwardly. I haven’t seen him much since Becca, since we aren’t in the same year, and I’m surprised at how much older he looks—fifteen now, but I’ll probably always think of him as younger. His features are still delicate, almost like a doll’s, his near-white hair making him look otherworldly. But that delicacy has sharper edges now, the suggestion of the man he is growing into beginning to appear in the shadows of his eyes and the line of his jaw. I remember something about him getting suspended, being on the brink of flunking out, getting into fights, but I haven’t updated my mental image of him since he was the awkward kid who worshipped his older sister and wanted nothing more than to be cool enough to hang out with her friends.
The only one who looks perfectly comfortable is a girl I’ve never seen before, standing next to Mel. Her complexion is stark, her skin fair, and her rich mahogany hair hangs loose and straight past her shoulders. A crow’s feather is tattooed on the inside of her wrist. Recognition sparks. She’s the girl I dreamed about.
“That’s everyone, then?” Mel says. “Um, this is Miranda, by the way. She’s a friend.” The faintest hesitation before the last word. Girlfriend, then? I try to ignore the spark of jealousy that thought ignites. I thought I was over that. And it should be the last thing on my mind.
I must have seen Miranda around before. But why my mind picked her to dream about, I have no idea.
“We’re odd again,” Trina notes.
I do a head count and realize she’s right. A jolt of panic goes up my spine. Things are going wrong already.
What did I think going right would look like?
“It’ll be okay,” Anthony says. “We’ll figure it out.”
“What exactly are we expecting to happen here, anyway?” Jeremy asks. Anthony wasn’t sure I would show up, was he? So he brought his best friend. His new best friend, since I got fired from the position. Or quit, depending on your perspective.
Jeremy isn’t a bad guy. Clueless sometimes. Too much of a jock for my tastes. Has a tendency to talk about three times faster than he thinks, but it’s not like I’ve never put my foot in my mouth.
“The road shows up. We walk down it. That’s the idea, anyway,” I say. “Everyone brought a key?”
A chorus of affirmatives and nods go around the group.
“So we just walk thirteen steps, right?” Trina asks. Her voice speeds up when she’s nervous, rising in pitch. She’s nervous now, practically shaking. We all are, probably. Even Jeremy, who’s flexing his fingers like he wishes he had a lacrosse stick to hold on to. Jock version of a security blanket, I guess.
Vanessa shakes her head. “I th-think it’s more complicated,” she says, looking at me. “Anyway, if this really happens at m-m-midnight, and th-there’s no r-reason to think it does, w-we’ll know soon e-e-e—”
“Enough,” Jeremy finishes for her.
“Don’t do that,” Anthony reminds him.
“It’s okay,” Vanessa replies with a little shrug that suggests that it isn’t okay so much as so common she doesn’t see the point in calling it out every time. Judging by Jeremy’s expression, he knows the feeling, and he turns a bit red. With his hearing aids, he can understand most conversation—though it’s easier if he’s looking at you, to supplement with expression and lip-reading—but that doesn’t stop people from trying the whole loud-and-slow-like-you’re-stupid approach. Which just makes things worse, since it distorts the sound and makes lip-reading difficult—on top of being condescending and assholish.
“Right. Sorry,” Jeremy says. “My bad.”
“Two minutes to go,” Kyle says. “I guess this is everybody that’s going to show.”
“Two minutes until we all feel really stupid,” Mel mutters. She’s studiously not looking at me, and I notice the sway to her stance for the first time. Questions bubble up, but I don’t voice them. What matters is that we’re here. All of us. For Becca.
Whatever happens.
“Guys?” Kyle’s voice wavers. “I think something’s happening.”
Together, we turn. And the road arrives.
VIDEO EVIDENCE
Retrieved from the cell phone of Kyle Jeffries
Recorded April 19, 2017, 12:01 a.m.
The phone swings around. The image is out of focus; the field is a dark blur, streaks of black and gray, grainy and disorienting, refusing to resolve into a clear picture. There is a sound like wind across the microphone, or maybe Kyle’s finger scraping against the phone’s case.
The camera focuses as voices rise in indistinct murmurs of surprise. Between the trees, a narrow track stretches out into the darkness. At the feet of the teenagers, it’s no more than a few scattered stones, a little too large and square to be natural. But they quickly draw together, like a torn cloth being gathered and stitched up. Despite the darkness of the forest, the stones seem to collect moonlight to them.
NICK: Holy shit. It’s real. It’s actually real.
TRINA: Oh my God. What do we do?
The camera jostles. Sara has pushed past Kyle, and walks quickly toward the road, as if she is afraid it will slip away from them into the darkness again. When she reaches a point where she stands on solid stone, she looks back over her shoulder.
SARA: All right. Who’s coming?
INTERVIEW
SARA DONOGHUE
May 9, 2017
Sara taps her middle finger on the table. At first it seems random, but careful examination reveals a pattern, quicker sequences interspersed with pauses. 1-5-1, 1-4-3, 2-5-2. And then again.
The light overhead flickers slightly. It’s out of frame, but the dinginess of the room makes the presence of old wiring unsurprising. Sara glances up toward it, staring blankly.
ASHFORD: Miss Donoghue?
SARA: Who else are you talking to?
ASHFORD: A number of people. Though the Jeffries family has retained a lawyer. We haven’t been able to get an interview. Have you spoken to any of the families of—
SARA: No. I haven’t spoken to any of them.
ASHFORD: Why is that?
She chews on her lip. The tapping continues. 1-5-1, 1-4-3, 2-5-2. She seems to realize she’s doing it and stops abruptly, clenching her hand into a fist on the tabletop.
&nbs
p; SARA: It’s my fault.
ASHFORD: What is?
SARA: All of it. They wouldn’t have been there if it wasn’t for me.
ASHFORD: And you wouldn’t have been there if it wasn’t for your sister. So couldn’t you say it was Becca’s fault, by that logic?
SARA: None of this is Becca’s fault.
ASHFORD: I’m not saying it is. I’m saying that it isn’t yours, either.
SARA: Have you ever played the game, Dr. Ashford?
ASHFORD: The game? No. I haven’t.
SARA: But you’ve played games before. In general.
ASHFORD: Of course.
SARA: Do you know what all games have in common?
ASHFORD: All games have rules.
SARA: Exactly. And what happens when you break them?
ASHFORD: It depends on the game, I suppose. Did you break the rules?
Sara doesn’t answer. Her hand splays out on the table. After a few seconds, her finger starts tapping again. 1-5-1, 1-4-3, 2-5-2.
ASHFORD: Miss Donoghue? Did you break the rules?
SARA: We all did.
PART II
THE ROAD
EXHIBIT E
Children’s skipping rhyme, local to Briar Glen, Massachusetts
Little Lucy, dressed in white
Gave her mother such a fright.
Walked into the woods one day.
Where she went no one can say.
Down a road that no one found.
Or are her bones sunk in the ground?
How many steps did Lucy take?
One, two, three, four . . .
6
“ALL RIGHT. WHO’S coming?” I ask. I sound calm, despite my heart pounding so hard I can hear it. No one else says anything. They all stare at the road—or at me. Like I have answers.
You expect in a moment like this to have trouble believing or a need to search for a rational explanation. Maybe it’s like that for the others—denial, trying to find evidence that they’re dreaming or hallucinating or that it’s some kind of trick. But for me, at least, it’s like a puzzle piece clicking into place. A feeling that everything has finally aligned the way it should be.
Rules for Vanishing Page 5