She pulled me aside and told me that she knew the girl—or knew her voice, at least. She kept referring to “whispers that scratch at the inside of my skull” and called her “the gallows girl.” She insisted that we had to get away from her. That we couldn’t trust her.
I’m not proud of what we did, but by that point we had learned that the only way to survive was to trust one another’s instincts absolutely. And so when we had the opportunity, we ran together, and left young Lucy behind.
[Illegible] ended her own life less than a year later. [Illegible] still dreamed of her. [Illegible] journals, they were filled with Lucy’s name, along with two words, scrawled randomly through normal entries: Find her.
The one really incongruous thing is that this couple is from Missouri. They hitched a ride on the ghost road just outside of St. Louis, which might be why none of us have found this particular bit of Lucy lore.
—mnemosyne_amnesiac
12
WE CAN’T OUTRUN the darkness. It crashes over us, and it’s all I can do to keep hold of Anthony’s hand. This time there aren’t thirteen steps, only one, staggering, before the darkness rips away as quickly as it found us. It rolls past, tearing itself apart as it moves. Scraps of pure shadow wrench themselves into small shapes—birds. Crows. Hundreds of them, thousands, as the tide of darkness breaks apart in a cacophony of caws and beating wings. For a few chaotic seconds they darken the sky, blocking the slanting light of the rising sun, and then they stream out over the forest to the west.
For a moment I think I see something in the direction they’re flying, something that looms above the trees—maybe a tree itself, with branches jutting up to either side of its peak. But they look more like antlers, and then whatever gray shadow I saw is lost in the mist and the swarm of crows.
Four birds remain, wheeling above us in a tilting sort of dance; the rest are gone. The trees are sparser here, their branches mostly bare, letting the sunlight slant through. Water drips from them as if it’s just finished raining, but the sky is clear.
“What did you do?” Jeremy demands, dropping Trina’s hand and taking a menacing step toward me. Trina holds the preacher’s book against her chest, both hands crossed over it.
“I—” I don’t know what to say. How to explain.
“You killed her,” Mel says, horror in her voice. Kyle edges toward Trina.
“Hold on,” Anthony says, holding out his palms and stepping between me and Jeremy.
“She just murdered Vanessa,” Jeremy says.
“And you’re going to do what, exactly?” Anthony asks. Jeremy’s jaw tenses, his hands balling up into fists, but he sets his weight back, done advancing.
“I don’t think she was Vanessa,” I say. “She didn’t stutter anymore. And she was—she was different. And I couldn’t remember—I don’t think she was holding anyone’s hand when we came through the Liar’s Gate. Were any of you holding her hand?”
They glance at each other, unease breaking over them.
“That doesn’t mean . . .” Jeremy trails off. “People don’t stutter all the time.”
“But the other stuff—she was acting different. I think,” Mel says softly. “I don’t know her that well, though.”
“Sara didn’t know her that well, either. Did you?” Jeremy asks.
I shake my head. “We weren’t close, but we’ve been in school together for years. Vanessa wasn’t Vanessa. Trust me.”
“Vanessa wasn’t Vanessa? Does that makes sense to any of you?” Jeremy presses.
“Here? Kind of,” Anthony says.
“Am I the only one that thinks that murdering someone should require better than kind of?” Jeremy asks.
“No,” I say. “You’re not.” I fist my hand against my stomach, feeling sick.
“You should have let them take me,” Trina says. Her cheeks are streaked with tears and dirt, her eyes puffy and red. “I’m the one they wanted.”
“Because you hurt Chris?” I ask. It doesn’t make any sense. Trina’s the girl who carries spiders outside under a glass. But here she is, shaking so much that I catch her hand in mine and I can feel her trembling through it. The other still curls protectively around the book. She’s spent all her tears, but her breath hitches, a catch that makes me think of a fishhook in her throat, snagging every shuddering sigh. I try to think of how she’s been acting tonight, but all I can remember is my own need, my own longing. My own fear. “It’s going to be okay,” I say, beginning at last to understand that it isn’t.
She hauls her eyes up to mine. Her lips part, like she is waiting for words to arrive. And then they do. “Chris tried to stop me from coming tonight,” she says.
Her stepdad has always been an asshole. The kind of guy who thinks that because he is a cop, he is the law in his house as well, an unimpeachable and righteous force before which there is no option but to yield.
“We got into a fight. I—” She swallows. She looks at Kyle, whose face is contorted, fear and confusion making it into a puzzle with the pieces all scattered. “I grabbed a bat and—I think I might have killed him. I’m not sure.” Her eyes have no remorse in them, not exactly—only a kind of grief, a grief I understand. Grief for the person you were the instant before you acted.
“You killed your stepdad because he wouldn’t let you come out here?” Jeremy asks.
She glares at him. “No, Jeremy. Not because he wouldn’t let me come out here.”
“I—” He stops. “He—he hurt you?”
“He was . . .” She stops. She glances toward Kyle but stops herself, takes a deep breath. “He was violent,” she says. “I—I confronted him, and he came at me. I was defending myself.”
Kyle has tightened in on himself. He looks ready to fracture. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says. “I could take it.”
Because of course Chris wouldn’t hit Trina—wouldn’t hit the one who would fight back. Kyle, though? He’s always been small, always delicate. Asthma and a smart-aleck attitude, eager to entertain, to please. He’s an easy target, and Chris is the kind of coward who could see that.
Her hand is still in mine, warming under my skin, and I grip it tight like I can hold her together through my touch alone. But she pulls away, turns toward her brother, and the moment shifts and closes in until it belongs only to the two of them.
“You should have told me,” Trina whispers. “I told him that I knew. He wasn’t even sorry, he—” She stops. “I didn’t know, before. Or I would have done something sooner.”
“He’s dead?” Kyle asks, disbelief strangling his voice. “You really killed him?”
“I didn’t mean to.” She stops. “No. I did. He said there was nothing I could do. No one would believe me. He laughed. And then he grabbed me, and . . . And I grabbed the bat. I hit him until he couldn’t hit me. That’s what they meant. They smelled the blood on me. It’s my blood we needed to open the gate. Because I’m a sinner. A murderer.”
“It was self-defense,” I say. “You had to.”
She shudders. She bends over and vomits. She staggers and I catch her, holding her. Mel has her arms around Kyle, protective. I have an image of him, towheaded and gangly, wrapped in Mel’s bear hug as she tried to throw him into the pool—the two of them went in together, both of them shrieking with laughter while Trina and I rolled our eyes in the shade. He was ten, I think. Before Chris. Just before.
I help Trina up. I hug her, wrapping my arms around her the way I have wanted to be held for the past year, the way I wouldn’t let anyone hold me. Her skin smells sour. I can feel the knobs of her vertebrae beneath my fingers. The book presses between us.
“I can’t go back,” she whispers. “I can never go back.”
“Yes, you can,” I say. “You don’t know that he’s dead. And you were protecting yourself. We’ll figure it out. Okay?” I smooth her hair back and tuck the
blonde waves behind her ears where they’ve come loose from her ponytail. She nods.
“Okay,” she says.
“I’m glad you did it,” Kyle says. “He deserved it.”
“I’m glad I did it, too,” she says, soft and fierce, and Kyle nods. Mel lets him go, reluctantly. He jams his hands in his pockets. The guys don’t meet his eyes, and everyone looks like they don’t know what expressions they’re supposed to be wearing.
“Hey, so. Sara. Wanna make a club? Trauma Kids? You can be president,” Kyle says to me.
“I don’t get to be president?” Trina asks, swiping her nose with the back of her hand.
“Nah. You want to be treasurer. Admit it,” Kyle says, and Trina laughs through a new spate of tears. He’s not okay. She’s not okay. But in that moment they find an equilibrium.
“Are we just not going to talk about the fact that Sara killed Vanessa?” Jeremy asks. “I mean, I’m sorry. I know this is a heavy moment. But Vanessa—”
“It wasn’t Vanessa,” I say.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“If she says it’s true, it’s true,” Trina says. I wish I felt as sure as she sounds.
“I—I don’t know,” I say. “Miranda asked who was holding her hand, and they were about to kill Trina, and—” I swallow. And then my stomach lurches. “Wait. Where is Miranda?”
We all look around like we’ll find her lurking behind a tree, like she’ll walk up behind us, fine and unhurt. But she’s nowhere.
“I grabbed Kyle’s hand,” Mel says. “Miranda was near you.” The hint of an accusation sharpens her tone.
“I just grabbed Anthony’s hand and ran,” I say.
“I was focused on getting Trina on her feet,” Jeremy says. “Oh, fuck.” Mel clamps a hand over her mouth, choking back a sob.
“She’s gone,” I say, because someone has to say it out loud. “She must have—the darkness must have taken her. Somehow.”
“Then we’ve lost two people in fifteen minutes,” Jeremy says, his anger snapping out squarely at me.
“But we got through,” Mel says. “Which means that either Vanessa was a secret ax murderer, or Sara was right. That wasn’t Vanessa.”
“Or they didn’t care who they killed,” Jeremy says.
“We can check,” Kyle says suddenly. We look at him. He pulls out his phone, the movement and the downward tilt of his face a poor effort to conceal the tears on his cheeks. “I was recording when Trina and I went into the dark. I kept the video going. It should have caught Vanessa coming through.”
A shudder of mingled relief and dread goes through me. And then Kyle’s face crumples into despair.
“Crap. The battery’s dead,” he says.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jeremy says.
“I’ve been taking videos and stuff on and off for like six hours,” Kyle says. “It was already in the red when we went into the town the first time. I’m sorry.”
“Hold on,” Mel says. “I have a portable charger. Give it to me.” She rummages in her backpack, pulling out the battery pack, and takes Kyle’s phone from him. Too eagerly—everyone desperate for some action to focus on to bleed off our despair. And then she swears. “Do you have the charger cord? With a USB?”
“No, I left it at home,” Kyle says.
She sighs. “Then we’re fucked. Mine has a different jack.”
“Then all we have is Sara’s hunch,” Jeremy says.
“Does it matter if she was right or not?” Trina asks, voice flat. “Either way, she’s gone. Miranda is gone. It’s just the six of us now. Knowing what happened wouldn’t change that. It wouldn’t change anything.”
“She’s right,” Anthony says. Jeremy looks at me, and I stare back. Because the two of us know it isn’t true. Of course it changes things.
Either I’m a murderer, or I’m not. And now I might never know.
Mel holds the dead phone out to Kyle, but he’s wandered over to Trina, who is staring down at the book in her hands as if she’s not sure what to do with it. Mel tucks the phone and charger into her bag instead.
“What did he say to you?” I ask Trina. “Why did he give you the book?” It seems like such a trivial question, after what’s just happened.
“‘Arm yourself, child, for there are trials yet to come,’” she recites. She opens the book to the first page. The writing is spidery, the ink brown. The words to unmake, it reads at the top, and then a spill of cramped script, growing like thorns across the page. Trina turns the page, then another, her lips just barely moving as she reads.
“What does it say?” Anthony asks.
“It’s talking about the ocean,” she says, sounding distant, almost dreamy. “And Ys, and Dahut, and the gates. The stars, and something behind the stars. The earth and what’s below. Things waiting. Things unseen. It—” She stops. Snaps it shut. “It’s just a bunch of nonsense,” she says. She looks around as if she’s trying to decide on a place to discard it. Finally she tucks it under her arm, shrugs. “Maybe it’ll have something useful in it.”
“But for now we should keep moving,” Anthony says. “Right? I know I don’t want to hang around in one place too long.”
I hesitate. The book bothers me. This isn’t a place to go trusting gifts.
“Gate number three,” Mel says. “Let’s go find out what’s going to try to kill us next.”
I don’t object. Trina keeps the book. It’s another mistake, but it will be a long time before I realize the extent of it.
INTERVIEW
SARA DONOGHUE
May 9, 2017
ASHFORD: What made you decide to push Vanessa into the crowd?
SARA: I’m not sure I can explain it completely. It’s not like I was thinking everything through logically. I was terrified. We all were. It was happening so fast, and Miranda was talking, and . . . I didn’t want Trina to die.
ASHFORD: And you didn’t know Vanessa as well.
SARA: That’s not why I did it. I don’t think it is.
She pauses. Her voice drops until the microphone can barely pick it up.
SARA: I hope it isn’t.
ASHFORD: Miss Donoghue, I think you’ve been through a great deal. More than any person should bear. Perhaps I can help with this small portion of it.
SARA: What do you mean?
ASHFORD: As Miss Whittaker still had Kyle’s phone, we were able to recover all of the video Kyle Jeffries took on the road. Nearly two hours of footage between your arrival in the woods and when the battery died. I can show you the video of the exit from the Liar’s Gate, and the events that transpired after.
SARA: After? You mean—the crow? The one that was screaming?
Ashford’s look is one of pity.
ASHFORD: Yes. It does involve the crow. I should warn you that this video is quite upsetting. But it should clarify the . . . omissions in your memories. Would you like to see it now?
SARA: Yes. Yes, please. I—I just want to know.
Ashford nods, and reaches into a bag beside his chair, pulling out a laptop.
ASHFORD: Just a moment, then.
He glances toward the door, which opens on Abby. Her hand is in her jacket pocket; just visible, protruding from that pocket, is the plunger of a syringe. She nods. Ashford opens the laptop.
VIDEO EVIDENCE
Retrieved from the cell phone of Kyle Jeffries
Recorded April 19, 2017, 12:51 a.m.
The group ahead of Kyle moves cautiously, bunched together.
JEREMY: Do you hear anything? Is she still there?
SARA: I can’t tell.
MEL: I don’t like this.
NICK: Oh, come on. What’s not to like? It’s just a nice walk out in the woods.
Mel giggles nervously. Vanessa shoots Nick an irritated g
lance.
VANESSA: Maybe we should—
MIRANDA: Shh. Listen.
A scream splits the air. The teens flinch at the sound, and Mel cuts off her own scream with a hand clamped over her mouth. They whip their flashlights up into the trees, illuminating a crow perched on a branch.
ANTHONY: Is that . . . ?
TRINA: It was just a bird?
NICK: Oh, man. There’s more of them. Look.
He points his flashlight farther in among the trees. Birds’ eyes flash. Dozens of crows fill the branches, eerily silent.
SARA: The birds come after the dark. That’s what it said in Becca’s notebook.
ANTHONY: Are they dangerous?
SARA: I have no idea.
TRINA: Oh God. Oh God, what is that?
Her flashlight points among the trees. Not at the branches this time, but at the ground, where a figure staggers. Its hair hangs bedraggled around its face. Its gait is uneven, knock-kneed, as if some vital thing has been broken in its legs, twisted. Its clothes are torn and muddy. It grasps at the nearest tree to pull itself forward with one hand; the other is missing. Its arm ends in a ragged black stump that sheds black, oily smoke, which seems to eat at the remaining flesh.
If it weren’t for the brightly patterned leggings she wears, visible even under the muck, it would be nearly impossible to recognize Vanessa Han.
The camera whips around, focusing on the other Vanessa Han standing on the road as she clucks her tongue, a gentle tsk-ing sound.
VANESSA: Oh dear. How did you get all the way out here?
Nick looks at the Vanessa on the road, and then at the girl dragging herself toward them through the trees, her mouth opening and closing like a gasping fish. Her glasses sit crookedly on her face. Nick takes a step back from the Vanessa on the road, eyes wide in uncomprehending horror.
Rules for Vanishing Page 11