by Shaun Hamill
Sydney gave a tiny shake of her head. “I mean I quit.”
Mom paused in the act of pulling off a sneaker. “You quit what?”
“The Wandering Dark,” Sydney said. “I quit. I’m done. It’s all wrong and I don’t want to do it anymore.”
“We open the day after tomorrow,” Mom said.
“Not my problem,” Sydney said. She walked up the hall to the girls’ bedroom.
“It’s absolutely your problem, young lady,” Mom said. She stood to storm back through the apartment after Sydney, but stumbled over her untied shoes. She caught herself with one arm against the hallway wall and pushed forward into the girls’ bedroom with overlong, careful strides. She didn’t shut the door behind her, so Eunice and I heard the ensuing conversation:
“We did all of this—this whole stupid, painful, foolhardy project—for you,” Mom said. “It’s your baby, your concept, your dream. You don’t get to quit.”
“You handicapped the whole fucking thing from the start!” Sydney said. “It’s not my fault that you kept Daddy’s designs to yourself and ruined it.”
“There are no designs,” Mom said. “There never were! There’s a collection of nonsense that your father drew while he was dying of a brain tumor. It was something we did to pass the time while we waited for the end. There’s nothing there.”
A silence drifted out of the room and up the hall, long enough that Eunice and I had time to look at one another rather than the hallway.
“You’re lying,” Sydney said at last, her voice small.
“I’m not,” Mom said. She matched Sydney’s lower tone, gentle like you’d expect of a mother comforting her kid. That gentleness set off a pang in me, an honest yearning. Mom almost never used that voice.
“Then why keep any of it? Why not let anyone see?” Sydney said.
“I don’t have to answer either of those questions,” Mom said, still in that gentle voice, but with the familiar steel beneath it.
“And I don’t have to work at this shitty haunted house anymore,” Sydney said. “You and Mr. Ransom go have fun.”
I’m not sure who slammed the door as Mom left the room. She started back up the hall toward the living room and tripped over her shoelaces again. She didn’t catch herself this time, but instead fell forward onto the linoleum floor with a curse. She landed on her hands and knees, sat up, and tore her sneakers off, pitching them into the living room. She followed them a moment later, fuming. I cringed as her fiery gaze landed on me, and then Eunice.
“Do either of you have any idea what’s going on right now?” she said.
“No,” Eunice said, sounding genuinely surprised.
I nearly cracked and told her what I’d seen. I longed to unload the information, to let an adult deal with it, but I’d promised. I’d even taken payment in exchange for my silence.
19
Mom and Mr. Ransom replaced Sydney with another girl from the theater department. Sydney spent most of the two days before opening in her room, in her pajamas. She didn’t ask about The Wandering Dark, and stopped fighting with Mom altogether. If Mom told her to do something, she did it without comment.
Even though she was now my de facto babysitter, we still avoided each other. I stayed out of the girls’ room, where it sounded like she was speaking for hours at a stretch, in a voice too soft for proper eavesdropping. I didn’t know if she was on the phone, or reading her favorite plays out loud, and I kept my distance. When she emerged to watch TV, I retreated to my room. I tried to play with my new Batman and Batcave a few times, but the experience was sour, joyless. It was my first experience with getting something I wanted the wrong way, thereby ruining the thing gotten.
On opening night, Mom and Eunice both hugged me and made me promise to behave for Sydney. Sydney told them to break a leg. Again Mom gave Sydney a queer, searching look, as though she knew something was wrong, maybe even suspected the nature of the wrong thing, but was afraid to ask and find out for sure.
After they left, Sydney sat next to me on the couch, where I was watching TV. When I got up to leave, she put a hand on my shoulder and asked me to stay. We sat in silence for a while, and I got so absorbed in the show that I was startled when she finally spoke.
“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” she said. “How did you get to the warehouse?”
I didn’t answer. She rolled her eyes and made a disgusted sound as she threw herself to her feet. She headed for the girls’ bedroom as a knock sounded at the front door.
“Get that, will you?” she said.
I answered the door, but found the porch empty. I stepped outside to look around. The parking lot appeared deserted as well, nothing but unoccupied cars beneath flickering lights. It was quieter than I’d ever heard it, too. Usually you could hear traffic, or the sounds of neighbors on their porches. Now it was like a TV with the volume turned all the way down.
“Hello?” I called, my voice loud in the unnatural quiet.
Inside the apartment, Sydney screamed.
I ran back inside, leaving the front door open behind me. I threw open the girls’ bedroom door. The room was a mess—drawers hanging open, clothes in untidy piles, beds unmade, books open and facedown—and, aside from me, empty. The curtains drifted slightly, in front of an open window. The window looked out on our front porch. Had it been open when I answered the door? I couldn’t remember, but I didn’t think so.
I walked back to the front door and looked at the open window from the outside. Aside from being open, it looked perfectly normal. No blood, no dropped objects or broken glass.
“Sydney?” I called.
Behind me, all the lights in the apartment went out. I stood still, listening. A new sound began, so faint I could barely hear it outside the silent apartment: skritch-skritch-skritch.
I went to my room. Skritch-skritch-skritch against the window, soft and hesitant. As I drew closer, the sound grew louder, more excited. I pulled my curtains apart. My Friend stood in the atrium, hunched over, palms spread on the glass. It looked frightened, somehow conveying worry with its dim orange eyes. I put my hand on the glass opposite its, and felt its incredible warmth through the barrier.
I unlatched the window and pulled it all the way open. I stood back and gestured inside.
“Friend,” I said. “Help.”
The Turner Sequence III: Eunice
When Eunice arrives in the City, they put her to work at a desk. In her mind, she sees it as several desks. First, she sees it as the one in her room at the old house where she lived while her father was alive. She thinks she’s up late, hammering away at the keyboard of her Commodore 64. She loves the sound her fingers make, a quiet clacking music that carries her thoughts along with it. Sometimes she closes her eyes because the words flow better in complete darkness, free from her judging gaze. Other times she leaves her eyes open but looks away, to give her vision a break from the piercing light of the screen. Now, in this facsimile of her old bedroom, she turns her head to the right, toward her high, narrow window—and that’s when she sees the face peering in at her.
In real life, she screamed and jumped into her bed, but now she stands and approaches the window for a better look. No matter how close she gets, though, the shape remains an inky blot on the other side of the glass, a vague suggestion. It seems to flicker, frozen between two positions, like an image on a paused videotape. It’s trapped somehow. She should feel relieved, but instead she feels heavy. Low. Bad in a way she can’t quite name, like she’s sick but without symptoms—no fever, no headache, no nausea, but low all the same. The feeling grows as she stares at the shape in the window.
Uneasy, she walks back to her desk and sits down, but as she lands, she finds herself in a large, well-lit area. Instead of the stiff wooden chair of her childhood desk, she sits in a folding metal chair, and the desk a
nd computer have been replaced with a collapsible card table and an ugly brown electric typewriter. She’s sitting in the middle of her family’s warehouse in the late summer of 1989, writing the original script for The Wandering Dark.
If she were working alone, Eunice would have set up in the front office, where things are quiet, but her writing partner, Merrin Price, wants to be out here. This is, after all, a group project, and Merrin thinks that they’ll write a better script with all their fellows around and inspiring them. Eunice doesn’t know if she buys it, but Merrin’s older, so Eunice lets her take the lead.
Eunice has always been the writer in the family, so it offended her when Mr. Ransom insisted that Merrin serve as coauthor. She can’t shake the feeling that Merrin’s being pawned off on her. The older girl is a little too plump to play lead roles and has a brittle voice that breaks when pushed too hard. When she acts onstage, she seems overwhelmed, and whatever is unique or special about her flattens out, especially when compared with Sydney.
Eunice can identify with this last bit—all her life she’s been watching the world part and make way for her sister like the Red Sea, while Eunice hurries along behind, hoping she won’t drown. Even so, she’s not eager to have Merrin at her shoulder while she’s trying to write. She doesn’t complain, because she never complains. With Mom and Sydney at perpetual war, it always falls to Eunice to keep the peace, regardless of her own feelings.
Eunice shifts in her chair and sees Merrin next to her. Merrin smiles, and something dislodges in Eunice’s chest. Breathing gets easier. The dark shape at her bedroom window fades from her thoughts. The memory takes on a light, faded quality, like a bad photocopy from a machine running low on toner.
Where do you want to start? Merrin says.
Eunice faces the typewriter, lays her fingers on the home keys. She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and begins to type. Each keystroke sounds like a tiny gunshot, and the carriage rings every time she reaches the end of a line:
You the visitors are let into a warehouse by a bouncer of sorts. He counts your group out, and if you’re at a prime number (three, five, or seven), he picks up his walkie-talkie and utters a single word: Innsmouth. As you enter there is a girl standing just inside.
“There were too many people in my group,” she says. “I hope it’s okay for me to tag along with yours. I’m Katie,” she says. She smiles. No one would think of refusing this girl.
Your group enters a dark room. The bouncer shuts the door behind you, sealing you in complete darkness. You’re left this way long enough to notice the eerie quiet. Your friends’ breathing becomes loud. You wonder if you’ve been forgotten, or if you ought to move forward without the benefit of sight. You hear a click, and a single beam of light bursts on, pointed right in your face, blinding you.
“You shouldn’t be here,” a voice says. It runs like an ice cube dropped down the back of your shirt. This is THE GUIDE.
The typewriter bell rings, signaling the end of another line. Eunice hits Return, and the carriage flies back to its starting position. She shakes the stiffness from her hands and looks over her shoulder at Merrin. Merrin’s eyes move from the page to Eunice’s face.
You just gave me chills, she says. Eunice notices for the first time that Merrin’s eyes are blue.
The room changes again, and now Eunice sits at the breakfast table at home, across from her younger brother, Noah. She sees him only in the mornings now. She still gets him up for school, still makes sure he’s dressed and fed, but she doesn’t have time to read to him, or answer his litanies of questions about the world. For whatever reason, he’s stopped asking for those things. He’s a wan, silent presence now, with dark bags beneath his drooping eyes. It’s strange. Eunice feels fuller than before, like there’s more of her somehow. She wonders briefly if somehow her ascension is linked to her little brother’s descent.
She doesn’t like the thought. She turns her gaze away from him and finds herself back in the warehouse, in front of the typewriter. As she and Merrin write, the building fills with the whine of saws and drills, the thunder of hammers. They’re joined by the rattle of sewing machines, the metallic hiss of scissors cutting fabric. The bones take shape around the authors of this production: morgue, study, dance hall, and an endless series of corridors. Eunice’s chest feels full of light, so bright it must be shining through her teeth. She didn’t know it was possible to feel this way. She didn’t understand how muted and gray and tired and bad she felt until now, sitting next to Merrin and dreaming up ways to scare and delight strangers.
Really, she’s dreaming up ways to scare and delight Merrin. If Merrin reacts to an idea or line—if she laughs or gasps, or slaps Eunice on the back—Eunice knows it’s good. The first time Merrin touches Eunice, Eunice jumps in her chair and tattoos some nonsense onto the page.
I’m sorry, Merrin says, and backs away.
If you don’t count accidental jostling from strangers in public, it’s the first time in years that anyone other than Noah has touched Eunice.
It’s fine, Eunice says, warmth traveling up her shoulder to her cheeks and ears. I was just concentrating and you surprised me.
Sorry, Merrin says. Won’t happen again.
No really, it’s fine, Eunice repeats. She settles in her chair and faces the typewriter. Here. Try again. Pretend I wrote something superlative.
For a second, nothing happens, and she worries that she’s made things irrevocably weird. Then Merrin’s hand lands on her shoulder.
Superlative work, Eunice, she says, her mouth right next to Eunice’s ear. Eunice burns.
They take their breaks at the typewriter, eating their lunches from brown paper bags. The AC is on, but the bay doors are open, and the air is thick and still. Perspiration gathers in the hollow of Merrin’s throat, shining, and Eunice worries whether she’s sitting too close or too far away for Merrin’s liking.
Do you have a boyfriend? Merrin asks.
Eunice shakes her head. Not yet.
How old are you?
Thirteen.
Merrin nods, chewing a grape.
What about you? Eunice says. I bet you’ve had lots of boyfriends.
Merrin laughs, a surprised, throaty sound. Not many boys want to date a fat girl.
You’re not, Eunice says, because it’s what you’re supposed to say when someone says something self-deprecating.
Merrin waves the statement off. It’s okay. I’ve come to terms. But you—you’re skinny, so I imagine it’s only a matter of time.
Eunice bows her head to look at her body. She is skinny, flat-chested, narrow-hipped, and small-bottomed. When Sydney was thirteen, her shape changed, curves breaking up the smooth planes of her body, pushing it toward womanhood. Eunice’s body remains stubbornly boyish.
She looks back at Merrin, watches Merrin’s mouth working around the fruit. Merrin holds the next bite in one hand and crosses her other arm over her middle, as though trying to hide herself. She wears a black T-shirt and blue jeans that hug tight to her wide, generous body. Her fingernails are painted red, but the polish is chipping. Her eyes are bright blue, her cheeks round and pink and flush, her dark brown hair cut short and framing her face. Eunice takes in the soft slope of her shoulders, her wide, round bottom, and thinks that Merrin’s body is the opposite of her own, expressly, aggressively feminine.
Merrin notices Eunice’s stare and stops chewing. What? she says, mouth still full of food.
If I were a boy I’d want to date you, Eunice says. Her face feels hot and she bows her head, but the room has changed again. She’s still sitting at a table, but now her typewriter is gone and she’s surrounded by other people. It’s audition day, when Sydney and Mr. Ransom will cast the characters Eunice and Merrin have written.
Eunice has never had to listen to anyone else perform her work, and she cringes often as the hopefuls read he
r lines. She makes endless notes on how to fix her many shortcomings as a writer (and a human being). When it comes time to cast the role of the Guide, Eunice looks up from her notepad to find a dance hall full of people staring at her.
What? she says.
Merrin says you want to read for the role, Mr. Ransom says.
When Eunice opens her mouth to protest, Merrin gives her a little shove. She walks to the middle of the room, everyone staring, and she wants to bolt, wants to run screaming, and she’s furious with Merrin, how dare Merrin do this, but then Eunice catches Merrin’s eye and Merrin winks.
Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Ransom says.
Eunice clears her throat, glances down at her copy of the script, and begins to read.
You’re not supposed to be here. She clears her throat again, or tries to. Some obstruction refuses to move. How did you get in? The walls here grow thin, ever more confused. There are doors where there used to be walls, and darkness blooms in place of light. The only way out is through, to the other side. I cannot go with you, but I can offer help. This sounds like bad Tolkien. Who wrote this? Who could be expected to speak this out loud? A single beam of light, to show you the path. Use it wisely. She makes a vague gesture to simulate handing the flashlight to a visitor. Oh, and a word of caution. A great evil, once safely contained, is now loose. It roams freely, regardless of walls, doors. So I must caution you: no matter what you see or hear, try not to make too much noise. Sound will attract the creature. Good luck.
Eunice looks up, back at the crowd of watching faces. If only she had the ability to disappear.
Thank you, she says, waiting to be dismissed.
Mr. Ransom and Sydney exchange a glance, then face her again.
Eunice, do you want this part? Mr. Ransom says.
Eunice looks past Mr. Ransom, past the assembled faces, to Merrin. Merrin gives her a thumbs-up.
I think so, she says.
Mr. Ransom says, It’s yours.