The Conclusion

by R. L. Stine

  “You—you jumped on me!” I cried down at it. My heart still thudded in my chest. “You nearly scared away all of my nine lives,” I scolded.

  It narrowed its eyes, studying me. Its tail slowly lowered. It started to relax.

  “I guess I scared you as much as you scared me,” I said, starting to feel better. “What are you doing in here? Are there more of you?”

  I pulled open the drape on the other front window. Then I let my eyes sweep over the room. Two couches and several armchairs had been pushed to the center of the room. They were covered with bedsheets. The fireplace screen had fallen over, revealing black, charred logs in the fireplace. Two crushed beer cans adorned the mantel above the fireplace.

  I tugged the sheet off one of the couches. “At least we have something to sit on,” I murmured, watching a cloud of dust rise from the sheet.

  The black cat tilted its head and meowed.

  “I’ll bet you’re hungry,” I said softly. I bent down to see if he would allow me to pick him up. He did.

  I raised the cat in both hands and brought him face-to-face with me. “I’m going to call you Lucky,” I announced.

  I gazed into his glowing green eyes. “Are you going to bring me luck, Lucky?” I asked him. “Are you?”

  I sighed. “I really could use some luck,” I told the cat. I set him back on the floor.

  “Are we really going to live here?” Angel asked, glancing around the room. “It’s kind of creepy, isn’t it?” She made a disgusted face.

  “It isn’t so bad,” Jasmine said, tugging the sheet off the other couch. “We can fix it up.” She forced a smile. “It’s so huge. I’ve never lived in such a big house.”

  “And we have it all to ourselves,” I added, trying to sound cheerful. “It’s the perfect place to hide, and—and . . .”

  I tried to look on the bright side. But I couldn’t fight down my anger. My anger at Melanie, Margie, and Mary.

  My throat tightened. My temples started to throb.

  I slammed the back of the couch with my fist, sending up another cloud of dust.

  It’s their fault, I told myself. It’s their fault I had to leave the dorm, run away, hide like a criminal in this abandoned dump.

  I want to pay them back, I decided. I really do. I want to hurt them and make them suffer. The way they hurt me.

  As if reading my thoughts, Darryl appeared in the front entryway. “Hey—!” he called, his pale blue eyes sweeping over the front room before locking on me. “Thought you could get away?”

  He moved quickly across the room and took my arm. “You didn’t try to leave me behind—did you, Hope?”

  I pulled my arm free and didn’t reply. I scowled at him.

  “Not a bad place,” he said, running a hand over the arm of the leather couch. “I think I could get used to it here.”

  “No, you won’t,” I said sharply.

  His eyes widened in surprise. His smile faded. He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Hope,” he said softly. “I’m going to help you.”

  His gentle touch brought back a lot of memories. Warm memories.

  “Help me?” I replied. “How?”

  “I’m going to take care of the three M’s for you,” he said, caressing my arm. Then he raised his hand and trailed one finger tenderly down my cheek. “I’m going to hurt them for you.”

  “No!” I cried. “No, Darryl!”

  He took a step back, his face twisted in surprise. “What’s your problem?” he demanded. “It’s what you want—isn’t it? It’s what you were thinking.”

  “How do you know what I was thinking?” I demanded. I could feel my anger growing. My chest felt about ready to explode.

  A strange grin spread across Darryl’s face. “I know you,” he said. “I know you better than you know yourself, Hope.”

  “I don’t care!” I shouted. “Look what you’ve done, Darryl. You’ve ruined my life. You’ve ruined all our lives!”

  “You’re wrong,” he insisted. “Melanie has. Melanie and her two friends.” He swept back his longish dark hair. “They called you crazy, Hope. They told the police you were crazy.”

  He gripped the back of the couch and squeezed the leather. Squeezed it until his hands turned red.

  “You’re not going to let them get away with that—are you?” he demanded.

  I could feel his eyes burning into me. I crossed my arms in front of my chest, as if to protect myself. “I don’t want you to do anything,” I said through gritted teeth. “I just want you to leave.”

  His eyes narrowed in disbelief. “Huh?”

  “You heard me!” I cried. My anger exploded. I couldn’t control it any longer. “Go away, Darryl!” I screamed. “I mean it. Get away from me. Get out of this house! I can’t take it anymore! You’re too much trouble! Too much!”

  Circles of dark red spread over his cheeks. He shoved his fists into the pockets of his leather bomber jacket. His mouth curled into a sneer.

  “You’re not serious,” he uttered in a low voice. “You don’t mean it, Hope. You know you need me. You know you want me to hurt those three girls for you.”

  “Get out!” I screamed. “Get out—now! And don’t come back!”

  I raised my fists and shoved him. “Get out! Get out! Get out! I don’t want to see you again!”

  I’d never talked to him that way before. His mouth gaped open in shock.

  And then the shock faded, and his expression turned to anger. His blue eyes froze. The lines on either side of his mouth twitched.

  He uttered a curse. And moved quickly, menacingly toward me.

  “No—don’t!” I cried. “Please, Darryl—don’t!”

  chapter

  * * *

  5

  I staggered back.

  I’d never seen anything as cold as the hatred on his face. Those blue eyes like ice. The jaw clamped shut so tight, mouth twitching . . . twitching.

  “Don’t touch me!” I shrieked.

  To my shock, he moved past me. His shoulder bumped mine. I felt the rough leather of his bomber jacket. He kept going, as if walking right through me.

  Feeling dazed, I turned. I couldn’t see his expression now. I saw only the back of his head, his longish hair falling beneath his jacket collar.

  He moved past me, walking heavily. Stepped up to the black cat, my new pet. Lucky. Lucky the cat.

  Without breaking stride, Darryl swung his leg back and kicked the cat. A sharp, lightning kick.

  The toe of his boot caught the cat under its stomach and sent it flying off the floor—into the front window.

  The cat opened its mouth in a high squeal.

  It hit the windowpane with a solid thud. And dropped on its side to the floor.

  “Don’t kill it! Don’t kill it, Darryl!” I wailed.

  Darryl took a long stride toward the fallen cat. Changed his mind. Turned. And headed toward the front door.

  As he reached the front entryway, he muttered something under his breath.

  “What? What did you say?” I called after him, my voice trembling. My whole body shaking with fear.

  “I said you can’t get rid of me,” he repeated, his jaw still clenched tight with fury. “You’re stuck with me, Hope. And don’t forget it.”

  And then he was gone.

  Jasmine and Angel were gone too. Probably hiding in another room. Hiding from Darryl.

  I watched the cat slink to the back hall, its tail between its legs.

  I’m alone now, I thought, still trembling, still hugging myself tightly. I’m all alone in this place.

  “Lucky? Hey—Lucky?” I called the cat. But, of course, he didn’t come.

  I took several deep breaths, waiting for my temples to stop throbbing, for my heartbeat to slow down. Then I pulled the sheet off the armchair, balled it up, and tossed it into the corner.

  I sank down into the plush, leather chair. It smelled stale and mildewy, but I didn’t care.

  I needed to think.


  What next? What to do next?

  I didn’t stay seated for long. Two large portraits on the wall across from the mantel caught my eye. A man and a woman.

  I climbed up and crossed the room to examine them. A gold plaque beneath the portraits explained that the couple had donated the house to the sorority.

  The man was old, bald, and had a beak like a chicken. Feeble-looking despite his expensive, well-tailored suit. He had a half smile on his face that made his expression kind of sad.

  And the woman. The woman was kind of horsey-looking. A long face. Big teeth. She wore a flowered dress with a high collar up to her chin.

  And her hair was up . . . just like . . . just like . . .

  Just like my mother wore.

  Her hair pinned up behind her head like a tilting beehive.

  The same eyes too. My mother’s eyes. So small and cold and disapproving. Eyes like steel marbles.

  I could smell that awful perfume, so sweet you wanted to puke. The only sweet thing about her. It’s a miracle the perfume didn’t turn sour on her skin.

  Sour.

  Yes. That’s my mother, all right.

  She followed me here.

  Will she follow me everywhere?

  Follow me to summer camp, Mom? Did you follow me? Did your sourness follow me all the way to Maine for my one measly summer away at camp?

  Dear Buttertubs.

  That’s how you addressed every letter you wrote to me that summer when I was twelve.

  Buttertubs Mathis. That’s what you wrote on the envelopes.

  And when the counselor called us together for mail call, she would shout out the names on the envelopes. Shout them out for us to come forward to claim our mail.

  “Linda Edwards . . . Marci Kass . . . Buttertubs Mathis!”

  They howled, Mother. The other girls—they thought it was a riot.

  But I didn’t laugh.

  When no one was looking, I cried.

  Dear Buttertubs,

  Are you getting enough to eat up there? Don’t dive into the swimming pool. You want to leave some water in it for the others . . .

  You wrote only two letters that entire summer, Mother. But they were enough.

  Enough to make me look like a total geek in front of everyone. Enough to make sure that I came home without making any friends.

  That awful hairdo. Those lipsticked lips, curled into a smug sneer. The perfume . . . Sweet Gardenia, was it?

  Where was the sweetness, Mother? Where?

  Dear Buttertubs . . .

  You didn’t give up. Even later. You never stopped.

  In my senior year in high school, when I thought I was in love with Mark . . .

  Mark, with the laughing dark eyes. The wavy, black hair, so shiny and wild. That insane, yelping laugh. The jokes. Always cracking jokes.

  Mark . . .

  You did everything you could to keep me from him, Mother. You stayed in the room and never let us talk alone. You listened in on our phone conversations.

  You called me Fat Girl and Buttertubs in front of him.

  Do you think I’ll ever forget the day you told Mark you had a new game to play? It was called Let’s-All-Count-Hope’s-Chins.

  How many tears did that little joke cost me?

  I tried to lose weight. You know I did.

  I tried to be the daughter you wanted. So why did you hate me so much?

  The night I planned to sneak out and meet Mark . . .

  Homecoming night. My senior year. I was seventeen, Mother. Old enough to go out with a guy I liked.

  But you said I was too young to date. You would never let me see Mark unless you were there to chaperone.

  I had to sneak out—because of you. I had to sneak and scheme and plot because you wouldn’t let me have a normal life. You locked me in my room. You refused to let me eat.

  You refused to let me be . . . normal.

  And so I planned to sneak out to go to the game and the dance with Mark. And you called me into the kitchen. I remember it so well.

  How did you know my plans? How?

  “I have a surprise for you, Hope,” you said. I remember the blank look on your face. So calm and cold. Your eyes so dull, revealing nothing at all.

  “I have a surprise for you,” you said. “Close your eyes and hold out your hands.”

  I had no choice. I knew you were up to something. But I did as you said.

  I held out my hands.

  And heard that metallic click.

  And opened my eyes to see the handcuff around my wrist. The heavy chain. The other handcuff—on your wrist!

  You handcuffed me to you, Mother.

  You knew I planned to see Mark. To go to the game. To dance and be normal.

  And so you handcuffed us together that night. Together. We were together all night.

  We ate dinner with one hand. We did the dinner dishes. You washed and I dried. Together. Together. We even had to sleep in the same bed.

  You were so pleased with yourself.

  You didn’t release me until the next morning.

  And then you grounded me for two weeks. You punished me for planning to go out.

  In my room for two weeks. Two weeks, still feeling the burn on my wrist from where the handcuff had rubbed.

  That’s when my friends appeared.

  I needed them, and that’s when they appeared.

  Eden, Angel, and Jasmine. They came to me when I needed them most.

  My friends . . . such good friends.

  At last, I had someone to talk to. Someone to laugh with and cry with and share my life with.

  You couldn’t keep me from them, Mother. You couldn’t keep Eden, Angel, and Jasmine away.

  Handcuffs wouldn’t work. Locking me in my room wouldn’t work, either.

  Insulting me, calling me names wouldn’t keep them away.

  We were so close, the four of us. Like one person.

  I was so happy when I was awarded my scholarship. I was going off to college with my friends.

  And there was nothing you could do about it.

  Nothing . . .

  I stared hard at the photograph on the wall, stared until it blurred before my eyes.

  “Stop following me!” I shrieked. “Stop following me! Stop following me! Stop following me!”

  I smashed her portrait with my fists. Again. Again.

  “Stop following me! Stop following me!”

  The glass shattered. And fell to the floor.

  Now I could reach the photo. Now I could reach her.

  I clawed at her face.

  Clawed with both hands.

  “Stop following me, Mother! Stop following me!”

  I clawed and clawed.

  Clawed till my fingernails tore. And my fingers bled. And the blood flowed down my mother’s face.

  part two

  * * *

  Melanie

  chapter

  * * *

  6

  I closed my French textbook and turned to Mary. She was down on the floor at her dresser, pawing through the bottom drawer. She stopped and scratched her curly red hair with both hands.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Chlorine,” she replied. “It totally dries out my hair. Makes my scalp so itchy.”

  I tossed my textbook aside and stood up. “No. I meant, what are you searching for?”

  Mary frowned. “I thought I had another swimsuit in this drawer. You know. The blue one?”

  I laughed. “Mary, all of your swimsuits are blue.”

  She returned to the dresser drawer. “But this one is blue blue,” she said.

  “Where’s Margie?” I asked. “Still at the library?”

  Mary nodded. “Margie said she’d be studying late. I think she’s taking Perfect Person lessons from you!”

  “Hey—I’m not perfect!” I protested. “Stop saying I’m perfect all the time. You’re giving me a real complex.”

  Mary shoved the dresser drawer closed
and climbed to her feet. “Look at your hair, Melanie,” she said, pointing. “When is the last time you brushed it?”

  I thought about it. “This morning, I guess. When I woke up.”

  “And look at it!” Mary declared. “It’s four in the afternoon, and your hair is still perfect. Even the bangs are perfectly straight.”

  “Give me a break,” I sighed. “You’ve lived with me all semester. You know what a total slob I am.”

  “Hah!” Mary cried, putting her hands on her hips.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I demanded.

  “It means hah!” she replied.

  Mary is a very sweet person, and I love her dearly. But she’s not very good at arguing.

  Margie is the great discusser and debater in our room. She loves to tear things apart and put them back together again. She loves to tear people apart too. What I mean is, Margie is very critical. Very opinionated.

  But Mary is from South Carolina. She says people in the South are too polite to be opinionated. So she usually ends every argument with a “Hah!” And that’s that.

  Margie and I both grew up outside of Boston. Sometimes Mary thinks we two Northerners are ganging up on her.

  Margie and I will talk about anything. Anything. But Mary often gets embarrassed. She’s actually very private. She doesn’t like to talk about herself. And she hates to gossip about others.

  I often wonder if the three of us will be friends after college. We’re all so different. But I think the horrible things that have happened this semester have made us a lot closer.

  Mary glanced at the clock on her dresser. “Hey, we’re late, Melanie. Aren’t you going to swim practice?”

  I shook my head and reached for the French book. “Can’t. I have a make-up test in French in half an hour.”

  Mary’s mouth dropped open. “You? A make-up test? How did you miss the test?”

  I sighed. “You remember. I went to see that shrink. Because of my nightmares after the whole thing with Hope across the hall.”

  Mary nodded solemnly. “Oh, yeah. Right.”

  “I saw the doctor three times that week,” I told her. “She really helped me a lot.” I opened the French book. “But I missed a bunch of classes.”