by R. L. Stine
I tear off the rest of my clothes and throw them in a heap, pull back the white bedspread, and pile into bed. And ta-da—there she is, emerging from the bathroom wearing nothing but a red-lipped smile. And what a body.
Oh man, am I ready for her!
Her hair falls over her face as she slides toward me on the bed, and I—
I—
Ohh, I feel sick.
She’s untied her braid. She’s let her hair loose.
And as she turns out the bed table light, it’s Mom. Yes. Mom’s hair falling over her face, in shadow now but I can still see it and remember it. Her hair always too long and parted in the middle, hanging straight down like witches’ hair. Mom was too old to have such long hair, all ratty and tangled. Like her brain.
Oh, Ellen.
Your hair is too long and too free.
I grab it in both hands and pull her face to mine. I kiss her hard, too hard maybe. She lets out a little cry. I keep my grip on her hair even though it makes me sick. Sick and angry.
Ellen, why did you untie it? Why did you do this to me?
Oh yes. I fuck her. But it isn’t right. It isn’t what I wanted. She moans and moves with me, head tossed back, long, black hair spread over the pillow like a puddle of spilled ink.
I shut my eyes and fuck her. I have to shut my eyes. Her hair is alive like a million snakes.
Eyes shut, I see each hair curling, coiling, writhing around her face, a million snakes.
I remember your hair, Mom. Does that surprise you? Does it surprise you that it still disgusts me?
I come with a soft groan, ease myself out of her quickly, and open my eyes.
The hair is all I can see. It glistens with sweat now, still fanned out on the pillow. Still breathing hard, she smiles and reaches for me, wiggling her finger.
But I raise my arm and drive my elbow hard into her larynx.
A choked whistle escapes her throat. Like the last bit of air going out of a balloon.
Her eyes bulge. She can’t breathe. I drive my elbow into her throat again, and I hear something crack.
Her whole body jerks up, knees rising, arms shooting out. A reflex, I guess.
I cry out as her hair begins to move. It lifts off from the pillow, flying straight up around her face, reaching up, the long snakes reaching for me, wanting to pull me down, down, down to her face. Her face tilted at a strange angle now, eyes shut.
Is she breathing?
I don’t think so.
But her hair still rises up, whipping at me, slapping at me, wrapping around my wrists, trying to grab me. What can I do about her hair?
I jump out of bed. I’m off-balance, for some reason. I glance back and see the hair standing straight up, waving in the air like black wheat.
I have to deal with it.
I find a pair of scissors in a sewing drawer. I click the scissors as I return to the bed, click them open and shut as if sharpening them.
I’m excited.
I can deal with the hair now. I have to deal with it. I can’t let it stand up like that. I can’t let it grab me and coil around me.
I remember this hair with such dread, such embarrassment. Mom, you are too old to leave your hair this long.
Snip, snip.
The problem is easy to solve. Why is my hand trembling? I grab Ellen’s head, hold on to it to steady myself, and then continue cutting. Snip, snip. I’m cutting close to her scalp. I’m making it nice and short.
It doesn’t take long. Why am I breathing so hard? It’s really hard to catch my breath. I guess it’s just the excitement.
When I’m finished, I toss the scissors onto the bed. I’m holding long, thick strands of her hair in each hand. It’s lifeless now, like Ellen, dead and limp and oily. It doesn’t wave or whip around or try to grab me.
Yes, a victory. The hair is mine. But what can I do with it? I can’t leave it here. I can’t carry it around.
Sometimes ideas just flash into your mind when you need them. Gripping the hair in my hands, I cross the room to Ellen’s desk. I find a large, manila mailing envelope. Yes, perfect. I stuff the hair into the envelope. It makes a nice bulge. I try to flatten it.
It’s a gummed, self-sticking envelope. I pull off the strip of paper and seal the envelope tight.
Very good. Very good.
Now what?
I jump as behind me, Ellen lets out a loud burp. Just air escaping.
You’re dead. Leave me alone, Ellen. I’m still dealing with your hair.
Now what? Now what?
Oh, yes. I’m good under pressure.
Here is Ellen’s address book. A flat, green leather book with lined pages. Her handwriting is neat and tiny.
I pick out a page at random. I run my finger down it, then stop at a name. Katie Marvin. Must be one of Ellen’s friends. She lives in Quincy, Massachusetts. Excellent.
I tear out the page from the address book. I find a pen in the desk drawer. My hand trembles as I address the envelope. Katie Marvin . . . Quincy, MA. Katie, you’ll receive a nice surprise in the mail.
Tomorrow I’ll be sending you a souvenir of your old friend Ellen.
30
I hurried to work Monday morning and got there an hour early because there was a FurryBear manuscript I was supposed to read for Saralynn. Rita was reading it first, and I asked her to make a copy for me so I could take it home over the weekend. But, of course, Rita forgot.
So now here I was at 8:45 on a Monday morning searching Rita’s desk for it. FurryBear’s Big Toothache, one of those books that teach kids not to be afraid to go to the dentist.
No. Not on Rita’s desk. Did she deliberately hide it so I couldn’t read it on time? My best guess was that she took the only copy home with her on Friday to make sure she had read it and I hadn’t.
I was always dreaming up conspiracies where Rita was concerned. And I was usually right.
I accidentally bumped the mouse on Rita’s computer, and the monitor flared to life. I watched as it came into focus—a cosmetic surgery Web site. Lots of face photos, befores and afters.
Apparently, Rita had neglected to go offline before she went home on Friday. Was she planning to have some work done? She was my age, maybe even younger. Why would an attractive girl of twenty-three or twenty-four, with dozens of men after her, be thinking of cosmetic surgery? Was Rita more insecure than I imagined? Or more vain?
I straightened her stack of manuscripts and, sighing, returned to my cubicle. I really didn’t want to think about Rita. She was a total bitch, and I was praying for the day when I saw her hurrying out on her lunch break with a résumé in her hand, sneaking off to a job interview somewhere else.
Would I celebrate the day Rita left? Does a bird have lips?
I took a sip of the latte I’d bought at the Starbucks next to our office building and thought about my bird series. It wasn’t going well. So far, I hadn’t been able to find the right authors.
I turned to my computer and pulled up the four summaries of the books I was supposed to do. I squinted at the screen, but my mind went to Colin and Saturday night.
He could see I was shaken when he took me home. I couldn’t stop thinking about the guy in the hood, the guy who’d chased me down that dark, frightening street and then disappeared when Tommy appeared.
It couldn’t have been Colin. Colin said he was inside the restaurant, talking with the chef. And why would Colin put on a hood, hide his face, and come after me like that? He had no reason to frighten me.
It had to be Jack or Brad, I decided. Unhappy that I was out with Colin. Did that make sense? Not much.
Sitting in the cubicle, running this through my mind, I started to shake. My teeth chattered. I had to fight back the tears.
There was poor Ann-Marie, her arm sliced up and down, unable to lose the paralyzing headaches. All because of me. And now some creep in a hood was coming after me to . . . to . . . slice me, too? To kill me?
Get it together. Get it together. A few weeks fro
m now, life will be normal. Peaceful. And maybe Colin and I . . . Colin and I . . .
The phone rang. I glanced at the clock. The office wasn’t even open yet. Who would be calling? I pushed line one and picked up the phone. “FurryBear Press. This is Lindy.”
“Lindy, hi. You’re there.”
“Who is this? Jack?”
“Yeah. It’s me. How’s it going?”
“Jack, I didn’t think you had my office number.”
“I’m a good detective. You busy for lunch? I’m going to be in your neighborhood.”
A long pause here.
I was still trembling, still feeling shaky. Don’t say no. Keep saying yes.
“Okay,” I said. “Why don’t I meet you in front of my building.”
I have to call Tommy, I thought. Make sure he has someone watching us.
Jack started telling me about these important meetings he had in the city this morning. Saralynn came in. She glanced into my cubicle, saw that I was on a personal call, and strode quickly to her office.
I could feel my face grow hot. Why couldn’t Saralynn come in and see me working? Why did she have to see me sitting here talking to Jack?
It took awhile to get off the phone with Jack, but I finally managed it. “I don’t want to have lunch with you,” I muttered. “I want you to go away and never come back.”
Rita strolled in and saw me talking to myself. She offered me a cheery “Hiya.” I watched her unpack a Starbucks cappuccino and a jelly doughnut. “How do you get away with that?” I asked. “You’re skinny as a rail.”
“It’s a skim milk cappuccino,” she replied. I couldn’t tell if she was kidding or not.
Saralynn called the two of us into her office for our weekly Monday morning meeting. She cleared away a stack of files, and we sat down at the round glass table in the corner of her office by the window. A wonderful view. I stared out at the Empire State Building and the Chrysler building, gleaming in the morning sunlight.
A giant stuffed FurryBear sat on one end of her green leather couch, a permanent guest. Framed book covers covered the wall behind the couch, a very colorful display. FurryBear had won a Nickelodeon Kids’ Choice Award as Book Series of the Year, and the trophy—a bright orange blimp—stood prominently on Saralynn’s glass-top desk.
Saralynn passed out a printed agenda for the meeting. There were only three of us, but she wanted to show how efficient she is. “Lindy, any authors on board for our lovely bird series?”
Ouch. “Well, no. I’m having lunch with a woman tomorrow. She’s from the Natural History Museum and she says she has a lot of contacts.”
Frowning, Saralynn shuffled through her folder of schedules.
“I know I’m a little late signing up authors—” I started.
Rita jumped in. “Lindy asked me to help her find some people and I have three or four who might work.”
Saralynn’s frown disappeared. “Oh, that’s good, Rita.” She set down the schedules.
Rita turned to me. “I’ll give you the list when we’re through here.”
“Thanks,” I said weakly.
I’d bet a million dollars Rita didn’t have a list.
“Well, follow up on that, Lindy,” Saralynn said, making a check mark next to that item on her agenda. “Let’s not get too far behind. We don’t want to make our friends at Grosset nervous before we even begin.”
“Uh-huh,” I offered, thinking of a dozen ways I could murder Rita.
“Number two on the list today,” Saralynn said, pressing the top of her pen to her lips. “The FurryBear toothache manuscript. Have you both read it?”
“Well, no—” I said.
“Yes. I had a few problems with it,” Rita said, sliding the manuscript out of her bag and setting it down on the table.
Saralynn had her eyes on me, an accusing stare. “It’s only twenty pages long. You didn’t have time to read it?”
“It’s not that,” I said, feeling my cheeks go red again. Should I rat on Rita? Why not! “I asked Rita to make a copy for me on Friday afternoon, and I guess she forgot.”
Saralynn pointed the pen toward me. “And you didn’t remind her?”
“Well—”
“Did you ask me for a copy?” Rita looking all wide-eyed and innocent now. “I’m so sorry, Lindy. I didn’t hear you.”
Should I punch her in the face? Should I just reach across the table and punch her so hard she’ll need cosmetic surgery?
“Maybe if you’re not too busy,” Saralynn said pointedly to me, “you could read it today. It doesn’t go to the copy editor till tomorrow.”
“Oh. Fine. Good.” I knew I was blushing, blushing from anger. What could I do about it?
That’s pretty much how the whole meeting went. Rita just knows how to play Saralynn, and I don’t have a clue. I do twice as much work as Rita. In fact, I usually end up doing half of her work. But somehow she gets twice as much credit and praise, and manages to make me look like a pathetic loser at the same time.
Saralynn stood up and crossed the office to her desk, which meant the meeting was over. Rita turned to me at the door. “I’ll get that list of authors for you,” she said with a sickly sweet smile. “I hope it helps you out of your jam.”
“Great,” I said through gritted teeth. I started to follow her out the office door, but Saralynn put a hand on my shoulder, holding me back. She waited till Rita was back in her cubicle.
“This is a very small office, Lindy,” she said in a low, steady voice, her silvery eyes locked on mine. “You really have to try harder to get along with Rita. She’s only trying to help you.”
Oh, wow.
Not my morning. Rita wins big-time.
I nodded and slunk away like a wounded bird. Should I be thinking of ways to kill myself instead of Rita? Maybe throw myself on my letter opener?
Rita had that same sickly sweet smile on her face as I passed her cubicle. Had she overheard Saralynn?
“Do you have that author list for me?” I asked, my voice trembling.
She shrugged. “Must have left it at home this morning. I was in such a rush. I’ll bring it tomorrow.”
My hands were balled into tight fists. I could feel the anger well up in my chest.
I turned—and let out a startled gasp. “Brill! Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
His eyes went wide behind his Buddy Holly glasses. “Sorry.” He was very dapper in a charcoal pinstriped suit, a pale blue dress shirt, and a bright red-and-white-polka-dot bow tie. Brill is the only one who dresses up for the office, and I’m sure he thinks the rest of us are total slobs.
“Someone called for you,” he said. “While you were in with Saralynn. It was kinda strange. It came to my phone. The person was whispering. I could barely hear. I put it through to your voice mail.”
“I wonder if someone’s sick,” I said. My heart started to pound. A whispered phone message? I thanked Brill and hurried to my cubicle.
I could see Rita’s eyes on me. I picked up the phone and pressed the MESSAGE key. After a few seconds, I heard the whispered voice, a fake, strained whisper that sent chills down my back:
“Saturday night was fun, Lindy. Just keep saying yes.”
Ohmigod! Saturday night?
Colin.
31
So a kid came up to FurryBear at a stage show. I think it was at the Ohio State Fair. And when FurryBear reached down to hug the boy, the kid grabbed his nose and pulled it off.”
Brad tapped out his cigarette. “This was a guy in a costume, right? You don’t really believe in FurryBear, do you?”
“Yes. Of course it was a guy in a costume. But this was in front of about ten thousand people. So FurryBear took back the nose from the little boy, and he held it up in both hands, and he blew on it really hard. And he said, ‘Always remember to blow your nose, kids.’ ”
Brad uttered a weak laugh. “Ha ha. Funny.”
I shrugged. “I thought it was funny. Guess you had to be there.”
“No. I’ll save them for another time. Oh. Well. There was one time when there was a screwup, and two FurryBears showed up at the same mall. And they got into a fight—”
“Yeah. Save it for another time,” Brad said. I think he was teasing me, but he said it with a kind of scowl.
Yes, Saturday night and I was out with Brad Fisher. The charade continued. Yes, lunch with Jack Smith. Yes, drinks with Colin on Thursday night. Yes, Brad Fisher on Saturday. And still no results from Tommy Foster and the police.
“I can’t keep doing this,” I told Tommy over the phone after seeing Colin on Thursday night. “I’m going crazy. How could I sit there and act like everything was okay with Colin? He could see I was a nervous nut.”
“Calm down,” Tommy said. “Take a breath. We’re gonna catch this guy. We’re getting close, Lindy.”
“Getting close? How?”
“I’m on it,” Tommy said. I could hear him tapping keys on his computer. “I’m on it like white on rice.”
“I hate that expression,” I snapped.
I suddenly began to think Tommy was acting like a jerk. Someone was threatening my life. They’d been in my apartment. They knew where I worked. They attacked my roommate. And he sat there typing while he talked to me, only half listening.
And what kind of advice was he giving? Why should I keep saying yes to these guys when one of them could be a homicidal maniac?
“I’m on it like brown on rice,” he said.
“Tommy, are you making jokes? If you think this is funny, I’m just going to hang up.”
His tone changed. “I don’t think it’s funny, Lindy. That’s why I took the case myself.”
“It’s not a case. It’s my life!”
“I’m keeping an eye on Colin O’Connor, okay? I told you I did a profile on him. He checks out okay. But I won’t rely on that. I know it’s hard, but you have to chill a bit. You sound really stressed.”
“You—you want me to chill?” I stammered. “And to keep saying yes to these guys?”
“Not for much longer. The guy will give himself away, Lindy. And when he does, I’ll have someone there. I promise.”
“I don’t know how much longer . . . ,” I started. I suddenly pictured Colin’s apartment, Colin making love to me, groaning softly as he moved above me. He was so gentle . . . so loving.