House of the Lost Girls (Flocksdale Files Book 2)

by Carissa Ann Lynch

  When cheers rang out, signaling the grand finale, I knew it was time to go back. “See ya later,” I warned, poking him playfully. He responded with a sleepy grunt, handing over my purse and keys. My parents were expecting me to be at home, wrapped up in a blanket, sick from a terrible bout of the stomach flu. But here I was, hanging out with the town’s misfits.

  I said goodbye to Lexi and Christa, who were perched half-drunk on stools in Lou’s kitchen. Used cans of spray paint lay toppled over on the floor. I think I know who vandalized the welcome sign, I thought, grinning.

  When I got outside, the streets were filled with people, walking away from the show at the river. I joined the herd of walkers, moving back in the direction of Clemmons Street. Or so it seemed.

  I weaved in and out between unfamiliar faces, trying to get a head start to the house, so that I’d beat my mom and George there. But everyone seemed slow, worn out from the day’s celebration.

  To my right was a sign for Baumans Lane—at least that’s what it looked like through my bloodshot eyes. The wine had gone straight to my head, and even though I wasn’t sick earlier like I’d claimed, I felt a little nauseated now.

  Baumans Lane, unlike the street I was currently following, seemed quiet and dark. I veered off right, taking a short cut. The houses on stilts were eerily silent, their owners obviously still out and about, enjoying the show at the river.

  When I finally reached its end, there was another unfamiliar street sign: ‘Salimar Street’. I followed it, then another, for what seemed like an eternity. Nothing looked even vaguely familiar. But why would it? This wasn’t my town. I walked and walked, my feet aching.

  My head clearing slightly, I realized stupidly that I was walking away from the river. The old Victorian was on the water, so if I headed back toward the bank and walked to my right I’d eventually find it.

  I turned back, heading toward the river. I cut through a small cluster of trees and darted across a few lawns. Where was everyone?

  That’s when I saw it—the muddy banks littered with plastic cups, used bottle rockets, and scorch marks. The place where the town had celebrated earlier was now completely deserted. “Wow. I’m definitely not going to beat them back,” I muttered aloud. Apparently, everyone but me was home already, snuggled up tight in their beds.

  I followed the streetlights, keeping my eyes open for that ugly monster George called a house. Suddenly, I felt a touch from behind. “Ahhhh!” I screamed, jerking my arm and taking off at a full sprint. I didn’t stop running, or look back, until my side cramped painfully. I doubled over, gasping for air.

  “I’m sorry I scared you!” shouted a voice from behind me. Sam, from the bookstore, jogged up to me. His face was red with embarrassment, and his unkempt hair swept over his face. “I’m really sorry,” he repeated, bending over beside me.

  When we’d both caught our breath, I shoved his shoulder half-jokingly. “You scared the fuck out of me,” I complained. “You shouldn’t sneak up on the new girl, who also happens to be lost,” I said. He was wearing those dorky glasses of his, and they’d slipped down far on his nose. He had on skinny black jeans and a raggedy hoodie. He’s adorable, I thought instantly. I fought the urge to reach out and brush his hair from his eyes.

  “I saw you, and thought you might be lost. I didn’t want you alone in the dark,” he admitted, his voice softening sweetly.

  “Thanks,” I said, still out of breath from my dash. I started walking and he fell in step beside me. “Sorry I freaked out,” I said, smiling at him sheepishly. “Can you help me find Clemmons Street?”

  “Sure. It’s pretty close, actually.” I’d been walking in circles for an hour, hoping I’d get close to home. But now that I was with him, I didn’t want to be close. I wanted to hang out with him.

  Sure enough, I could see my new house looming ahead in the distance. “Thanks again,” I said, as we reached the flood wall. I noticed, for the first time, scraggly graffiti on the wall. “Where do you live?” I asked.

  “Back that way. Saints Road.” He pointed in the direction we’d come from.

  I remembered Saints Road from today. It’s where George found me and the three amigos.

  I thanked Sam a few more times, then awkwardly said good night. Before I went inside, he said, “Maybe I’ll see you again sometime. At the bookstore, I mean…”

  “You bet,” I said, smiling back at him. I went inside, shocked to find Mom and George’s bedroom door closed, the lights out. They must already be in bed, I thought with a gush of relief. “Thank God,” I muttered, climbing the steps to my room. I jumped back in bed, sinking into the covers.

  I glanced at my book on the floor. I’d better get reading if I want an excuse to go back and see Sam at the bookstore, I thought giddily. After a night spent making out with Lou, I shouldn’t have been thinking of another boy, but I couldn’t help myself.

  Lou was wild and fun, but Sam was the kind of guy I could talk to and be myself around. Plus, he had a kick-ass job. And probably got a discount on books.

  I liked them both—but I liked Sam more.

  Chapter Five

  A loud clanging sound woke me up at two in the morning. I immediately jumped out of bed, heading for my bedroom window. It was closed this time, but I opened it myself, looking out at the darkness worriedly. Tonight the waves were smooth and calm, a strangely serene image. Heat lightning sparked in the distance. The river looked shockingly beautiful.

  There it was again—the sounds of metal hitting stone. It sounded as though it were coming from inside the house. I shut the window, sat down on the bed. I heard it again, coming from downstairs. What the hell?

  I got up, locked my bedroom door, and lay back down on my bed. Hid my face beneath the blankets for the second night in a row.

  I lay awake for nearly an hour, but never heard it again. I was convinced that I’d be up all night, listening, but it didn’t take long for me to drift back off, the strange noise forgotten.

  Chapter Six

  I woke up to more banging sounds. Thankfully, the sun was out this time and the sounds came from a pleasant culprit—the movers were delivering our stuff. They hauled in boxes, placing them all in the foyer and sitting room. George stood guard, arms crossed over his chest, monitoring their progress with a critical eye.

  The front door open, I followed them outside. My bike leaned against the railing of the porch steps. “Woohoo,” I said, patting the seat with pride. I know I should have been bummed about not having a car, but I loved my bike. It got me where I needed to go.

  My dad bought it for me the year before he left, and it’s my most prized possession. It’s a twenty-six inch Schwinn Sidewinder with a black and pink frame. “When I saw it, I saw you,” my dad had said.

  I frowned at the bike as I thought about those stupid words. And my stupid dad.

  I left it where it leaned and went inside, picking through the labeled boxes, looking for my stuff. I found what I was looking for—four boxes with my chicken scratch writing on them, labeled “Books.” I tried to lift the first box, but it barely budged. Damn. I’d have to unload the books and carry them up in piles.

  George’s critical eye had moved to me. “I want those unloaded by tonight, Marianna,” he said drily.

  “Sure thing,” I said, already prying the first box open. “Where’s Mom?”

  “She left last night. Took a flight to New Orleans.” I froze, nearly dropping the books in my arms.

  “What? Why? Why on Earth would she go there? And not say bye to me?” My mother had never gone off before, at least not without me.

  George’s face went soft. He walked over, placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I know that since your dad left, you worry…”

  “This isn’t about my dad!” I retorted, angrily. One of the movers was nearby. He quickly set the box he was carrying down, shuffling back outside.

  “She wouldn’t go somewhere…to New Orleans…without at least telling me.”


  “Well, she got the news suddenly. She left late last night, during the early morning hours. She took a cab to the airport,” he said. So that explains the weird nighttime noises, I thought grumpily.

  “Wait, what news?” I asked confusedly.

  “There’s talk of franchising the Shell Shop. She and Shelley might open up another store near Jackson Square, in New Orleans.” Before I could ask, he said, “That doesn’t mean we’re moving to New Orleans, or that your mom’s leaving you. She’ll help set up the shop there, and hire a manager and employees to run it. This is really exciting news for your mom. She was so happy that she booked the first flight she could get on. Left around two in the morning.”

  I tried to be happy for my mom. I mean, it was terrific news. And more like the mom I knew, the one who cared about her career. But still…did she have to leave so suddenly? Why not just wake me up and tell me? It just didn’t seem like something she’d do. But then again, she’d never received such exciting news about her business before either.

  Finally, I shrugged. Decided not to worry, and just be excited for my mom.

  George’s hand was still on my shoulder. “You okay?” he asked. Again with that uncanny niceness. At least when he was an asshole, it gave me ammunition to dislike him.

  “I’m good. I think I’ll go for a bike ride. If that’s okay,” I said, trying to sound pleasant.

  “Sure, honey. You can put away your things later.”

  I grabbed a banana. It was black and squishy, just the way I liked them. Jumping on my bike, I took off pumping. When I ride, I do it with intensity—a feverishness I can’t control. I love the way my legs burn when I ride as hard and fast as I can. I thought about my mom and our last conversation, houses blurring as I flew by. I’d acted so rudely, refusing to eat all that food she made. I couldn’t help feeling guilty. Why had I been such a bitch to her?

  I’ll call her tonight and apologize, I decided. Without thinking, I was headed back to my new favorite place in Flocksdale—the bookstore.

  Chapter Seven

  “I saw you looking at it the other day,” Sam said, walking toward where I stood in the nonfiction aisle. I was standing in front of that book again, The Horrifying History of Flocksdale. The name itself gave me the heebie jeebies.

  “How did you see me? You were sitting at the counter,” I said suspiciously. Sam smiled. He came up behind me, took my right hand in his, and directed my pointer finger toward a barely visible, overhead camera. For a moment, I pretended not to see it, enjoying his arm on mine. “Creep,” I said, nudging him flirtatiously.

  “Guilty as charged,” he teased, raising his eyebrows. He’s flirting back, I realized.

  “It was written by a local author,” Sam said, serious again. I took it off the shelf, turned it over and back in my hands. The cover contained nearly a dozen small black and white photos. Pictures of dead children before they were dead, I instantly knew.

  The author’s name was Wendi Wise-Milby. She had black wavy hair and an eerie, slightly disturbed half-smile. “She was one of the victims. One of the few to survive,” he said ominously. I shivered, suddenly tempted to shove it back in its place on the shelf. Instead, I carried it with me to the counter.

  Sam rang it up. “Need a bag?” For one book, I didn’t. But I also didn’t want the lovely townsfolk to see me carrying it.

  “Yes, please.”

  He bagged it up while I stood there staring, not ready to say goodbye. He rescued me from the awkward silence. “It’s almost time for my lunch break. Want to go eat with me?” I nodded excitedly, groaning internally at my girlish enthusiasm.

  I sat outside the store on a bench, waiting while he locked up and put out his lunch sign on the door. “There’s no one else to replace you?”

  “Nope. My mom and dad own the store. I work summers. During the school year, I only work weekends and an occasional weekday night,” he explained.

  I followed him two blocks to a small, family-run restaurant. On the way, we passed an old crummy boat with a ‘four sail’ sign on it. I couldn’t help wondering to myself if the misspelling was accidental or a lame attempt at a joke. The latter, I hoped.

  There were only five tables in the whole restaurant. I couldn’t help but laugh. Only one other table was being used. There was an elderly couple; the same cute old man and woman I’d passed on the Fourth of July, I realized. I smiled and nodded at them cordially.

  We ordered sandwiches and fries, then chatted while we waited for our food. He seemed so quiet and introverted when we first met, but he was talkative today. He told me about his siblings, an older brother in college and a sister still in diapers. Usually impatient to get my food, I barely noticed when the pleasant waitress set down our sandwich platters. She was close to our age, with shaggy brown hair and soft green eyes. She smiled at Sam like she knew him.

  “Does she go to Plainview?” I asked. Sam nodded. “Do you like it there? I mean…d-do you think I’ll like it?” I asked, stuttering nervously. Just the thought of going to a new school made my stomach twist in knots.

  “I think I’ll like having you there with me,” he said shyly, smiling down at his uneaten food.

  Finally, we ate. Our silence was comfortable, pleasant even. Just as I’d taken my last bite, I heard a familiar whiny voice. It was Christa. Lexi and Lou trailed behind her.

  They walked up to our table, plopping down rudely in the chairs between us. “Are we spoiling your date?” Lou teased. I was about to say yes when Sam stood up.

  “I got to get back to work anyway.” I tried to stop him from leaving, but he tossed down a twenty, smiled at me grimly, and left through the door. The bell on the door made a soft clink as it closed behind him.

  I couldn’t help feeling disappointed. Our “date,” if you could call it that, had been going so well before they showed up.

  I sighed, turning back to my new friends. I’d only known them a couple days, but my tolerance was growing thin. “We’re going on the boat again today. Wanna come?” Christa asked. Her and that damn boat. Didn’t she think about anything else?

  I finished my Coke and followed them outside. The hot July sun bore down on me, stinging the tops of my shoulders. The sidewalks were crowded, but nothing like the other day. I climbed on my bike, tucking my book bag in the tiny basket below my seat.

  “Come with us, please. I’m sorry for interrupting your lunch with Sam. If he’s your friend, then he’s mine too. I’ll be nicer,” Lou promised. He was standing next to the bike now, holding it steady for me. I thought about our make-out session on Fourth of July. Hanging out with him had been pretty fun.

  “Yes, come! It’s such a pretty day,” Lexi pleaded.

  I sighed. “I guess,” I surrendered. “I can’t ride slowly, even when I try to. So, I’ll just meet you at the river,” I said, taking off on my bike.

  ***

  I waited by the boat ramp, parking my bike next to a shady magnolia tree. I used the opportunity to take a peek at Wendi Wise’s book. I read the first page, an introduction to the author. I was shocked to learn that Wendi still resided in Flocksdale. Her husband was a sergeant for the Flocksdale police force.

  I looked around nervously, tucking the front cover behind the back cover, so no one could catch a glimpse of the title. The loud beep of a truck in reverse startled me, causing me to drop the book to the ground. Despite the hot, dry weather, a gust of wind caught the edge, sending the pages fluttering. I stared at the book, mesmerized, immediately spotting the section in the middle of it, the part containing laminated photos.

  Now normally, I didn’t like to peek ahead at photos, but this wasn’t the sort of book I normally read. I stared at the first page, a picture of a young girl with tight, black braids and a tired, frozen smile. The tiny printed words beneath the photo read:

  Tally Jo Caldwell, age 14, victim. Her remains were uncovered at Hank Garrett’s home, aka “The House of Horrors.”

  Sure enough, the next photograph displa
yed was of this infamous “House of Horrors.” It was a fuzzy, poorly shot picture, but I recognized it nonetheless. I’d been there. It was my lovely new house on Clemmons Street.

  Chapter Eight

  I climbed aboard Christa’s brother’s pontoon boat, my thoughts racing about the photo in the book. Why didn’t anyone tell me? And why the hell would George move me and my mom into that horrible dungeon of death?

  I thought about my room…my bed…what if someone had been killed on that very bed? In my room? The thoughts were too terrifying to even consider. I tried to remind myself that the house had been rebuilt, and neither the bed nor other furnishings were the same, but I couldn’t stop seeing death in that house.

  The boat was rundown, with moldy seats and faded paint. Lou took a seat behind the wheel, while Lexi and Christa sat in the fishermen’s chairs up front. I plopped down in the back bench seat, trying to get a hold of myself.

  For the first time in my life, I was experiencing a weird sensation, something that felt like “tunnel vision.” I could barely catch my breath.

  “You okay?” Lou asked, staring at me curiously.

  “Uh huh,” I replied, looking away from him and out toward the water.

  He started the noisy engine and we pulled away from the ramp. This seemed like a bad idea. What I really needed right now was a calm, quiet place to think and be alone.

  But as we pulled away from the dock and Lou increased his speed, I started to enjoy the loud sounds of the boat and the wind whipping through my hair. My eyes were fixed on the water, watching as the boat sliced through it like a knife.

  There were other boats on the water, but not as many as I would’ve expected. Christa and Lexi popped the tops on their cans of beer. Lexi held one up, offering to bring it to me. I shook my head, ignoring them.