House of the Lost Girls (Flocksdale Files Book 2)

by Carissa Ann Lynch

  Chapter

  Forty-Nine

  I waited till lights out at 10:30 p.m. before inspecting the trunk and its contents. I’d never felt so disappointed to see a stack of books. There was nothing else inside the trunk except the books. I’d been hoping for something that would help me solve the mystery of my mother’s absence.

  I searched through the titles, careful to be quiet in my room. It was filled with classic literature—To Kill a Mockingbird, Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, Animal Farm, and a half dozen others—including The Prince and the Pauper. Some of them I’d read, but most of them I hadn’t. Despite being a book lover, I was a sucker for the contemporary side of fiction. The “classics” for me came from authors like Chuck Palahniuk, Stephen King, and Carolyn Keene.

  There were only two things in the trunk besides books—an attachable book light and a used bookmark. Great.

  The truth is, I was excited to read. There were rows of books in the hospital’s rec room but it wasn’t like I’d been able to read them, considering my catatonic state and post pseudo-catatonia.

  I closed the trunk and carried The Prince and the Pauper, book light, and bookmark to my bed. I hid beneath the covers, reading the story all night.

  Chapter Fifty

  Basically, The Prince and the Pauper is a story by Mark Twain. It’s a tale of two boys who switch clothes and ultimately, switch places in life. I was enjoying the story itself, lost in the world of London aristocracy, when I saw chicken scratch notes in the margin.

  Sometimes you have to swap places in order to achieve a common goal. Wendi.

  Two pages later, I noticed that one of the words in the middle of a paragraph was highlighted—the word “on.” Why would she highlight one single word, especially a seemingly insignificant word, like “on”?

  But then I found more random highlighted words. She was trying to tell me something. I was certain of it. Some sort of screwy code. In one section, she even went so far as to only highlight individual letters.

  I had no access to writing instruments without supervision. I guess in the eyes of the doctors, pens or pencils could be used to gouge our eyes out. Or slit our wrists. I thought about Wendi making those slicing motions with her wrists when she told me about George’s mom, Claire. And then I thought about Sam and all that blood in the photograph…

  Focus, Marianna! I started back at the first highlighted word, and began to read aloud, keeping my voice at a steady, safe whisper. I tried to string it all together to form a coherent message.

  On the date let us change places find f i l e bottom of gift change b r i d g e will be crossed to avoid gate the key in c e m e t e r y of my love.

  When I was young, I used to love puzzles. That was, until I realized how much I sucked at them. I’d always had a touch of attention deficit disorder, and I lacked the patience and concentration skills required for puzzle solving.

  I stared at the word salad. It made me want to strangle Wendi all over again. What was she trying to tell me?

  I considered the first few words: “on the date”—what date? “Let us change places”—okay, that sort of made sense. “Bottom of gift”—what gift? I stopped there, mulling over the last word I’d read. Today Wendi had given me a gift—the trunk. So, was she telling me to search for a file at the bottom of the trunk?

  ***

  I waited till nightfall again. What sort of file was I looking for? In my mind, I pictured the manila folder Detective Fountain brought in, the one with the gory photos of Sam. I breathed through my nose, blocking out the frightful images that were trying to break free and consume me.

  I focused on the task at hand, lifting every single book out of the trunk. Nothing but a soft, velvety bottom remained. Even if I wanted to tear through the thin liner, I didn’t have anything remotely sharp to do it with.

  I ran my hands along the bottom, but it felt fairly smooth. I needed something sharp to penetrate the liner, but what? I looked around the room for anything that might work. Everything had round edges and smooth lines in my room. Nothing pointy.

  I needed scissors or a pocket knife or one of those homemade shanks you see people with in prison. If this were a movie, I’d have already figured out a way to design one. But this was normal life and I was…well, me. I nearly failed art and shop, my strengths mostly geared toward “right-brain” activities.

  If I had something slightly sharp I could tear the bottom open. Like even a nail file would work…a nail file. A file! Was it possible she’d hidden a nail file somewhere in my room? I looked under my bed and rug, then pulled open drawers and cabinets. I waited nervously by my door, expecting a staff member to bust in and catch me moving around in the dark. Nothing.

  Wendi was only here for a few minutes today, I considered. If she’d hidden something, it had to be in the trunk. But all the trunk contained were books. I stared at them, stacked on the floor in rows.

  Squatting on the floor in front of them, I began flipping through the pages of each book. Looking for a word or chapter heading titled “file,” or a real-life file stuck between the pages. Frustrated, I flipped each book over, shaking them side to side, hoping for something to fall out from their pages. Nothing did, but I did notice that a couple pages in the center of Jane Eyre were stuck together.

  The pages clung together like one solid sheet. I pried them open, careful not to rip them because destroying books was sacrilegious. I was stunned and overjoyed as I found a silver nail file taped between the pages.

  Chapter

  Fifty-One

  Now that I had the nail file, I was beside myself with excitement about solving part of Wendi’s cryptic message. But now what was I supposed to do with the file? I tried to remember all of the word salad, but in my excitement, I’d forgotten some of it.

  I flipped through the pages containing highlighted words. Once again, I read through them.

  On the date let us change places find f i l e bottom of gift change b r i d g e will be crossed to avoid gate the key in c e m e t e r y of my love.

  So, on the date…the only date she’d given me was Friday. Let us change places…still not sure of the exact meaning. Find file…I’d done that, but it wasn’t at the bottom of the trunk, it was in a book.

  So, now I need to cut the bottom of the liner in the trunk, I presumed. I knelt down, running my hands along the liner again. From what I could tell, there was nothing hiding beneath it. But what did I have to lose?

  The file was thin, dull, and flimsy but I was finally able to make a small tear. Ripping the rest with my fingers, I discovered a flimsy particle board beneath the liner. I was convinced it was a false bottom, though I’d never seen such a thing in real-life.

  There was no way a nail file could penetrate the board. I imagined myself karate chopping the wood. There was no way I could punch my way through the bottom without someone hearing me.

  I suddenly had an idea. I’d have to break the wood in one single attempt, that way if the sound was too loud, I could quickly shut the lid and jump back in bed. I piled the books back inside the trunk, and then I stood on top of the books, pressing my weight down on them. I jumped up and down, once…then twice…and I finally heard a small crack.

  I didn’t know if someone was coming or not, but I decided not to take any chances. I jumped back in bed, my heart racing with excitement and fear. I’d have to wait till tomorrow night to find out what was hidden in the bottom of the trunk.

  Chapter

  Fifty-Two

  I’d planned on waiting till lights out to mess with the trunk, but my curiosity got the best of me. It was a drizzly day, overcast and gloomy. As soon as I heard the distant rumblings of thunder, I waited patiently for a good, hard discharge of thunder, then stomped the shit out of the particle board, exposing the tan, wooden surface below.

  In the bottom of the trunk were two large Ziploc bags filled with what appeared to be hair. Shocked, I took a step back from my discovery. Was there a rotten he
ad in the trunk? Two rotten heads?

  My stomach was in knots, my heart beating, literally, in my throat. Taking a deep breath, I reached down and pulled the bags out, holding them as far away from my face as possible.

  The contents felt too light to be a human head, thank god. I quickly shuffled the books back inside the trunk, then latched the lid. I stuck both bags inside my pillow, still unsure what gruesome artifacts they contained. Then I waited for the nurses to make their final rounds.

  They’d never inspected my pillow before, but that didn’t prevent me from feeling so nervous I nearly puked while I was lying—perfectly, painfully still—getting my vitals recorded for the umpteenth time that day.

  When the nurse left, I let out a relieved breath. With my book light hanging from my mouth, I unsnapped the bag and squeamishly dipped my hand inside the first bag.

  Yes, it was hair. But luckily, no human head was attached. It appeared to be…a wig, of some sort. Hesitantly, I pulled it out. It was long, black, and curly. It sort of looked like Wendi’s hair. I shivered. There was a thin camisole, pale pink leggings, and a fat tube of liquid eyeliner lying crumpled in the bottom of the bag.

  I reached for the other bag, hoping for something that made more sense. This wig was blonde, nearly white like my hair, I noted.

  The only difference in the two bags, besides the wigs’ hair color, was the bag with the blonde wig didn’t contain any clothes or makeup.

  “On the date…change…” I muttered. I considered the story she’d urged me to read, a story about two people swapping places. And the note scribbled in the margins.

  Sometimes you have to swap places in order to achieve a common goal.

  Wendi and I were going to switch places on Friday, but why?

  Chapter

  Fifty-Three

  The night before my “date” with Wendi, I contemplated the rest of her message. After changing, which I presumed to mean swapping out our clothes, wigs, and makeup, the note said something about crossing a bridge and avoiding a gate, and from there I was supposed to find a key at the cemetery of her “love,” presumably her recently deceased husband, Jonathan.

  There was a bridge connecting the institution to Flocksdale, so that had to be what she was talking about. She didn’t want me to take her car and go through the gate of the institution, probably afraid I’d get busted. But why was she doing this for me? What did she want me to do? And how did she expect me to get across that creepy, old walking bridge with its dilapidated beams and cables?

  The idea was really freaking me out, but my desire to escape and see my mother superseded all my fears.

  ***

  Wendi arrived five minutes early, wearing a cream-colored, full-length trench coat reminiscent of Inspector Gadget. Beneath my patient gown were the camisole and colored leggings. We sat there staring at each other, motionless and saucer-eyed. The fact that she looked nervous did nothing to calm my own nerves.

  “Marianna, I’d like to fix your hair today…something nice to make you feel pretty. Would that be okay?” Wendi asked. I didn’t answer her. I couldn’t in case someone was watching on the cameras.

  She got up, disappearing from the room. She returned moments later with the wheelchair. “Now, you’re going to have to help me out a little bit here. You’re too heavy to lift on my own,” she whispered in my ear, as she came around behind me, lifting me beneath my armpits.

  I tried to be as helpful as I could—as much as someone faking catatonia can, I guess. In the wheelchair now, she pushed me to the bathroom adjoining my room. It was fairly roomy, with enough space for handicapped patients to move around comfortably.

  As soon as the door closed behind us, Wendi’s entire demeanor changed. She was a woman on a mission. She put a finger to her lips, prompting me to stay quiet. She stripped out of her coat. Shocked to see her in only bra and panties, my mouth gaped open.

  She pointed at my patient gown, telling me to give it to her. She smiled when she saw I was wearing her clothes below. After she was dressed in my hospital attire and I in her everyday clothes, her eyes widened. “Where’s the wigs and makeup? I should have told you to bring them in here!”

  Panicked, we began quickly changing back into our own clothes, and then she went back out to my pillow, pretending to look for a comb. “Oh, here’s the brush and makeup stuff I need to fix you up!” she announced goofily, playing up this act in case someone was watching or listening on the cameras.

  We quickly changed back and adjusted our wigs on our heads. She helped me smudge the dark, thin liner on my eyes to match her style.

  We stared at ourselves in the mirror. I looked like Wendi Wise, only younger. Wendi handed me a pair of sunglasses from her purse. They would definitely help me get out of here easier.

  I stared at Wendi with her white-blonde wig combed over to hide half her face, and the dull, off-white hospital gown I wore day in and day out. The final last touch was the trench coat. I slipped it on, just as Wendi slid into her new seat in my wheelchair.

  “In case you didn’t understand the message—cross the bridge and get the keys—”

  We were both startled as the door to my room opened. I could hear the nurse out there, shuffling around the room.

  “Miss Bertagnoli, where are you? Are you in the bathroom?” the nurse demanded irritably.

  “We’re in here, finishing up!” Wendi shouted. “I fixed her hair so she’d feel pretty.”

  “How nice,” the nurse muttered rudely. “Well, come on out now. Visiting hours are over.”

  Trying not to hyperventilate, I pushed open the door to the bathroom and wheeled Wendi out. I reached down and hugged her, then walked out of the hospital room. I knew where the exit was from our outings, and I tried to walk coolly, maintaining my composure.

  In the hallway, I passed by familiar nurses and doctors, but no one seemed to notice me. And if they did, they assumed I was Wendi.

  The exit doors loomed ahead, the bright red letters like shiny, beckoning diamonds. I slammed the metal exit bar, surprised to learn it was already dark. Now I had to cross the bridge.

  Chapter

  Fifty-Four

  Rusty bits of wire were the only things holding up the rotten wooden planks on the walking bridge. Raggedy, mangy ropes on each side were the only things I had to hold on to. I placed one foot on the first plank, holding my breath.

  It seemed to support my weight, at least one of my feet. Counting to ten, I stepped on the ancient, dilapidated bridge, gripping the ropes as though I might actually be able to hold myself up if the floor dropped out from under me.

  I didn’t see any warning signs, like—“You’d be stupid to cross this bridge,” for instance. I walked, clenching my teeth with each creak and shake of the boards. Watching my feet as I crept along, it was hard to be believe that these crappy, moth-eaten boards were the only thing separating me from the rocky, rough waters below. The thought of it terrified me.

  The night August air was surprisingly cool, tiny puffs of my frantic breath displayed in front of me. There wasn’t a sound in the world—only the rocking rhythms of the flimsy bridge, and the creaking wires holding it up. I forced myself to keep my head up, focusing on the goal at hand—getting to the other side. Wendi was taller than me, and her trench coat dragged across the ground. For a moment, I was worried I might trip over the fabric and plunge into the waters below. “Go Gadget go,” I mumbled, humming that stupid Inspector Gadget theme song and trying to stay calm.

  The House of Horrors waited on the other side, watching me. Laughing. I didn’t know which was more frightening—what lay beneath me, or what lay ahead. Staring at the House of Horrors, I decided it was no contest…what lay ahead was much worse.

  Chapter

  Fifty-Five

  My heart was racing as I descended the rickety staircase leading below the walking bridge. I was safe! Well, not safe…but at least I hadn’t plunged to my death in the river below.

  I could hear my pulse in my
ears. I’d love for those nurses to take my vitals now, I thought sarcastically. It was dark and I was wearing my Wendi get-up, but I had to be careful now. They would eventually discover that Wendi wasn’t me at the institution, but I didn’t want to fuck up on my end by running into George and getting caught sooner than I had to.

  Instead of turning left toward the House of Horrors, I made a right for Baumans Lane. Even though I wasn’t Wendi, and she wasn’t here to help me either, I felt better walking down her street than mine.

  The cemetery was on the outskirts of town, not far from the ‘Fuck Flocksdale’ welcome sign. I followed Baumans Lane past Saints Road—Sam’s road—my chest tightening as I thought of him. He was dead because of me. I couldn’t even imagine what his parents must be going through, grieving for their teenage son.

  I took as many back roads as possible and cut through a few back lawns. I’d never been to a cemetery at nighttime before. Doing it seemed so taboo. But if I could survive someone trying to run me over, that nightmare of a bridge, the death of my boyfriend, that freaky clown, and possibly a murderous step-dad, I could handle a stupid little cemetery.

  But it wasn’t so little, I soon learned. It seemed small from the road, but once I was inside, I realized there were hundreds of rows of graves in the narrow plot. They went so far back, I had to squint in the dark to see them all.

  Hoping they were in alphabetical order, I started looking for the last name Milby, for Wendi’s deceased husband. Too bad Wendi didn’t think to leave a clue telling me which row it was in.