I feel if I tell anyone, they’ll think I’m crazy, they’ll send me to a fucking insane asylum, where I’ll probably become a zombie or end up with a coat hanger shoved up my… ha. I always tell Rose something like that, I always tell her, “Rose, the love of your life was probably aborted by a coat hanger.”
And she always looks at me in disgust. It may be a joke in bad taste. Sure. Killing a baby isn’t a joke. But you can’t be serious all the time.”
From Valerie Hart’s diary
“It’s Friday at 8 AM. Three day weekend, no school today. I haven’t read in weeks. I’ve been up since six. So I woke up, pissed, drank water, and read. It was an escape.
I smiled when I read. It was fun to forget my life.
I heard Mom downstairs around seven. I went down to see her and see why she was up so early, and she was going to the gym. She asked if I wanted to accompany her, but I said no. Even though it’s a good stress reliever I didn’t have the energy in me. I was drained. She pointed that out too, that I had bags under my eyes.
When I got back to my room I looked in the mirror. Mom was right. There were black bags under my eyes. Sleepiness hovered around me.
After that, I grabbed this journal and Sweetarts and here I am.
I’m bored. I need something to do. Something new.
This whole town… I think it does something to you. Like it shouldn’t be real. I can feel it in the air. I can see it in the way the sky is always black. Why is it black? I’ve been to other places. The sky is blue. But here it’s black and nobody ever says anything. And it gets cold and rains often. It’s off-putting.
So what is there to do?
I wish I knew. I’m having fun writing here, at least. Expressing myself. Maybe this book is all I need.
Athena Hendrasen has been on my mind.
She called me sick. Is it that simple?
‘You’re sick,’ were her words. And I definitely felt like I had a cold in that dream.
Am I sick? Everything she said was cryptic. I’m shivering with the thought of her. With the thought of that beach. But the beach, the treehouse, the lady in that black dress, they’re all coming for me. I feel it. I want an escape. I want away from them. I want Avery Mitchell back.”
From Valerie Hart’s diary
“I looked out the window at the rain. The sky is raven black tonight, darker than usual. There’s a small path of cracked cement along the house. There’s dead grass too, and from between some cracks in the path there’s a flower. I don’t know what kind. It’s a foot tall, with long petals. There’re vines with leaves on the side of our house, too.
I can picture an ant climbing the flower before the rain started. A stranded ant, lost and turned around. Who knows how he got there.
I hear the air whistling between my house and the neighbor’s. It rocks the flower’s petals. And I just picture this ant on it. And I picture the first few raindrops hitting it. I can see it knocking the ant to the edge of the razor-shaped leaf.
And I just know that if this ant is there, and if this is happening, he’ll be fine.
Until the morning, that is. The rain’ll be long since over. The ant will wake up and rush down the flower. And there will be water collected on the leaf above him.
Then the whistling wind’ll shake the leaf, and the water—an ocean to him—will fall on him. He’ll be whisked down in terror.
And I see the ant escaping the water, walking in a scattered frenzy. And the rain starts again. Rainy, rainy Carpenter.
A stream flows down the side of my house and grabs the ant. It clutches him, it flows down to the alley, he can’t escape it. It flows all the way into the sewer drain. The ant is dead.”
From Valerie Hart’s diary
“It’s Sunday night. I’m getting ready to watch a movie before bed. Rose came by today, we played Uno and talked.
‘Mom finally agreed to let me take acting classes so I’m happy she finally said yes I can’t believe it!’ Rose said all in one breath.
‘Awesome,’ I said.
‘Do you think I’m a good actress?’ Rose asked. ‘Do you think I’ll actually do good or have a career or something?’
I rolled my eyes, ‘You barely act. When do you act? I don’t know, I never see you act.’
I laughed so hard when she replied. She said, ‘Keep rolling your eyes and maybe you’ll find a brain back there. Jerk.’
She never says stuff like that. I guess it’s funnier if you know her. Poor panicky Rose.
‘Well, start practicing,’ I said. ‘Before your classes start. Bitch.’
And she went on about her excitement. I hope she does make it and succeeds.
‘How are you doing?’ Rose asked. ‘After, well, you know after you… after Avery—‘
‘After we broke up? I said. ‘I’ll be okay.’
“But—”
‘I’m okay, Rosie.’
Rose seemed surprised. Then she changed the subject and brought up her shitty favorite show about some annoying kids on bikes.
But I thought of Avery. I miss him.
Goddammit.”
From Valerie Hart’s diary
“The sun would be shining if Carpenter were a normal place. And I’m sure it’s shining somewhere, but not here. It’s been blotted out from the sky. All is darkness, all is cold here. It’s Tuesday and I’m in study hall. I didn’t dream last night. A relief. It felt like a time skip. I lay on my stomach, closed my eyes, and the back of my neck tingled as if something was about to grab me.
But sleepiness took over me. Suddenly, it was the next morning, and I didn’t remember a thing. But something happened. And I can’t remember how, I can’t remember why… there was a knife under my pillow.
I found it in the morning. It was one from our kitchen, I recognized it. But under my pillow? It got there… how?
My arm was under the pillow, and in the morning I felt sharp coldness on it. I moved my pillow back, holding my breath, and it was there.
But how?
The more I thought about it, the more I remembered one thing: I did wake up in the middle of the night, probably at two or three in the morning. And it was colder than usual. As cold as I’ve ever felt. My window was open, and the wind traced me like the fingers of ghosts.
So I got up and shut it, went back to bed, shut my eyes, and I was knocked out. And in the morning: a knife.
I don’t understand. I just don’t understand.”
“I just got home from school, I rushed here, I ran, I was out of breath after a block but I kept running, I needed to see under the pillow again. I needed to know why the knife was there. Upon entering my room I looked to the window first. It was shut but my room was still chilly.
I hesitated, walked to my bed, and pulled back the pillow quickly. There was nothing under there. Nothing at all. The red sheets looked back at me, empty, and if they could talk, they’d laugh at me.
I looked all over my room. Nothing still. No clue of why the knife was with me.
There was a small hole in the ceiling. Thinner than a pencil. I noticed it for the first time. Then I went back to searching my room. No reason for the knife to be there, none at all. I put the knife in the sink. Under a few plates. I felt like I had abandoned it.”
From Valerie Hart’s diary
“I dreamed I was Mary Gardner. Or, I guess, in her place, on the day she was killed. My hair was in that shitty feathered hairstyle. I was standing in front of her class. I’d be damned if I knew what she even taught.
I guess I was already damned. Damned to die. Condemned to hell.
Out of the window I saw the woman in the black dress. I took a step back and put a hand on my chest. ‘Jesus Christmas!’ I said.
I didn’t take my eyes off her, and she vanished. The class looked at me and I yelled ‘Just go! Everybody go! You’re dismissed! Leave!’ and when only a couple students stood, I yelled again ‘Leave now! You can leave!’
They got the idea and hurried out. I was alone in
the room. And I… I didn’t remember where they found her. I didn’t know jack shit about this lady.
Then I cried. Just a little. I was in control. I knew it was a dream. But I didn’t want to die. Even in a dream, I’m scared of death. It’s taken me so long to admit it, but I am. I’m scared of death. I don’t want to go.
I rushed out of the school (I wonder if I dreamed the right school, or if my dream made it up) then found her car in one of the closest parking spots. I just knew it was her car somehow. I patted my pockets for the keys… realizing I left the purse in her classroom.
So I went back in a big panic. Teachers stared at me, yet everyone was so distant. I couldn’t say a word to them, and they couldn’t say a word to me. They weren’t real, they just observed. They watched me with cold, lifeless eyes, eyes probably made of glass. All the sickos watched me.
I found the keys and purse. I left back to the car.
I slammed the door and drove, not knowing where to go.
I was at a red light when a knock came on the passenger window. I almost floored it into the red light. It was him. He saw me. He wanted me. He wanted to kill—I could see it in his filthy eyes as he studied me, undressed me with them, and in his mind he already killed me. My hours—no! my minutes were numbered. Death was approaching. In the distance, far behind him, I saw her in the shadows. Athena Hendrasen watching me as well.
The window rolled down on its own. I looked back to the light and hoped it was green, but it was frozen on red. I knew it wouldn’t change until he got in. Cars passed through the intersection rapidly. I couldn’t even try it, I’d be dead. I knew it was a dream but I didn’t want to die. I wanted to wake up.
His face was pallid. He wasn’t so bad looking. His fingernails had black dirt under them. He smiled big and welcoming… yet dirty. He was a dirty man. A pervert. A sicko.
Then he was in the seat. The light turned green.
‘Go on!’ he said, pointing to the light. My own words I told the students rang in my ears. Leave now. I can leave.
I drove.
And he pulled out a knife. A small knife.
‘The turn’s coming, Mary,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget it now. 90th street.’
I made a right, arrived at his house. It was away from everybody’s and a tad rundown. It had his workshop right next to it a few feet down. In the backyard he had a shed. The backyard was the biggest in town probably. So I parked and he invited me in. But I wasn’t in control. The remnants of Mary were in control. He said he wanted to show me something in the shed. I knew what was coming… but we went in the shed and he didn’t kill me. He showed me something—I wasn’t paying attention to what, I was so nervous—and I said I needed to go.
Then he said, ‘Let me at least give you a buck for the gas, ma’am.
And I nodded. I went inside the house with him, I tried to resist but Mary was in control, it was her body, she walked inside and all I could do was scream inside my mind and beg her not to. But she’d never hear me.
Then, as I shut the door, he choked me until my eyes rolled back and I gave up the ghost. I could feel myself still possessing the body. I felt death firsthand. I never want to again.
Then he took me to the crawlspace. He touched my body. Just touched. He touched her (Mary), he touched me (Valerie). He smiled and rubbed his hand against me. I wish I could erase it from my memory but I can’t.
After a while he left and came back with a butcher knife. I… I can’t. I don’t want to relive the rest of the torture he put me through.
I woke up and thought it was real. I thought I was Mary. But I’m just Valerie. And I’m thankful for that. The Sunday Slasher killed Mary and… I felt it all.
From Valerie Hart’s diary
“‘How was your weekend?’ Rose asked me. Rose had spent it at Shelly’s house.
‘Uneventful,’ I said.
And it was. I tried my hardest not to sleep. The short sleep works best. Three or four hours. I won’t dream. I feel sick as shit, but it works.
The three or four hours will still scare me though. I’m terrified of sleep. I know if I dream again, I’ll be sucked back into the world of the treehouse. Of the lady in the black dress. Of Athena. Of the Sunday Slasher. I can’t handle it.
I can’t go on.
Do I kill myself? Is that what my dreams want? Do I end it? I don’t know. I’m sick. I’m very sick.
I need help.
I’m in class right now. I’m pretending to take notes.
I can’t help but feel I’ll fall asleep as I write this…”
Chapter Eleven
From Rose Hawthorn’s diary
“I looked the Sunday Slasher in the eyes.
It was another dream. I was his next victim. The college girl. I don’t remember her name, but I was her. It was a very wicked dream. I didn’t know it was a dream, not at first. I was her. It felt real. I swear it was real.
He was charming. To the college girl, he was charming. It was easy to get her on a date with him. He was mysterious and she loved it. Her pale cheeks were cherry red whenever she was with him.
She smiled at him as he drove her on a date. Their relationship was a secret—her parents wouldn’t have allowed it. Every moment with him felt right.
The Sunday Slasher parked in the woods. It was dark, and they were the only souls. They could get away with it. It was like they had the whole damn world to themselves. It felt naughty. That made it even better. He kissed her. That’s when I realized it was me… and I could do nothing.
Nothing but feel it. Feel his lips on mine. Enjoy it. Enjoy it as much as she did. I loved the feel of the bastard. I loved his hands on my back… his dirty hands… his disgusting hands… they traced me, but I was her, and I loved it.
And when I was half undressed, he choked me.
My eyes opened wide with shock. I knew it was coming, but I am Valerie, and she wasn’t, and she didn’t know. I felt the surprise tingle along my spine. My body (her body?) convulsed as I prayed for air. My hands beat weakly against his body. My closing eyes caught that humorless grin that encased sparkling teeth.
He threw me down. The college girl was still alive, I felt it. I felt everything… the way he ripped her skirt off but wanted to be gentle as he took off her underwear, as if handling it with caution. His warm breath caressed my skin. He kissed along my… her belly. Then he kissed her thighs. Then he stood up. I begged God to make him leave but I knew he wouldn’t. There was still the matter of the godforsaken branch.
He turned me on my belly. I was sick. I felt the puke flowing up my stomach. But it would never come out. My mouth burned.
He pushed the stick into me. I never felt such pain. It throbbed through my body, little bits of wood broke off. Little chips stuck in me. And they dug deeper into my flesh. And…
A warm sheet of blood covered my legs. The sharp spikes of pain still surged through me. I could not move. Invisible cords held me there. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t, and neither could tears come.
My mind called out in agony for it to end. Not the dream, but my life. I did not want to live through this. Because for a moment, I believed—no! I knew… I knew I was the college girl. And I have to think that maybe she felt it, too. Whoever she was. She felt it all. And she couldn’t scream.
I woke up at 5 AM. I was in a bath of sweat under my covers. My covers felt as heavy as bricks. I was suffocating under their heat. I finally slid them back, gasped for breath, then chugged the bottle of water next to me.
I had fallen asleep at 8 PM. I hadn’t tried to, but it happened. I was tired, I just wanted to rest for a minute… forgot to set an alarm. For a week I had no nightmares, ‘cuz of the three or four hours of sleep routine. I did not dream. I could not dream. My short sleep resisted dreams.
And this dream was what I wanted to avoid. The misery. All the damn misery these dreams bring. And the side effects…
At lunch Rose asked why my eyes were so puffy and if I had been crying. I said no, an
d she asked why I looked so terrible, she was like ‘I’m sorry, it’s just that your eyes are terrible and your skin is so… Val, your skin has wrinkles and there are dark bags under your eyes.’
‘Not sleeping a lot,’ I said.
‘What’s wrong, huh? Why aren’t you sleeping?’ Rose asked.
And I said something like, ‘I have bad sleeping habits.’
Rose shrugged, asked if I needed help, ‘Like, with anything?’
Rose is sweet. She always wants to help.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘I got it. Just a bad week.’”
From Valerie Hart’s diary
“It’s 9 PM on a Wednesday.
The lack of sleep makes me so… forgetful. My mom told me to get her the mail off the table in the living room. I went to grab it, but as I stood in the living room I forgot why I was there. So I went back to my room, and Mom came in with some shitty lecture, ‘I told you to get me the mail from the living room and you just go back to your room? Why do I have to do everything in this damn house? All day I asked you to do one thing and you didn’t do it.’
Shit.
I barely remembered her asking me that. I’m so tired. I could just collapse right here. But my alarm is set. Soon I’ll sleep. I just… how long can I go without sleep? Or with such little sleep? I don’t want to sleep, I don’t want the torture, I’m reliving the Sunday Slasher’s kills…
I can’t tell if these are nightmares or something other. They feel like dreams. But then they feel different. When I die in them, I die for real. The thick coldness takes over. Everything stops dead. My senses flicker like a dying flame, until finally they go out, and all that’s left is the remnants of smoke. That’s why my brain is just mush. When I’m the last couple moments of candle smoke, that’s the worst. That’s when my soul is sucked into vast nothingness. That’s when death officially hits. And you’re nothing. Gone. No afterlife in the dreamland. No hell below us, above us only sky. That’s all it is when I die in a dream. And it’s a freezing void. And I live it. I live death. I live it in these dreams until I wake up, just to sleep again and find myself in terror again. I don’t want it.
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