Horrorscape

by Nenia Campbell

  Are you frightened? Do I frighten you? I should. Because first you must play the game for more than you can afford to lose. Sacrifice everything. Learn true fear.

  Only then, will you win the game.

  I am the Grandmaster. I look forward to playing against you, my dear.

  X

  P.S. The flowers are valerians. Your namesake—quite appropriate, I thought, although not as beautiful as you.

  Her heart was throbbing when she finished the letter.

  (I wonder what makes her blood race—lust or fear?)

  Val sank down on the bench. The letter was full of masked emotions, yet bore a harsh, clinical quality that chilled her. Games, flowers, prey, predators? It was more than her mind could comprehend. Distantly, she remembered that a 'grandmaster' was a high-ranking chess title. Gavin had taught her that, but she nipped that thought in the bud, as she did with all thoughts of him.

  Somewhere, someone at this school was watching her. Stalking her. Hunting her.

  Val shivered in spite of her sweatshirt, which she pulled more tightly around her. Gavin? Was it Gavin? She wondered, and the wind blew more fiercely around her, echoing her unease.

  Are you frightened? He'd asked. Do I frighten you?

  Yes, he did. Yes, she was.

  (You should be)

  Chapter Two

  Decoy

  It had taken Val years to feel safe again. For weeks, months, she had lived in constant terror of Gavin's return. The smallest things had set her off: the sound of a creaking floorboard when she was home alone; the smells of sandalwood and roses, or of paint and sawdust; the searing, bittersweet taste of peppermint.

  Over time, her skin had thickened. With the aid of medication she learned to force herself to evaluate the situation from a logical standpoint, and respond to potential threats accordingly until they stopped seeming like threats. It even worked a little.

  But in her Health notebook, which she had kept from freshman year, she had copied out his messages to her, along with the dates and times they were sent. She had stared at his words until they had been branded into her memory. She could have recited them in her sleep. She knew his style, his speech, his overly familiar mannerisms.

  This man, the letter writer, acted like a stranger.

  And yet—there were distinct similarities. The chess. The references to predators and prey. The desire for fear.

  She had received several copycat letters and phone calls, some of them quite disturbing, from people in town who blamed her for the entire incident. She had been called a “whore” and a “slut,” a “terrorist” and a “psychopath.” She had been denigrated and chastised, propositioned and persecuted—to the point where Gavin started to seem like a minimal threat by comparison.

  Maybe this was another one of those. Another sick freak who wanted to torture her, to punish her for things beyond her control. Val thought about showing the letter to her mother and asking her advice, but the thought made her feel nauseous. Her mother always overreacted, causing Val to become so stressed out that she needed to pay an additional visit to her therapist.

  Even if he didn't return, he had left his mark upon her. She was cursed, God help her.

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  The contractors had come early, just as Val was departing for the football game. Her parents had caved, since it was only the junior varsity game, which ended earlier than varsity, with the proviso that she was to call before coming straight home. Val's father had added, “You tell that boy of yours that if anything happens to you, I have a Remington and a shovel.”

  She had laughed weakly, knowing it was expected of her, even though his lame attempt at humor nothing to lift her mood. Her heart was heavy as she waited for the bus to come to her stop. It was a gray, chilly day, with the promise of rain hanging in the air like a thinly-veiled threat. The letter was folded away into a pocket of her sky-blue parka, the strange words weighing her down as heavily as a block of lead. She couldn't get them out of her mind, and that bothered her.

  Was it possible that he had come back after all these years? He was insane, yes, but not stupid. Far from it. A brilliant chess master, he had a mind that could analyze games many steps in advance, predicting an infinite number of both defensive and offensive moves, as well as their respective counter-moves. From what she knew of him, those abilities translated at least in part to real life. Val had a hard time believing he would come to a town where people had a fair chance at recognizing him and turning him into the police or, worse, delivering their own brand of rough justice.

  He had said it himself best: he was always the hunter, never the hunted. If he did allow himself to be chased, it was only so he could spring a trap, rather like the queen sacrifice he had used against her when teaching her how to play chess years ago.

  (you thought you had me; but the only trap you were springing, my dear, was upon yourself)

  Warm breath. Warmer body. A room lit by a single naked, swinging bulb. The cloying smell of paint chips mingling with the smell of sandalwood, and a darker, animal scent that was inherently his.

  The memories slammed into Val so powerfully, it felt physical. This, combined with the potent blend of emotions they elicited, made her stumble backwards.

  She imagined she could feel his lips against her neck and clapped a hand to her tingling skin, drawing in a shaky breath. Not real, she told herself. Not real.

  The bus pulled up to the curb, splashing filthy water. Val found herself taking an unsteady step to the side as the door opened and several young children disembarked, accompanied by their parents—some of whom shot her vaguely unsettled looks, hurrying their offspring along that much more quickly.

  The driver was the same woman who had been driving her to the high school for the better part of three years, now, and she smiled in recognition. “Good morning! Cold out, isn't it?”

  Val nodded. “It's supposed to rain, I think.”

  Her hand shook as she dropped her fare in the box. Neither of them noticed.

  “I remember my grandmother used to say that being in the rain washes bad luck away.” The driver laughed fondly. “Didn't seem to work too well, though. I always just ended up catching cold.”

  Not five seconds later, raindrops began to splatter against the windows with an unpleasant pattering sound, causing Val to jump in surprise. The clouds were darker now, almost black, and reflected her present mood perfectly. With a tight smile, she took a seat before she could embarrass herself further. Why was she so jumpy?

  (These questions will be answered during the course of the game, although by then you might not want the answers)

  Never mind. That was a stupid question. A better question was: What was she going to do about it?

  (Part of me wants her to run)

  Val dug her knuckles into her forehead. She wished the driver hadn't brought up superstitions. Both the letter and the inclement weather seemed to be omens that something was going to happen soon, something bad.

  “Have a good day, young lady!” the bus driver called after her. “Don't get too wet!” The doors were closed when Val got it in her head to turn around.

  Thanks a lot.

  James was waiting at the bus stop and talking to one of his friends. When he heard the screech of the bus's brakes, he looked up. “Val!” He was speaking and moving animatedly, practically glowing with excitement. “Oh, and this is Mark,” he added carelessly, gesturing at the friend.

  “Hey,” she greeted him, trying to figure out why he was so pleased. “Did the freshman team win?”

  “Freshman?” James blinked, taken aback. “I don't know. Why are you asking me? Didn't you come to see the JV play?”

  I came to see you.

  Really, he could be so completely oblivious.

  The friend wasn't. Oblivious, that is. He took one look at Val and said, “Hey, I gotta go, bro.”

  “Later. Oh—Val, did you get a letter at school yesterday?”

  “…What?”
>
  Impatience flicked across his face. “I asked if you received a letter. In your locker. At school.”

  How had he known? She hadn't breathed a word about the letter; she'd been too busy trying to decide what to do about it herself, whether it was even real.

  Was it from James? Was there a darker side to him than she had imagined? She'd been surprised that way before. But James had about as many faces as a two-dimensional drawing. There had to be another explanation.

  James snapped his fingers in front of her nose. “Val? Valentine? You listening to me?”

  Val started, aware she had paused long enough to draw suspicion. “Yes,” she said slowly, her hand slipping into her pocket to touch the folded square. “I did. Why?”

  “Well? Are you going to go?”

  “Go where?”

  “You know,” he said, looking at her very strangely. “The party.”

  Val blinked. “Party?” Her initial panic was giving way to confusion but hadn't entirely subsided yet. She still needed to know. “What party? What are you talking about?”

  “Lisa and I—and Blake, for some reason—got letters in our lockers after school,” James explained, apparently not picking up on her hesitation, or else pretending not to. “They're invitations to a party this weekend.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I see.”

  “That's why I asked if you got a letter.” James ran a hand through his tousled hair, which was on the verge of being totally soaked. Hers probably looked worse. She hadn't had time to wash it this morning. “Didn't you get one?”

  She breathed out slowly. “My letter was…a little different.”

  Now he looked confused. “Different? Different how?”

  “In wasn't an invitation.” Val hesitated. “It was a personal letter. A—” love letter isn't the right phrase. Whatever emotion the person who wrote that was feeling, it certainly wasn't love “—strange letter. And it was all about me…and some twisted game.”

  “Don't worry about it,” he said, smiling, “Probably from some freshman secret admirer.”

  “Secret admirer?” Val was wary of all secrets now, especially those pertaining to identity. People who hid things about themselves did so for a reason; the innocent had nothing to hide. “James, it was creepy. It wasn't admiring at all. It was—” she faltered, struggling to recall the word that had been in her SAT-prep book. “It was condescending.”

  “All right.” He shrugged. “So the guy sucks at writing love letters. That's what you have me for.”

  “James, it isn't a joke.”

  “Well, not with that attitude, sure.”

  “I mean it. The letter reminded me of…Gavin.”

  (I am a genteel hunter. I capture, not kill.)

  Was it from him, though? She couldn't decide. The tone was…similar, but not quite right. Then again, it had been three years. Three years was a long time to change.

  James stared at her. “Gavin…. You mean the weirdo from freshman year? Hit List Guy? Why would he do that?”

  Because he was obsessed with me? Because he wanted to own me? “Because he wants to be pen pals, James. Why do you think? You warned me away from him. You knew he was dangerous, even back then. So why not now? Why wouldn't he want revenge? I almost got him sent to prison.”

  She wanted to hit him when he laughed. “Revenge? Jeez, Val, have you been watching too many horror movies. I wouldn't worry too much about it,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Probably some asshole playing a trick. Remember all those phone calls you used to get?”

  “I still get them.”

  “Well, there you go.”

  Val looked at him sharply. She was annoyed that he hadn't asked to see the letter, which is what she would have done if their positions had been reversed. Didn't he care that it was from another boy? He was her boyfriend, for God's sake! She wasn't keen on possession types but she didn't want to be ignored. Plus, it just didn't make sense. Why would James be jealous about his little brother's cute little crush on her, but not this creep's? And why on earth would he bring up the phone calls? He know how much she hated talking about them, or even just thinking about them.

  (I hear you like to fuck dangerous men, isn't that right?)

  She shuddered, massaging her temples where a massive headache was in the process of forming.

  (if you rat me out to the cops, I'll slit your throat)

  “If you didn't get an invite, I'll invite you. Don't worry, I'm sure one more can't hurt.”

  Val fought the urge to snap at him for being so selfish. He was obviously thinking of her or he wouldn't have brought it up at all, even if it was only because he wanted a date to some stupid party.

  “I have to ask my parents.”

  “I'm sure they'll let you go. They wouldn't want you getting in the way while the construction crew was working.”

  Val toed a puddle forming at her feet. “I don't know…. What if they need my help with something?”

  “What could they need your help with? You told me you'd be stuck in your room all day.”

  “They might need—something, I don't know. Look, they get weird about things like this. You know they do.”

  James was unfazed. “It's at a big house over on Eastwood. There's no reason your parents wouldn't let you go. Have you seen the security on those houses?”

  I thought the same thing back then, with him.

  But inviting her friends—but not her? That was odd. Why would Gavin do that? It wasn't like him. So maybe it's not him. She could have convinced herself of it if the eerie feeling she'd gotten on the bus had disappeared, but it hadn't; it had intensified to the point where she felt invisible eyes boring into her back.

  Her letter, her friends' letters—were they connected somehow?

  Coincidence.

  Right? Right? “I'm not so sure I should go,” Val said falteringly. “This is too weird.”

  “No, weird is staying at home, alone.”

  “My panic attacks have been getting worse,” she whispered. “What if I have one at the party? What if I go to pieces right there with everyone watching?”

  “If you stay at home, you're letting him win. Be strong, Val. Don't let him get to you.”

  How could he tell her that? Be strong. As if it were so simple. As if she was supposed to hold up the ceiling of her sanity even as the walls came tumbling down all around her.

  “What did your letter say?”

  “'You are cordially invited to attend a party like no other,'” he said, deadpan.

  Val breathed a sigh of relief. They were nothing similar.

  Still; she had heard stories about some of the situations Eastwood kids got into at parties. Bad situations covered up by their rich families. Way out of her league.

  “What time is it?”

  “Uh.” James delved into the pocket of his jeans and produced a slightly crumpled piece of black paper. This discrepancy in colors between their two respective invitations made her feel a little better, as well. She'd been afraid that his would be in cream, too. “This says it starts around eight but there's no end time. Probably not past midnight, though.”

  She gave him a look. Her curfew was at midnight. On the dot. No exceptions.

  “Come on, Val,” he pleaded. “It'll be good for you.”

  If James was there to protect her and Lisa was there to supervise him, she might be able to persuade her parents into extending it by an hour or so.

  Maybe.

  If she even wanted to go.

  “All right,” she conceded, “I'll ask.”

  Chapter Three

  Waiting Move

  When Val returned home, she found her parents in terrible moods. The contractors had made a mess, tracking plaster and wood splinters throughout the house in their work boots, ruining one of her mother's favorite wool rugs. They were arguing with each other about the cost, and whether they ought to switch to another company.

  Val hovered in the doorway and picked at a cuticle. If she
wanted a positive outcome, she'd do best to wait until tomorrow morning when they were less annoyed. On the other hand, if she did wait until Sunday she would probably lose her nerve—and part of her, a fairly big part, didn't want to go at all, and wanted them to say no.

  She stepped into the living room, sidestepping the bits of plaster that dusted the floor like powdered sugar. “Hey…um, Mom? Dad? Can I ask you something?”

  “Not right now, Val,” her father said.

  “What is it?” her mother said.

  “I kind of got invited to this party on Saturday.”

  As she expected, the news was not received with much enthusiasm.

  “Where is it?”

  “In Eastwood.”

  “Eastwood?” her mother repeated. “Who do you know in Eastwood?”

  Val shrugged. “I don't. James invited me.”

  “How long is it? What kind of party is it going to be?”

  If either parent were likely to cave on the issue, it would probably be her mother. But the years had made her more conservative and she had never quite forgiven herself for letting Gavin come so close to ruining Val's life.

  “It starts at eight, and will probably end around one,” Val recited. “Probably. I think it's a theme party.”

  “Do you want to go?” her mother asked.

  “I don't know. But James, Lisa, and Blake will be there, and they all seem to think I should.”

  “How are you planning on getting there?” Mrs. Kimble said, just as her father asked, “Who's Blake?”

  “James would probably drive all of us.” Her father raised an eyebrow. “He's a good driver.”

  Her father looked offended. “I didn't say anything. Now tell me who this Blake character is.”

  “He's not a character. He's a good friend of James and he's on the honor roll.”

  “Well, if he's on the honor roll,” Mr. Kimble muttered. “Wasn't that other boy of yours on the honor roll, too?”

  “Robert!” Val's mother squawked.

  Gavin was never mine, she wanted to snap. There wasn't enough of him there to give. Besides, his teachers were afraid of him, too. Nobody in their right mind would ever be afraid of Blake.