Fearscape (Horrorscape)

by Nenia Campbell

  Val bristled at being called 'little.'

  “Gimmie the phone, Mom. God — give it — you always do this!”

  There was the sound of a scuffle and a barely-muffled argument, and then Lisa's sigh of relief crackling like a burst of static as she finally managed to wrest the phone away.

  “Sorry about that,” Lisa said breathlessly. “I try to pick up first, but Mom beat me to it this time. She seriously needs to get some friends of her own and stop trying to pick off mine.”

  “I thought she was going to meet up with those army wives she met online.”

  “Been there, done that, gotten the t-shirt. It didn't work out.”

  Lisa's father was currently serving in Afghanistan. “Why?” she asked. “You'd think she'd be able to manage to overcome any differences — ”

  “You'd think so, but no. She made them all hate her. They won't return her calls now.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “She wouldn't tell me. All I got out of her was that they were a bunch of gossipy bitches and that she was never going back there again and blah, blah, blah — just like high school.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Oh, God. Tell me about it. Knowing her, she probably brought up some icky subject and wouldn't take a hint when one of them started kicking at her leg to shut her up. But whatever, I am so tired of my mom. What's going on with you?”

  “I've been reduced to raindrop-racing.”

  “That's a new low, even for you.”

  “You can make fun of me for it, or you can help me do something about it. Pick one.”

  “Can't I have both?”

  “No.”

  “Fine. I suppose we can go out.”

  Val sighed. Good. Now her mother would get off her back.

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “Where do you want to go?” Val asked, “You know I hate deciding.”

  “We can go to that indie coffee place and flirt with the hot baristas.”

  “I'm not supposed to eat. The hausfrau is making dinner.”

  “We could go to the used record store and listen to music until they kick us out.”

  “We did that last weekend. I like going there. I don't want to end up blacklisted like they did to James.”

  “James was throwing CDs at his friends, and only because his older brother gave him one of those Cocaine energy drinks. But that's just fine, Miss Picky-Pants. What do you want to do?”

  Val groaned inwardly. “Bowling?”

  “Maybe if we were both nine, and at somebody's lame-ass birthday party.”

  “Movie?”

  “Nothing good's out.”

  “Bookstore?”

  “Are you kidding? I'm already behind in my readings for honors English. I don't need more books.”

  “Well — ” Val thought desperately. This was exactly why she hated making decisions. “Um, they just opened a new Petville in the Derringer Shopping Plaza. Do you want to go there and look around? See if they have any cute baby animals?”

  “Oh, all right,” said Lisa, “and maybe I'll even pick up some Starbucks, too. Is your mom driving? I don't want to ask mine.”

  “Hang on.” Val set the phone down on the desk. “Hey, Mom?”

  “Yes?” Slightly muffled. She was digging in the freezer.

  “Can you drive Lisa and me to the Petville at the shopping center?”

  Her mother peered out from behind the fridge door. “Petville? As in a pet store?”

  “Just to look, not to buy. And I'll wash my hands really good before eating.”

  “Really well,” Mrs. Kimble corrected automatically. “I suppose. It's my fault for telling you to get out of the house, isn't it? It wouldn't be right to punish you for taking me up on it.” She set a bag of frozen vegetables on the speckled granite counter. “Let me just put these in the crock pot.”

  So, in other words, she'd be another fifteen minutes.

  Val needed to change clothes, anyway. She wasn't about to go out in public in her sweatpants — not the ones from her old middle school, anyway. She had standards, in spite of what Lisa liked to think. Speaking of which, she still had her on hold, didn't she?

  Val picked up her phone and caught strains of bored humming. “Lisa? My mom says yes.”

  “Thank God — get here as soon as you can.”

  You're welcome, thought Val, as the line went dead.

  Val selected a drab green sweater from her closet, and a pair of jeans that were starting to wear out around the knees. Sometimes when she got bored in class, she would pick at the threads until they snapped off in her hand. She slipped her foot into one of her black flats and then went hunting for the other pair, eventually finding it behind the garbage can beneath her desk. How had it gotten there? And why did her shoes always manage to scatter themselves?

  Just another unsolvable mystery of the universe, she decided. Like why it takes dumb boys days to respond to Facebook messages even when they are obviously online. No, he wouldn't fooling anybody, and it was only making him look like a jerk.

  Val studied her computer.

  Might as well. Mom takes forever, anyway.

  And she was curious to see if James had finally responded to her message. The one that she had sent two days ago. It wasn't even like she'd asked him out; she just wanted to know if he'd be down for seeing a movie with her and Lisa sometime.

  The whole thing had, naturally, been Lisa's idea.

  According to Lisa, James had just broken up with his girlfriend of two weeks. The reasons behind the breakup were unclear, though Lisa had heard rumors that the girl had cheated on him with a varsity quarterback.

  Apparently, James had also, when asked, said that he thought Val “seemed pretty cool.” But while Lisa seemed thrilled by this, Val couldn't bring herself to think of the compliment (if that's what it really was — it seemed more likely that he just couldn't think of anything else to say) particularly heartening, and certainly not the veiled declaration of love Lisa seemed to interpret it as, since Val was pretty sure she'd heard James refer to his math teacher in the exact same way.

  His male math teacher.

  Still, she guessed it was better than if he had simply said, “Val, who?” Now it was, “Oh, that girl from track?”

  Track had really helped Val find herself. The girls on the team were so sweet and supportive; it had been hard to stay in her shell when they always dragged her out for post-meet coffees. Plus, running had made her feel empowered. It made her feel powerful. She loved that feeling when she was nearing her limits but still managed to press on. It was such a head rush.

  She opened the Facebook page, pleased to see some notifications. One was from Rachel and Lindsay, who had sent her an invite to a fundraiser for new track uniforms. Val selected “attending” and scrolled to the waiting message; it wasn't from James, though (even though he's totally online — I can see you, you jerk), but someone she didn't know. The name looked fake.

  The picture was an off-putting photograph of a man in Victorian garb facing away from the camera. He was wearing a tophat. She made a face. Another one of those cosplaying weirdos? Ever since she'd made the mistake of joining that stupid “Girl Gamers” Facebook group, she'd been getting all kinds of messages from guys — some of them old enough to be her dad. She wondered what this creep wanted.

  Valerian —

  I've seen you on the field, how savage you can be, blazing like a fire bolt as you race for the finish line. I'm intrigued … enough that I want to see more. Know more. Know you.

  Tell me, why is it that you run? Is it to chase? Or to flee?

  I'd give a lot to know.

  Oh, dear God. It was from a crazy man — and he knew who she was, what she did, where she ran. That was far worse than if he had been a perfect stranger.

  “You about ready, honey?”

  Val jumped, flashing her mother a guilty smile. “Yeah.” She shut her laptop. It's probably just a prank. Somebody's trying to mes
s with me.

  I hope.

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  “Now make sure you call me when you girls are done looking,” Val's mother said.

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Kimble.”

  “Stay in this general area. I'll pick you up right here where I dropped you off.”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  Mrs. Kimble eyed the two of them for a moment. “All right. Have fun, girls.”

  “Your mom is overprotective,” Lisa remarked as they walked up to Petville.

  “She isn't! She's just concerned.”

  “Concerned enough to mess herself.”

  “She was a bit wild when she was my age.”

  “And she's afraid you're going to pull all the stops? You're practically a saint.”

  “I am not! I can be wild, too!”

  “Yeah, when I think 'Valerian Kimble,' I think, 'Now there's a girl I don't want to mess with' — or at least, that's what I would think if I had a chronic fear of freakishly nice people.”

  Val punched her in the arm.

  “You know, something? If this were a horror movie, you would totally be the murderer,” Lisa said, rubbing her arm, “You're too good to be true.”

  “Good thing this isn't a horror movie then — or is it?” Val gave her the evil eye.

  “Very nice. I almost felt a shiver coming on. What is that smell?”

  Val sniffed. Petville smelled exactly how she expected a pet store to smell — dust, animal poop, and cat food. But Lisa wrinkled her nose the moment her Sketchers made contact with the dirty tiles.

  “On second thought,” said Lisa, “I do feel a shiver coming on. Be right back. Maybe.” She shot a dubious look at the aisle of kitty litter nearby. “I'm going to buy my coffee before I lose my appetite.”

  “Lisa — ”

  “Go find a puppy to play with. Maybe it will be afraid of you.”

  Val stuck her tongue out at her, but Lisa had already turned around.

  Finding a puppy does sound like a good idea, though. I wonder if they have any.

  Val came to the aquariums first. There were the ubiquitous bug-eyed goldfish, sometimes as many as twenty to a tank. Across the way were some Siamese fighting fish with fins that looked like the trailing, patterned sleeves kimono. For the caregiving-challenged, there were some aquatic snails. Val tapped one of the bettas' tanks. The fish had been drifting around disinterestedly and looked as if it could use some livening up.

  The fish slammed its body against the glass and Val started, and said, “Oh!”

  A quiet laugh sounded from somewhere behind her. Val turned just in time to see one of the employees looking away, as if he hadn't been mocking her just now. She narrowed her eyes.

  “What's so funny?”

  “They're called fighting fish for a reason,” he said, smiling as he strolled away.

  Jerk.

  Val left the fish section — because she wanted to — and soon found herself in the pet toy section. Looking at the pet toys always made her feel a little giddy. She liked to imagine what kinds of toys she'd play with herself if she were an animal. She suspected this made her a freak but there was no denying that she was a fuzzy mouse-chaser at heart. She made the bell on one jingle; it was filled with catnip.

  Watching Lisa play with her cat, Duchess, had always filled Val with jealousy. She loved cats. She loved how human they were, how each one had its own personality and its own likes and dislikes. Duchess held her tail up high, curled like a question mark, when she was curious; when she was disdainful, her snubs were as pointed as a cheerleader sticking up her nose.

  Dogs were like that, too. You could tell just by looking at a dog on its leash whether it was a nice dog or a mean dog. The nice ones had gentle faces and kind eyes, their tongues hanging out of their mouths in a goofy, eager-to-please grin. The mean ones, with their narrowed eyes and bared teeth, just looked, well, mean.

  It was harder to tell with humans, which was what made them so distinct from other animals. Sometimes the nice ones could look mean, and sometimes the mean ones could look nice. And sometimes it was impossible to tell at all. At least with animals you know where you stand, Val thought, frowning and crossing her arms as she walked out of the toy aisle.

  In the back of the store was a plastic play structure surrounded by glass. Inside were a dozen kittens colored orange and black like tigers. Three of them were engaged in rough-and-tumble play, the end result being a squirming pile of tails and paws and ears. Their high-pitched mews made Val's heart melt instantly.

  She knelt down to read the placard on the side of the pen. Toyger kittens: A relatively new crossbreed, so named for their distinctive facial and bodily characteristics that make them resemble toy tigers. Toygers are energetic, curious, friendly, and, despite their fierce appearance, quite tame—not at all like their wild cousins!

  Her eyes widened. Good lord. They were $600 each.

  Cute, though. Heck, if she had the money, she'd probably buy one. They were precious. One of the toygers wandered over to where she was examining the sign and mewed at her. Grinning, Val raised her finger to the level of its nose and watched its bright blue eyes track the motion.

  Its white-tipped paws scrabbled at the glass, and she laughed out loud at its puzzled expression. It seemed bewildered by the peculiar force-field keeping it from interacting in greater depth with its prey.

  “Hey, cutie. You are a cutie, aren't you? Oh, you want my finger?”

  Scratch, scratch, scratch.

  “You do, don't you! Wheeeee, look at the finger go! You can't get me!”

  Scratch, scratch.

  “Don't give up. Look! Here I come again!”

  The kitten headbutted the glass, and one of its ears twitched. It shot her an accusatory look.

  She laughed again. “Silly.”

  “Would you like to see one?”

  She looked up from the kitten she was playing with. It was the employee again. The one who had laughed at her back at the fish tanks. His face was quite serious now, though.

  With his strikingly pale eyes, and stubbled chin, he looked every bit as wild as the toyger, but a good deal less friendly.

  Had he heard her talking in that stupid voice? Had he been watching her?

  The thought filled her with horror.

  Val got to her feet with poise, noting he was quite a bit taller than she was. Not a big deal, but something she noticed nonetheless, being of above-average height herself. “I'm not, um, buying.” She brushed her hands over her jeans. “I was just looking.”

  The kittens were so expensive; maybe they were high-strung. She was going to get kicked out, wasn't she?

  The boy's lips quirked. “I didn't ask if you were buying. I asked if you wanted to see one. Hold one.”

  “I couldn't ….” But her tone said differently.

  And before she could muster up the strength for a proper refusal, he had unlocked the door and picked up her kitten by the scruff of its neck, depositing it neatly into her hands. The kitten looked her with large eyes; she could feel it trembling from the fear and excitement of its journey outside the pen.

  “Oh,” she sighed, and ran her fingertips over its silky fur. “So soft.”

  “Quite.”

  “How old are they?”

  With her eyes on the kitten, she didn't notice the way he looked her up and down, or how his eyes climbed upward from her flats and lingered. “A few weeks, I imagine.”

  “Such a sweet baby.” She scratched under its chin. Soon her palm was vibrating with purrs. “They're so cute.”

  “They are that. But not nearly as impressive as the genuine article.”

  His voice was strange enough to make Val look up, and she caught him looking at the little kitten with something that was almost … distaste. But surely not. She wondered if she had imagined that cold sneer; his expression was once again congenial as he met her eyes.

  “In any case, he certainly seems to have taken to you.”


  “It's a boy?”

  “You don't know how to tell?”

  Val's face flushed. “I — I didn't check.”

  “I rather think he wants to go home with you.”

  As if in agreement, the kitten licked her hand with its small rough tongue, rubbing its face against her fingers for more petting.

  “Story of my life,” she said, steadying the kitten with her other hand as it tried to spill over her fingers. “Animals love me, but I'm not allowed any pets.” Her laugh subsided into a small gasp when the kitten, growing restless, decided to go after her charm bracelet. Small beads of blood welled up as she pried its small claws and fangs out of her wrist.

  “I think it's time to put him back.” She handed the toyger off to the boy, who put him into the pen a touch roughly.

  “Their claws are sharp.” She stared down at her wrist, squeezing the wound. “Jesus. Ow.”

  “You sound surprised. They're killers in miniature.”

  The thought of a killer kitten nearly made her laugh, and she would have if the boy weren't so unsettling. “Do you happen to have any bandages?”

  “Yes, in the back. Some antibiotic, too, I think.” He glanced at her hand. “Shall I get both? I'm not sure how clean that pen is — it might get infected.”

  “If you don't mind,” she said, feeling shy.

  “Go ahead and sit down. I'll see what we have.”

  She plopped down on the edge of the bench he'd indicated, watching the frolicking kittens and marveling that something so small and seemingly helpless could cause so much pain — even by accident.

  Killers in miniature.

  “Give me your wrist.” Val started, looking up at him. He was back with bandages and some disinfectants. “Your wrist,” he repeated.

  “Oh,” she said, and proffered the hand.

  He studied the wounds, his eyes dispassionate, even clinical, although his grip, as he wrapped his fingers around her wrist, was just a little too firm to be comfortable. “Not too deep,” he remarked as his fingertips lightly grazed the edges of the wounds. “That's good. It'll heal faster.”

  “You'll get blood on you,” Val warned.