Snared
( Wicked Dead - 3 )
Stefan Petrucha
Tonight's tale . . .
Lindsay's family vacation isn't exactly fun in the sun: the beach is littered, the locals are creepy, and the outlook is bleak. Then Lindsay meets Mark, the boy next door. He's sweet, gorgeous, and an amazing musician. But his menacing guardians keep him locked away from the world. They perform sinister rites, and one day Lindsay glimpses terrible wounds on Mark's back! Lindsay must save him — though it means facing pure evil.
Wicked Dead
Snared By Stefan Petrucha and Thomas Pendleton
THOMAS PENDLETON DEDICATES THIS BOOK TO
J. C. P. AND NICHOLAS KAUFMANN,
A COUPLE OF THE WICKED ONES.
STEFAN PETRUCHA DEDICATES THIS BOOK TO THE
DEAD—MARTIN, FELICIA, AMELIA, MICHAEL, FRANK,
MARY, JOSEPH L., AND THE MANY OTHERS HE
DOES NOT KNOW. HE HOPES YOU’VE ALL GOT A
GREAT GAME GOING SOMEWHERE.
PROLOGUE
A gaping wound the size of a dead body sat in a corner of Lockwood Orphanage’s once-fine copper roof, exposing the Headmistress’s quarters to the elements. Over years, rain and snow had seeped between brick and mortar while hungry moss and lichen patiently worked downward to reclaim the plaster walls and wooden supports. Like an animal, rot crawled into all the cracks, then grew and pushed to make more room for itself. Here the lines between civilization and nature, chaos and order, were severed. Here everything knew that one day, the whole of the old Georgian mansion would be gone.
A few stories down, though fragile, the precious lines remained: The hallway that ran the length of the building was relatively dry, its curved roof marked at regular intervals by fixtures that seemed as if they might light up; bulletin boards still bore dusty papers announcing meetings, tests, and plays. Here the mansion seemed intent to go on forever, as if it were yet the host of living things.
And the ghosts of the place could not help but play along.
Three figures, whose presence disturbed not even the air, moved as one along the narrow wooden floor. On one side of the hall, there was only darkness from the open doors, but on the other, the pale moon cast oblong rectangles of light. As the trio walked, they wove in and out of the shadows.
Every so often the shortest, timid Shirley, would draw her woolen high-necked pajamas close around her shoulders. Her green eyes wide beneath her straight red hair, she’d peer deeply into one of the doorways. This went on, room after room, until finally, too nervous to keep silent any longer, she stopped dead in her tracks and called, “Anne!”
Her high-pitched voice echoed down the long hall.
“Not so loud!” Daphne, the tallest, warned.
Shirley tugged at her hair. “Sorry. I’m just…I mean…you don’t suppose the Headmistress did something…permanent to her?”
Mary grimaced and shook her head, sending her blond curls swinging. “No. The Headmistress fancies herself our guardian. She believes her wicked punishments are for our own good. Anne must be off somewhere, licking her wounds after the Red Room.”
The name sent a chill through Shirley, and the other girls briefly wondered if she might have another anxiety attack. Instead she settled herself and just asked, “What’s it like, the Red Room?”
Before Mary could begin to conjure a description of the hellish place, Daphne’s arms shot out, stopping her companions. As they stood silently for a second, they all distinctly heard the creak of a floorboard. Then it went still.
“That’s not the Headmistress,” Daphne whispered, raising an eyebrow. She lifted her voice. “Anne, will you come out? We looked for you until dawn last night and we’ve already been at it for hours tonight. We just want to make sure you’re all right! Let us help you!”
Silence.
Daphne hissed. “She’s a stubborn bee.”
A slight smile came to Mary’s lips. “I know something that might draw her out.” A flash of lush vermilion appeared at the waist of her white nightgown. “A little honey for our reluctant bee.”
Shirley was aghast. “You’re taking out the Clutch right here? In the hall?”
Still smiling, Mary adjusted her gown and sat down in the center of the hall. “Yes. Why not? It’s as good a place as any. There are plenty of exits in case we’re disturbed.” Then she placed the bag in her lap and started to unknot its golden cord.
Shirley couldn’t believe it. It all seemed so wrong. Her heart spoke out loudly before her brain could quite catch up. “But we can’t play without Anne again!”
At once realizing the consequences if Anne were listening, she clapped her hand to her mouth.
Pretending she hadn’t heard Shirley’s ill-timed admission, Mary upturned the vermilion silk sack as if she were a stage magician preparing a tantalizing trick. Five bones, copper-brown with age, spilled onto the floor.
Helter skelter they all rolled, this way and that, chattering into one another on their random way.
“Let’s see if these catch her eye,” Mary said as they spread along the uneven floor. Soon enough, all the bones came to a stop, except for one, the skull. It didn’t seem to want to stop spinning. Long after it should have gone still, it continued to inch along the floor, as if pushed by a mouse, to the edge of a hole where it finally, just barely, came to a stop. Then, all on its own, it flipped up, jaw to the ceiling, as if taking a nap.
Perplexed, the three girls watched, until slowly the darkness above the skull shimmered as if the air were a pond disturbed by a stray wind. A pale white shape took form: a foot, its big toe pressing angrily down hard on the fragile bone.
Shirley spoke first. “Oh. Anne. Hi. Didn’t realize you were there.” Her voice rose an octave per word.
“No, kidding, Nancy Drool,” Anne replied as she made the rest of herself more visible. Her long black hair and black T-shirt still left her half-hidden in shadow, but her eyes glowed with rage like twin moons in a starless sky. “Planning to play without me, huh?”
Daphne scrunched her face. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not…we’d never…”
Anne raised her foot as if to crush the skull.
“Anne, do you mind?” Mary said, gasping. “I understand you’re upset. I understand why, after the wretched experience you’ve been through, but should you slip, even by accident, you might…”
Anne looked up with a wicked grin. “Bust it? Then what, Goldilocks? We’d all be like stuck here forever? Like we aren’t already?”
“The bones are our chance. Our only way out of here,” Daphne said plainly. “Yours, too.”
“So you say,” Anne snorted. “How do I know you’re not lying just to mess with my head? Hey, I can’t trust you to wait for me for a few lousy hours while I’m being tortured; why should I trust you on anything?” Surprisingly, her voice was choked with emotion. “I saved our asses big-time, and you all just abandon me to big Queen Freak-Shriek, and then you…then you…”
She shook her head and pushed down harder on the skull, rocking it roughly against the wooden floor.
“None of us can fight the Headmistress, you know that,” Daphne said. “And if we wanted to play without you, don’t you think we would have by now?”
“Yeah, well, problem being, I know you already did,” Anne said. “I saw you.”
Daphne stiffened. Mary bolted to her feet, looking as if she might try to grab the skull. Shirley blurted out“ It was all Mary’s idea!”
Mary turned to her, enraged. “It’s not as though you voiced strong objection!”
Anne laughed bitterly. “Nice to see you turn on each other for a change. But I’m not buying.”
She vanished again. At once the skull lurched forward and a crunch was heard.<
br />
The three watching girls winced and closed their eyes, but when they opened them again, the little skull was still intact.
Anne laughed long and hard as she reappeared. “Just cracking my knuckles.”
Daphne stormed up to her. “Stop it, Anne. Stop it right now. Get your foot off that bone and sit down. You’re upset, fine—who wouldn’t be after the Red Room—but you know you wouldn’t dare crush that bone on purpose! We’ve had enough stupid accidents after last night, haven’t we?”
Shirley lowered her head at the reference to her own fit the night before. Her fingers rooted nervously through her hair. Anne wondered if the red-haired jitter-ball had finally realized it was her yowling that had brought the Headmistress in the first place.
Daphne continued. “We’re in a bad spot, that’s all. Things happen. I’m sorry about my part in it. Come back to earth and we’ll all decide together what to do next.”
Just then Shirley’s fingers found what they were looking for. They yanked a strand of hair free from her skull. She hugged herself, seeming to take pleasure in the sharp, sudden pain. “Maybe Anne’s urge isn’t so crazy,” she said quietly. “Maybe it’s just who she is.”
Daphne rolled her eyes. “Kid, you’re not helping.”
“No. Let Kid talk,” Anne said. “I’d like to know what Kid thinks.”
When Daphne fell silent, Shirley smiled nervously. “Well, it’s just that right now you remind me of an old Russian folktale. God comes to a peasant and asks what she’s praying for. ‘My neighbor has a fine cow that gives great milk, and I have none,’ she says. ‘So,’ God says, ‘you want a cow like hers?’ ‘No,’ the woman answers, ‘I want her cow to die.’”
Shirley’s eyes flashed, revealing a glimpse of the deeper darkness that throbbed beneath her skittish exterior. Anne snickered in appreciation.
“Anne,” Mary said softly, “forget about us a moment. Don’t you realize we’ve no notion of how the bones work or why? Crush it, and who knows what you might unleash? It could make the Headmistress and her Red Room seem like a fresh spring day.”
“Like it could really be worse than the Red Room.” Anne’s face twitched at the memory.
Daphne’s face softened. “You’re right. We should’ve been there for you. But we’re human. Or at least we were. The night was young; there was time for another story. With the Headmistress busy, we had to take the chance.”
Mary turned to Anne. “Look in your heart. Can you honestly say you wouldn’t have done the same?”
Anne scowled. “You bet your phantom-ass I would have. But if it’d been any of you locked up in there screaming, the other two wouldn’t have let me.”
Daphne met her eyes.
“You’re right,” she said evenly. “We’re sorry.”
Anne twisted her head to the side and smirked. “That and a dollar gets me a cup of coffee.”
“You make it so difficult,” Mary said. “We’d already planned to give you three turns in a row.”
“Oh?”
“It’s true,” Shirley said, nodding. “Three turns. It was Daphne’s idea.”
“Tonight? Do I get these turns tonight?”
Daphne nodded at Anne, whose toe was still on the skull. “Deal?”
Anne lifted her toe and gave the bone a push. It rolled across the dusty floor, leaving a wormy trail. When it came near, Shirley bent over and snatched it. She cradled it in both hands, brought it close to her face, and smiled.
A funny look came over her as she regarded the bone. “Ever wonder what it looked like with the flesh on it? Sometimes I think I see little indentations in the brow, for horns.”
“Enough girl talk,” Anne said with a sneer as she plopped down on the floor. “I get three rolls. Hand them over.”
“Fine,” Shirley said. She sat down herself, scooped the other bones from the floor, and handed them all to Anne.
Anne took them at once and quickly rolled them. Nothing. Again. Nothing.
She grabbed them up in one hand and held them a moment, regarding them with distrust. The bones were cold in her hands. They didn’t feel quite right. Something was off. Had the others done something to them?
I wouldn’t put it past them.
Blasting cool air from her nostrils, she didn’t even bother to shake the bones when she threw the third time. Something in her gut told her not to expect to win, and her expectations were fulfilled.
“Sorry. That’s three turns. Deal’s up. Mary told the last story, so it’s my turn now,” Daphne said.
“Thanks for not cheering,” Anne muttered as she passed along the bones.
Daphne confidently went down onto her knees, shook the bones in one hand, then let them roll palm to floor, as if she were shooting craps. Despite points for style and bravado, she lost.
“Maybe the bones are angry because we were fighting,” Shirley wondered aloud as she reached for them.
Anne leaned back on her haunches and gave her a look. “Whatever. We should stop soon. It’s late, the storm’s long over, and it’s easier for her to hear us.”
Mary tsked. “If it’s late, it’s only because we spent so much time searching for you. No interest in taking any risks now that your three are up? How kind. How typical.”
Anne held up three fingers to Mary. “Read between the lines.”
Shirley cleared her throat. “It’s a good thing,” she said, rattling the bones in her cupped hands, “we’re not fighting over a boy.”
“A boy,” Daphne mused, “would be easier to carve up.”
Giggling, perhaps at the image of a carved boy, Shirley threw the bones. They spread on the floor in a tight pattern. The one that looked like a thigh-bone spun freely, so they couldn’t quite tell what it was until it stopped.
When it did, Anne put her hands behind her back, and clenched them both into fists. The three symbols had come up.
“We have a winner,” Daphne said.
But Shirley didn’t look like a winner. One second, she looked confused. The next, her body stiffened as if she were having a seizure. She moaned, raising her shoulders.
“What is it?” Mary said.
Anne’s eyes narrowed. Usually whoever rolled the winning pattern felt a little light-headed as the story came to her, but this wasn’t that.
“No,” Shirley said, shaking her head faster and faster. “I won’t say it. I won’t.”
She clenched her teeth and pushed air between them. Her hissing mixed with spittle.
Daphne looked concerned. “Shirley, what’s going on?”
“Maybe she’ll explode,” Anne suggested wryly.
“Quiet! She’s fighting the story. She’s trying not to tell it,” Mary said.
“Can you do that?” Anne asked, genuinely curious.
“I don’t know,” Mary responded.
“From the looks of her, I’m guessing no,” Daphne said. “Shirley, stop! Don’t fight it!”
“No, I won’t say it. I won’t….”
Anne watched, seething with jealousy as Mary and Daphne pulled themselves protectively near the shivering redhead, taking her hands, rubbing her forehead, whispering into her ears like nurses.
I spent a night in the Red Room, and none of them ever even touched me.
“Let it out, Shirley. Go on, you can do it. Let it out.”
“I can’t…it’s too horrid….”
“You can, you can!”
“For Christ’s sake!” Anne yelled. “Are we doing Lamaze for the dead now? Leave her alone. If it has to, it’ll come out. She won’t be able to stop it.”
Mary turned from her ministrations to look at Anne with that puzzled expression again. “Lamaze?”
“Forget it,” Anne said, shaking her head.
In an instant, Shirley pitched out of Daphne and Mary’s grasp. She flopped onto her chest and raised her shoulders up by pushing on her hands. Her eyes were fixed on a spot in midair, the way a cat’s eyes are when it seems to see what no one else can. All the fear—
and for that matter, all other expression—vanished from her face as she began to speak.
1
A storm raged overhead, pelting the road and the SUV with rain. The family vacation wasn’t getting off to the best of starts. It seemed to Lindsay Morgan that the rain was following them, like some kind of nasty omen telling her the family vacation was cursed. The closer to Redlands Beach they got, the louder the rain beat on the car.
With her dad driving and her mom in the passenger seat, Lindsay sat in the back, listening to music on her iPod and texting with her friend Kate. The drive had exhausted her and the storm was doing nothing to improve her mood. She knew the vacation was important to her parents, especially her dad, but Lindsay had spent the last few weeks dreading the trip. It couldn’t have come at a worse time. She’d been helping Kate with a totally important party, and now she couldn’t even go! Of course, her dad was quick to point out that Lindsay had always enjoyed trips to her uncle Lou’s place. But she’d been a little girl then. At sixteen, Lindsay wasn’t feeling any glee for the retro.
She was certain her dad just didn’t get it. She’d grown up. She was in high school. She was popular and received good grades. Though her teachers sometimes flinched at her often harsh humor, they couldn’t help but see the intelligence behind it. Oh, she could be snide and sarcastic, and more than once a friendly burn had been taken as meanness by kids who didn’t know her, but it usually only took a few kind words to mend those feelings, and often enough Lindsay found herself with another friend. Plus—and Lindsay felt certain her father did not get this—she could take care of herself. When she was faced with a problem, she found a way to fix it. She didn’t let it stress her out or piss her off; she just made it work. Lindsay Morgan was practical that way. But she’d tried to fix this trip—had done everything she could to avoid it—and it hadn’t worked.
She might not have been so bummed if her parents were taking her to a happening beach like Cancún or the Hamptons or even Atlantic City. But they weren’t. They were going to her uncle’s house on Redlands Beach, and though it had sand and ocean, it fell way short of an A-list destination. True, Lindsay’s memories of the place were a bit fuzzy, but that didn’t mean she was wrong. She remembered her uncle and other men standing on the shore with their fishing lines sunk in the ocean (which was probably why his house always smelled like fish guts). There were noisy children racing from the surf toward their chain-smoking mothers and their beer-drinking fathers. The “good” restaurant in town served fried clams in a plastic basket. On reflection, she considered the beach some kind of trailer trash econo-resort, but her folks said it was an up-and-coming town.
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