Lurker
( Wicked Dead - 1 )
Stefan Petrucha
Four ghost girls.
A nightly ritual.
When their precious bones are rolled, the ghosts tell of deaths so horrifying even the rats in the orphanage walls cringe.
Tonight's tale . . .
Seventeen-year-old Mandy has everything: popular friends; a hot boyfriend; plans for college, travel, the future. But after classmate Nicki is gruesomely murdered, Mandy is shaken to her core. Soon she's jumping at shadows and having nightmares of Nicki's killer — the Witchman. Mandy tells herself she's just imagining things — but nothing in her imagination prepares her for the terror that's about to attack.
Wicked Dead
Lurker By Stefan Petrucha and Thomas Pendleton
THOMAS PENDLETON dedicates this book to JCP and all the wicked ones the world over.
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
At the end of a long field of dead grass otherwise surrounded by forest, the six-story Georgian mansion jutted up on the horizon. Huge and vacant, glass gone from most windows, it seemed held up by the pregnant clouds that swirled in the darkening sky. Its rotted front doors, tall and wide enough for an SUV to pass through, were bracketed by flattened columns. Atop these sat a triangular cornice, the letters on its lowest beam still reading Lockwood Orphanage—a name that had seemingly outlived its purpose, for now the house appeared as abandoned as its former occupants.
When evening approached and the rain began, when the winds yowled and the thunder boomed, the dark inside the gutted rooms became a great and wonderful thing. Deeper than the storm, deeper than the growing night, it covered everything completely: moldering furniture, rotted toys and schoolbooks, the history, the decay, even the bits of nature that had creeped in over the years.
But no dark is perfect. A small circle of yellow light stuck out on the enormous stairs in the main hall like a speck on a blank sheet of paper. It moved down, a single step at a single time, slowly at first, then faster and faster, as if once confident it was alone, it felt a need for speed.
“As long as you insist on holding the lamp, Mary, could you at least slow down for the rest of us?” Daphne whispered as she caught up with the light. Her voice was soft, straining to be gentle, but it was still more a command than a request. She was a tall girl, severe, with sharp, short brown hair and a pointed nose. She wore what looked like striped men’s pajamas. On someone else, they might have looked clownish, but somehow they only added to her air of authority.
Mary turned and answered, “All right.” As she did, the gold ringlets of the petite girl’s hair picked up the light from the old oil lamp she held, giving her pale white face a curved, irregular frame.
But Mary didn’t slow enough, so Daphne put a hand out to stop her completely. Now the lamp swung slightly, illuminating Mary’s long, flowing nightdress, parts of which were nearly transparent, revealing a bit of shoulder and some slight cleavage. With Mary motionless, two more girls emerged from the black, and all four figures huddled quietly together on the stairs, their whispers muffled by the storm.
“Do you have to always bring that stupid lantern? The oil smells like fish. Can’t we at least find a flashlight? It isn’t the Middle Ages anymore, you know.”
This from Anne, who seemed to be the same age as Mary but couldn’t have been more different. Even the long black T-shirt she wore for pajamas seemed defiant and annoyed in the way it refused to just slip into shadow.
“It’s hardly stupid,” Mary objected. “I like the soft light it casts, and besides, it’s a tradition. If you don’t like it, hold your nose.”
The objection at least temporarily squelched, the foursome proceeded down the stairs, footsteps as quiet as their breath. It wasn’t until they hit the final step that a distant wooden creak made them pause again, this time all at once.
“What was that?” said Shirley, poking her head up above her slumped shoulders. The mousy redhead’s eyes darted this way and that, searching the gloom.
“Just the rats, “Daphne answered. She said this quickly, as if to beat out Anne, who looked about to say something hurtful.
With that, the four reached the floor. Staying close to one another, they drifted across a cavernous space, maneuvering around tattered furniture and wide dangerous gaps in the wooden floor. By and by they reached the rough center of the great room.
Mary set the lamp on the dust-frosted planks, then walked toward one of the few windows that wasn’t broken or boarded up. Leaning into the tall old glass, resting her forehead on its coolness, she peered up through black trees to the anxious gray clouds.
“What are you doing?” Shirley asked, shaking the sleeve of her long, high-necked wool nightgown for better biting access to a pinky nail. “Should you be doing that? Shouldn’t we get started?”
“Shh. It’s all right,” Mary said. “The storm is loud and we’re safe. Listen. You can hear the thicker drops crashing through the leaves, thudding into the dirt like insect meteorites.”
Anne rolled her eyes. “Wow. Freak much? Can’t you just call rain, rain?”
Mary flashed her a glance. “No,” she answered. “Because then it would just be rain.”
She turned back to the window and continued listening, out of spite, it seemed.
“I love the thunder,” Mary said wistfully. “I love to watch the lightning play among the clouds in the heavens, and dart in jagged figures upon the piny hills.”
Anne plopped down on an ancient couch and crossed her arms across her chest. “Whenever you’re ready, Emily Dickinson.”
“What’s the hurry, Anne? Are you writing a book?” Shirley said, poking her head up. Tickled by her comment, she sat on the floor and started biting the nail of her right thumb, working it back and forth as she nibbled.
“‘Are you writing a book?’” Anne shot back, mocking the whiny voice. “What exactly does that mean, anyway? Or is it just one of those things you like to say?”
“Let her alone,” Daphne said, breaking her recent silence and striding fully into the lamplight. It revealed a bit of the curvy figure that filled out the hips and chest of the male pajamas. Though she didn’t seem older than the others, she spoke as if she were the only adult. “We don’t want any screaming, do we?”
As Anne’s eyes clamped shut in annoyance, Shirley stuck her tongue out, long and pink. Mary stifled a giggle.
“I don’t like to rush. I like to talk a little first, that’s all,” Shirley said, lowering her eyes. “It helps soothe me.”
“Can’t have Miss Delicate tense,” Anne said, glaring at Shirley.
Mary finally turned from the window. “You heard Daphne. That’s enough. You’re only in a state because it hasn’t been your turn for a while. No one blames you for that. But attacking Shirley because you know she gets afraid, or me because I don’t care to argue, is cowardice. Why don’t you toss some of your clever barbs at Daphne?”
Anne eyed Mary coolly. She looked as if she were about to say something, but Daphne stepped between them.
“Yes, Anne. Why don’t you?”
The bitter girl made a face, then flipped her hand in the air in a gesture of temporary surrender.
A sound echoed in the great room, another wooden tick that could have been the old boards settling, or creaking in the wind, or not.
This time Anne snapped her head around and said, “What was that?”
“Still just rats…probably,” Daphne said, but even she looked up and peered through the darkness, searching it.
“It couldn’t be her,” Mary
said. “The storm is loud tonight.”
The other three felt Shirley stiffen at that. Her head rose from between her slumped shoulders as if her whole body was tensed for flight.
Daphne petted her hair and smiled. “Don’t worry. We’re fine. Mary’s right about the storm.”
Shirley gave off a little laugh. She shivered and hugged herself, then said, “Rats,” and shivered again as if pleased to be scaring herself in just a small way. “Rats.”
“Sit down, Mary,” Daphne said. “You, too, Anne, by the lamp. We can chat a little more, but we should at least sit down together.” She folded her long legs as she nestled onto the floor. “This time you sit next to me, Shirley, so I don’t have to hear Anne moan if she doesn’t win again.”
Anne rose, her black T-shirt making her torso briefly invisible against the dark behind it, and said, “Fine, but Shirley better stop laughing through her nose. Last time she blew a chunk of snot into my lap.”
Mary and Daphne smiled at that, but Shirley bristled. “I did not!”
They all took their places, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Mary and Daphne flanked Shirley to keep the girl feeling as calm and comfortable as possible.
Settling in, Mary rubbed her hand in a small circle on the floor in front of her. “Rats. I hate the vile animals.”
“Because you think we’re all about souls, that people are better. Don’t underestimate the rats,” Anne said with a smile. “There’s a lot of power in pure hunger. A lot of pleasure, too.”
Mary stiffened. “I don’t underestimate animals. I simply choose, if at all possible, not to become one.”
“All right, girls,” Daphne announced. “Since Anne is in one of her moods, I guess we’ve had enough chitchat. It’s time. I’ve got the Clutch.”
“Well, at least you didn’t lose it,” Anne said, casting a look at Shirley.
Shirley seemed offended. She spat out a piece of nail and announced, “I’ve never lost the Clutch!”
“No, it only took you an hour to find the last time you hid it,” Anne said.
“It did not!” Shirley answered loudly. “Not an hour!”
“Shh. Don’t waste your energy, either of you,” Daphne said, sounding somewhat motherly, but really more like a boss. “After all, it could be your turn tonight.”
Shirley shrugged, bit at another nail, and mumbled, “I don’t see it. I haven’t had a turn in days either.”
“And how happy are we for that?” Anne asked with a sneer.
That was all the abuse even the mousy girl could take. At once, Shirley reared, her woolen gown unfolding as she rose, eyes widening as if she were a crazed bird, head shaking. Mary gasped, but Daphne, somehow faster than Shirley, managed to rise behind her and gently, but firmly, push her back down.
“Annie, that wasn’t very nice, or very smart. We’ve agreed to support each other. To wish each other the best, not tear each other down.”
“Right. I forgot the warm and fuzzy Oprah crap,” Anne said, and looked away. “Well, give them here. My turn to open the bag.”
Shirley seemed defiant a moment, as if still in the thrall of her sudden rage, then sighed and let her shoulders slump back into their usual position. Daphne drew a vermilion bag from the pocket of her men’s pajamas and held it toward Anne.
“Take it, then.”
Anne reached forward and snatched the bag. The sudden move rumpled her T-shirt, so she had to adjust it as she sat back down, legs crossed, her pale knees sticking out from beneath the folds of the shirt.
Everyone stared at the Clutch as Anne’s eager fingers unraveled the knot in the golden string that held it closed. As she upended it, hard, ivory shapes tumbled onto the floor between them.
They looked like bones, little ones. Animal bones, perhaps, or carved from something larger. Each had a shape: a tiny jawless skull, a thigh, a small spine, and more—five in all. There were dark lines on the faces of each, carved symbols.
Anne was staring—they were all staring—at the bones.
“Shirley goes first tonight,” Mary said, snapping them out of what started to look like a trance.
Shirley’s face remained solemn. She gingerly picked them up and pressed them between her small hands, gently rolling them back and forth across her palms. She held her hands out as if at the end of a prayer, then separated them, letting the bones just drop. They fell in a tight pack, almost clumped together, making hardly a sound on the floorboards.
The girls all leaned forward. Mary was the first to shake her head. “No.”
Shirley pouted, deeply disappointed.
Daphne moved things along. “Who’s next? Anne, isn’t it?”
Anne rolled her eyes and grumbled.
“What’s wrong now?” Mary said. “Are you going to be like this all night? You’re lucky to be second.”
Anne scowled as she scooped up the bones. “Oh, right. Anyone remember someone going second and winning? I don’t. Second blows. First and third. That’s always best.”
“It seems petty to keep score,” Mary said. “Besides, any time we see a pattern like that, it changes. Lightning never strikes twice. The only pattern that stays the same is the one that always wins. Three of that same mark.”
Anne grunted, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. She cupped the bones and shook them vigorously. The things chittered in the hollow of her hands; then she tossed them. Unlike Shirley’s gentle drop that had caused the bones to land more or less together, Anne’s throw made them explode on the floor and fly in all directions. Again they all leaned forward, but this time they waited until the thigh bone slowed its spin enough to read.
“Wrong again, Anne,” Shirley said, pulling free a nail-shard from her thumb. “You win. Happy now?”
“Thrilled. It’s about damn time,” Anne said, with a half chuckle. “Sorry for being so bitchy.” She leaned forward and pinched Shirley on the cheek. “With any luck you won’t have to put up with me much longer. But since that isn’t likely, I can at least try to scare the pee out of you again.”
Shirley swatted the hand away, then frowned and sort of folded into herself, lowering her cheek into the high collar of her woolen gown. “Why are the stories always so terrible?”
“Because life is terrible,” Anne said.
“But our stories, should we ever find them, will they be terrible too?” Mary said. “Shirley’s right. Murder, suicide, rape, incest—we’ve told the rats in these walls so many horrid things.”
Anne, considerably cheerier, now mocked Mary’s genteel tone as she had Shirley’s whine before. “Oh, but Mary, you know as well as I that these are mere decor. One must whittle one’s little finger past the muscle and the bone to get to the bloody heart of things.”
“Enough,” Daphne said. “The night doesn’t last forever, ladies. Why don’t you get started, Anne?”
Though grammatically a question, it didn’t sound like a request, but an order. Anne just nodded and looked down at the bones, studying them, absorbing something from them. Her brow, for the first time, knitted, and the previously catty girl fell deep into thought.
Seeing Anne quieted seemed to delight Shirley, who grinned, though she tried to hide it. After a while, head still down, gnawed fingernail still near her mouth, she said, “Have you got it?”
“Yeah,” Anne said, raising an eyebrow as she settled back on her haunches.
The others shifted briefly, trying to find the most comfortable position.
Then Anne began the story, and it went something like this….
1
No one at Lake Crest High was surprised when Nicolette Bennington didn’t show up for classes that Wednesday morning. Nicki, or Naughty Nic as she was called in whispers behind her back, skipped classes all the time. If she wasn’t in trouble at school, then she found trouble at home or in the world at large. It was all very fascinating and/or amusing to her peers because Naughty Nic was fun. She didn’t pull lame pranks that hurt people’s feelings, but she had a knack for shak
ing things up. Once, she pretended to be blind and walked her dad’s Great Dane, Hamlet, through the mall and into the food court, where he promptly peed on the condiment stand. At Lady Foot Locker, Hamlet found himself with a taste for a Reebok running shoe, which he grabbed off a plastic stand and proceeded to gnaw with much glee. When a salesclerk ran up and snatched the wet leather wad from Hamlet’s lips, Naughty Nic handed him a credit card and said, “I’m sorry, but he’s kind of doing you a favor. Nobody’s wearing those anymore.”
Cathy Lynn Baker was there, trying on a pair of sneakers she needed for tennis. She swore that’s exactly what happened. Mandy was there, too. She was in the mall outside the shop with her friends, struck motionless by the sight of Naughty Nic in sunglasses acting like Ray Charles while Hamlet licked his lips and chomped his jaws, spraying spit all over the fat salesman in the referee shirt. Mandy did not, however, hear Nicki’s clever response to the angry ref, though she told everyone at school she had. It just made a better story that way.
Sometimes, Naughty Nic showed up in the middle of a class, telling some wicked stupid story about why she was late, and other times she raised her hand to interrupt a teacher, announced “gyno appointment,” and excused herself for the afternoon. She dismissed most boys as puppies: cute and amusing but messy and untrained. Word around Lake Crest was that she dated only college boys.
Mandy had three classes with Nicki, and one of them was first period gym on Wednesdays. That morning, Mandy showed up bleary eyed. She hadn’t gotten much sleep and was without caffeine. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays she sacrificed her morning latte because, earlier that semester, she almost blew one all over the gymnasium floor while doing laps. So with no critical bean in her veins, Mandy trudged, shoe soles squeaking, across the shiny, waxed floor and took her place beside Laurel Wheeler, where she sighed and crossed her arms over her chest.
“Someone’s looking tragic,” Laurel whispered.
“Bite my soft parts, L.”
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