It Begins

by Richie Tankersley Cusick

  No, not the flu. Something else …

  Something dark and suffocating … something gnawing at the distant edges of her mind … something bad that she couldn’t quite place …

  Something horrible. But what?

  Groaning softly, she turned onto her side. Her right hand was aching, as though she might have wrenched it in her sleep, so she propped herself on one elbow and leaned over to examine her palm.

  Memory slammed her full force.

  As every horror of last night came back to her in shocking, grisly detail, Lucy let out a cry and felt the room spin around her. How could she have forgotten—even for a moment! The girl—the grave—my promise—

  She’d hoped so much to be wrong. That somehow she’d only imagined it in her mind, that it had only been a nightmare, that she’d wake up this morning and realize the whole thing had never happened!

  But it had happened.

  And now, as Lucy stared down at her hand, she could see the evidence all too clearly, the truth etched deeply into her skin.

  It was a strange marking.

  Not at all as it had looked last night, for the ugly welts and discolorations had practically faded away. Now there was only the smallest reminder—the pale, puckered flesh of a tiny scar—stamped into the exact center of her right palm. It looked like a sliver of something. Like a sliver of moon. That’s it … a crescent moon. So perfectly formed, it seemed neither random nor accidental. As if some miniature branding iron had been used to sear a pattern into her flesh.

  No. No, that’s crazy.

  Grabbing the blanket, Lucy rubbed it vigorously against her palm. These were crazy thoughts she was having, thoughts that didn’t make sense, because this scar on her hand was just that—a scar—a wound—nothing more. She’d tried to help, and in their struggle the poor girl had scratched her, and eventually this little scar would fade, too …

  But how did it heal so fast?

  Lucy let go of the blanket. Despite the fact that she’d been rubbing so hard, her scar wasn’t even red. She stared at it in disbelief, remembering how gruesome her hand had looked last night, remembering the excruciating pain she’d felt when the girl had grabbed her in the cemetery.

  What’s happening to me? Am I having some kind of nervous breakdown?

  “Lucy!”

  Angela’s voice shocked her back to attention. The door from the bathroom flew open, and Lucy saw her cousin scowling at her from the threshold.

  “What am I, your private chauffeur?” Angela’s miniskirt barely covered her crotch. Her designer sweater looked as if she’d spray-painted it over her chest. She looked like an expensive hooker. “You’re not even up yet, and I am so not waiting for you.”

  “Yes,” Lucy nodded, throwing off the covers. “Yes, I’m hurrying.”

  The door slammed shut. As Lucy sat up in bed, she tried to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. When had she eaten last—sometime yesterday? So much had happened since then … so much confusion in her head. She couldn’t think straight. She couldn’t think at all.

  She closed her eyes, then opened them. Her gaze traveled slowly around the room. She could see the windows … the sliding doors … the slow dawn of an autumn morning struggling to break through.

  Mom … I saw Mom …

  Lucy’s heart caught in her chest. Yes … Mom was here … she said something to me …

  Her mind tried frantically to remember. She could almost hear the tone of her mother’s voice … could almost see her mother’s face … but the words she’d spoken were completely gone.

  Frustrated, Lucy got up. She padded barefoot to the sliding doors and squinted down at the carpet, as if she expected to see a footprint or a distinctive clue, some confirmation of her mother’s visit. She ran a tentative hand down the length of the curtains, and her eyes misted with tears.

  Of course she wasn’t really here. It was just a dream. She wasn’t here, and she wasn’t a ghost either, because ghosts don’t exist …

  Lucy opened the curtains and peered out. A watery sun was spreading across the backyard, and she could see Angela recklessly scooping seeds into all the bird feeders. The rain had stopped, but beneath a cold November sky lay the widespread destruction from last night’s storm—piles of wet leaves, splintered tree branches, strewn garbage, uprooted plants, even a few wood shingles and a broken shutter—and as Lucy’s gaze shifted to the stone wall in back, she saw that the gate was standing open.

  Her heart clenched in her chest. She forced herself to take a deep breath.

  It doesn’t mean anything. It was just the storm.

  “Just the storm,” Lucy repeated to herself. Of course nobody would have been out there watching her window in the middle of a storm—she’d just been feeling overly paranoid last night. As fierce as the wind had been, it was a miracle the gate was even still there at all.

  She let the curtains fall back into place.

  “Lucy!” Irene shouted.

  “Coming!” Lucy shouted back.

  She hurried to the bathroom, but couldn’t resist checking the clothes hamper first. There were her clothes, right where she’d tossed them last night, totally covered in mud. What did you expect—isn’t that scar proof enough for you? Are you still hoping last night didn’t happen? She picked up her toothbrush, squeezed toothpaste across the bristles. Think, Lucy, think! Why was it so hard to focus this morning? Why couldn’t she brush her teeth without trembling? Maybe I can sneak out of school and find another pay phone … maybe I can pretend I have an emergency and borrow someone’s cell phone—cell phones can’t be traced, can they?

  Lucy frowned at herself in the bathroom mirror.

  I’ll have to go back to the cemetery on my own. I’ll have to go back there and find her. It’s the only thing I can do.

  Yet she knew in her heart it was pointless. She was certain the girl was dead—had been dead now, for nearly twelve hours. Not only that, but she’d been lost last night, panicky and disoriented—she didn’t have a clue where the cemetery was. And even if you do manage to find the cemetery, even if you do manage to find the grave—what then?

  What if the killer had come back, what if the killer were there? What if he really did recognize her from last night—she’d be as good as dead.

  Sighing, Lucy leaned closer to her reflection. She had dark bruises under her eyes, and her normally tan complexion was pale. She’d never worn much makeup—Mom had always insisted that Lucy had a natural sort of beauty—but today she added a touch of blush and lipstick. Just for color, she told herself. Just for confidence, you mean.

  “Angela’s right,” she sighed. “I do look like a zombie.”

  She didn’t even know what outfit to put on—what did kids in Pine Ridge wear, anyway? She wasn’t prepared for the chilly autumn weather here, and she’d never needed warm clothes at home—no matter what she picked out this morning, she was sure to look stupid. She made a face at the mirror and tied her hair back in a ponytail. Then she went to her room, took jeans and a pale blue sweater from her dresser drawer, and pulled on thick socks and sneakers.

  “Lucy! Angela is waiting!”

  “I’m coming!”

  God, this was going to be an awful day. As if everything else weren’t bad enough already, just thinking of going into a new school, and being introduced and having everyone stare at her, made her feel sicker than ever.

  She could hear the TV as she came downstairs. Pausing on the bottom step, Lucy listened nervously to a brief review of the local news. Nothing about a murder. No body discovered anywhere. Not knowing whether to feel relieved or not, she started into the kitchen when the sound of voices stopped her just outside the door.

  “You can’t do this to me!” Angela cried angrily. “It’s not fair!”

  Then Aunt Irene, cold and utterly calm. “I told you if you got one more speeding ticket, you’d be grounded. You had plenty of warning.”

  “But the Festival’s this weekend!”

  �
�Keep your voice down. You’re acting so high-strung—are you coming down with something?”

  “Yes. Dreams. I’m coming down with dreams, Irene. Weird, sexy ones, all night long. Send me to the hospital.”

  “Angela, will you please be mature this morning? Must we go through this—”

  “Every single day?” Angela finished. “I have to go to the Festival. Everyone’s going! I have to be there!”

  “You should have thought of that before. And you should have known better than to think I wouldn’t find out about this latest ticket.”

  “Oh, right, I forgot. Your personal friends on the police force. Or was it the judge this time?”

  “This discussion is over. You can use your car to drive to and from school, but nowhere else. There will be no social events of any kind until I say so.”

  “It’s not even about me, is it?” Despite Angela’s sarcasm, Lucy could hear the threat of tears. “It’s just about you looking bad in front of your important friends—”

  “That’s quite enough, Angela.”

  “If it was Lucy, you wouldn’t ground her.”

  “If it was Lucy, I wouldn’t be having these problems.”

  “Right.” Angela’s tone was suddenly as cold as her mother’s. “Right, I forgot. ‘Cause Lucy’s so goddamn perfect.”

  Lucy pressed a hand to her mouth. She heard the kitchen door fly open.

  “Angela, come back here,” Irene ordered. “You have to take Lucy to school.”

  “You take her,” Angela threw back. “It was your idea to bring her here—you take her!”

  The door slammed shut with a bang. As tears sprang to her eyes, Lucy flattened herself against the wall and fought down her own wave of anger. Thanks a lot, Irene. Do you think you can get Angela to hate me just a little bit more?

  “Lucy!” Irene fairly shrieked.

  Quickly Lucy went back to the stairs, then came noisily down the hall again, as though she’d just arrived.

  “Yes, here I am. Sorry.”

  “Get in the car. We’re already late.”

  “I thought you said Angela—”

  “I forgot she had some errands to run before school. I’ll be taking you. Where’s your jacket?”

  “I … it got so wet last night, I—”

  “Here. Take this jacket of Angela’s. She’ll never miss it.”

  “But—”

  “Just put it on, Lucy. I can promise you she will never wear it, simply because I gave it to her. And Angela would rather die than be seen in anything I pick out for her. I’m sure it will fit you nicely.”

  “If you say so.”

  Irene was silent for the whole drive. It wasn’t until they pulled up in front of the high school that she finally graced Lucy with a comment.

  “I know classes have already started this morning, but as you know, I’ve spoken with Principal Howser several times. He’s assured me that everything’s been taken care of, so all you need to do is go straight to his office. He’ll be expecting you.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m sure you will be. Have a nice day, Lucy.”

  As her aunt drove off, Lucy stood there on the pavement and made a quick assessment of the school: two-story buildings of ivy-covered brick; stone benches placed strategically around the wide, sweeping campus; a covered courtyard with tables and chairs; an outdoor stage; rows of bleachers and an athletic field in the distance. Lots of trees, lots of windows, lots of cars in the parking spaces, lots of students to face …

  Taking a deep breath, Lucy took one hesitant step toward the gate. Then she stopped.

  You don’t have to do this now. You can wait and go Monday. You can tell Irene you got sick and had to go home, and it’s not really a lie, and it’s not like one more day will make that much difference …

  Lucy turned slowly, her eyes scanning the sidewalk and street beyond. A quiet, residential area; nothing but houses as far as she could see. But she’d noticed a post office and a grocery store on their drive here—someone was sure to know where the cemetery was.

  She glanced over her shoulder at Pine Ridge High.

  Then she ducked her head and hurried away from the school.

  7

  It didn’t take long to find what she wanted.

  But then, standing beneath the weathered sign of PINE RIDGE CEMETERY, she realized it didn’t look anything like she remembered.

  There hadn’t been gates where she’d come in before; there hadn’t been a fence or a sign. Maybe this isn’t the right cemetery, maybe Pine Ridge has more than one. But the old man she’d asked outside the post office hadn’t even hesitated—he’d pointed her straight in this direction. The old part and the new part, he’d explained to her, with the empty old church still standing guard at one end. You were disoriented last night, you were terrified, of course nothing’s going to look the same today.

  Lucy glanced up and down the narrow, deserted street. Directly across from her was an empty lot; a block away, the street suddenly ended, giving way to an overgrown field and a rickety, boarded-up house set far back beneath some trees. There was no traffic here. Not a single pedestrian in sight.

  Well, what are you waiting for? Just go in and get it over with.

  Lucy began walking. She hadn’t expected the place to be so big—much bigger than it looked from the sidewalk—with row upon row of perfectly aligned headstones and carefully placed markers. The grass was spongy, littered with remnants of last night’s storm. Plastic flowers lay everywhere, along with shredded plants and broken vases, toppled wreaths and even some soggy toys.

  As Lucy walked farther, she began to notice a distinct difference in her surroundings. How the ground seemed to be actually sinking, rainwater standing in shallow pools … how the trees seemed to be pressing closer, weaving their branches more tightly overhead. And yes, she thought suddenly, fear and hope beating together, fluttering in her chest—yes, this all seems familiar …

  Back here, so far from the cemetery’s entrance, these graves had been forgotten. Patches of dead weeds pushed against tombstones; piles of dead leaves obliterated names. It was colder here, and piercingly damp. Locks hung rusted from mausoleum doors, heavily shrouded in spiderwebs. Stone angels and sleeping children, once meant to be comforting, now gazed back at Lucy with hollow eyes and moldy faces, their tender smiles rotted away. As though weary of their burden, many headstones had slipped quietly beneath the ivy; others were crumbled to dust.

  Lucy stopped beside an unmarked grave and lowered her face into her hands.

  What am I doing here, Mom? Can you even believe this?

  Suddenly she was furious with herself. She must have been insane to come here, wandering around alone in this isolated place instead of being in school! Did you really think you’d find her—some dead girl in an open grave? There were hundreds of burial plots in here—thousands, probably!—how long could she possibly keep searching? Not to mention how enraged Irene would be when she found out Lucy had skipped school.

  “Bad idea,” Lucy whispered to herself. “Very bad idea.”

  Forget good intentions—she’d leave this place now and find a pay phone. Promise or no promise, she’d make an anonymous call to the police, and then she’d get back to the house. She’d go straight to bed, and when Irene came home, she’d swear she really had been sick all day, but next Monday she’d be—miraculously!—recovered and more than ready to begin her new life.

  Resolved, Lucy raised her head. She hunched her shoulders against the cold, dank breeze and turned back the way she’d come.

  She was scarcely aware of his shadow.

  There were so many of them, really, surrounding her in deep, dark pools … soft and black like liquid, oozing between the graves, seeping beneath the low-sweeping branches of the trees …

  And later she would wonder how he got there—appearing without a word or a sound—just suddenly there, his tall shadow figure blocking her path, one arm extended in front of her to prevent
her escape.

  She saw him gazing down at her—eyes without light, face without features—or was it her own fear distorting his image, blurring everything into an indistinct mask? She wanted to run, but she was frozen in place; she heard his voice, but it seemed like some strange, faraway echo.

  “She’s not here,” he said. “The one you’re looking for.”

  Lucy could barely choke out a whisper. “What? What are you talking about?”

  And the angels were watching—all around her, Lucy could see their blank, empty stares … their dead, decaying eyes …

  The stranger was above her now.

  Leaning over … reaching out … a sharp black silhouette against pale, pale light.

  “She’s not here,” the stranger said again. “He’s taken her away.”

  8

  Someone had ahold of her shoulders.

  As Lucy fell back a step, she realized that strong hands were trying to steady her, to keep her facing forward. She willed herself to scream, but all that came out was a frightened whimper.

  “’Take it easy,” a voice said. “Just breathe.”

  Breathe? Struck by a fresh wave of panic, Lucy began to struggle. The hands holding her immediately tightened their grip, and before she realized what was happening, she felt herself being pulled tight against her captor’s chest.

  “Stop it! I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Lucy stopped. With her arms pinned securely to her sides, she looked up to see a pair of dark eyes gazing back at her with calm, cool intensity. In a split-second appraisal, she guessed him to be a little over six feet tall, with a strong, lean build, probably about her own age, possibly a year or two older. High cheekbones accentuated the angles of his face; a faint shadow of beard ran along his chin and jawline and upper lip. His hair was thick and as black as his eyes, falling in loose, tousled waves to his shoulders. And he held himself very straight—though not so much a formal posture, she sensed, as a wary and watchful one.