“What?” Zee said. “He actually said that?”
“Yeah. He said that I should try harder and do better and not let my father down. He said that I could be the son my dad wants. That it would be better for me. He said he believed in me.”
“Is that what you want?” Zee asked softly.
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s right. I don’t want to let my father down.”
“Maybe your father is letting you down, Elijah.”
“That’s not how it works, Zee. I want him to be proud of me. Maybe if he was, then my mother . . .” Elijah paused, swallowed some words, and blurted, “I just thought it would fix things, okay? It’s stupid, I know.”
“But, Elijah, you’re smart and kind and good at everything you do. That’s what I see when I look at you. There’s so much more to you than what you weigh.”
“Don’t do that!” Elijah said loudly. “You always do that and I hate it. Don’t tell me that I’m not fat, okay? I am. I have eyes.”
“I’m sorry,” Zee whispered, startled by his yelling. Elijah didn’t yell. He just wasn’t built like that. And the fact that Zee of all people had brought him to this point, well, it said something. She felt awful. She just wanted this conversation to end. Wanted to go back to talking about their usual stuff like school and how she was going to get back at Nellie Bloom. Not this kind of talk. Not the kind that twisted her stomach and dried up her mouth.
“Most days I don’t even care, you know? Most days it doesn’t matter, but there are times when he looks at me . . .” Elijah looked back at the house. “He looks at me like . . . he just sees a lifetime of unhappiness. Even though I’m not unhappy.” Elijah sighed. “I just . . . I don’t know. I want my father to be proud of me. I think I want that more than anything. More than even being myself.”
Zee chewed on the inside of her lip. This didn’t sound like Elijah. Suddenly she hated Principal Scratch for getting in his head like this. “Well, if you ask me, you’re the only interesting person in this whole stupid town. That’s the only thing that matters to me. Who cares what your dad thinks?”
“I do! That’s the whole point, Zee,” Elijah snapped. His words were icy, and he turned his back on her. “Are you even listening?”
Zee flinched. It wasn’t the first time someone had asked her that. She took a deep breath. “Elijah . . . this isn’t you. This is him. You don’t need to change. You don’t need to be thinner. It won’t change a single thing about you. Fathers are supposed to love you no matter what. They shouldn’t want to change you.”
Elijah looked up at Zee, and she could see the tears in his eyes. “Yeah, but . . . what if he does want me to change? What do I do then?”
Zee opened her mouth and then closed it again. “I don’t know, but that new principal isn’t going to fix it. Also, what’s the story with that red hand? It freaks me out,” Zee said with a small smile. She nudged his arm, and something like a smile flickered over his face. “Look, maybe your dad doesn’t realize that it hurts you. Sometimes parents mess up and don’t do a good job being parents. Look at my dad.”
“He’s just looking for work,” Elijah offered.
Zee kicked at the stones near her feet. “He’s been gone for a long time. It’s irresponsible. Abby . . . she’s trying to stay positive, but what if what Nellie said was right?”
“Nellie Bloom is a bossy little know-it-all. Your dad will be home soon,” Elijah said, putting an arm around Zee’s shoulder.
“Speaking of Nellie,” Zee said, feeling like the conversation was tipping back into a space she could navigate. “We have a lot of work ahead of us. I need you in top scheming mode.”
“What now?” Elijah said, and the beginnings of a smile crept across his face.
“Revenge,” Zee said, offering him a smile as wide and wicked as they come.
7
A SECOND STORM FOLLOWED THAT NIGHT. NOT AS BIG AS THE FIRST one, but rain still lashed at Zee’s window, pulling her right out of her dreams. She sat up in bed, trying to remember the strange dream that now burned off in a haze. She couldn’t put her finger on exactly what happened, but she was sure of one thing—a cold in her belly sort of feeling. The same feeling she had at the library right before she saw Paul. She shivered and pulled the blankets up around her as she climbed out of bed and went to the window. The rain was coming in torrents, the wind carrying it in all different directions so that it was hard to see anything. Zee hoisted the blanket up over her shoulders, cupped her hands to the window, and peered into the darkness.
A blast of lightning lit up the sky, startling her. The street was aglow for just a second before it went dark again. But it was long enough for Zee to see something on the sidewalk in front of her house. It was a shadow, a thing standing perfectly still.
The sky cracked with thunder that Zee felt down in her bones. The first storm was thrilling. This one felt different. Colder. Deeper.
Haunted.
When the lightning lit up her street again, she saw the figure. She was sure of it. A stock-still gray mass staring up at her house. Who could stand out there in this weather? Her heart thudded inside her chest. Should she get Abby? Zee glanced back at her alarm clock. It was 3:00 a.m. exactly.
The witching hour. She’d read about it in a book. The time, they say, that witches are at their most powerful. A time when strange things could happen.
Abby worked a double yesterday and would need to get up soon for her next shift. It was wrong to wake her up. Especially over something so silly. Zee squinted again. It had to be a shadow, a trick of the light, a post office box she’d never noticed before. Something other than whatever that cold flush in her belly was telling her it was.
When lightning hit again, followed by a peal of thunder—a sign that the storm was moving closer—she gasped because this time she saw it clearly.
Sitting on the sidewalk was the hound she’d seen in the cemetery. It sat there patiently and calmly—the thing didn’t even look wet—and it stared up at her window. She could see the faint glint of its red eyes.
And then she heard it.
A voice. Deep and raspy but clear.
“Hoooowwww much looooonnngggggeeerrrr?”
Zee spun around—it sounded like it was behind her—her eyes darted from door to bed to nightstand to dresser to closet back to door. Her heart rammed against her ribs. The room was empty.
She squeezed her fingers to try to stop the shaking. When she turned back to the window, the next blast of lightning revealed . . . nothing. Had she been wrong? The sidewalk was empty.
But that voice. That question—“How much longer?”—burned inside her. She’d heard it clear as day. It wasn’t the kind of thing she’d imagined. Or was it?
She squeezed her eyes shut. Go back to bed. This is probably just a really bad dream.
Zee picked up her water glass off the nightstand. Empty. Her throat was dry. She felt an overwhelming need to go downstairs and check to make sure the front door was locked. She squeezed the glass in her hand, trying to stop the shaking. She was going to get water, check the lock, and then go back to sleep.
As she left her room and climbed down the steps, she thought, You used to be scared of nothing. What’s happened?
She crossed the living room, jumping as another blast of lightning lit up the room. She got to the kitchen and turned on the faucet, refilling her glass, which she gulped down followed by another. She double-checked to make sure the door was locked, pulling on the handle until it rattled.
She carried her water glass through the living room as thunder rattled the window and another burst of lightning lit up the living room as if someone had turned on the lights. And that was when she saw it.
Eyes, wide and white and shining, and then a mouth, open. Long ragged hair. Mud-stained face.
A woman, caked in wet mud and moss, was huddled near the arm of the couch staring at Zee.
The water glass clattered to the floor, and Zee screamed and screamed and screamed, una
ble to stop herself. She was sure she was going to scream forever, until her throat went raw and cracked open.
Abby’s bedroom door flew open, and she raced down the steps and flipped on the lights. She crouched down and pulled her sister into a hug. “Calm down, Zee, everything’s fine.” Abby shushed her and rocked her until she was breathing normally again. Zee stared at the empty space at the edge of the couch. What had she seen?
“What happened?” Abby whispered into her hair. “What are you doing down here?”
“Water,” Zee managed to croak. “I needed some water.”
For a second, she wanted to tell Abby everything. About the hound outside and the woman in the living room, but it started to feel just like a crazy dream. A vivid one, but a dream nonetheless. Something her imagination conjured up. Another bolt of lightning lit up the window, followed by the rumble of thunder.
“It’s all these storms,” Abby said. “They’re unnerving. Let’s get you back into bed.”
Zee nodded. It was the most she could do. Her sister scooped up the glass and swept into the kitchen to refill it before taking her sister’s hand and walking her back upstairs. Once she was back in bed, she started to feel like she could breathe again. It was just that overactive imagination of hers. At least that was what she kept telling herself.
“You want me to leave the light on?” Abby asked.
“No, it’s okay,” Zee said, scooting back under the covers. “It was just a trick of the light or something.”
“Okay. I love you, Zee. Get some sleep,” Abby said, and got up, turned out the light, and closed the door. Zee breathed a few times, listening to the sounds of the house settling and the wind and rain at the window. She inhaled long through her nose and exhaled through her mouth just like her father taught her when she felt the panic clawing its way up her throat.
Inhale. Exhale.
Longer inhale. Longer exhale.
Zee felt her heart start to settle as she pulled the covers up around her head and hugged her pillow tight. There was nothing there. It was just your imagination.
Inhale. Exhale.
Just your imagination.
Inhale. Exhale.
She heard it then. The steady creak of the steps. It’s just Abby, she told herself. But she didn’t believe it. Whatever was coming down the hall had wet, thunking steps; it shuffled, as if it were dragging itself toward her bedroom door.
Zee’s long, smooth breaths sped up as the panic ratcheted up her spine, causing her arms and legs to feel stiff. Each breath was coming faster and faster as fear made the air catch and snag in her lungs. She was freezing. She saw her breath mist in the air. She stared at her door, afraid to blink because she was certain that it was about to slowly creak open and from the hall she would see it.
Mud-ruined long hair.
Wide eyes, all white.
Zee squeezed her eyes shut. She wanted to call for Abby, but she couldn’t get the words out. Zee pulled the blanket over her head and willed it all to stop.
8
ZEE WOKE WITH A START WHEN HER SISTER OPENED THE DOOR.
“Time to get up, lazybones,” Abby said before heading back down the staircase.
Zee poked her head out from under the covers and squinted in the morning light. The door to her bedroom was open; she could hear Abby banging around the kitchen downstairs. The storm had passed, and sunlight spilled into her room, turning it back into a safe place, lighting up her nightstand and the bookcase in the corner and the hammock chair her father made for her. All of it was awash in bright sunlight, sweeping away the night and with it the memory of the terrifying woman. An image that had burned so bright last night revealed itself to be nothing in the morning light.
Now that was a nightmare, she thought, tossing the covers back. She pulled herself out of bed, the floorboards cold on her bare feet, and got dressed. As she headed down the hall, she stopped. She should be going into the bathroom, washing her face, brushing her hair, and then heading down for breakfast, but she couldn’t move. Along the floorboards was a streak of brown and green.
She touched it with her finger, then picked some up and sniffed it.
Mud and moss.
She glanced back into her room at her boots on the floor. Her heart tripped inside her.
This is not what it looks like, she thought. This is just a coincidence. She picked up her boot and found some small tracing of mud from the other day. With a bit of relief, Zee reasoned that the mud just got on the hallway floor because she wasn’t being careful. That’s all. Nothing weird happening here. She swallowed, her throat tight, and headed downstairs and into the kitchen.
“Your lunch is packed and in your bag. That’s breakfast,” Abby said, motioning at the cereal on the kitchen counter. Zee pulled the stool out and tucked into the bowl. “By the way, I saw that math test you shoved into the bottom of your bag.”
Zee groaned. She had forgotten about failing that test. Forgotten on purpose, hence shoving it to the bottom of her backpack.
“Do we need a tutor?”
“No,” she said, spooning cereal into her mouth. “I just forgot about the quiz, so I didn’t study and . . .”
“We can’t have you failing math, Zee. You’re too bright to be failing things. I need you to make time to study. Where is that calendar I bought you? You were supposed to put all your quizzes on there so you could be prepared.”
“It’s not a big deal, Abby,” Zee said.
“Failing is a big deal, Zee.”
“It won’t happen again.”
Abby gave her sister a look and then poured herself more coffee. “Did you get back to sleep?”
Zee froze her spoon midway to her mouth. “What . . . what do you mean?”
“After your nightmare? Did you get back to sleep?”
Zee’s belly flushed cold again, and the image of the woman’s face floated up. “Yeah,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut. “I got back to sleep. Sorry about that.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. Like I said last night, with all these storms we’ve been having it makes the whole town feel haunted. Like those storms keep washing up ghosts.”
In her mind, Zee saw that hound at her window. She heard the voice again—the long, low echoing question that haunted her. She shivered, unable to stop herself. She thought for a moment about telling Abby everything. About the hound, about the question of how much longer, and the woman she saw crouched at the arm of the couch, but the words felt like rocks. Instead she shoveled in more cereal, chewing slowly.
Later at school, Zee spent her lunch hour sitting on the ledge near the small patchy bit of grass that her school considered a lawn, reading.
“You’re reading that book again?” Elijah said, dropping his book bag onto the grass. “How many times is it?”
Zee slipped her bookmark into her very worn copy of Frankenstein. The cover had fallen off a while ago, and she’d used duct tape to reattach it and reinforce the spine. The first few pages were loose, so she was always really careful with them. There was water damage from the time Abby knocked over her drink while the book was on the table, so some of the pages were stiff and warped.
“Why don’t you get a new copy?” Elijah asked, opening up the foil that held his sandwich.
“I don’t want a new copy. I like this copy,” Zee said, laying a protective hand over the book.
“No, but seriously, how many times have you read it?” Elijah asked.
“I don’t know,” Zee said, her mouth full of bagel. “Probably a dozen or so.”
“Man, all those stories out there and you just keep on reading the same ones.”
“I like it. It’s interesting. You know Mary Shelley was only eighteen when she came up with this story. A monster made from the dead. It’s incredible.”
Even as she said the words, the face of the woman crouched by the couch last night flashed behind Zee’s eyelids and goose bumps raced up her arms.
“How did she come up with it?” Elijah
asked.
“She was at Lake Geneva in Switzerland with Lord Byron and her boyfriend Percy. Byron challenged each of them to write a story. I don’t know what the others wrote about. But at the time there was a scientist trying to reanimate a dead frog. She had seen the illustrations in the newspaper. That night when she went to sleep she saw it. A man, stitched together from the body parts of the dead. Another man, desperate to bring him to life. So Mary Shelley wrote about a monster and the creator who rejected him.”
“Bolts in the neck, right?” Elijah said.
“No, that’s just the movie. Her book isn’t like that at all. It’s really good. Come on, the woman literally invented science fiction.”
There was something else Zee liked about Mary Shelley that she didn’t tell Elijah. Something she didn’t tell anyone. Mary was attracted to the dark, just like Zee. Mary was a great writer like Zee hoped to be. She was also an incredible storyteller. But they had something else—something even more important—in common. Something Zee could only whisper to herself.
“So, something happened last night,” Zee said, picking at her fingernails instead of looking at Elijah.
“Okay.”
“I . . . um, during the storm, I woke up and looked outside and saw the wolf, er . . . the dog.”
Elijah cocked a speculative eyebrow. “Like the one you saw in the cemetery?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Go on.”
“And um, it was just sitting outside my house. Just sitting there in all that rain and wind. Looking up at my window.”
“What’re you going to call this story?” Elijah said.
“It’s not a story, Elijah. It happened.”
“Okay,” he said, but Zee could tell he didn’t believe her.
“You have to believe me. The dog . . . hound . . . whatever it is . . . was there. Sitting right on the sidewalk in the storm staring up at my window. And it . . . spoke.”
Elijah choked on his water. He started to laugh. “The dog spoke to you.”
“Yeah. It said, ‘How much longer?’”
“You heard the dog speak to you all the way up on the second floor during a storm. This is a far-fetched story even for you, Zee.”
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