Nightmare Yearnings, page 11
Soon, Serena poked her head halfway into the room, acting like she did whenever Arnold and I invited over dinner guests she’d never met. I thought about waving her away until the interrogation was over, but the cop overrode my authority and invited her to sit beside him on the couch. Perhaps he figured she’d say something that would prove me guilty of either murder or bullshit. I prayed I wouldn’t spend the night locked up.
Arnold came home thirty minutes later. When he saw the cop sitting beside Serena and me, his face reddened. He set a bag of groceries on the ground a little too hard, splitting open a container of milk. After a minute of cursing and cleaning, he joined us in the living room, that crimson blush still plastered on his face.
As soon as I caught him up on what I’d done that day, he grew silent and small, easing back into his chair and blinking rapidly. I could tell he was angry at me, but not just me. He sat, mostly without talking, while Serena and I answered the cop’s questions. Whenever they asked him something, they had to repeat it. Arnold was off in another world, dissociating from whatever nightmare he’d found himself in.
Finally, the call came in from the other cop. Dr. Kemp hadn’t been in the office since Serena’s neurotransference operation. When the cop searched his computer’s neurotransference records, the coordinates were indeed there. An APB had been issued with a description of Kemp and his vehicles, and teams would be dispatched to check each of the eight sites that evening.
I was in the clear, no longer the implicit suspect in multiple child murders.
The cop got up from the couch and was about to head out when Serena spoke, her face half-burrowed in a cushion.
“He watches me sometimes,” she said.
The cop stopped in his tracks. Arnold lifted his eyes for the first time since he’d sat down. We stared at each other, frozen.
When we snapped out of it, all the adults rushed to her room, Arnold and I leading the charge. I snapped on the lights. The cop checked the closet and under the bed. Arnold flung open the curtains and looked outside. It was his scream that almost made me fall over. If Arnold, of all people, was screaming, something was deeply, deeply fucked. Everyone swarmed the window.
Ghostly handprints, bigger than either Arnold’s or mine, stained the glass. And below the sill, two massive boot prints faced us, the mud from last night’s rain curled but not yet dried around the edges.
I bolted out of the room, convinced against all reason that Serena had been kidnapped in the minute it took us to investigate her room. But there she was, still on the couch, her knees folded up against her chin, tears streaking down her cheeks.
“I don’t want to die,” she said.
* * *
The cops never found Kemp. And even when the Feds entered the picture, they couldn’t find a trace of him. Not even his car. You’d think a six-foot-five man would be easy to spot, but apparently not.
What they did find were eight bodies exactly where Serena said they’d be. Eight girls whose families now had long-overdue answers, but no real justice.
Serena turns thirteen next week. I still check her window every night, the yard as well. We even installed a motion-activated flood light and a security camera should someone try to sneak up under the cover of dark. So far, no one has.
But that’s the thing. Sometimes I look at the security footage over my morning cup of coffee—skimming through the bits where nothing happens and stopping whenever a critter activates the light while dashing across the yard. And this morning, when I checked it, I saw something. Just out of the range of the light. Past the fat, lumbering possum, past the native plants garden taking up half our yard—a large shadow, darker than the night, and a shining pair of eyes, white and glinting.
I wonder if it’s him, waiting for his final girl.
Lockdown
No one understood why I transferred schools as a sophomore, especially given that I moved from the “best” one in town to one with almost as many dropouts as it had roaches. Sure, my new school had a better football team, but last I checked, girls couldn’t try out. Even worse, none of my friends from middle school went there, and my hopes of making new ones were hampered by the fact that I transferred midyear. By then, everyone had already found their people and I was the outsider, the girl to gossip about but never actually talk to. I bet she got expelled from Richmond. Probably did something real fucked-up.
Of course, I could never tell anyone the real reason I left—not even my parents or my closest but quickly drifting friends. Nor could I admit that I’d literally seen it coming when Richmond High became the worst kind of national news. Some burdens are meant to be borne privately, even when they gnaw at your insides like rats in a cage of flesh.
The day I decided to transfer was the day Richmond held a lockdown drill. It happened in English, where I sat next to Leon Hoffman—yes, that Leon Hoffman. This was several months before anyone outside of Richmond High would come to know his name. Every day in class, he’d offer to help me with the opening grammar practice, resting his arm—decorated in Sharpied zig-zags and band logos—on my desk. I always told him I could figure out the grammar on my own, even though it was a lie half the time. Rejected, Leon would remove his elbow from my workspace, but he’d keep his desk close to mine, blocking me in for the rest of class. My desk had a bar on the other side, meaning I had to squeeze out on Leon’s side to escape. He’d pretend not to know it was a tight squeeze, and I’d end up brushing against him, every hair on my body bristling. This claustrophobic wriggling meant I was often the last one out when the bell rang, left alone with Leon exactly as he intended. My desire to sprint out of the classroom was always strong, but I felt like a rabbit in the presence of a wolf, so I walked out of the room casually—no sudden movements, clutching my textbooks to my chest to hide the shakes. Leon would tail me every time, staying half-hidden in the hallway crowd and seemingly indifferent to the fact that his next class and mine were on opposite sides of the building. The first time he did this, I was sweating and breathing hard by the time I got to the chemistry room. Mrs. Kepnes asked if I’d just gotten out of gym. I said “yes” because lying was easier
This stalking routine continued for a full month, but it wasn’t until the lockdown drill that Leon actually asked me out. That day, I could tell something was off from the way he stayed silent during grammar practice, bouncing his knee as he zeroed in on his own worksheet instead of mine. I briefly entertained the notion that he’d given up on me—that maybe I wouldn’t have to request a new seat from Mr. Sands after all. But just as Mr. Sands wrapped up the grammar bell ringer and transitioned to a review of lockdown procedures, Leon scooted toward me and placed his clammy hand over mine. Despite his flushed face, his words carried no inflection, no hint of shudder or shake.
“Go to homecoming with me,” he said.
Behind me, a girl snorted. Leon didn’t turn to glare at her; his eyes, pale blue and unblinking, were locked on mine. While grasping for the right response, I hoped Mr. Sands might yell at Leon for talking and cut off the conversation before I was forced to answer. But the man was deep in lecture mode about how “lockdown procedures have been proven to save lives in school violence situations.”
“I can’t.” I cursed my choice of words and stared down at the profanity carved into my desk.
“Well, if you can’t go to homecoming, you can still go on a date with me another time. What about today? You can come to my house.”
I glanced at the girl behind me. She was biting her lip and staring at her phone but still clearly listening. I don’t know what I expected from her, but whatever it was, I didn’t get it. I was on my own.
“I don’t want to,” I said, and before he could respond, I raised my hand.
“Yes, Shaine?” Mr. Sands said, sighing as if I were a heckler interrupting his speech.
“Can I move to charge my laptop?” I pointed to a corner of the room as far away from Leon as possible.
“We’re not using laptops today,” Mr. Sands said. “And the drill is about to—”
On cue, the intercom’s low chime sounded three times, then Principal Hurtz’s voice announced the start of the lockdown. A boy in the back gave a fake scream, and his friends laughed.
“Cut it out,” Mr. Sands said, then pointed to the boy. “Get the lights, Caidon. Everyone, move over that way and keep it down.”
Leon had blocked me in again, his desk even closer than usual. When the lights went off, his eyes glinted at me like a predator in the night. Rather than asking him to move, I climbed over the metal bar on the other side of my desk, hoping the stretch wouldn’t tear my jeans. I shuffled over to the wall with everyone else and took shelter under the Shakespeare poster featuring Hamlet holding a skull. Leon sat down beside me, his knee knocking against mine. Immediately, tightness seized my chest.
Around us, students whispered to each other and scrolled through their Instagram feeds. When Mr. Sands confiscated Caidon’s phone, the rest of the students caught on and put theirs away, though they continued to talk.
“Quiet,” Mr. Sands said. “Don’t make me say it again.”
“A shooter would still know we’re in here even if we were quiet,” someone said. I couldn’t see who in the dark. “They’re not stupid.”
“Save it. Don’t make me call home.”
The student muttered something before falling into silence, and the rest of the class followed. For a while, the only sound was the rustle of fabric as students tried to get comfortable on the vinyl floor. With Leon staring at me and nothing to distract from it, my skin crawled. I tried to focus on my after-school plans—a trip to the mall with Ellen and Nevaeh. We planned to shop for homecoming dresses and be each other’s platonic dates. Thinking about them made it easier to breathe, if only just slightly.
Then, Leon laughed. I glanced up from my lap and realized he was no longer looking at me. He stared off into the darkness, past rows of askew desks. In the far corner, separated from the rest of the group, was someone standing perfectly still. My eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness, and I could just barely make out the student’s silhouette. Strangely, Mr. Sands hadn’t yet hissed at them to join everyone else in the room’s blind spot. I squinted to get a better look, and as my eyes adjusted, the student’s—the girl’s—clothes came into focus: tightly laced Chucks, cuffed skinny jeans, and a Post Malone T-shirt peppered with holes. Funny—I was wearing the same outfit. My gut twisted. Whipping my head around to check who else was seeing this, I discovered it was only Leon.
That’s when Leon’s smile started to fade. He blinked several times as his eyes went glassy. I looked into the corner again and all at once realized the holes in the girl’s shirt weren’t a fashion statement—they dripped with something wet, but whatever it was vanished before hitting the floor, like a snowflake melting mid-fall. The girl held a shaky hand over the biggest hole, and seconds later, her head slumped forward and into view. It was my head; the girl was me. As the holes in her torso leaked, her form became translucent, toes dissolving first and everything up to the neck following. Her floating head was the last to be swallowed up in nothingness, and by then, all life had drained from her eyes. She disappeared. I disappeared.
I remember what happened next only in flashes: Leon looking back at me with silent tears rolling down his cheeks; the thin whistle of my throat closing up; the sound of Mr. Sands’s voice right in front of me.
“It’s just a drill, Shaine,” Mr. Sands said as someone turned the lights back on. “Breathe, Shaine, breathe. Everything’s okay.”
I spent that whole night sobbing into my pillow. My parents—having received Mr. Sands’s email—sat on either side of me in bed, asking why the lockdown drill had upset me so much. I never answered them. There were plenty of moments between sobbing fits in which I could’ve said something coherent, but what would they have believed?
They didn’t let me transfer schools right away. But two weeks later, after every teacher had called home about my declining grades and catatonic behavior, my parents finally agreed to send me to Willis High School.
For a while, Ellen and Nevaeh tried to keep in touch. They’d heard about my breakdown in English but didn’t know the reason behind it. I thought about telling them, or at least telling Ellen; she actually believed in the supernatural. But our supernatural explorations were always just for fun—watching WitchTok videos to learn fun spells, or using a Ouija board to find boyfriends from beyond the grave. To inject the supernatural with life-or-death seriousness felt wrong, like I’d be killing one of Ellen’s greatest sources of joy. I considered telling Nevaeh about my vision instead, but I knew she’d just laugh and call me a crackhead.
This vision wasn’t just about me, though; the rest of the class could be in danger too. Had other students received visions? Seen projections of themselves riddled with bullet holes? Were they, like me, paralyzed into silence? These thoughts circled my brain like wolves. I couldn’t focus in class. I couldn’t hold a conversation. I couldn’t sleep. But, if Instagram was to be believed, everyone else was just fine. Ellen and Nevaeh’s Homecoming pictures proved they were doing well without me. They wore sparkly strapless dresses and beamed at the camera, brighter than I’d ever seen. I could never stare at these pictures for long without crying. They reminded me of how much I’d given up on account of, what—a hallucination? The more time passed, the less real my “vision” seemed. Maybe Leon hadn’t seen anything. Maybe he’d just been staring into the corner and laughing like a weirdo. Maybe it had all been in my head and mine alone—a momentary psychotic break.
It took months for me to get there, and by then, I’d abandoned the idea of telling anyone about the experience. Little by little, I found myself able to complete homework again and even talk to my new peers when the teacher told us to “pair and share.” Still, these peers weren’t my friends, and I knew it was time to return to Richmond. On February 14, my parents filled out the transfer paperwork. That same day, the school’s halls filled with thunder.
Leon’s name appeared in every newspaper from the Washington Post to the New York Times. I wasn’t mentioned in any of the articles, but another girl was—Hailey North. Not Ellen. Not Nevaeh. But that didn’t make the news any easier.
I try not to blame myself for staying silent. I try to be thankful for the vision that saved me. But I think I’ll be trying for the rest of my life.
Top 5 Ghosts Caught on Camera
Hey, come on in. Sorry about the mess. I had one too many last night, didn’t really sleep, and, uh, here we are. Still glad to be on your show, though; my house is haunted as fuck. Here, let’s get out of the living room. The lighting in here is terrible and, uh, well . . . Oh, sure, I’ll take off the shell necklace—could get noisy on the microphone. Sound okay on your end? Great. Let’s get this thing started. I think we’ll only get through four of the ghosts. Wait, there’s only enough budget for one shooting day? Cheapskates. Well, we’ll get through at least a few and—okay. Yeah, I understand. They want all five. The show is called Top 5 Ghosts Caught on Camera, after all. I’ll try to keep things trucking along, but no promises. The last one isn’t that interesting, anyway. Oh, we’re shooting now? Hell yeah. Can you toss me that beer?
FIVE—THE MAN IN THE PANTRY
This guy inspired me to get the camera in the first place. I had to be sure my eyes weren’t tricking me, and the video proves they weren’t. Look there—it’s not a bug on the lens. See the baseball cap, the nose, the glasses? They must be sunglasses because I’ve never been able to see his eyes. Sometimes his body appears, too, but most of the time it’s just his head floating in front of the canned goods. When I open the pantry door, he just hovers there and stares—not at me, though. At something, or someone, behind me. He’s probably creeping on Number Three, but we’ll get to her later.
I’ve had to reach through this guy a few times to get some soup, and it’s like fisting a polar bear’s asshole. I swear to God, there’s frost on the can when I pull it through him. He never reacts to my touch, or if he does, it’s not until after I’ve slammed the pantry shut and split.
Funny thing is, I can’t find any death records for him. Three and Four died in the house, and two died just down the block by the gas station, but the man in the pantry is a mystery. Hell, maybe I should pass out “do you know this man?” flyers with stills from the footage. Might find someone who recognizes him and knows why he won’t leave my goddamn pantry. But I can deal with him being there as long as he doesn’t go all poltergeist on me. I don’t want burst cans of chicken noodle leaking everywhere. Christ knows I’m messy enough on my own.
ONE—HER
What? No, that’s not how countdowns work. We’ll talk about the others first. You trying to scramble my brain?
FOUR—CADENCE HOWARD
Cadence was the previous owner of the house. Lived alone and died choking on a dog biscuit. Weird, right? She liked to know what her dog was eating—try it first, so the pooch wouldn’t have to suffer through a fifty-pound bag of sawdust. That’s what the neighbor said, anyway. Cadence Howard—cuckoo for fucking Cocoa Puffs.
There I go, railing on her again. No wonder she hides my socks. See, she and I got off on the wrong foot—ha! When I bought this place, the realtor warned me that Cadence still made some post-mortem appearances, and I used that fact to knock down the price. I was loud about it too. “180K for Amityville, here? Please! 140, or I’m out.” Cadence heard me, of course. Didn’t you, chica?
