Em tried to pull Skylar to her feet but she wrenched away from Em’s grip—reaching blindly into the dark spaces between boxes. “No, no, I see it!” Em watched Skylar’s tiny frame practically disappear behind a box, only to reappear with the flashlight in hand. But it wouldn’t turn on, and Skylar stood there, shaking it violently as if willing it to work. Em kept her eye trained on the lifeless doll, which seemed to inch closer every moment she wasn’t watching it
“Let’s go,” Em said, yanking on Skylar’s wrist and leading her through the makeshift aisle between boxes—many of which were knocked over in their panic. The attic was so cluttered. Em stopped short, approximating where the door should’ve been. Then another gust, even stronger than the first, followed by a splintering crash. Em screamed and dropped to the floor, running her hand over the wood planks.
“Skylar, is it here? How the hell do we open this?”
“There’s a round handle that looks like a knocker.”
“I need the light!” Em said. She couldn’t control her voice and could feel it rising.
“I know, but I can’t get it on!” Skylar yelped. The wind blew through again and Em’s hair whipped around her head—getting into her mouth and eyes. She grabbed the flashlight and shook it violently. Finally: a beam of light. She panned the floor and found the handle—wrought-iron and ornate. Skylar dropped to her knees and pulled, but it wouldn’t give.
“It’s stuck. Oh god. We’re trapped!”
“Let me try,” Em said, pushing her aside. With one hand she pulled and it sprang open with a thud. “Go!” she yelled at Skylar, who tumbled through and nearly fell rushing down the ladder. Em followed closely behind, glancing once more at the doll, whose head was cocked on the floor at an awkward angle, one eye wide open, staring at her.
? ? ?
Back at her house, Em forced down a few bites of late-night chicken and pasta with her father, struggling to pay attention as he discussed the pros and cons of hiring an SAT tutor and some hilarious sketch he’d seen on The Colbert Report. Her senses were on high alert and her heart still hadn’t stopped racing since she’d fled Skylar’s house. Every scrape of knife against dinner plate, every drip from the faucet into the sink, she heard like it was being blasted in stereo next to her ears.
“Not that hungry, huh?” he asked, noticing her practically full plate.
“I ate with Gabby,” Em lied. She’d barely been able to take a sip of her milk shake.
He cleared his throat. “Listen, Emily, while it’s just the two of us . . . I wanted to let you know . . . you can talk to me.”
She couldn’t take this now—not more pity. Not more empty promises. She picked up her plate, brought it to the sink, and scraped a gob of cheesy pasta into the garbage disposal. “I’m fine, Dad—don’t worry. I’m feeling better every day,” she insisted.
“Your mother and I were thinking about taking a little trip, a long weekend in April or something,” he said hopefully. “Maybe down to New York, or up to Montreal. Are you up for it? Just the three of us, a little change of pace? I think we could all use a recharge.”
“A recharge,” she repeated. “That sounds . . . ” She felt a hard rock of sadness lodge in her throat, and had to force out the final word: “Nice.” ?Then she headed upstairs to her bedroom.
? ? ?
Alone again, she stood in front of the mirror for a long time. She could practically see through her own skin. Her eyes were dark and dewy. So this is what a dying person looks like, she said to herself, bringing an unsteady hand up to her face. She stayed like that for a moment, unable to move.
In the shower, she made the water lukewarm, then tepid, then downright cold—trying to ease the feverish heat that enveloped her body. The droplets felt like they were falling onto skin that wasn’t hers. Em let herself collapse against the white tile wall. Her tears mixed with the shower water and it all went down the drain.
She tossed and turned again that night. Hot. Tangled. Sweaty. On her stomach and on her back and on her side. Nothing allowed her the sweet relief of rest. Every time Em closed her eyes, the terror seized her all over again, and all she could see was that fallen, lifeless doll, staring—unblinking—in the darkness.
CHAPTER NINE
It’s not like he was spying.
JD was running late, tearing apart the house for his American History notebook that he needed for an open-book quiz. He was studying in the den the night before and finally found it there under one of Melissa’s sweaters. Nearly flying out the door, he stopped short when he saw Crow, cupping his hands against Em’s kitchen window. Ducking back onto his porch, JD scanned the area and spotted Crow’s truck, just past Em’s driveway, halfway hidden by trees.
JD squinted. What the hell? Was Crow seriously stalking Em? How long had he been there?
First he gets all cozy with Ascension’s bizarre mystery girls and now this?