Vi nodded. “If you keep listening, maybe he’ll tell you more. And the other gods too. Now that you know about them, I bet you’ll start hearing them all the time.”
Iris lay back on her bed, pulled up the covers nearly to her grungy orange hat.
“You can take off the hat, you know,” Vi said. “I’ve already seen what’s under it.”
Iris said nothing, just tugged it down tight over her ears.
“I’ve seen your other scars too. The ones on your chest.”
Iris turned away so that she was facing the wall.
Maybe Vi had gone too far this time. She’d wanted to say something for weeks now, but hadn’t worked up the nerve. But now, in the almost-dark, she felt like the time was right.
“It’s okay,” Vi told her. “I’ve got my own scars too.”
Iris turned back toward Vi. “You do?”
Vi sat up. “Do you want to see?”
Iris nodded, and Vi moved to the edge of the bed, started to unbutton her pajama shirt. The bluish moonlight was streaming in through the curtained window. The nightlight on Vi’s dresser was on: the ceramic owl with eyes that glowed orange and seemed to watch her every move. She could almost feel the owl turn his head, hear it say, Who, who, who are you and what do you think you’re doing? The owl’s voice was just like Gran’s, and Vi imagined Gran the Owl with orange, all-seeing eyes. She knew Gran would not approve of what she was about to do, but the urge to share her secret was more than she could resist.
Sisters, she thought, not by blood, but by something else. Something deeper.
Doppelg?ngers.
Her fingers fumbled over the last button. She undid it, slipped out of her blue cotton pajama top. The cool air hit her skin, giving her goose bumps. She stepped closer to Iris, got down on her knees so the girl could see, get an up-close look.
“How did you get them?” Iris asked, studying the raised red scars on Vi’s stomach and chest.
“Car accident,” Vi said. “Eric and I survived, but our parents died. He was fine, but I had internal injuries. One of my lungs was crushed. And my liver and spleen were messed up. I needed surgery—a bunch of surgeries, actually. I was in the hospital for months.”
“Awful,” Iris said, but she didn’t turn away. She sat up, leaned in for a closer look at the scars.
She was so close that Vi could feel Iris’s breath on her skin.
“I don’t remember it. Not really. I have nightmares about the accident sometimes, that I’m strapped down in the backseat and I see the bright headlights of a car coming at us. Gran says our car swerved and went down an embankment, flipping. The front of the car crumpled, and the driver’s seat came back and crushed me. We ended up in the river, and the car filled up with water.” Vi was quiet for a few seconds, could feel the cold water creeping up around her. “That’s in the dreams too. Cold, cold water.”
“How’d you get out?” Iris asked.
“A man came and pulled us out. He saved Eric and me. I don’t know his name. Can’t even remember his face. I don’t remember my parents, either. Not really. I think I do sometimes, but it gets all jumbled up with the pictures Gran shows us, the stories she tells.”
Iris nodded. Then she reached out, touching the scar on Vi’s stomach, and Vi let out a little “oh” of surprise. She trembled, the shock of Iris’s touch spreading goose bumps all over her skin.
“We’re alike,” Iris said, running her fingers over the raised scar tissue, the place where Vi had very little feeling, could sense only the pressure of touch. At last she took her fingers away.
Vi stood, then slowly fumbled to do up the buttons of her pajama top, but her hands were shaking, so it was hard. Iris reached for her hand, pulled her down. Vi lay down beside her, and Iris pressed her body against Vi’s back, spooning her, wrapping her arm around Vi, holding her tight, so tight Vi wasn’t sure she could get away even if she tried. But getting away was the last thing on Vi’s mind.
She listened to Iris’s breathing, fast at first, then slowing.
She could feel Iris’s heart beating against her back, matching the rhythm of her own heart, and it was almost like they were sharing one heart, one body all twisted together; a body of scars and broken memories.
Conjoined twins, separated then put back together, finally whole again.
THE BOOK OF MONSTERS
By Violet Hildreth and Iris Whose Last Name We Don’t Know Illustrations by Eric Hildreth 1978
THE GHOUL
The Ghoul is a humanoid creature. It walks upright, on two legs. It has two arms and moves like a man. It wears a black hood and has a very pale white face with two big black eyes.
We know very little about the Ghoul but believe it to be supernatural. We think it can disappear and reappear.
It’s been watching us.
We believe we might be in terrible danger.
Lizzy
August 20, 2019
THE CABIN WAS in sight, a blue beacon at the edge of the shore.
I imagined Lauren making this trip at night, coming home, guided by the glowing lights of the cabin, listening to the loons, the owls, the frogs and toads trilling as she crept along, carrying her secret stone, the knowledge of her secret friend.
I thought about the weight of secrets.
Promises kept.
Dreams shared.
Do you share the same dream?
Do you dream it with me?
Yes, I thought. Yes.
But what did it all mean?
Was there a clue in the message? Something that might point me to where I needed to go next? To where the monster had taken the girl?
Did the monster want to be caught?
Did she know what was coming? Could she sense it? Smell it in the wind?
We belong dead.
The lighter, paper, and tiny stone felt heavy in my pocket. I reached in to touch the lighter as I walked, running my fingers over the butterfly etching, over Gran’s initials.
Metamorphosis, I remembered Gran explaining, as she held out the lighter, looking at the butterfly. That’s what I think of each time I see this. How the lowly caterpillar turns into the butterfly. How we’ve each got a butterfly hiding inside us.
* * *
I WAS TIRED, thirsty, swollen, and itchy from the mosquitoes feasting. I wanted to go back to the campground, open a beer, put some calamine lotion on my bites, and think about what I’d discovered. I was nearly to the cottage’s yard when I spotted a dark blue pickup truck parked next to my van.
And a man sitting in one of the old wicker rocking chairs on the porch, watching me.
A new tenant?
The owner, maybe?
I raised my hand in a friendly wave, came up with a quick cover story: I was a newcomer exploring the island, looking for a place to rent, wondered if that path would take you down to the water, ooh boy how about those mosquitoes? That would do.
But I didn’t get the chance.
“Miss Shelley,” the man called, standing.
I guessed him to be about my age. He was trim, fit, with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and skin tan and lined from the sun. He wore jeans, work boots, a khaki button-down shirt. He jumped down off the porch and walked closer until I could smell his cheap drugstore cologne.
He was smiling, but it was really more of a smirk.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m Lizzy Shelley. I don’t think we’ve met?”
“I’m Pete Gibbs. Local constable.”
Great. A cop.
I nodded. “Nice to meet you, Constable.”
“David tells me you’re here to collect stories about Rattling Jane.”
“David?” Then it hit me. Where I had heard the last name Gibbs. Shit. “Oh, you mean Skink?”
He seemed to flinch a little at the nickname, but recovered and smiled. “He’s my son.”
Now it was me who flinched. Somehow Skink had left out this crucial little detail about himself—oh, and by the way, my dad’s a cop.
“Look, Miss Shelley, I understand you’re a big deal—at least according to my son. He seems downright starstruck, to tell the truth. He told me all about your TV show, podcast, and blog. Even made me watch some of the show—Monsters Among Us.
“It’s impressive, really,” he went on, “that you manage to do this for a living—drive around the country searching for bigfoot and his pals.”