John. He didn’t say much, but I could see it in his face the second he arrived. Tightness in the lips, granite in the jaw. Bruises in his eyes.
I kissed him, told him John was like my brother, and he hugged me and said, “Everything is going to be okay.” Except I don’t want Ari to hate John. My John. Ari smelled my hair and then kissed me again.
We had sex on the cold, wet floor of the basement, and the whole time, the dead girl was grinning in the corner. It was only after he was gone and I was smoking a cigarette (Carly, I’m sorry) that I remembered Naida’s camera had been filming the whole time.
[No such clip has ever been found.]
86
15 days until the incident
Diary of Kaitlyn Johnson
Tuesday, 18 January 2005, midnight
Basement
I won’t hear these lies
Your words laced with arsenic
Poisonous deceit
It is unclear what lies “Kaitlyn” referred to in this haiku poem. Perhaps this is only an indication of the degradation of her mental stability, or perhaps it is something far darker. Something she chose never to share.
Naida Camera Footage
Wednesday, 19 January 2005, 5:00 AM
Basement
John and Kaitlyn sit on the mattress, facing each other. He is a tall, broad-shouldered youth with a thin beard and long hair tied back. He wears a Metallica T-shirt and a leather jacket. They sit in silence for a long time, Kaitlyn furtively glancing at John every few seconds.
“What?” he asks at last, grinning.
“You… you look so different. A beard?”
“Even more Viking now, right?” He rubs his face, smiling. “You look different too.”
“How?” Her eyes are bright with anticipation, and she leans forward.
“You look thin, and…”
“What?”
He laughs, throws up his hands, then slumps. “Well, look how you’re living.”
Kaitlyn looks around, her expression difficult to read. “It’s not that bad, really.”
“You’re sleeping on a moist mattress on the floor of a basement.”
“It’s okay. The mattress is good.”
“God’s sake, DH, you know what I mean. You’re going to catch your death.”
It is true that Kaitlyn looks drawn and pale.
She nods. “Yeah. It’s not forever, though. Just until Lansing and the cops stop focusing on the school. Stop looking for me.”
“They say you had something to do with a girl going missing.”
“It’s a lie. I was passed out when she decided to walk home. Naida was with me the whole time. So how could I have done anything to her?”
“This is… this is messed up, Kaitie. Maybe… maybe you should—”
Her body tenses. “What? Go back to Claydon?”
John looks at her, mute.
“Are you… are you joking?” She jumps to her feet. “Are you kidding me right now?”
“Calm down.”
“No! No, I won’t calm down! You’re telling me I should go back to a nuthouse! You told me I didn’t belong there—on the phone, you told me! You were lying?”
Kaitlyn’s words become shrill, yet there is something more, because suddenly she turns away and half-collapses against the wall, her palms pressed against the dark surface to keep herself erect as she gasps for breath.
John hurries to her side and pulls her into a tight embrace, but she begins to gasp deeply and scream with every exhale.
“Shh, Kaitie, it’s okay. Shh…”
Kaitlyn’s screams turn into cries and then her cries become sobs.
“I’m sorry,” John says. “I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. I’m sorry. Shit.”
Kaitlyn’s arms fall to her side, and she seems calm. “I have to go,” she says, her voice empty. “Let me go.”
John releases her and steps back. “I’m sorry, Kait.”
She doesn’t look at him. “I have to go now.”
John steps aside and she stalks past him like a zombie. He stands staring after her for a few seconds, then he turns and punches the wall.
“Damn it!”
[END OF CLIP]
87
14 days until the incident
Diary of Kaitlyn Johnson
Wednesday, 19 January 2005, 11:12 pm
Basement
Naida’s bind no longer holds.
The Dead House is upon me once again.
It’s
A
Trickster.
It’s a thief.
Thought I saw Carly. Just for a second. She was standing at the end of a long hall. Could I put my joy into words, even though it lasted only a moment? Probably not. But it doesn’t matter, because when I ran forward, the house bent around her and she was gone. I could hear the walls laughing at me.
Strange.
Stranger still, when I opened my eyes, I could still feel the house. Feel its solidity, feel its putrescence, feel its floors, walls, and roof. Smell the decay of it. I could feel the awareness of it, the hunger. Until I realized that it wasn’t the Dead House I was feeling at all.
It’s the school.
88
23 days after