“Do you have anything else you want to say?” And of course I did. I broke down and told her everything, even though she already knew. If we’d written something else, we might’ve been okay, but the day before we’d been in Gia’s backyard and her brother had turned on the hose, spraying the four of us.
But I wasn’t ten anymore, and we hadn’t damaged the house. There wasn’t any proof we’d even been there, so I sat up straight and said, “Nope.”
Her mouth twisted a little to one side, but she said, “Okay.”
I went back to my room, so tired I wanted to sleep for a year but happy the house was still our secret. I was happy, too, that I wasn’t the only one left alone. It served Becca right. Everything was all her fault.
* * *
I’d finished The Dark Half and was rereading The Shining propped up in bed with pillows behind me. I was at the part where they first got to the hotel and Danny and Mr. Hallorann were talking in their minds. I was thinking it would be fun to do when my eyelids got heavy. I should’ve turned off my light, but it was only a little after nine, so I kept reading.
I woke up, wincing in the bright, my hand sore. Loosened my fingers from the pen in my grip, confused. The book was open on my lap, the spine broken so it would remain flat. My mouth went dry as I thumbed the pages. Scrawled in the margins, over and over again, the words HELP HER, all messy, but definitely my handwriting. And the side of my hand was smeared with blue ink.
With the book at arm’s length, I slipped from bed, thinking of Rachel’s sleepwalking. This was so much worse. I would never write in any book, let alone my favorite. Never. I took The Dark Half from my bookcase and opened it to the writing inside. Compared it to the writing in The Shining. Identical. But I hadn’t done it. I swore I hadn’t.
I stuffed the books under the sweaters in my dresser. It seemed safer to keep them hidden.
My handwriting. Mine.
But it wasn’t me. It was her. She’d made me do it.
No. Uh-uh. She was a story. She couldn’t make me do anything.
She. Wasn’t. Real.
I licked the ink on my skin. Wiped it on my pajamas, but only a little came off. Heat flared in my chest, spreading out until my entire body felt afire and the hairs on the nape of my neck rose, as though a thousand eyes were watching me. I squeezed mine shut. Counted to ten. The sensation slowly lessened.
There was a soft knock on my door, and I bumped into the edge of my desk.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine, Mom. I just hit my desk.”
“It’s after eleven, so get some sleep, okay? I love you.”
“Love you too.”
The shadows of her feet remained in the gap between door and floor. I just wanted her to go away and leave me alone. A few minutes later, she did.
I pushed a T-shirt under my door to block out the light, careful not to shove it out the other side. I opened my closet and pawed through my clothes, all the way to the wall. On my knees, I looked under my bed; the only things there were shoes, a plastic container with old stuffed animals, and dust. Sitting with my back against my dresser, I watched the shadowy space beneath my bed. I checked the corners. I even craned my neck at the ceiling. I knew no one would crawl out from under my bed or drop from the ceiling. It was just the creeps.
When my parents had to be asleep, I took out The Shining and tore the pages, first one by one, then two at a time, then more, gaining speed as I went. My mouth was thick with unshed tears, my nose running. I wiped the snot on the shoulder of my pajama top and kept ripping pages until every single one was out and in a pile.
I packed them in the plastic container, all around the stuffies. Crammed it back where it was and climbed in bed, the light on. But I was afraid if I closed my eyes, someone else would be there. I was afraid she’d be there, with her handless arms and her horrible black eyes and her long hair trailing through the blood.
This was all Becca’s fault. For telling the