Moving Day!
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write_raven's journal
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1.
A small shop selling precious stones accessories. DREW, AUNT HELEN AND SKYE are manning the shop. AUNT HELEN hands DREW a cream-coloured envelope.
Drew What’s this? A wedding invitation?
Aunt Helen It’s your mother’s birthday, you ingrate. Next Wednesday. You have to be there.
Drew Not without good reason.
Skye You’re her son. How’s that for a reason?
AUNT HELEN beams at her.
Drew Whose side are you on? (To AUNT HELEN) I didn’t attend last year. (Shrugs) Don’t see what difference it’ll make.
Aunt Helen (darkly) Last year was an exception and you know it.
A beat of silence.
Aunt Helen She wants to know how many guests you’re bringing.
Drew Funny how she always makes you the middle-woman. Can’t she bear to hear the sound of my voice?
Aunt Helen Would you have picked up her calls?
Drew (considers that) Fair point.
Aunt Helen It’s one thing to move out of her house, and another to ignore her calls and not even attend her birthday party.
Drew I just don’t understand why she wants me there. She’s just making us part of her plans to boost her PR image. You know, family and warm and shit. You realise this birthday party is just an excuse for her to network and get more people on board her plan for global hotel-chain domination.
Aunt Helen Drew. Enough already. (Turns to SKYE) I’m sorry you have to hear this. He gets like that when it comes to his mother.
Drew Fine. I’m bringing Skye, then. Happy?
Skye Why me?
Drew Because if I have to be paraded around on her birthday, I’ll need all the backup I can get. I’d really appreciate it if you could come.
Skye All right. Don’t bat your eyelashes at me. I’ll go, okay?
DREW leaves the shop. SKYE and AUNT HELEN watch his retreating back.
Aunt Helen If I didn’t know better, I’d say he got even more screwed up after leaving the sanatorium.
Blackout.
2.
A grand living room, carpeted and ornate. A huge chandelier hangs over the milling crowd. DREW, AUNT HELEN AND SKYE
Skye Remind me again why I’m standing here with you, looking like an idiot?
Drew Because I don’t want to look like an idiot alone. (Squirms in suit)
Skye Oh, that’s nice. You’re welcome, then. (Looks around at the well-dressed crowd) Seriously, I cannot believe you own all this.
Drew I don’t. My mother owns them.
Skye Which means you’ll get to own it one day.
Drew (rolling his eyes) Yeah, and this is me giving a shit.
Aunt Helen Don’t slouch, Drew. And don’t fold your arms. You’re at a formal event. Look smart, not defensive.
Drew I didn’t ask to come.
Aunt Helen Petulance is a horrid colour on you.
Enter ANNABELLE, Drew’s mother and HELEN’s sister. HELEN rushes over to hug her.
Aunt Helen Anna! Happy birthday.
Annabelle Thank you, Helen. (Turns to DREW) You came….
Drew Not of my own volition.
Aunt Helen (clearing her throat) And this is Skye, Drew’s best friend. You’ve met her before, I think.
Annabelle Yes. As I recall, she’s perhaps the only person Drew ever listens to.
Skye (offers her hand) Pleasure to meet you, Mrs Harm. Happy birthday. This is quite a party.
Annabelle Thank you. Although I prefer to call it a function. With guests of such calibre and status, it is nothing less than that, wouldn’t you agree?
Drew (snorts) Look, are you sure you issued the right invitation card? Wouldn’t this general disappointment of a son be something you’d want to hide away and pretend it doesn’t exist? It’s seemed to work all this while. What was the lie you fed them, anyway? Some bullshit about boarding school?
Annabelle Drew, I –
Drew I get it. Stay out of trouble and stay out of your way. Warning received.
SKYE tugs on his hand to shut him up. ANNABELLE notices and blatantly stares at their linked hands.
Annabelle (sighs and addresses SKYE and HELEN) Would you please enjoy yourselves. I see some old friends of mine just coming in.
ANNABELLE leaves them to their own. DREW grabs a glass of champagne and gulps it down.
Skye Wow, Drew. Your jerk score just skyrocketed, you know that?
Aunt Helen All I’m asking is that you behave yourself tonight. Okay, Drew? Just for tonight. No smart-assing, no vitriol. There are a lot of bigwigs here tonight – not to mention the media. Everyone will have a field day if you stir up any nonsense.
Skye Your aunt’s right. I mean, you hate her, I get it. But she’s the boss of Heron Hotels. Her reputation’s at stake if you –
Drew If she’s that afraid of me stirring up shit for her, then why did she even ask me to come? She could’ve gone on ignoring my presence like she’s had ever since I left the sanatorium.
A microphone thumps from the podium. ANNABELLE stands there and addresses the crowd. Cameras flash from the reporters.
Annabelle I’d like to thank all of you for being here this evening. As you may have heard, this function is not simply organised in light of my birthday; I have a public announcement to make. (Waits for everyone to be silent before continuing) I have chosen my son, Drew, as my successor. Come next Monday, I will be training him personally so that by the end of the year he will oversee all of Heron Hotels’ operations at the managerial level.
A commotion stirs amongst the crowd.
Drew (incredulous) What?
Reporter I heard your son had a brief stint in the Hopewood sanatorium, and has a record for assault. Are you confident about handing over the reins to him?
The commotion grows louder.
Annabelle (raising her voice over the din) I will say this once: that is a false report.
Reporter So you’re denying that he spent the whole of last year in the sanatorium?
Annabelle My son spent a year in an overseas boarding school. I have the acceptance letter from the headmaster as proof and should anyone still be in doubt, I suggest you seek a letter from the headmaster to confirm his attendance. I’m sure he will gladly issue one.
Drew (mutters) This is ridiculous.
Skye Drew, don’t… You can talk this out with her later. Don’t go nuts and do something you’ll regret later.
Drew Trust me, I’ll regret not doing this more.
He stalks over to the podium and brings the microphone to his mouth.
Drew Look. None of this matters because I’m not going to work for her.
Skye (buries her face in her hands) I can’t watch.
Annabelle (through clenched teeth) Drew. Now that you’re up here, why don’t we –?
Drew No. And for the record, yes, I was in a sanatorium for the whole of last year because I beat up a guy who was being a prick to my aunt. My mother apparently considered this sort of behaviour clinically insane. Hence the stint in the nuthouse. But I guess considering he wasn’t the first prick I beat up, maybe I’m not that sane after all. Might want to reconsider your decision, Mom.
DREW leaves the podium and tears out of the house. The audience is left in stunned silence, before erupting in a frenzy of tongues. AUNT HELEN and SKYE leave before reporters can hound them.
Aunt Helen I am going to skin that boy alive.
They find DREW waiting by AUNT HELEN’s beat-up car.
Skye What the hell, Drew!
Aunt Helen Drew. (Sighs) I know you blame her for sending you to the sanatorium, but you were out of control. After your father died….
Drew (growls) Don’t.
Skye (timidly) Does this … does this really have to do with – you know, your dad?
Drew No, this has nothing to do with my dad, okay? And I’m not acting out just so I can get some attention – least of all from her. The only thing she bothered to do was chuck me into Hopewood, anyway. Fastest, easiest way to wash her hands off me.
ANNABELLE appears behind him.
Annabelle Is that what you think? That I couldn’t wait to have you out of my hair? You really think so?
Drew (whirls around) I know so. You couldn’t even be bothered to step into Hopewood.
Annabelle I didn’t visit you in Hopewood because….
Drew Yeah, I know. Your reputation. It’s all about your reputation. Your empire.
A swarm of reporters catch up with them. They are a whirl of camera flashes and noise.
Annabelle (urgently) This conversation is not over. I’ll talk with you later. Go.
DREW, AUNT HELEN and SKYE pack into AUNT HELEN’s car and drive off. DREW stares at the side-view mirror, watching his mother battle the onslaught of media hounds.
Drew Happy birthday, Mother.
Blackout.
1.
A draughty old attic. Dogs barking in the distance. Enter AMY, sitting before her dollhouse with a doll in her hand.
Amy (dressing her doll) There you go, Amelie. Daddy will be coming home soon, so I should probably tuck you to bed now. He doesn’t like it when I play with you, you see. But you’ll be fine, won’t you? Daddy didn’t hurt you that much the other time. But you must understand. He doesn’t mean any harm. Well, I don’t know that much about him, but Mommy told me he’s a good man. He’s nice to us … most of the time. Did you know? He bought me a new tricycle the other day and took me out for ice-cream, just the two of us, after my visit to the dentist. And at dinner he called me his little princess, and Mommy his big princess, and Mommy said what did that make him then and he said that made him our prince of course. He said we’ll be one big happy family and we’ll all be very happy and Mommy smiled and said yes and I smiled and said yes too and then Daddy asked if I wanted more ice-cream and I said yes again, yes please, that is…
(A slam of the front door.)
Amy (freezes) Daddy’s home!
She shoves the doll into the dollhouse, creeps out of the room and down the stairs.
2.
Downstairs. Kitchen. Enter BROWNER, who tosses keys on the table.
Browner (muttering to himself) Bitch. What the hell does she take me for? Come and go as I please, my foot! Like I’m not the one stuffing her with money every week. Like all I do isn’t sponsor her shopping sprees and weekend getaways and spa sessions and salon visits. And now she tells me I’m an irresponsible jerk? Because oh sure, as long as I don’t treat her like a fucking queen and act as her personal slave and along with being her ATM machine, I’m an irresponsible jerk. Never mind if she’s dumping her daughter at home alone. Never mind if I’m the one who has to take her to the dentist. (sarcastically) Because my job is a freelance one, anyway, right?
3.
Backyard. Enter CHRISTIE, on the phone.
Christie (twirling a lock of her hair) So I said to him, If you want to leave, fine by me. I don’t need you anyway. But then he yelled, Fine, I’m leaving! And then I realized I can’t do that. I can’t do that to my baby. She needs him. We need him. I love him, I really do. But it’s not just about me anymore. Amy needs a father. (Voice starts to waver.) She’s been so lonely, the poor child. She stays in that creepy old attic all day and keeps talking to those dolls her grandmother left for her. I’m telling you, I’m worried. What if all this has affected her more than I thought?
4.
Enter BROWNER. He bursts through the screen door into the backyard, having overheard CHRISTIE’S conversation.
Browner (folding his arms and appraising his wife) So, you’ve realized. And here I was, beginning to think you’ve completely forgotten you have a daughter.
CHRISTIE hangs up the phone hurriedly and turns to face him.
Christie Browner. You’re home.
Browner Surprised? Trust me, you’ll be more surprised to find that your daughter’s grown up in a few years and you don’t even recognize her. (Cuts CHRISTIE off as she begins to speak) No, you listen to me. You know what? The kindergarten called. They told me Amy’s becoming increasingly antisocial, and even rejects the company of her peers. She shuns them, Christie. Which normal kid do you know rejects the idea of a friend? She’s getting unhealthily attached to those ridiculous dolls and I’ve told you before but did you listen? No, of course not. The kid’s not mine. I wouldn’t know a thing about her; I have no right to say anything. But guess what? I’m the one who’s taking care of her these days, while you go off gallivanting and throwing my money to the wind.
5.
AMY sits at the foot of the stairs, clutching the rag doll in her pocket as she listens in on her parents’ conversation.
Amy (whispers) Shh. Be quiet, Nora. Mommy’s upset. You hate to see her upset, don’t you? Remember the last time she cried? (Buries face in the doll) She told me I’m all she has. Mommy says she wants me to be happy, and when I’m happy, she says she’s happy. She says we need love to be happy. And Amy loves Mommy, and Mommy loves Daddy. And Daddy loves Amy and Mommy. But Mommy’s not happy now, is she? She’s crying. Daddy’s yelling at her, and she’s yelling back. They’re upset, Nora. Mommy and Daddy are upset. (Tears begin to well up in her eyes.) Mommy says she’s unhappy when I’m unhappy. Am I making her cry now? Am I, Nora? Is Mommy crying because of me?
She watches her mother and step-father quarrel for a while longer before charging up the stairs and returning to her room.
6.
Christie Browner, look. You knew what you signed up for when you agreed to marry me. You said you knew! And you said you didn’t mind one bit that I have Amy. In fact, I distinctly remember you telling me you’ll treat her like your own.
Browner And I haven’t? And this is not what this is about – you know that.
Christie If I wanted money, I’d have easily found any person to fill in your seat. Why would I have chosen to be with you? You think that you can just throw me some pocket money a month and be rid of me? Well, I’m sorry if I’m such a hindrance to you. I’m sorry you don’t see me as an adequate wife or mother to Amy and you’re the one bearing all the responsibilities in this family. (Voice wavers, then breaks.)
Browner (softens) You’re being ridiculous, Christie.
Christie Yes, I am. In fact, I’m ridiculous enough to go upstairs and get my baby so we can get the hell away from you. I’m through with you, Browner. I’m through with you never being around. I’m through with feeling like I can’t do without you –
Browner You can’t. You know that.
With a sob, Christie flounces back into the house and bursts into her daughter’s room, the draughty old attic.
Christie Amy? (Looks around.) Baby? (A tremble in her voice)
The room is empty. The dollhouse is gone, as are all Amy’s dolls.
I scrabbled around, but only collected dirt under my nails. This was the second time they had tried to bury me.
You’d think they would’ve gotten it into their heads by now. Nothing was going to destroy me. No amount of burials or sending my corpse up in flames was going to do the trick, because a part of my corpse was missing. My left thumb, to be absolutely specific.
So until they found that dry little piece of relic, I wasn’t about to go anywhere. These amateurs, they thought they knew everything. Well, I was like them once. It wasn’t until I was writhing from a well-delivered blow to my chest that I realized what I had to do if I wanted to stay alive (well, okay, not alive, technically – existent, maybe) long enough to finish up what I needed to do.
And let me just say, even though I was half unconscious from my chest wound, slicing off my thumb hurt like a bitch. I thought I wouldn’t have the strength to cut through the bone, but I don’t – didn’t – sharpen my knife for my health.
Being dead was a pain in the ass, for sure. But it was a job hazard; I understood that when I signed on to this job. Now, if only there was a way to be alive again.
But the good thing about being buried at a cemetery was that I didn’t have to spend too much effort trying to hunt down those creatures. Where the stench of death lingered was where the beasts would show up, right along with their masters – mini Grim Reapers, I called them, except they didn’t have scythes.
With any luck, no one would stop me before I managed to fry them all. It was the only way I know to cheat Death. No grim-reaper, no bloodhounds, no one to collect the bodies, no one would die.
Of course, that sounded nobler than it really was. The truth? I didn’t want to die. Not yet. Not before I’d killed Tessa’s murderer. Not before I found out the truth about who I was.
I smelled the hounds before I heard them. I’d heard that the undead smelt them whenever they came within a ten-meter radius of them, but that didn’t prepare me for the actual stench. Their breaths were hot and rotting, like burning flesh. I would know – I’d smelt rotting flesh more times than I would’ve liked.
The three beasts stood a foot away from me, growling like angry engines. Their black coats rippled, and drool hung off their jagged peaks of teeth. Definitely not the ones to piss off.
The three figures behind the beasts each held up a hand, immediately silencing the growls. They were partially obscured by darkness, so all I could make out was their silhouettes. They were neither gods nor ghosts, and I’d never had an opinion about them as long as they didn’t get involved in my line of work. But it seemed that was about to change now.
I held my hands up. “Not now, guys. I’m on a pretty important mission.”
One of them raised a withered finger at me. “This is the second time we are here, nomad.” Its voice was too raspy for me to discern its gender. “You cheated the Grim Reaper.”
I smirked. I couldn’t help it – it wasn’t everyday someone came along to cheat Death. “Guilty. And I’m going to keep at this until someone offs me properly, or until I get the answers I’m looking for.” I shrugged. “Whichever comes first.”
“In death, no answer is relevant.”
“That’s a tempting thought, but…” I shook my head. “It doesn’t work for me.”
None of them replied. The cemetery was silent save for the heavy rattled breathing of the hounds.
“So I’m half-dead. You can’t claim me yet. What are you doing here?” I looked at each one of them. I would’ve taken a step closer for a better look, were it not for their bloodthirsty pets sitting between on their haunches.
“We are not here for you.”
That was when I noticed the silvery glow behind them. I craned my neck, but couldn’t catch his or her face. Shrugging, I smoothened my shirt. “Well, then. I’d best be on my way.”
“Not yet.”
The Collector glided towards me, but I still couldn’t see its face. It pointed at my chest.
“What?”
It didn’t say anything, but kept its finger pointed at my chest.
My amulet. The bone-constructed pendant with real rubies for eyes. I wouldn’t sell it for any price.
I toyed with the pendant. “What, this?”
The Collector dropped his hand. “You are living on borrowed time, nomad. It is time to let go of that talisman.”
“I’m not done hunting yet. And hey” – I shrugged – “it’s not my fault if those jokers did a shoddy job of burying my remains. Plus, I’m the good guy. You shouldn’t be spending so much energy on me. I’ll go gently into the good night once my business is done, okay?”
“Everyone dances with the Grim Reaper, good or bad.”
“Is that from a song? Sounds like a line from a song.”
“Hand it over, nomad.”
“No, I don’t think so.” I took a step back, dropping my gaze to the beasts, who had risen from their haunches and were starting to growl again. Their eyes flashed red – so quickly that I would’ve missed it if I didn’t know better.
I took another step back. And that was when the Collectors – or should I say, the imposters – gave chase.
“That was a pretty neat trick,” I called over my shoulder. “I almost fell for it.”
The hoods of their robes had fallen off now that they knew I’d seen through their ploy. Their distorted faces flickered the way spirits usually did. I used to have nightmares when I first started out.
“Seriously, though,” I went on. “Dressing up as Collectors? Taking things a step too far, don’t you think? I’d start to think you guys were getting desperate.”
I was at a disadvantage here, because while all those spirits had to do was glide, I had to do the actual running, which involved avoiding mini obstacles like pebbles and uneven ground. I had to get to the car – assuming someone hadn’t had it towed away already, or stolen my arsenal. All I needed was my silver dagger crusted with salt. I didn’t just want to dispel those spirits; I wanted them gone. For good.
Thing is, that worked both ways.
I took care not to let them come an inch near me. I’d been possessed by those filthy things too many times to learn how they worked. The trick was to get them before they got you. Easier said than done.
Especially with those amateur hunters on my ass.
For the third time in a week, I found myself pitching into a hole six feet deep, a bed made of earth. For a bunch of amateurs, they sure don’t take chances.
“No, wait! There are spirits are on my tail! You have to let me out. I have to get rid of them!” I clawed at earth. It’s harder to get out of a damn pit when you’re panicking.
The woman knelt by my grave, smiling. “We know.”
When I saw the stake in her hand, I understood it all.
They weren’t hunters. No, they weren’t out to help rid the world of bloodthirsty spirits who possessed people for the sake of living again.
“We’re just here to finish our job, hunter. Send Death our regards.” Her eyes flashed red.
He had been hunting for days now.
Nobody ever said hunting was a walk in the park, but at least someone could have informed him about the job prospects: bone-weariness and going for days on end without food. Right now, all he wanted was a burger, a beer and a long cold shower.
No. He couldn’t think of that now. He had to focus. Nothing was more important right now the hunt. The errant soul was always a step ahead of him. He had to think of a way to outsmart and outmaneuver it, bring an end to this. It didn’t help that the soul was indifferent about wasting lives in this game. The longer it took for him to track it down and send it on its way, the more people were going to die.
He had veered too far away from civilization. Was that a good or bad thing? He’d attract less attention, for sure, when he had to perform the exorcism. But he doubted the soul would show up here. Where was here, anyway? Not a soul (well, figuratively speaking) could be seen, and the only thing he heard was … the chugging of a train.
He saw the girl before he spotted the railway tracks.
He could tell if she was alive. She was just lying there on a discarded old green couch, right in the middle of the train tracks.
It struck him as strange – and he was accustomed to strange – that a girl would be lying on a couch on a railway track. So it had to be a trap, then.
Except, what if it wasn’t? Stranger things had happened, hadn’t they?
His brand of saving people didn’t usually involve hauling random girls off train tracks – not unless there was something supernatural involved – but even if the tracks were defunct now, he couldn’t exactly leave her lying there.
Gravel crunched under his boots as he inched his way over to her, hand poised on the hilt of his dagger.
She was young, perhaps in her early twenties; her skin still had the silky, elastic quality endowed by youth. Her pink chiffon dress was shredded and stained with dirt at the hem, but other than that, she didn’t seem to be hurt. Her head lolled over the armrest. She was too pale to be alive, but her lips hadn’t turned blue yet.
He tapped her arm. Too cold. “Miss?”
No response.
He felt for her pulse and discerned a faint but sporadic throb under her translucent skin.
In the distance, the chugging was louder now. When he looked up, he could almost spot the train through the unnatural mist that had descended at noon. He couldn’t tell how far away it was, but judging by the sound, he probably should get off the tracks now.
When he picked her up off the old couch, he hadn’t expected her to be that heavy. Or maybe he was just weak from so many days without fuel. But it felt almost like she didn’t want to be carried off.
The train wasn’t just a silhouette now, but an unstoppable creature of steel, belting steam and careening their way.
The girl stirred. She lifted her head and winced, bringing her hand up to her neck.
“Hey,” he said, keeping an eye on the incoming train.
“Who are you?” She swiveled her head around. “Where am I?”
“Look. I don’t have time to explain” – the train whistled; steam wafted over to them – “but right now, we have to get off this track.”
She grabbed his hand, swift and unyielding. Blinking, she revealed eyes the color of blood. Before he could react, she had heaved herself up from the couch and rammed him onto it, all in a fluid motion.
“It’s open season, hunter.” Her voice was low, womanly, but the monster was in her eyes.
She was too strong for him. He couldn’t move an inch from the couch, and his senses were screaming as loudly as the train that was speeding his way. In less than ten seconds – fifteen, if he was lucky – he would be roadkill.
“You’ve been hunting me for a long time, haven’t you?” She tilted her head coyly. “Well, here I am. Do as you please.”
Perspiration leaked from him. He struggled for his dagger, grasped the hilt.
The girl saw what he was doing and smirked. “It’s not the girl you have to kill. You do know that even if you kill her, I’ll just find someone else, don’t you? So go ahead, kill her.”
There was nothing else he could do, no weapon, no means of wasting the damn soul. Meanwhile, the face of the train had grown into a wall, ready to slam into him.
And then something occurred to him. He plunged the dagger into her side, grabbed her and leapt off the tracks, just as the train roared past him in a whirl of clattering metal and hot wind.
He waited until the metallic monster had hurtled past before yanking out the knife from the girl. “Yeah, well,” he said, like there hadn’t been any interruption at all. “I think the girl was dead to begin with, thanks to you. You were only keeping her alive to set up this trap.”
She stared down at the wound in her side. There was no blood, just tar-like substance that crept out. Ectoplasm. The sight gave him satisfaction like nothing else could.
“That’s not possible,” she rasped. “Mortal weapons don’t work on us.”
“Isn’t it? It’s a special knife, bitch, tailor-made to wipe out pesky souls like yourself. You did a real sloppy job of setting up the trap, though. You tampered with the pulse, and the girl’s cold as ice. Next time, why don’t you impress me better?”
She couldn’t squeeze in a retort in time. All around him was ectoplasm, a steadily growing pool of it. Great, he thought, not another pair of jeans stained with ghostly filth. He wiped down his dagger, and laid the body amongst the waist-high grass. Just another job, he told himself. It’s just another job.
Now, for that burger, beer and nice cold shower.
She entered.
It was a world unlike that which she had ever known, a world of brightness and shimmering colours. Glints of light streaming in were magically transformed into hypnotic glares that burned her skin. She saw the shards of glass – each containing a piece of her – come together, like mosaic tiles, each iridescent and glimmering, incomplete yet whole. Colours danced about the room, casting rainbows on the cool, blank walls.
She was aware of the shadows despite the dazzling light everywhere. The shadows in the crevices between each of the million glass pieces everywhere. Slices of darkness framing each glittering glory that made up the portrait of her.
*
They were glasses that told the truth.
And she had come to realise that the truth was not necessarily something good. Her mother looked into them and always hated what she saw in there, sometimes even driving herself to tears at what she saw; her older sister could not stop staring into them, like a starry-eyed narcotic bird; and in school she had heard the story of the handsome young man who died after looking in there too much.
These were strange, powerful glasses. She vowed never to go near them.
*
When she finally possessed a piece of glass, it did not strike her as a monumental moment. It came with barely any shocking realisation that she had broken the promise she had made herself a few years ago. There was just a sudden need to; glasses just became important all of a sudden.
She had seen how her sister painted her face, a delightful canvas of soft pinks, apricots and rouge. But she always felt they were unnecessary smatterings of colour on her face. She was beautiful enough not to need any of those. The paints concealed the beauty that the glasses revealed.
For herself, she had no beauty to speak of, so painting was justified.
Even at the age of thirteen, she was still convinced that magic existed. It lay in those brushes and the smooth promise that stroked her skin, filling them with life everytime. It was the good force.
Back then, everything seemed like dangers new waters. She did not know how else she could look like, the multitude of faces she could wear.
Back then, her skin was a blank canvas, her only canvas, an expanse flung as wide as a promise.
*
Her fourteenth birthday was when her mother gave her a complete makeup and skincare kit. She handed it to her, beaming in the dim orange glow of candles, as though it were an initiation gift of sorts.
The kit was wrapped in a pink silk paper, the fabric of girlhood. It was the beginning of a rite of passage, the beginning of what she was, of what she could be. Pledging came in the form of accepting it.
They were weapons to be wielded, tools to construct that armour so that she could take on the world as its equal. With these, she was indestructible.
“You will always be my beautiful little girl,” her mother said, kissing her lightly on her forehead, careful not to smudge her lipstick.
That was the language of love as she knew it.
*
Pretty was an elusive term, a concept too esoteric for her to grasp. It was like reading about raids and rationings in other war-shredded countries, something too distant to associate herself with.
Pretty conjured images of pink-cheeked girls, their soft long hair twisted and teased into flirty braids.
Pretty was not getting mud on the knees of your jeans or cuts on your elbows or jam all over your mouth.
Pretty was something to be earned – only on the good days. That was what her mother would say.
*
This was how Death looked like.
You were slowly, alarmingly, stripped away, flesh from bone, until all you had left was a papery skin, a thin waxy layer, draped upon you. Your eyes would roll to its leaded ceilings, too heavy to focus. You would be cold, deathly as unsalted ice, as your hand slips out of your sister’s.
You would lie there in a white bed in a white room – both as white as your face – as wires and pipes snaked out of you, like a tangle of lifelines fighting to rope you back to life as you crawled away.
Only eighteen, your mother would weep, how could she do this?
Death would reject you for how you looked when you met him.
*
She had a gift. That was what she was told countless times. She had the best canvas to work with, tight and flawless; her eyes were wide, while nose and lips were delicate. Her limbs were long and her gait was graceful.
She had a gift.
She should translate her gift to the world. She could earn adoration, something her sister had fought for when she was alive. She could have it all, the love the world had to give her.
She did what she was told. Her mother would be so proud.
*
It was an entirely different feeling altogether, dreamlike. When she strode forth to the edge, her feet felt like foam. It was possible to feel light in all the designer satin and velvet adorning her.
Bursts of light splashed in her face, and she indulged in the ponderous gazes clinging on to her. This was what her sister had died for, what she could never enjoy. She would be sure to bottle up the experience and mail it to her; she would make a piece of her sister’s dream live on in her.
Her mother was there, a vision in blue, amongst the crowd. She was staring up at her, struggling to retain her usual composure.
I love you, she mouthed.
Her mother smiled, her eyes shining. You’re beautiful.
That was the only response she ever needed to hear.
*
Whenever she was tempted by the warm smell of chocolate cookies, she would think of the hundreds, thousands, of people sitting at her feet, staring wondrously up at her, running their gazes down her long, lean body. She would think of her mother, mouthing You’re beautiful.
Whenever she was tempted to ignore her clenching stomach, she would think of her sister, cold and forgotten by time, a shrunken vessel of a young lady who had let go of her hand first that day. She would think of the girl who sat in front of the precious piece of truth-telling glass, practising her smile, but who ended up leaving none for herself.
There was no way to win.
To be loved, you had to make yourself what others loved.
*
Age had a way of moving.
It sat in the distance, watching, waiting for you to reach it finally. The expanse between you two seemed safely wide, like a gulf that would never be crossed.
Next, it would be under your skin, creeping within your flesh, like an extra weight to heave around.
She could feel it in her, like a disease, festering, like worms in her gut. Each day, it nestled in her, a terminal degenerative illness, making her skin sag and fold into itself. Her mother was no better. She had faded into a whitewashed vision and before long, she was sure her mother would be washed away, dissolved by the foams of Time.
Youth was not an essence; it was a memory. They were both convinced love was, too.
*
The second time she saw someone get eaten up by Death, she had a preconceived idea how it would look.
What scared her most was not how it slowly tore you down until you had no energy left to fight it, like how a python strangled its prey before it ate it. What scared her most was the face she would have to wear to meet the time-keepers at the end.
Her cool, dry hand slipped down the planes of her face. “My beautiful girl. That’s what you are, what you will always be.”
She was bald, her fleshy head horribly bare, a huge smooth orb attached to her face. She remembered how she loved to comb her mother’s hair every night, letting the teeth sink into the glossy strands, watching it plunge down to her waist.
She left without fanfare, just the two of them, one holding on, the other departing. At the deep end, her mother’s wordless wave signalled the end of the rite. The end of the initiation.
But all she could think about was how bald she looked, how ghostly and luminous her skin was, how awful those coffee-coloured shades sat beneath her eyes, how she had willingly let it all go.
*
The light reflected by the glasses was beginning to blind her. Her eyes hurt.
As she sank to the ground, she watched her reflection in the glass under her, mimicking her, mocking her. She watched the hundreds, thousands, of eyes all around her stare back at her – her own, her sister’s, her mother’s.
And then everything burst into a million teardrops, raining down on her, like sea sprays, making way for a new wave to reach in, pull her in.
People had been speculating on the secret behind those walls for years. But no one ever had any solid idea. Soon, the Secret turned into a myth. People fantasized a monster trapped in the old brick-and-mortar building down the narrow street.
But there really was nothing to it. Because I was the Secret. And there really was nothing much to me. Sure, I screamed sometimes, and threw things around. But in that quiet little alley, no one could really hear me. Right? Unless maybe I wanted to be heard.
I was tired of being ignored for so many years. It was worse now that the building had been abandoned. It used to be a school, so it never got too lonely. But after the fire, the city authorities decided the building was too ramshackle to serve any function. They were thinking of demolishing it – they probably would have, if not for some of the older residents who claimed that the building had historical value and would fight tooth and nail to stop the council from getting their paws on it.
You’d think there’d be more of us around, after the fire. Instead, the hallways became emptier. Dust settled, thickened, over the years, and I was trapped in this miserable draughty place as always. It was the worst during the colder months. Loneliness sucked even more warmth out of you, and that always put me in a foul mood.
This year, the council finally succeeded in obtaining the permit to demolish the building. The building’s troop of protectors had significantly decreased over the years, and because of my bad behavior, some of them had even decided it was best for the building to be torn down.
Where would I go if the building no longer existed? Maybe someone would come to collect me. Maybe that mightn’t even be so bad.
They sent only one man to observe the building before proceeding with the demolishment. He arrived without much fanfare, though people crowded to watch him enter the building. I observed from behind the second floor windows. (I’d learnt throughout the ages that sunlight cast an illuminating glow upon us. Some keener-eyed humans had spotted me before, and it was prudent to keep to the shadows.) I couldn’t see his face, only his mess of brown curls that appeared slightly golden in the sunlight.
Downstairs, Edna, the old lady who sold apples at five for a dollar down the street, had stepped forward to address the man from the town council.
“Those walls hide a secret, young man. I wouldn’t disturb it, if I were you.”
He shrugged. “Someone’s got to do the job.”
He ignored further finger-pointing and murmurings, and unlocked the wooden doors with a huge brass key. I remembered the headmistress used to keep it around her waist. Good old Headmistress Coy.
I decided to head downstairs to welcome the visitor.
It felt odd to have a stranger enter the building after so many years. If anyone should come through those doors, it ought to be the children of the old school, not some random man from the town council. And he didn’t seem put off by the stench of mildew and rot, or the layers dust that swirled in the slim shafts of sunlight that peeked through. That made me mad, for some reason. People had feared the Secret behind these walls, and he was ambling through as though he were house-hunting.
I let loose a keening wail, and banged on the old piano (which had survived, since the fire was put out before it spread from the second floor) for good measure. Most of the stuff here had been wrecked by now, thanks to me and my fits of anger.
The man whirled. “Someone ought to tune that piano.” He shook his head like it was a real tragedy. And then he turned to face me. “I don’t suppose you know how to, or you would have done it already.”
It took me a while to realize he was addressing me. “You … you can see me?”
He cocked his head. “Why wouldn’t I be able to?”
“Because you’re human. You’re – you’re alive.” I said that with no small amount of jealousy.
“And you’re … not?”
“That sounded vaguely patronizing. Do I look human to you?”
He nodded, like I had confirmed a notion of his. “So you must be that poltergeist.”
“Am I.” People had terms for everything these days. “And what exactly is the job of a ... what was that?”
“A poltergeist? Basically to be a general nuisance to everyone. They scream, they wail, they throw things, damage them – they do all that when they’re not even supposed to be around anymore.” He shrugged.
That didn’t sound too nice.
“But I can’t help being around. And this is the only place I can be.” I pointed an accusatory finger at him. “And aren’t you supposed to be afraid of me? I am a ghost, after all. People call me the Secret.”
“Only because they’ve never dared to enter this place. They’ll find that all they’ve feared is a pestilential ghost who’s got a horrible voice and can’t tune a piano.”
I banged on the piano. The notes jarred and reverberated around the room. Even I winced.
“I can’t leave this place.” It surprised me how forlorn my voice sounded, so I banged on the piano again, though not quite as hard this time. “So you can’t tear this place down. I wouldn’t know where else to go.”
“You could come in here.”
“In where?”
He jabbed his thumb at his chest.
I laughed. “That’s a rather pitiful way to woo a girl.”
He rolled his eyes. “You flatter yourself. I’m making you an honest offer. I’ve got three souls in this body now. They came pretty willingly.” Shrugging, he added, “It’s your choice,” before going over to scrutinize the old grandfather clock. He stared at the grimy glass case with his back facing me. I knew he was waiting.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “What’s the catch?”
“It might get a little cramped, being in a body with three other people – sorry, I mean souls. But you’d be able to do things again. Human things.”
“And you are in there somewhere?” I gestured to the body.
“Naturally.”
I didn’t see what was so natural about that. But think about it – another shot at being human again! Not technically alive, but as alive as I could probably ever get. No more being stuck in a cold, empty building, wishing for some noise and warmth and laughter. I could even taste one of Edna’s apples.
“How do we go about doing it?”
The man turned. “It’s a simple procedure.” Nodding at the clock, he said, “We wait for the clock to strike twelve. On the twelfth note, you place your fingertips on mine, and think of the most delightful memory you’d take with you to the end of the world.”
“That’s it?”
He nodded.
We were minutes – no, seconds – away from twelve noon. I bid a hasty goodbye to the people crowding outside the windows, and took a step towards the man. My eagerness must have made me seem desperate, but I didn’t care anymore. When I became almost human, nothing else would matter but the taste of an apple, the kiss of the sun, and feel of my feet on the ground.
I stared at the clock. The pendulum couldn’t swing fast enough for me.
Finally, at the eleventh note, he closed the gap between us. He smiled, lips stretched across his face, as he held out his hand. My fingers shook and I pressed them, like vapor, against his.
I oozed into his body, starting from my fingertips. It felt like a long ride through a narrow, stuffy tube. There was hardly any air, but I began to feel the throb of warm blood around me. It was the headiest sensation I had experienced in a long, long while.
But I soon realized he was lying. Those souls hadn’t entered willingly. They wouldn’t have if they’d known what it was really like.
Because there weren’t just three other souls in here. In here, it was a mass of noise and wails, clawing fingers and helpless gazes. And I couldn’t tear out of these walls, anymore than I could the walls of the old building.
It was a new hell I had stepped in to.
“Haven’t you wondered why none of the children who’d died in the fire showed up eventually?”
The voice was a deep rumble that boomed all around me.
I peered behind his eyes, the only windows to this flesh tower. He was grinning at his reflection through the dust-caked mirror on the mantle.
I should have known. I should have known better than to believe what those people said about the Secret. They knew nothing.
They thought I was the Secret, when the real Secret was him all along.
