“This is nasty,” Harpreet said as she left.

  I could have followed. She had opened a door that I only had to walk through. But I stayed.

  I didn’t ask exactly why he had been banned from the pet store. Neither did I ask what happened to the animals he took from their owners. I knew, even then, that some people were twisted.

  But I know that, when he was found, his parents didn’t hand him over to the police. They sent him to live with an aunt who had a good heart, a spare room, and no pets.

  That should have been the end of the story. But, decades later, the boy came back.

  The house wasn’t his anymore. It belonged to the Oswald family by then—bought at auction after the previous owners had died, their memories stripped away and painted over.

  If you believe Annabel, the boy who was banned from the pet store stared past his aging reflection, into a home he no longer recognized, and he yelled so loud that every dog in the neighborhood roared back.

  I don’t believe that part. I think, as with most Murder Road tales, some things were added later. All I know is that he waited until midnight, when the owners woke with a start to find the Hiding Boy at the foot of their bed, and then the man smashed his way into the house and killed everyone and everything inside.

  When it was done, the man dragged his victims to the treehouse, their bodies painting thick red trails down the stairs while skull fragments thudded against the carpet.

  Then he sat with their remains on either side of him, stroking something that used to be alive, until the police found him; a single stab wound from a knife still held in the cold hand of Mrs. Oswald enough to take him too.

  They said he acted alone, and why wouldn’t they? Back then, only a few people from Belleview believed the legend of a cursed street. Maybe he did, and those murders would have happened regardless. But I’ve done enough research to know that the ghost was a warning they had no time to heed. If you’ve seen him, it’s already too late.

  Those words have lost their sharp edges now but, when Annabel told me, they left cuts in my mind, causing fear to trickle into my days when I least expected it.

  Images of Max flash through my brain: the excitement on her face before we heard the whispers in the middle of nowhere; the playfulness when she pointed at the hole in the grave and dared me to reach in.

  Her worst-case scenarios were harmless games, but things have changed. I have no intention of seeing if the Face in the Glass was a one-off or if this town really is some kind of Hellmouth.

  If she pushes, I’ll push back, ensuring they know that leveling up isn’t always a good thing.

  As I walk home, a dog yowls in the distance and another barks a response. I think about my old teacher’s pet—the one Annabel claimed was taken by a monster.

  The sounds sit softly in my ears, far enough away to be calming.

  When I reach home, I sit on the sofa opposite Dad and run through all the things I want to tell him. But he speaks first.

  “Where have you been?”

  I’ve been to an old lady’s house and a graveyard and a church. I’ve walked past Max’s house twice, both scared and excited at the prospect of being invited in. And I’ve been to the past—mine and other people’s—when a school friend tried her best to scare me and when a horror story was born.

  What would our father say if I told him all that? He looks at me expectantly but I know he doesn’t have room in his head or his heart for my problems. He acts like he does. I genuinely believe he would listen. But something inside him would break, and we’re old enough to save him from that now.

  Instead, I go upstairs and try to put my feelings in some kind of order. First, I reach my hand under the mattress, careful not to catch my skin on the broken springs. Then I pull out the notebook I took from Grandma’s room, on the day Mom asked if there was anything I wanted.

  Its cover is full of rich blues and greens, two kingfishers with orange tummies peering at each other from opposing corners.

  Grandma told me it was where we would chronicle our adventures, when she finally got out of the nursing home. At first, I believed her. Later, I didn’t have the heart to put her right.

  I leaf through the pages until I find a blank one, and then I write some of the questions swirling around my head.

  Why did Max bring me to the Taylors’?

  What will happen if I go back to the cemetery?

  Can I really stop her from doing another urban legend?

  Am I doing the right thing?

  The spaces for the answers remain empty for now. But I feel calmer for trying.

  When I’m done, I slot those questions between other, heavier things, so they can’t break out.

  Then I stare around my room, at all the cracks and dents and stains that should be more familiar by now. They usually are. But then, I usually spend a lot more time in our new houses.

  This time, Max is my distraction, her story something she seems intent on pulling me into.

  But can that happen without her being dragged into mine?

  The man sat in the corner of his dream, stroking something small and still, the fur on its back matted with crimson clumps that he carefully picked through, rubbing them between his fingers until they crumbled.

  In another corner, an old woman stood with her back to him, her veiny arms working quickly until she turned—needle and thread in one hand and the sawn-off head of a teddy in the other.

  The blood spooling from its neck lapped at the woman’s bloated ankles until she stepped forward, a low hum coming from somewhere deep inside.

  As she held it closer, he could see the uneven stitches she had forced into its face.

  “Push it,” the woman said, the bear’s body suddenly in her other hand and the needle gleaming between her teeth.

  He rested his thumb against the button on the bear’s paw, then did as he was told.

  “Say it,” someone mumbled, and a child’s voice rang out: “I love you, Mommy.”

  The sound made him shudder, but he couldn’t stop himself.

  “I love you, Mommy.”

  “I love you, Mommy.”

  “I love…”

  “I…”

  When he pushed it again, a bloodcurdling wail shattered the darkness.

  In its place, he saw flames as tall as skyscrapers, and blistered skin reaching out to him.

  He cowered until the hands pulled back and the fire shrank, its roar replaced by unnerving silence.

  The Hiding Boy slammed his fists against the bedroom window, but he clamped his hands over his ears and sang to himself—all the songs his mom made up just for him.

  He sang until he was shouting, every inch of his nightmare taken up by someone or something that had either died or killed in that infernal street.

  He looked from one to the next, ticking off the horror stories he’d been forced to learn by heart. Then he saw someone new, his hand reaching for the flames that suddenly surged again, meeting the blackened fingers of the only body still fighting.

  For a few seconds, they held each other—two hands trapped on different sides of the same tragedy—and then there was nothing but ash, carried away on a rising river of blood.

  30

  “I’ve told you before … I’m not doing that!” Seb’s face contorts like a stubborn toddler’s as he catches my eye then stares at the ground.

  Max grins. “It will be fine.”

  “Remember the boy who had his arm ripped off?”

  “No,” she replies. “Do you?”

  I think back to the graveyard, when she told me about the kid with the dislocated shoulder and the one who lost two fingers. She picks and chooses what to do with the rumors that swirl around this town; when to use them as ammunition and when to throw them away.

  “There’s only one night of the year when I’m going in that graveyard,” Seb says. “You know that?”

  “Fine,” Max says. “We’ll do it without you too.”

  There’s a lot to take from Seb’s stare, even in the few seconds before I’m forced to look away. He’s jealous of me; he thinks he’s being replaced; he’s daring Max to do it because he knows (or hopes) that she’s bluffing.

  Of course she is. But there’s still a moment when Max’s nerve swells and Seb’s falters and I think she’s going to kick him out of this ridiculous club.

  “How about if you stay in the car?”

  “How about we do something different?”

  Max shakes her head. “I want to do this one.”

  “Well, Seb doesn’t,” I mumble. “And I don’t either.”

  Seb’s anger dissolves as I watch him recalibrate his opinion of me.

  “This is interesting,” Tyler says.

  Max’s lips are pressed together and her arms are wrapped around her waist as she sways on the spot.

  Tyler risks a glance at her, but I’m too scared to see what it means to not only stand up to this girl but embarrass her as well.

  That’s not what I wanted. But no way am I letting anyone reach into that grave, not after the noises that came from the woods the last time that we did something stupid.

  “I went there,” I say. “In the daytime.”

  “Yes,” Seb replies. “That is a sensible time to go to a place full of dead people.”

  Tyler’s smirk is shot down by a single glance from Max, but when she turns, he smiles at me.

  “I’m doing it,” Max says. “With or without you.”

  She walks away as the bell goes, but the others stay put. When I don’t move, the dimple in Seb’s cheek twitches before he glares at Tyler and says, “Thanks for the support.”

  “I want to do it,” Tyler replies. “And you did, too, so what’s changed?”

  “You know what’s changed.”

  The rest of their conversation happens through looks, until Seb turns to me and says, “Aren’t you going to class?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  Tyler laughs, then puts his hands behind his head and stares at the school. “Seb thinks it’s going to happen again. He thinks we summoned the Face in the Glass and, if we go to the graveyard, he’ll be pulled into oblivion.”

  Seb lets out a hiss before Tyler touches his shoulder and says, “We’ve always been okay, right? It’s harmless fun.”

  There it is again—that change in tune from believing to dismissing. Did Tyler get it from Max or vice versa?

  “I’m not putting my arm in,” Seb says.

  “Fine,” his friend replies. “I’ll do it.”

  The heavy dent between Seb’s eyes softens, but he doesn’t reply. I don’t think that’s the answer he wanted, yet it’s not one he can reject either.

  “We should go,” Tyler says, and as we enter the main building, Seb mumbles, “Thanks for not backing Max.”

  “No worries,” I reply.

  “For the record, I’m not scared, I’m just…”

  “Careful?”

  Seb stops and nods. Then he and Tyler disappear into the science wing while I head for the music department.

  I think that’s what some people would call bonding, but, as with so much since we moved to Montgomery-Oakes, I can’t be sure.

  31

  I can’t shake the fog in my head. In class, I close my eyes when it’s safe to do so and feel the comfort of sleep lowering itself over my brain like a blanket.

  It would take me now … if I let it. It would pull me into the deepest slumber until my teacher’s yell or a slammed fist on a desk yanked me back.

  I’ve done that before, at other schools, after other sleepless nights. But I’ve yet to embarrass myself here and I’m desperate for that to remain the case.

  Through the window I see a phys ed class running with varying degrees of enthusiasm around the track. At the front, bursting clear and staying there, is Hazel.

  Two boys attempt to catch up, their faces contorted and then crushed as they realize, like everyone does, that you can’t beat my sister in a race.

  She glides past and I see the focus in her eyes—the way they look when she’s deep in meditation. That’s how she runs so effortlessly. Because, in her mind, she’s not running at all.

  I’ve often wondered what she pictures when she runs. Is it something she wants to reach, or something she’s eager to escape? I can vividly imagine both.

  The weight behind my eyes lifts slightly as I watch my sister. Then it grows heavier as her teacher brings them in and she sits away from everyone else, while her classmates smile and chat between snatched breaths.

  She’s alone now. Just as she was alone on the track. When you’re running, that distance is a good thing; it’s a measure of your talent. But when you’re motionless and no one gets near you, that’s something else entirely.

  Ms. Hewitt doesn’t notice where I’m looking. Nor does she try to involve me in the discussion that drones in the distance. I may as well not be here, and I wonder what would happen if I ditched her next class.

  Could I fall asleep somewhere safe—the Hell Hole, maybe? Could I use my latest high school as a space to catch up on all the rest I’m robbed of at home?

  It’s a nice thought but I know the truth. If I found a quiet place, with no one around to judge me, I’d remain as awake as I am now. Sleep only offers itself when I can’t take it—in humming classrooms or packed buses or the minutes before our parents wave us goodbye.

  In bed, in a silent house with every door closed and a clock ticking past midnight, sleep runs away faster than my sister.

  Besides, how can I sleep in this building when someone in it is taunting me?

  Are they in this room—one of the nobodies I’m forced to spend my days with? Are they hatching their next plan on the desk next to mine?

  I stare at the boy to my right, so engrossed in his note-taking that he doesn’t stop for breath. Then the girl on my other side, whose smile turns to a grimace as I glare at her.

  I’ll find them because, eventually, everyone shows their true colors.

  I sense the bell a split second before it sounds and smile at the thought of Max doing the same in another part of the school.

  She is rubbing off on me and, despite everything, I’m pleased we found each other. If I tell Hazel, she’ll understand, because she found someone somewhere once. But then she’ll warn me off. She’ll tell me this feeling isn’t worth the sadness that inevitably comes next.

  That’s what it says in her journal—on the page where nothing else remained. On a sheet of scribbled-out words like redacted evidence, a single sentence survived.

  The joy of now isn’t worth the despair of after.

  When we move, sometimes it takes me a while to find where she’s put it. But there are only so many hiding places in normal houses.

  I wait until the rest of the class has gone then head for the door, slowing in front of Ms. Hewitt, waiting for her to say something, anything, to the kid who never talks. But she keeps her head down, moving sheets of paper from one side of her desk to the other.

  I can feel the corridor before I step into it—the way its roar causes shudders—but I brace myself and head for the cafeteria.

  Someone touches my arm and my fists tighten as I turn.

  “Are you okay?” Seb asks. “You look tense.”

  I breathe out, the electricity leaving my fingers as they spread. “I’m good. I don’t do well in crowds.”

  “Me neither.”

  As we walk side by side to the Hell Hole, I quickly crush the memories of cowering alone in its shadows. If this is the only place Max and the others are truly themselves, I won’t have some asshole ruining it.

  Right before we enter, Seb mumbles, “Have you been to see Miss Kittle?”

  His eyes escape mine as I say, “No. It’s not really my thing.”

  I know better than to ask what his thing is. If he wants to tell me, he will.

  “She is helpful,” he says. “And she listens … which not many people do.”

  His eyes find mine, the strain of his stillness making his facial muscles vibrate.

  “I get that. But those kinds of conversations feel like traps. Does that make sense?”

  Seb nods, then lifts two crates off the pile and hands one to me.

  “Sometimes they are,” he replies, a red glow spreading across his cheeks. “But not always.”

  “I guess you three are my Miss Kittle,” I say. “If I had any questions about this place, I’d come to you.”

  A smile pulls on one corner of Seb’s mouth; then it vanishes as he says, “I’m not scared of the graveyard. I go there every year for something else. But I’m not reaching into that hole. It’s disrespectful.”

  “Fair enough,” I say, taking out my lunch so I have something to do.

  “Do you know anyone who’s died?”

  There’s another one—a simple question with an impossible answer.

  I think of all the people who died on Murder Road—the ones before we arrived (just stories to us) and the ones as we grew up a single street away (memories wrapped in police tape; news spread first by distant sirens then by the fearful chatter of our neighbors).

  “My grandma,” I say. “She died when I was twelve. Our dad’s parents passed away, too, but I didn’t know them.”

  “How would you feel if someone reached into their grave?”

  I don’t correct him. I don’t explain that, wherever that hole leads, I doubt it’s within stretching distance of a skeleton. Instead, I say, “I wouldn’t like it.”

  “Exactly. I don’t like it either. And Max knows that.”

  His voice cracks as someone emerges from the shadows and says, “I do know that.”

  “Sorry, I…”

  “It’s fine,” Max replies. “It’s good to see you two getting along. We’re not doing the Corpse’s Grip. Tyler spoke to me, and … I don’t want to fall out over this. Are we cool?”

  Seb’s grin says yes, they are cool, just as Tyler strides into the space and drags a crate over.

  “Have you two made up?”

  “We have,” Max says, “and, as a peace offering, Seb can choose the next legend.”

  “The Caretaker,” he says, without a moment’s thought. “Can we?”

 

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