The Dead House, стр. 27
From: RealxChick
To: AriHait558
Date: 7 November 2004
Subject: Tired of Hiding
Dear Ari,
I’m tired of hiding, running, being scared. I’m so tired of being alone, and fighting myself and everything else all the time. But even though I know I want to tell you the truth, I’m too much of a coward to do it face-to-face. That’s why I’ve been avoiding you. That’s why I avoid everyone.
Bogged Down by My Confession
From: AriHait558
To: RealxChick
Date: 7 November 2004
Subject: Re: Tired of Hiding
Confess.
Sincerely,
Interested
From: RealxChick
To: AriHait558
Date: 7 November 2004
Subject: Confession
You first.
Sincerely,
Coward
From: AriHait558
To: RealxChick
Date: 7 November 2004
Subject: Re: Confession
I think I’m not a very nice person. Me: army brat who hates his dad. I don’t care about very much some days, which I feel like is mostly because of this rootless existence I live with the asshole who shares my genes but not my emotional level, and I’m kind of scared I might be forced to leave, yet again, before I get to know this girl I met. I struggle to forgive wrongs done against me because I can’t ever forget them—I have an eidetic memory. I wear bowler hats because I hate my hair, but I despise fashion. I would like to have a cat one day, even though I hate animals, and I would very much like to know your story.
Full of Contradictions,
Ari
From: RealxChick
To: AriHait558
Date: 7 November 2004
Subject: Re: Re: Confession
My name is Kaitlyn, and I am a ghost. I don’t exist, or so they tell me.
During the day, I literally don’t exist. Most people go to sleep, wake up to the sun, and walk around in the light. Not me. My world is, and has always been, darkness, shadows, night.
My sister (we’ve always used that word), Carly, and I exist in the same body. I only come out at night. Carly is the one you see during the day at school, the one who ignores you, the one who probably looks at you like you’re a total stranger (if she looks at you at all), and the one everyone thought was at that party. I’m Kait—I’m the one who talks to you in the confession booth, who has a WEIRD sense of humor, or lack of it, the one you went swimming with, the one you went to the party with, and the one you’ve been writing to. Me, Kaitlyn.
My doctor is convinced that I’m not really here. She keeps trying to convince me of it too. Sometimes she wears me down enough that I start to think maybe she’s right. But I didn’t appear after my parents died, as she is convinced—I’ve always been here. It’s just the way we are. Me and Carly, together in one form.
We keep this secret because we always have. Our parents sort of convinced us it was the best way, unless we wanted to be locked away in a mental ward for the duration of the universe. We even talked about pretending it was some kind of memory problem or something. In the end, though, they just decided to hide me away. I’ve been hidden ever since. I guess they were right after all. People do think I’m crazy when I tell the truth. They try to trick me—lie to me. Tell me things… that are so beyond hurtful that I think they must be denizens from hell to do that. They make me feel like poison. Like an illness. A symptom of some horrible disease.
But hopefully you won’t. I don’t expect you to believe what I’m telling you. But please, please, at least acknowledge this email.
For obvious reasons, I hate to be ignored.
Sincerely and very afraid,
Kaitlyn Johnson, Girl of Nowhere
From: AriHait558
To: RealxChick
Date: 7 November 2004
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Confession
Dear Kaitlyn,
I believe you. Mostly because I made good on my threat. I did go and talk to you during lunch the other day. I walked right up to—Carly, I guess?—and said, “You missed confession, young lady.” When she stared at me for a full five seconds without saying anything, I asked about the party, and she looked really confused. She stared at me like I was the Minotaur, and then Naida comes up and says, “Gotta go!” and steers Carly away without a word. It seemed odd that she’d protect you from me when we were at the party together. It wasn’t normal. I knew something was wrong. Different.
This raises all kinds of questions about the nature of reality, the nature of self, the idea of souls, the idea of the afterlife, questions about genetics, the mind—
You do realize you’re a regular science project?
Ari
PS—Thank you for your confession. I promise to keep it locked away as long as you like. But you should know that I really like you exactly like this. Exactly as you are. Kaitlyn.
I love your name.
From: RealxChick
To: AriHait558
Date: 7 November 2004
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Confession
I am very, very aware of the fact that I’m a science project—gone wrong. I seriously can’t believe you haven’t gone running for the hills.
K
From: AriHait558
To: RealxChick
Date: 7 November 2004
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Confession
I don’t scare easily, though I expect others do? It’s fine if you don’t want to talk about it.
Come to the booth. I want to see you. I have questions. No cookies today—don’t want to make Carly fat without her permission. Doesn’t seem fair.
A
From: RealxChick
To: AriHait558
Date: 7 November 2004
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Confession
Oh, clever. We have a sense of humor.
Be there in 10.
K
37
[The following entry was pasted into the journal.]
Diary of Kaitlyn Johnson
Friday, 12 November 2004, 8:00 pm
Dorm
I’m going to do something stupid. I—what’s happening to me??
At first it was dark. Not so dark that I couldn’t see, but dark enough that shapes had no meaning. I was outside standing in a blanket of mist. I could hear the ocean, and I shivered. The taste of a changeable storm hung on the air. As soon as I thought this, the clouds above me, which seemed alive and full of malevolent depth, moving fast like a stop-motion film, gave a deep rumbling groan—and ceased. Just froze in the sky.
I stumbled forward and tripped on an ancient step, which led to an enormous house towering above me, three stories high.
Dee, I felt that house stare down at me.
The windows gazed across the landscape, each fringed by the crumbling slate roof like eyelids. Even the console brackets had the sunken, eroded texture of all things that have succumbed to the oppressive passage of time. The weather vane, too, stood rusted and old, no longer a thing of pride, but a creaking slice of metal warped into no definite shape by years of long corrosion.