The Dead House, стр. 48

It’s her, isn’t it? The thin yellow girl. You can tell me, Dee.

But, see now? Do you see? How some of the writing is written in felt-tip pen? Marker? And how as the fibers die on the splintered wood, it changes to ballpoint pen? And farther, as the pen dies, scratchings as though she—Carly, it has to be Carly?—attempted to use the pen to gouge her cries into the wood itself. That doesn’t last long, see, Dee? Something else is used after that—it’s messy, confused, brown. Ugly. Oh, God—it’s shit. She wrote in shit, Dee. This is where the smell is coming from. It reeks!

I followed the trail of words, none of them making much sense, following all the way along the dark and narrow U that is the attic—my home—until I came to the very end, where not even the spiders live anymore. There, on the floor, sat an ominous dark stain in the corner, soaked into an old carpet rolled up to one side. I didn’t know if it was green or blue or brown, that stain, but there in the shadows, it looked black. The true color.

Horror woke itself inside me, and I backed away slowly, never letting my eyes wander from that stain, which seemed to regard me as much as I did it, telling me, I can see.

But can you?

Later

I told Naida I won’t look at the writing. I won’t go back to that defiled place. There is something wrong with me. There is something inside me.

Because… I didn’t tell her that the writing on the walls, Dee… seems to be my own.

5:00 pm

Maybe it was stupid, but I DON’T CARE! I’m sick of waiting! I’m sick of being alone! Her school’s only four miles away, in town, and I knew I’d be back before anyone noticed, and I was, so no big deal. So you can quit looking at me like that, Dee.

I saw her waiting for dickball Bailey by the front benches, so tiny and lonely and vulnerable, and I called her over to me. Her eyes widened, and she ran over so fast I could barely catch her. All her stuff, including the ridiculous bobble hat she was wearing, went rolling all over the place, but I didn’t care, because she was in my arms.

“Kaitie,” she murmured into my hair. “You were gone!”

“It’s okay, Jaimebean, I’m here.” And she didn’t smell like Jaime anymore. The Bailey smell had completely taken over.

I took her round to the back benches, just out of sight of the main school, and I asked her how she was. Normally she’d tell me about her school, her friends, her new coloring pencils—all that stuff—but this time she just kept asking about Carly.

“Where’s Carly? Is Carly with you? Has she gone to heaven with Mummy and Daddy?”

“No!” I snapped, and when her eyes filled with tears, I added, “She’s just… sleeping. Don’t worry, though, because I’m going to wake her up.”

“You’re going to get her?”

I nodded. “I promise.”

Maybe it was stupid to say that, but I did. And that promise held a thousand meanings.

I promise I will get Carly.

I promise Carly will be safe.

I promise life will go back to normal.

I promise I will take care of you.

I promise I know what I’m doing.

I promise I’m not crazy.

I promise I won’t go to jail.

I promise I will force the world to make sense again.

I saw Mrs. Bailey before Jaime did, and when she called out Jaime’s name, and Jaime turned to look, I melted into the shadows and watched the whole disgusting scene like the ghost I am.

Mrs. Bailey came, and Jaime picked up all of her lost treasures. She didn’t turn to look for me. Not once. It’s as if she knew I wasn’t really there to begin with.

Diary of Kaitlyn Johnson

Friday, 7 January 2005, 10:00 pm

Basement

I can’t make sense of all the images in my head. They flash and burn and change; they bleed into one another, but I must try. The first thing is a hand. A huge hand right in my face, and there is terror in my mouth, bursting to get out as I look at it coming slowly forward. I’m choking on the fear, which bends its way into my vitals like an insidious and very conscious weed. The weed knows exactly where to go, and it is laughing.

I see his face—but it’s torn, warped, bleeding. Dad.

There is shadow on a wall, moving, but slowing. And with the slowing, I’m filled with something. And then there is blood on very rough, dark walls—bleeding stone—like walls?!—then, clear as crystal, John the Viking’s face.

He is pale, his eyes wide, his lips grimly set.

He is always in the flashes, right at the end, and I don’t know why, and I am terrified.

Naida Camera Footage

Date and Time Index Missing

Naida’s Dorm

The camera light illuminates Naida’s face, turning it to sharp lines and deep furrows. In the distance, the constant echoing drip of water tells us she is in a room of stone. There is no natural light.

“Someone doesn’t want me snooping around,” Naida says, her voice low and solemn. “That little cast I performed… this is what’s been made of it.” She holds up a round object. “It’s a bull testicle, sealed with red wax. My conjure’s inside. The earthroot, the devil’s heart, the silver coin… Then there’s this.”

She lifts a tag from behind the object and reads it aloud.

“‘Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers: for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? and what communion hath light with darkness?’ ‘Ye cannot drink the cup of the Lord, and the cup of devils: ye cannot be partakers of the Lord’s table, and of the table of devils’—2 Corinthians 6:14 and 1 Corinthians 1:21.” She sticks her tongue between her teeth and laughs. “He’s quoting scripture at me. He’s taunting me—telling me I haven’t got what it takes to beat him. That I won’t do what might be necessary.”

She laughs again, shaking her head. “Someone’s been inside my room, found the bind I placed in secret, and conjured around it. He—or she, I suppose—is more powerful than I reckoned. But if he thought he’d scare me away by quoting scripture and reworking my bind against me, he doesn’t know me too well. This only makes me more certain. It only makes me more determined.”

She sighs. “But now I have to do something I really don’t want to do.” She looks up into the lens. “I have go and see Haji.”

Diary of Kaitlyn Johnson

Saturday, 8 January 2005, 7:55 pm

Basement

London, my precious London!

Naida’s never done anything like this before. She wants me to take her top hat camera so that we can look at the footage later. No need to tell me how stupid I look. She thinks this guy—Haji, she calls him—might give something away with a glance or a particular phrasing of words.

All I should care about is this: London. London, Dee. My sleepless city, at last, just like Carly and I planned. Cute, right?

Naida says we could be going into a den of vipers, and I secretly hope so. Anything to take away this feeling in my chest.

No going back now. We catch the 9:14 train.

A review of the system records on the date in question reveal no train ticket purchases by Carly Johnson or Naida Chounan-Dupre via credit card. We can only assume cash was used.