It's there until the first fingers of sunlight push through the window and scrub it away. The day rouses me, even though I don't think I've really been asleep. My body aches from sitting upright, my eyes ache from never closing. My mind is straight-jacket tight, padded and vague. The cannonball of terror still sits on my diaphragm, but it's lighter now for the sound of the birds. They're in full flow outside, but the one lying on the floor in front of the window hasn't moved once. It's never going to sing again.
I haul myself off the sofa, everything cracking as I bend down and pick the bird up by its feet. How can something weigh so little? Its eyes are still open, its neck bent at right angles.
"I'm sorry," I say, carrying it through to the kitchen. I lift the paper towel, toss it on top of the teeth, covering the whole still-life-in-madness up with more towel. Tanner's stain stares at me from the wall. My cell is dead but there's a charger in here and I plug it in. Then I clean the coffee filter and make a fresh pot, doing my best to ignore the lump of fingertip that has returned to the sink. Seeing it makes my own hand ache, my right middle finger throbbing in sympathy.
Upstairs, Donnie still shouts at his Xbox from behind a closed door. I open it but he has his back to me, and when I call his name he doesn't respond. I'm too afraid to see what he looks like when he turns around so I leave him, walking past mom's room to the bathroom. I'm pretty sure I've never taken a leak so quickly, but there are no squeaks and splashes, no nests of hair sitting on the bottom of the bath.
There's nobody in my room, but my laptop sits open on the bed and there's still music coming out of the headphones. I wrench the curtains open, switch on the lights, place my chair in front of the door to stop it from clicking closed. Wrapping mom's robe around me I climb under my covers, then climb out of them again because I'm thinking about Cara's photo. I sit cross-legged on the bed and pull my computer onto my lap and jab the space bar until it comes back to life.
I'm surprised to see my Facebook page open. There's a whole bunch of notifications and I click them—all likes and comments for a photo.
What's wrong, Tommi?
Shit dude you look STONED. Been hanging out with Flint again?
Tommi?
This last one from Flint. She's sent a message too, but I ignore it and click on the photo that I have no memory of posting.
Of course I have no memory of it.
It's a photo of me, sitting on the sofa in the living room dressed in mom's bath robe. I'm awake, and staring almost but not quite right at the camera. And there's a look on my face of... I can't describe it, it's like terror, but something more, something more profound than terror.
My shadow is drawn on the wall behind me, merged with my hair. There's no gap between the wall and the sofa but right there, inside the darkness of my shadow, I can see her. I can see that red-flecked eye, that yellow grin.
"You bitch," I say, clicking the window closed. "You fucking bitch."
I load up another tab, finding creeepy.com. Cara's profile is still there, nothing has changed. Those highlighted stories stare back at me and the comments make a hell of a lot more sense now. I click on the only one that I haven't read yet: _thetubegame_. It's still a dead link.
If Tanner was right, and let's face it, that's a big if, then I need to get hold of it, and of any other story that might be able to help. I Google the title but there's just cached links to the site, none of which work. I check on Cara's Facebook page too, in case she linked to anything from there. No luck. The image that's on all of her photos is a little clearer now, I think, a little more in focus, but I still can't tell what it is.
I push my fingers into my eyes until my thoughts ignite into fireworks. All I can hear is Donnie next door, mom running down the stairs, a flap of wings and the thump of a little body on glass—and this last sound makes me open my eyes again. The skylark is back, freshly dead, twitching on my bedroom carpet.
I refuse to let myself see it, the same way I refuse to let myself see the lump of shadow that appears in the corridor outside, staring at me through the crack in my door, breathing hard. I look at the screen instead, my skin electric with fear, with paranoia.
Rot, I think. Reality is rotting around me, that's all this is.
I find my way back to creeepy.com. There must be over a thousand stories on the site, including mine. But how do I know which ones to read? How do I know which ones are important? The stories that Cara liked are completely different from each other, just a handful of similarities that I wouldn't have even noticed if I wasn't looking out for them. Cara had dozens of them printed out, so maybe she found the missing ones, or printed them before they disappeared. If only there was a way of finding out.
And there is, I suddenly realize, digging my hand into the pocket of mom's robe, feeling the business card there. When I pull it out it's wet, and yellow, the ink running in half a dozen places. There's also a ribbon of dark hair wrapped around it, tight enough to have cut through the paper. It looks like it's been floating in a lake somewhere for weeks, and maybe it has. Time doesn't seem to mean anything any more.
I have to go downstairs to fetch my phone. I don't look at the figure who's outside my door, even though I have to angle my body to the side to squeeze past it, even though I can feel the cold weight of it against me, pushing into me. My head is down as I walk into the kitchen, as I unplug the charger. There's somebody in here with me, standing at the sink, the squeak of a finger as it traces the plughole. But I don't look. I just dial the number on the card with shaking fingers, listen to it ring.
And ring.
And ring.
"He won't answer," says mom, and I hear her suck the end of her finger.
And ring.
And ring.
Please.
"He read the stories too, those awful awful things. He read about the witch and now he's playing her game whether he wants to or not."
And ring.
It clicks to an answerphone, Cyrus's voice from another world. I end the call, and stand there, stand there doing nothing because I can't think of a single thing to do. I stand there for a lifetime, until the cell kicks in my hand and I scream. I think it's bitten me, I almost drop it, but it's a call and I answer it without even looking at the number.
"Hello?" I say.
There's nobody there, nothing but a breath, haggard and wheezing.
"Hello? Detective Cyrus?"
Mom's walking toward me, I can see her out of the corner of my eye—slow, deliberate steps. The breath on the end of the line continues, I just want to hang up but I can't face the thought of being alone with the not-mom who's standing by my side, who's leaning in. She's breathing hard too, and I understand it's her breaths I'm hearing on the phone, playing in stereo.
"He won't speak," says mom, next to me and down the phone. "He doesn't dare."
"Please," I say, to her, to the person on the phone, I don't even know any more.
"He's too slow."
"Please!"
Crackling, then a faint voice.
"Hello?" I say. "Detective Cyrus?"
Mom's lips are almost on my face, she stinks of meat.
"He's too slow."
But this time I hear it, a man's voice.
"Hello?"
"Oh god, thank god, is that you? Are you real?"
"Who is this?" Detective Cyrus says. He sounds rattled. "What do you want?"
Mom licks my cheek and I grunt, pulling away, hunkering down onto my haunches, hands cradling my head. I can still see her bare feet there, spattered with blood. I can see a tooth, too, under the oven, one that I missed last night.
"I need help," I say. "I need to talk to you, about Cara Pierce."
The phone pops, whining like a flash bulb. I pull it away, my ear ringing, only to push it back when I hear his voice again.
"Who is this?"
"Tommi Bright," I say. "Thomasin, we spoke the other day, you came to my house."
I can't see mom's feet any more, and I risk looking. She's gone, the kitchen is empty. I stand up, although it takes me a couple of attempts.
"If you're in on this, you're going to be in serious trouble," he says.
In on what, I nearly ask, but instead I say, "Your life is rotting too," and I think he might be crying.
"I need the stories," I say. "The ones from Cara's house. It's the only way to beat this, to beat her."
I expect him to laugh, to hang up, but he struggles through a couple of breaths then says, "I'll come to you."
"Don't," I blurt out. "Don't come here. It's not safe. Meet me in the Mall, the Circuit."
The phone pops again, louder this time. I throw it to the floor, pressing a hand to my ear, feeling something wet on my cheek—the cheek that my not-mom licked—pulling it away to see blood smeared over my palm.
"The food court," I say to my phone.
I only hope he heard me.