"Could it be, like, some form of stigmata? My uncle Frasco said he got that once. Hurt like a bitch."
I looked at my bandaged hands and decided Dane was right about the hurt like a bitch part. I did not, however, share her belief that my slashed palms were in any way comparable to Jesus Christ's crucifixion wounds. I would've called her out on the sheer absurdity of her theory if the truth hadn't been far stranger: a malevolent bathroom ghost had tried to shut my eyes forever. If someone tried to tell me anything like that out of the blue, I would've laughed in their face and told them I wouldn't swallow such blatant lies.
"You mean your batshit crazy uncle Francisco who claimed Virgin Mary came to him at night? The guy who went around spreading God's Word because the angels told him to?" I'd heard that story before and my memory functioned just fine.
My cellmate rolled her eyes and leaned back in her black plastic chair, staring up at the ceiling. "So maybe Uncle Fras didn't have his shit together, but still... I mean, what else could it be? You heard what the big guys said, right? Those wounds appeared out of nowhere, and that disturbing message, too."
There wasn't anything intelligent I could say to confirm or deny that, so I shrugged and decided to divert my friend's attention away from the mystery of the whole incident. I crossed my arms, making sure not to put too much pressure on my damaged hands. "Beats me. At least we had a quiet night now."
"Oh, you won't hear me denying that."
The night before had been peaceful, especially when compared to the bloody mess we'd dealt with two nights back. I'd still been on edge the whole time; I slept with one eye open, more aware of my surroundings than ever before, fearing the evil spirit would return and cut all my limbs off this time. In the end, it had been for naught. Officers had come to check on us twice every hour for safety reasons, but when morning came, they'd reached the same conclusion as me: there hadn't been anything to worry about, not once. It was as if the night of the incident had never meant anything, as if it had been nothing but a collective hallucination we shared.
"To be fair," I said, my throat feeling dry all of a sudden, "I'm surprised you're still willing to share a cell with me. All things considered."
I couldn't quite place the look Dane gave me. It seemed a mixture of lazy amusement and mild offense, which made for a rather strange combination. I wasn't sure how it made me feel.
"Oh, come on," my friend told me, exasperation evident in her tone. "Nothing weird ever happened during that whole month we've spent there together, and we're friends, right, Bails? And I'm getting out of here soon, anyway. Been risking my life in this shithole for so long, I might as well do it some more for as long as it lasts. Don't you think?"
The words came with a brave attempt at a wink that turned into a regular blink somewhere along the way. Daniela Guerrero was probably incapable of experiencing basic fear. Then again, the fact she was in prison did sort of indicate she was prone to making questionable life choices, like staying close to someone targeted by an evil spirit.
"Sure."
Humming in approval, Dane looked away from me, pulling a face when her eyes found the white wall in front of us. I followed her gaze, craning my neck to see past a tall girl sitting in front of me, and squinted to see what the projected PowerPoint slide there read. The secret to succesfully defeating drug addiction and aiding its victims, a slideshow by a volunteer speaker whose name I couldn't read. Black Times New Roman font against a plain white background. However high or low the quality of the presentation's contents would turn out to be, the visual aspect made me think the whole thing would leave much to be desired.
"Bullshit seminar," Dane pointed out as if reading my thoughts, shifting in her seat. "None of it's that deep. At some point you'll look in the mirror and say 'shit, can't go on like this' and fix yourself. Don't need some asshole with a PowerPoint to tell you how it's done."
I wasn't experienced enough with this subject to challenge that particular statement, though I thought what had worked for Dane wasn't guaranteed to work for everyone. "Maybe it's useful for some people. I don't know."
"Objection."
I never learnt if she'd wanted to elaborate on that or not, for the speaker, a middle-aged Indian man, motioned for silence with wild gestures, raising his voice to grab our attention and make it known he wanted to get started. It took him another minute to fully silence his rowdy audience, but when he achieved his goal, he put on a bright smile and began introducing us to the wondrous world of gruesome drug abuse pictures and sub-par slideshows.
With the volunteer's tedious voice droning on in the background, I scanned the room, searching for the ghost of the young boy who'd warned me. If I wanted to talk to Liz, all I had to do was find him. My eyes roamed over the crowd, consisting of about thirty people; a small amount. Even though Liz wasn't the only one who'd unknowingly brought a ghastly companion, the Bloody Boy wasn't hard to spot. The gaping emptiness of the bullet wound in his tiny body made him stand out, and his amused, mysterious smile had made itself at home in my brain ever since he'd signed his silent warning.
He stood next to Liz, who'd sat down in a seat near the exit that had already been occupied by the ghost of a young woman, and thus she huddled against the cold, even though we currently lived in the middle of August and the room was warm and stuffy. I kept my eyes trained on Liz as she watched the speaker intently and bit my nails.
Today was my chance. The sooner I spoke to Liz about the incident, the better. I had to grab hold of her after the seminar and use my most convincing words to get her to help me. If she could see for herself how much the bloody incident gnawed at me, there was a chance she'd take pity on me and my situation. I had to try, at the very least.
The seminar lasted for two hours, but not a single word the speaker uttered stuck with me. By the time he wrapped up his presentation, I'd chewed on my nails so much it hurt, my brain still scrambling to figure out the best way to make Liz fight for my cause. Chairs scraped the floor as we got up to leave, but I didn't let anyone distract me and concentrated on my target, who had a tendency to rush out of educational spaces as quickly as possible.
I startled out of my focus when I felt Dane's hand on my shoulder; I still just couldn't get used to it. I refrained from shouting at her not to touch me, especially now that I was so on edge because a ghost wished to see me dead, and looked her in the eyes, taking in the lazy, suggestive smirk on her face.
"I'll tell you what," she stated, as if she'd caught me red-handed in the middle of a crime and felt ridiculously proud of it. "Dear Lizzie Phillips is gonna be hanging out at the library as always. If you want to ogle her some more, you should try your luck there."
I wasn't too fond of the insinuation, but I didn't want to argue and the information was useful. I made a mental note to share with Dane the next time I could get my slashed hands on edible contraband and nodded. "Got it."
Wink. "Thank me later."
"Will do." I saw Liz leave in her usual, rapid fashion and followed suit without another word, slowly trailing after her. I knew where she'd most likely be going, so I didn't need to rush after her so fast I'd risk her turning around to give me shit for chasing her. Subtlety was key, I told myself as I sauntered in the same direction as my target and her dead companion. As long as she didn't sense danger or any other sort of threat from me, I was doing fine.
Dane had been right: Liz was indeed heading for the library. I recognized the light green of the walls, maintaining a certain elegance even with the paint peeling off. White IKEA bookshelves filled with books on all subjects climbed up to the ceiling, illuminated by sunlight streaming through barred windows. Ever since I'd come to prison, I hadn't had the patience to focus on reading a book, so I didn't visit the library often. I had to admit, though, that it was one of the few places in Lonewood emanating a calm energy, in spite of the numerous ghosts floating around these dusty rows of shelves.
Liz greeted the librarian with a slight smile before slipping away to search the shelves for whatever book she wanted to check out. I nodded at the librarian myself and gestured I'd find what I was looking for by myself, to which she nodded and pressed her index finger to her lips. I don't care what you do as long as you're quiet.
I couldn't just keep following Liz around like a bad smell; I had to get down to business. Liz stopped in front of a bookshelf, picked up a tiny book (Edgar Allen Poe, The Tell-Tale Heart) and flipped through the pages with attention, probably trying to gauge if the story would be worth her time. I gulped, gathered all my courage and approached her.
"You're following me."
I stopped dead in my tracks. Liz didn't even look up from her book, but she'd sensed my presence, anyway. Her voice was a hushed monotone, the statement emotionless nothing. It caught me off-guard.
"That's kind of bound to happen when someone's trying to talk to you and you keep running off like you're trying to set a new world record."
Liz snapped her book shut, dark brown eyes finding mine. She stared straight into my soul, scouring it for answers to whatever questions about me her mind entertained. I plucked at my bandages, eager to focus on anything but that scrutinizing gaze.
"Church, was it?" It didn't surprise me Liz knew my name. Her eyes drifted to the bandages my fingers toyed with, giving my identity away for all to see. Talk of the fucking town. "We've never spoken before. You might want to tell me why you're looking to change that."
I didn't know what to say. Hours spent thinking and still I had no words. The ridiculousness of the situation began to dawn on me and I couldn't seem to phrase my problem in a way that made me sound sane. But dishonesty wasn't an option, either; if I lied to Liz, how could she be of any use to me?
I could only tell her the truth.
"I can see ghosts."
Liz blinked eleven times and ran a hand through her black curls. Then she laughed, as if I'd told her the funniest joke she'd ever heard.
"Quiet," I hissed, eyes darting around frantically. "Or do you want the librarian to come check on us?"
The laughter died down when I posed that question. Liz snorted, fingers tapping a rhythm on the book she still held. "Cool story," she said, in a way that made me think she pitied me. "But I'd rather you told me the truth."
I'd taken a risk and now I had to get out of the hole I'd dug for myself. I had to prove I wasn't lying, that this was real and there was a malevolent spirit in B-block's bathroom wishing to make balloon animals out of my intestines. There had to be a way I could make Liz see I was being completely honest.
Next to her, the Bloody Boy attempted to run his small fingers over The Tell-Tale Heart's cover, only to fail; his fingers quietly slipped right through the object. When my eyes found his spectral figure, I knew what I had to do.
"There's a boy standing next to you," I blurted out, speaking so fast she couldn't possibly interrupt me. "He's little, can't be older than nine. He has black skin, black curls and dark brown eyes. Same as you, he looks like you. And he's always following you and he knows sign language and there's this big bloody bullet hole in his chest."
Silence came over us as my words began to sink in. Liz stared at me with her eyes wide open, slack-jawed. Her book fell to the floor with a soft thud, but she didn't move to pick it up.
"I never told anyone in here about Michael," she growled, raising her voice ever so slightly, fire flaring in her eyes. "How and what the hell do you know about him?"
I held my hands up defensively, fought the urge to start biting my nails or mess up my bandages again. "Nothing, I swear. I didn't even know his name until you mentioned it."
Liz leaned against the bookshelf for support and I almost felt sorry for her. The rage in her voice, the frantic darting of her eyes, her gritted teeth... I might as well have set off a bomb right next to her.
"You can't... you can't know about Michael. There's... there's no way you know about him..."
I was getting somewhere. "There is," I pressed on, "because I'm telling you the truth. I don't know who Michael was or what he meant to you, but I need to talk to you about him. Because he signed something to me two days back and he told me to watch out, and that very same night, someone slashed my palms open and used my fucking blood for decoration."
Liz took a shaky breath, eyes drifting to my bandages. Her fingers trembled and when she spoke her voice was barely louder than a whisper. The librarian would have approved. "Michael was my little brother," she told me, hesitant. "He... he was deaf. We communicated with him through, through sign language, and one day... one day..."
She fell silent. I didn't say anything, didn't force her. If she wanted to tell me, she would; there was no need for me to push. I'd unleashed enough emotional turmoil for one day.
"He... he was playing on the street, with a toy gun he'd gotten for Christmas." Liz moved to pick up her fallen book, refusing to look at me. "When the cops told him to put it down or they'd shoot... he couldn't hear them. Home was never... it was never the same after he was gone."
The Bloody Boy, Michael Phillips, reached for his sister's book again. He'd died so young, so brutally, and the wound in his chest was now truly unbearable to look at. Knowing how he'd ended up with it... hurt.
"I'm sorry for your loss," I said, "and I'm sorry I brought it up."
Liz placed her book back on the shelf. "It's... fine. I have no idea how you'd find out about all this or how what happened in your cell could be explained rationally, so I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. But if I find out you've lied to me, you'll regret it. Got that?"
"I get it, I do. But it's all true, I swear. I really can see ghosts."
When Liz spoke again, her voice was tinged with hope. "Is there, you know... can you have a conversation with Michael? In any way?"
I shook my head. "Not really. I don't know sign language that well. And besides, the dead don't speak much."
"How does it work?"
"Excuse me?"
"It." Liz wrung her hands together, curiosity shining in her eyes. "This sixth sense you have, and ghosts... how does that all work? Why don't the deas speak and why are they here? It's intriguing."
I was glad her curiosity now overpowered the pain and anger from before, but could only shrug. "Look, I don't know why the dead don't speak, or why some try to communicate with us and some don't, or why some haunt places and others people, or even why I can see them. But what I do know is that there's a malevolent spirit in B-block's bathroom and it wants me dead."
A frown appeared on Liz' face, though her hunger for knowledge remained written all over her face, the slightest hints of excitement in her features. "Whose spirit? And why is it after you?"
At that moment, I knew I had an ally. There was no way Liz would let this go anymore. "I don't know. Maybe some ancient ritual sacrifice took place in there or something, I don't know. This place is so damn old." I paused for the dramatic effect, allowing my words to land. "I'm working on figuring it out, but you're smarter than me and your brother might have some helpful things to say... So maybe you could help me? We might be able to figure it out together."
The whole emotional spectrum crossed Liz's face as she contemplated my request. You're smart, too, aren't you? I'm sure you can imagine which doubts raced through her mind: a murderous ghost meant risk, danger. And still, I was sure she wouldn't reject my offer. Liz was a curious smartass with an insatiable desire for knowledge, and when I spoke of ghosts and mysteries, she couldn't help but want to know more.
Questionable life choices. We all fell victim to them in prison.
"I think we should start by figuring out who the evil spirit is," Liz said. "That would make it easier to discover why it's trying to kill you."
'We'. Victory. I fought my sudden, strong urge to grin. "Like I said, you're smarter than me. Any idea how we should go about this?"
Liz took her time coming up with a reply, but once it came, her accompanying smile resembled Michael's: hazy, mysterious, knowing something you didn't.
"Come talk to me at breakfast tomorrow," she said, almost enthusiastic about this project. "That ghost is going down."