“Of course, we’ll have to keep it a secret a bit longer,” Claudette said. “Barry’s right. This town is full of snooty old ladies who wouldn’t understand. Once we get out of here, it’ll be so much better.”
And that was it. The big secret. The one that should not be told.
* * *
Tatum’s bedroom has become her sanctuary. Gone are the photos of her and Claudette hanging out at the mall. Gone is the trophy they won when they were six years old and things like sack races were still cool. Gone are the countless selfies of the two of them on Tatum’s bed. In Tatum’s car. At the rock-and-roll museum. On the trail at Mount Rainier. All of Claudette’s clothing has been bagged up and is waiting in the garage if she ever decides she wants it back. Her nail polish and hair bands, all the little things she left behind and never bothered to retrieve. The things they openly shared. The pictures went in the trash. The trophy was broken in two. The friendship bracelet had been burned up in the bathroom sink.
The price of memories that just can’t be forgotten.
Tatum sits on her bed cross-legged, her laptop closed. Once upon a time, she spent countless hours on Facebook and Twitter. Playing games, gathering farming neighbors, discussing rumors about who had done what to whom, and basically just having a blast. Looking at goofy pictures and cute kittens. Laughing and swooning over celebrities. Watching James Franco get roasted. Sharing Skype conversations that went late into the night when she was supposed to be studying.
Tatum doesn’t bother anymore. She closed her Facebook page ages ago. Claudette started a hate page in her honor. Hundreds of comments discussing how much people loathe her. Some of them are simple: name calling or making up lies and theories to make Tatum look bad. Others go darker: old friends and new enemies advising her to drink bleach, slit her wrists, and drive off cliffs. In the beginning she read them all obsessively.
Claudette Nesbitt: Yah, she needs to die. Mouthy bitch, jealous of my life. Right? B careful. She might make stories up of you next.
Juniper Hafner: Yeah, whatevvvaaaaah! She’s fat and ugly. Virgin suicide to be.
Levi Tessier: What u expect? No one wants to fuck her. She’s one ugly hoe.
Juniper Hafner: LOLs. Didn’t you date her?
Levi Tessier: Like 3rd grade. Dumped her ass cuz she wouldn’t suck my dick.
Claudette Nesbitt: Lol. She has no life. Someone should end it 4 her.
Ignore it. Ignore it. Ignore it.
Three more months. Then she’ll graduate and get the hell out of Dodge. It doesn’t matter that she and Claudette planned to take the year off and travel across Europe together before applying to college. Tatum has the money saved. She’ll still go away. A big city is what she needs. A place to escape. Somewhere no one has ever heard the name Mr. Paracini, aka Barry. Once she’s settled and far away, she’ll find a job and eventually start applying to school. She’ll never come back.
Tatum tries to turn her attention to her history essay, but her phone vibrates. She’s changed the number twice since all this happened. It cuts down on the texts and late-night hang-ups, but still, they always manage to find a way through.
Sure enough. Unknown number.
Die ugly slut
She pushes the history book off her bed, watches it drop to the floor. The phone vibrates again. Then a third time. She turns it off without looking. Tosses it in her bag. Gets off the bed and heads down the stairs.
“Honey?”
Her parents are watching television in the living room. Tatum passes them to get to the front door.
“What?” She slips her feet into her shoes.
“Little late, isn’t it?” Mom glances back at her.
Tatum looks at the clock. It’s only a bit after eight. “I’ve got a bunch of work to do tonight. Thought I’d go get a coffee first.”
“You can’t make one here?”
“Not a mocha.” She grabs her coat from the hook.
“Okay,” Mom says. “Don’t be too late. You’ve got your phone?”
Tears blur her eyes, but Tatum won’t let people see her cry. Not even her parents. She won’t waste a single tear on anyone again. It only makes her weak. And Claudette can smell weakness a mile away.
“Yeah, I’ve got it,” Tatum says. She shakes her bag to emphasize. Mom doesn’t need to know it’s turned off.
“Call if you need us.”
Good old Mom. She’s never actually come out and said she doesn’t believe Tatum. In fact, she spent a lot of time in the beginning defending her to everyone: Tatum’s a good girl. She’d never tell a lie like that. I honestly don’t know what’s going on with the girls. They’ve been friends since they were toddlers. You know how they can get. They have their little snits. But they always come back around.
Yeah, except this isn’t a little snit. Tatum will never forgive Claudette.
It was good to have Mom on her side. But as the days went by and the accusations continued, Tatum watched her start to hold back. And since Dad’s outburst over the car-keying episode, and Mrs. Paracini’s threat to sue, Mom’s been acting like the whole thing is better off pushed into the closet. She wants to close her eyes and pretend everything is behind them. Now her criticisms are thinly veiled attempts to avoid the real truth.
Are you sure you didn’t say something to make her mad? Really, honey. You can tell me.
Don’t worry. Once you graduate, no one will ever remind you of it again.
But Mom doesn’t know about Facebook. Or the phone calls. The hell that has become school. She doesn’t know because Tatum stopped talking about it. Otherwise Mom might try and get involved again, and that’s the last thing Tatum needs.
Tatum walks around her car before she gets in. Four tires. Check. Still full of air. Check. No foul body odors to suggest she look for wet spots. Check. Doors locked. Check. No windows broken or insults scratched in the paint job. Check.
Normally they don’t bother attacking in her driveway, but she figures it’s just a matter of time till they show up with rotten eggs or dozens of toilet paper rolls just to give themselves a good time. There’s not a lot to do in Hannah, Washington. Having a car is the best thing because it means getting out. Day trips to Seattle. Hop, skips, and jumps to bigger places where Taco Bells, Jack in the Boxes, and massive outlet stores litter the I-5. Drive-through Starbucks. Twenty-four-hour Walmarts.
And for Tatum, her own car means small escapes.
Escape she does. Her secondhand Yaris starts on the first try. Looking at the illuminated clock on her dashboard, she figures she can get away with about an hour before Mom starts calling to check up on her. She puts the car in drive and goes.
Driving. Such simplicity. Bliss. A chance to forget all her problems by simply pointing the car in one direction and pressing the accelerator. Opening the window and letting the wind tickle her ears. Tatum is positive she was an explorer in a previous life. Someone who made a living plotting her way through forests and valleys to find the open sea. There is nothing greater in the world than the experience of simply moving forward.
Driving does this. Tatum almost wishes her parents would stop pressuring her to apply to college. She’d love to be a truck driver. The open road. A thousand miles of gravel. A car stereo to keep her company. Now that’s heaven.
But not enough tonight. As much as she’d just love to disappear, that probably wouldn’t go over well with her parents. They’d find her and drag her back. So for now she’ll barely get to wet her whistle, as Dad likes to say.
Tatum pulls to a stop at the bottom of the hill. If she turns right, it’ll take her toward Main Street. She’s more likely to come across enemy territory. And if they follow her like they did last week, the only safe way is to head back home. Left takes her toward the old highway. A small, almost-forgotten interstate that no one ever travels. It’s the long way around to the next town, shadowed by the new and improved Interstate 90. The state doesn’t even bother repairing it these days. Eventually it’ll turn to cr
umbling gravel, and the only people who will complain are those in the few remaining acreages where city folk love to retire.
The route may be forgotten, but for Tatum it’ll take her to Frog Road.
Perfect.
Tatum heads left.
Frog Road isn’t its actual name. It’s just what Tatum’s dad has called it ever since Tatum once caught him driving over an aforementioned amphibian when she was a little girl. She made him stop the car so she could get out and try and rescue its little frog body before another car came along. Luck must have been on that frog’s side that day (or perhaps it was stuck to Dad’s front tire) because she never did find the remains.
Frog Road goes along part of the twisting Snoqualmie River. And if Tatum hurries, she can turn up the music and drive for a good twenty minutes before reality makes her head back home.
It’s a cool night for spring. Thankfully, there’s no rain in sight, but as she drives along, Tatum notices the first few wisps of fog settling in. She’s not overly surprised, nor does it worry her. She’s driven in fog heavy enough to barely see past her dashboard. She knows the rules: Slow down and never turn on your brights. Watch for animals, especially small amphibian types.
Ten minutes in and she’s almost ready to turn around. The whiteness has taken over everything. She can barely see the pavement anymore. And when the road gets that dangerous, Tatum stops having fun. She’s even turned off the radio in order to concentrate.
When she sees the girl by the shoulder, she nearly swerves into the middle of the road.
A girl who calmly holds her thumb out.
Tatum’s never picked up a hitchhiker. She’s been heavily influenced by the stories her parents have told her. Couples who will rob her and steal her car, leaving her stuck in the middle of nowhere. Men who will butcher her. The names of famous serial killers float through her mind. The Green River Killer. Ted Bundy. Surely they must have preyed on girls foolish enough to stop their cars? Or picked up girls on their own. Or prostitutes? She can’t remember.
Not that it matters. This girl certainly can’t be a killer. She looks to be about Tatum’s age, although Tatum doesn’t recognize her. She definitely doesn’t go to Tatum’s high school.
And the way she’s dressed, she must be freezing.
Tatum puts her foot on the brake and pulls over. The seconds move slowly as she watches the girl jog toward her. If she’s going to flee, now’s the time.
Instead she hits the unlock button.
The door opens. The girl bends over to check Tatum out. Her hair is long and perfectly straight. Dark chestnut, the kind of hair color Tatum wishes she had instead of her own mousy brown.
“Thanks,” the girl says. She smiles and gets in.
MOLLY
I’m sitting with Parker and Mary when I feel it coming.
We call it the Fade.
Stupid name, but I guess no one’s bothered to try and come up with something better. It’s the moment when one of us travels back into the real world.
The haunting.
We’re all ghosts here.
And contrary to popular belief, it’s not always by choice. It’s not like we saw the white light and said, “No thanks, I’ll stay here.” None of us thought with our dying breath that we’d like to spend eternity haunting some boarded-up house or darkened alley. The whole ghost thing is massively distorted. Yes, we all have unfinished business. Show me a single dying person who didn’t. Even if you’ve convinced yourself that you’re ready, there’s always something you still desire. One more sunrise. One more piece of cake. One last goodbye. The list is limitless.
As the years go by, the unfinished business is forgotten. Loved ones die. Bodies are found and buried. Secrets are taken to the grave or discovered in diaries hidden in attic trunks.
But we stay here.
We don’t want help, either. We’re not appearing over and over again to try and point out who killed us or show someone where our body is so we can get a proper burial. We’re not looking for the diamond ring torn from our finger or a missing kneecap that some criminal kept as a trophy. The stories people make up to simply justify our existence? Total garbage. Even if we could talk to the living and tell them our tales of woe, I doubt it would be of any help. Some of us have been haunting for centuries. The people who wronged us are long gone themselves.
We’re not lonely. I’ve got Parker and Mary and a host of others to keep me company. Yeah, it’s not the most exciting place to be, but I’m sure there are worse. Because if this place exists, other places do as well. And all I can hope for is that the man who harmed me went somewhere a lot warmer.
Okay, yes. That’s one thing we have in common: We all died before our time. It was always violent, sudden, and painful. Although there are a few here who try and pretend otherwise, I have never met anyone in our valley who went peacefully in his or her sleep.
We share our stories.
Parker died in 1923. He was eighteen years old. He’d moved to London, England, from his home in Stoke-on-Trent to study medicine. One night, while walking home to his small one-bedroom flat, Parker was mistaken by a drunken man for his wife’s lover and stabbed through the stomach with a sharpened fish knife. Parker lay in the darkened street while the drunk realized his mistake. Instead of going for help, the man dragged Parker into an alley, where he covered him up with newspaper and garbage. Parker spent the next few hours weakening, dying, unable to cry loudly enough to get any attention from the early-morning longshoremen as they headed to the docks to begin work.
Funny enough, Parker doesn’t haunt the alley in which he died. He says he often appears in more than one place. Sometimes it’s the hospital where he interned; other times it’s the pub where he had his last drink. His haunting routine is mostly quiet. He doesn’t have a voice with which to speak. Only an image of him coated in blood. So far, he says, he’s scared more than one nurse out of her knickers.
Mary also died in London, but her story is much worse. In 1888 she was twenty-five and a prostitute. She’d been through a marriage that went nowhere, and she’d left the man. According to her, there weren’t a lot of respectable jobs for a woman such as herself. One night a man followed her home and did all sorts of unspeakable things to her body with a knife. She stayed alive through a fair amount of it.
Mary only goes back into the world on rainy nights. She doesn’t appear as a victim all torn and bloody, but just as herself. She materializes in the small room where she died, or sometimes on the stairs. Once, she found herself walking down the alley. She says it’s quite boring, actually. Every now and then she’ll come back bragging about how she freaked someone out, but mostly she says it’s just the owners’ cats that run and hide.
We come from all over. All places. All nationalities. A Canadian girl haunts a music studio, floating down the halls each night at midnight. Her lover, a famous musician at the time, strangled her over an argument about who got the last bit of cocaine. The other band members took her body and dumped it in the trash several blocks away. She heard the men talking about it the first few nights she returned. Listened while they patted each other on the back for removing her body from the scene of the crime. Watched when her lover showed up with a new girlfriend. She’s quite angry most of the time, so we don’t talk to her much. I can’t blame her. I wouldn’t want to Fade every night either.
A Chinese man, killed by his wife, haunts a rice field in Sichuan.
We have someone from Brazil who only Fades during Carnival.
A boy from Germany haunts the street where his house was bombed during the war. His cheeks are still hollow from lack of food.
An old lady from Boston drowned along with her dog. She’s the only one here who managed to bring her beloved pet. She sits over by the corner of the lake and chats with her furry friend all day long. And if you try being polite, she’ll talk your ear off for hours. Mostly about her poodle. Sometimes she’ll talk about the two children she left behind, but not as often. After
all, it was her son who killed her.
Every one of us has a story. We have a death. We have a haunt. We all Fade.
We do different things. Mary walks around and spooks cats. Parker gives nurses something to gossip about. And me? I hitchhike.
I have no idea why. It wasn’t something I was doing before I died. Actually, I had caught a ride with Walter, but I knew him well. He was part of our community. Our family. He was someone I trusted.
The first time I Faded, I couldn’t have been more spooked. Isn’t that hilarious? A ghost who gets spooked? I suppose stranger things have happened. One minute I was sitting with Parker and Mary, staring off into the trees; the next, my body simply disappeared. I’d been ready for it, considering I’d been at the lake for some time, and pretty much everyone wanted to talk about it. Everyone wants to be the first to explain the Fade to the new kid. Some of the others even tried to predict what I’d do. If money had meaning, they would have bet on it.
The Fade isn’t much of anything. Have you ever had that feeling when you get dizzy stepping out of the shower? That moment where everything tilts awkwardly on its side and your brain gets all light-headed. Sometimes the edges of your vision darken and you have to reach out to steady yourself. That’s what the Fade feels like. A quick moment of dizziness followed by a complete change in scenery.
People here enjoy Fading. Well, most of them do. I quickly figured out why. As I found myself standing in knee-high grass, a gust of freezing wind nearly blew my skirt up over my head.
Wind.
Feelings.
I was standing in the middle of a ditch. Looking around, I tried to take in my surroundings. There was nothing familiar, or so I first thought. In the darkness I couldn’t see much. I stepped forward and climbed the steep embankment to the road. Dirt dug into my hands as they pressed against the cool ground. I brushed them off, marveling at how my skin burned slightly from where the pebbles dug in. I waited for my eyes to adjust. Slowly the dark shadows became trees.