Twenty-One

TWENTY-ONE

I'm back in the sitting room, lost in my thoughts. Have I made the right choice? Am I endangering others?

"Any thoughts, Anton?" I whisper. "Knock twice if I'm making a mistake."

Silence.

"Knock once if I'm not?" I say.

Silence.

"Okay, do nothing if you just don't give a shit."

Silence.

I shoot a thumbs-up to the empty room. "Got it."

I settle in, letting my eyes half close. I'm drifting into my thoughts when I catch sight of one of the dolls. It hasn't moved—thankfully. It just snags my free-floating mind, lost somewhere between past and present. It's a plain-looking doll, with straight brown hair and a dress that seems as if it belongs to another, fancier doll. It reminds me of Heather, her brown hair always parted down the middle, her outfits trying for an artistic flair that—I hate to admit this—always made it seem as if she'd raided an artsy sibling's closet.

I'm staring at that doll, and my mind drifts again. The doll becomes Heather, trudging into the forest for a second séance, casting anxious glances back at me.

Once again, I don't know what to do, and I hate that. I feel as if I made a mistake the first time by agreeing to the séance, and yet if I hadn't, they'd have done it without me, to the same result, only without me to help get Patrice out of the forest.

Now I'm back in the same position, and part of me is screaming that I'm making the same mistake, and part is screaming back that I'm still not sure I did make a mistake.

No, I did. I made the mistake of not telling my parents what happened. I'd been afraid. Not of what they'd do—my mom and dad were great. But when you have parents you actually respect, you're afraid of disappointing them.

And what had I done, really? Supervised my friends with a relatively mild bit of drug experimentation? My parents wouldn't be concerned about the séance part. Kids will be kids, and my parents were rational people who recognized things like "dark entities" as irrational. Their entire focus would be on the drugs.

I should have confessed because of the drugs. Because something is wrong with Patrice, and I'm withholding vital information from her doctor.

I'll fix that. I swear I will. I'll tell my parents, who will tell Patrice's family. I can even swipe a sample of the mushrooms tonight.

There. That's a reason for coming, right? To get that sample?

"What do you think is going on?" Heather whispers as we walk.

I want to glare at her. After we promised Patrice we'd do this, I'd tried to talk to Heather. We had time then, without Patrice around to hear. Heather didn't want to talk about it, just like she's refused to discuss any of it for the past fucking week.

We're trudging through a dark forest, five feet behind Patrice, and now Heather wants to talk?

"Nic?" Heather whispers.

I can't answer. Patrice is too close. I slow my steps, thinking Patrice will notice, but she's marching on like she did that night, as if we aren't even there.

Finally I deem her far enough away.

"I don't know," I whisper to Heather. "I think it's a bad trip."

"Lasting this long?"

I say nothing.

Heather whispers, "What about the voices? The footsteps? Roddy's ghost was there."

Was it? At the time, it seemed obvious that we'd conjured the ghost of Roddy, come searching for his Sam. But since then, doubt has crept in.

Did we really hear anything? And if we did, are we sure it was a ghost? The longer I thought about it, the more it felt like a prank.

The adult me rouses from the memory then. Had I really thought this at the time? Or was that my current knowledge rewriting history?

No, I had thought it. At that moment, in that forest, my gut had told me the truth. That "Roddy" had been fake.

I hesitate, torn between mulling over that and returning to the memory, so vivid it's like I'm watching a reenactment.

Go back. There are answers there. Go back.

If you dare.

That last part does it, as if my inner voice is my child self, knowing exactly which button to press.

I sink back into the memory.

Heather has just mentioned the voices and footsteps from the first séance, and I shrug and mutter, "I don't know."

"Something happened to Patrice," she hisses. "You know it did."

"Then I'm hoping this will help. The drugs made her hallucinate that something got into her—Roddy's ghost or whatever—and she believes this ceremony will send it back. That's the power of suggestion. She thinks it happened, so this time, we convince her it un-happens."

Heather doesn't answer, but I'm on a roll, so certain I have all the answers.

"If it fails," I say, "then it's the drugs, and we tell her parents. We need to do that. For her own sake."

"It's not drugs," she whispers.

"You don't know what caused—"

"The mushrooms aren't drugs."

I sigh. "Fine. They're ‘organic' or whatever. Still—"

"They're not drugs," she hisses. "They're just regular store-bought mushrooms. Dried ones for cooking."

"What?"

My voice goes high enough that her eyes round in alarm, but up ahead, Patrice doesn't seem to notice. It's as if we could stop walking, and she'd just keep marching through the forest.

"I made it up," Heather whispers. "Not the séance stuff in Cuba, but the woman giving us mushrooms and me bringing them back."

"You what?"

"The cousins said they had used mushrooms once, and it helped with a séance. I knew Patrice really wanted to try something, and mushrooms are natural, so I figured that was safe enough. I planned to buy some from Freddie, but when I asked, he laughed at me. So I had to improvise."

"With store-bought dried mushrooms?" I would have laughed if my brain weren't spinning. If Patrice didn't take any drugs…

"It's not a bad trip," Heather says, "and she didn't drink enough wine to be drunk. I know we heard Roddy. You know it, too. It's because we did the séance where they died, and because you let Patrice change the wording of the summoning."

"I let her change it?"

"I said it wasn't a good idea, and you never backed me up. She actually summoned Roddy, Nic, and now she's possessed, and we're alone in the forest with her, while she's possessed by the spirit of a crazed killer."

I bite my tongue not to laugh at how ridiculous she sounds.

"I really don't think it was actually Roddy," I whisper.

"Well, she's possessed by something. Have you seen her eyes? Have you seen the way she shakes? Everyone thinks she's sick. Only she's not sick in her body. It's in her head. Just like her aunt."

My jaw sets. There's a twist in Heather's voice, as if Patrice's aunt Lori were a raging lunatic locked in a padded room instead of a woman dealing with the horror of seeing a violent tragedy. I have relatives with mental illness, and we don't talk about them that way.

"What are you two whispering about back there?" Patrice says, startling us.

She's standing ten feet away, lit only by my flashlight beam.

"Just talking," Heather calls back in an unsteady voice.

"Well, stop. Especially if you're talking about me. This was your idea, Heather, doing that séance and bringing those mushrooms. I've been trying not to blame you for what's happening."

"What is happening?" I say. "Can you talk about it? So we understand?"

Patrice just wheels and marches onward. Heather leans in, as if to keep whispering, but I break into a jog to catch up to Patrice. She must hear my footfalls—and see my wildly bouncing flashlight beam—but she just keeps moving at the same pace.

"Patrice?" I say, my voice lower. "If we had some idea what was going on, we could help."

"You are helping. By sending it back."

"Sending what back?"

She doesn't answer, just moves faster as if she can lose me that way. I pick up speed.

"Patrice?" I say. "Please. You're going through something, and I want to know what it is."

No answer.

"Patrice? If I've done something—"

She spins so fast I jump.

Fever-bright eyes fix on mine. "I don't know. Have you done something?"

"If I did, I'm sorry."

"It wasn't you. I know who it was." She looks over my shoulder. "Traitor."

"What?" I say.

Patrice resumes walking. I fall back to Heather and lower my voice. "Does she know about the mushrooms?"

"I think you're right, Nic," Heather says, voice hardening. "This is all bullshit. An act."

"Are you going to pretend you don't know what I'm talking about?" Patrice says. "He's the one who started it, but you're blaming me. Your guy messes around with me, and I'm the one you cut loose while he gets off scot-free."

Heather's face scrunches up. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Has everyone lost their fucking minds?" I look between them as my mind races. "Is this about Cody? Heather, did you and Cody have a thing before—"

Her look of disgust answers before she says, "Absolutely not. I seriously have no idea what she's talking about."

Something cracks in the forest. Heather wheels toward it.

"Did you hear that?" she says.

"Roddy," Patrice whispers.

"It isn't Roddy," I snap. "We're in the forest, and that's a goddamn forest animal. I want to know what the hell you are going on about, Patrice."

Patrice ignores me and resumes walking.

I seethe and turn to Heather. "What is this bullshit?"

She flails a wild shrug. I want to storm out of this forest. Say to hell with both of them and their drama because, seriously? Something is very wrong with Patrice, and they're sniping about boys ?

Unless Heather is right. Unless nothing is wrong with Patrice. Unless this is part of the drama. Patrice likes a boy—presumably Cody, though the thought makes my skin crawl. She thinks Heather has been messing around with him, so she's pulling some weird séance shit to scare us.

If that's it, I'm done. I don't have time for this bullshit.

But am I leaving right now? No. Keith is the uber-responsible one, but whatever he was taught, I was taught too. I might rebel, but at heart, I know the right thing and I do it.

My gut says that the right thing is to see this through. Play referee. Make sure it doesn't get out of hand. If these two are at each other's throats—even over a boy—I need to stick around.

We reach the spot. Heather yanks out the blanket and slaps it down, along with the chalices. She sloshes in wine and then—as she sprinkles harmless mushroom powder on hers and Patrice's—she looks at me, her jaw set.

What the hell is that look for? Defying me to say the mushrooms are just regular fungi? I don't give a shit. In fact, if anything is wrong with Patrice, it's in everyone's best interests for Patrice to think the drugs are real. The power of suggestion. We are repeating the ritual exactly, and that will "fix" her.

I am so done with this fucking bullshit.

I drop to the ground hard, and if I'm scowling like a toddler, I don't care. So is Heather. Patrice just keeps glaring at her, and Heather glares back, and fuck my life. Really? Keith should be here to see this, get a laugh out of his little sister needing to be the mature one for once.

"Well, go on," Heather says to Patrice. "Summon the ghosts or whatever. If you're not too possessed to do that."

Patrice only looks at her, and it's less glare than stare now. A stare so cold it curdles my anger and has me rubbing down goose bumps.

She starts her incantation, but this time, I can't make out what she's saying. I struggle to concentrate on words so garbled, it's like she's talking through a mouthful of marshmallow.

Something isn't right. It's not right at all.

She's faking it.

Drama club kid.

Drama queen.

We're all kneeling when Heather yelps and falls back, braced on one arm. I twist to see her staring into the forest, her eyes wide.

"D-did you see that?"

She's looking over my shoulder, so no, I didn't see it, and my righteous anger licks back. Heather is playing Patrice's game, except Patrice isn't paying any attention, meaning I'm the one she's spooking, and I'm not having it.

Except…

Except Heather's not this good an actor. She's staring over my shoulder in what looks like genuine fear.

When I don't respond, she yanks her attention back and rolls her shoulders. "Never mind," she says, snapping off the words. "I was kidding. I didn't see anything."

Patrice is still reciting her incantation. She never stopped. Never even faltered. Her gaze is straight ahead, face blank, those garbled words—

Heather yelps again, and this time, I see it. A dark shape darts through the forest. I grab my flashlight and shine it into the woods.

"You saw that, right?" Heather whispers.

I nod grimly. "Some asshole is out there."

"But I don't hear anything. They're not making any noise, Nic. They should make some noise. Footsteps or twigs cracking."

Her voice rises as she speaks, and I resist the urge to snap at her. Instead, I turn on Patrice.

"Shut up so we can hear—" I begin.

Patrice isn't there. She's on her feet, still reciting that indecipherable incantation, her notes left by her chalice as she walks into the forest.

"Not this shit again," I say, scrambling up, flashlight in hand. "I'll get her."

I stride after Patrice. She's ten feet away, stepping into the forest. I can see her in my flashlight beam. Just march over, grab her by the arm, and haul her ass back into the clearing.

But the moment she steps into the forest, shadows swallow her, and I falter, blinking. Then I give my head an angry shake. She walked behind some bushes. That's all.

I pick up my pace, and when I step into the clearing, I spot bushes. See? Everything is fine. I'm just letting myself get spooked by their bullshit.

I'm done. Really am. Finishing this and getting out.

That's my mantra as I march into the pitch-black forest, flashlight outstretched before me.

Done, done, done.

Instead of stopping to question why I can't see Patrice, I take it as further proof that this is all teenage drama. Fake séance. Fake bad trip after taking fake drugs. The point is that it's all fake, and once I haul her ass back, I'm done, and—

A hand slams between my shoulders. It's so sudden and unexpected that I sail off my feet, and the flashlight flies from my hand. It hits the ground, and the forest falls into darkness.