Fearscape (Horrorscape) Page 6

  “If by 'trying to take an interest,' you mean 'nosing for information.'”

  “Val, tell her that I'm only looking out for you,” Lindsay protested.

  “No, tell her that she's a nosier than Pinocchio with a head cold.”

  “Val, tell her — ”

  “I'm thinking about my essay,” Val informed them both. “That's what I'm thinking about.”

  Lindsay and Rachel both exchanged a look. “Still want to take an interest?” Rachel asked.

  “No, I think I'm good,” Lindsay said. “I already know more than I'd like to about essays.”

  Blissfully, the two of them went back to their conversation, which made Val remember the lecture topic which had fled her mind.

  The castration of women.

  Mrs. Vasquez had said that Lavinia's rape and mutilation symbolized complete and utter impotence as Lavinia was prevented from speaking for herself in the most frighteningly literal sense. She had ceased to be a person, and had instead become an object. Voiceless. Helpless.

  The first time they had read that passage in class, Val became so nauseated that she begged for the bathroom pass. Instead of going to the bathrooms, however, she stood in the breezeway between her building and the next, trying to will such gruesome imagery from her head as the wind chilled the sweat on her skin. It would have been better if it were fantasy, if people were incapable of being so sick and cruel and violent, but it wasn't fantasy and it did happen — and that made vicious psychopaths far more chilling than any monster.

  Val remembered this, in particular, when she opened her locker and a cascade of rose petals poured out, the fetid stink of their sweetness nearly suffocating in its potency. Red petals, salted with the star-shaped blossoms of white jasmine. “Oh god,” she breathed, staring at the flowers in horror. Her locker had been just that — locked.

  Quickly, she began grabbing them by the fistful and throwing them in the trashcan, noticing as she did that the petals were fresh and hadn't even begun to wilt. An observation that made goosebumps erupt up and down her arms. She stared into the darkness, terrified that she would see nothing and even more terrified that she wouldn't.

  And then she heard a metallic sound, which made her start, jerkily, back towards her locker. It was just the squeak of the door's hinges as it swung open a little further from her frenzied gestures. But that wasn't what commanded her attention. Her eyes were riveted on the inside of the door — or, more specifically, what was carved there.

  Gouged into the metal, by a cruel blade and a crueler hand, was one word. One word, and yet its connotations numbered in the thousands.

  MINE.

  It was with a trembling hand she traced the 'E.' The metal edges were ragged and sliced open her finger, leaving a bead of blood on the letter's bottom bar. The pain shattered the dissociation and the dreaminess Val felt, and all at once she was no longer removed from the situation. This wasn't fantasy; this was real — and it had just turned deadly.

  Val closed her fingers into a fist, hiding the blood, and screamed as loud as she could, “Mrs. Freeman!”

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  Coach Freeman was sympathetic but there was not much she could do. For obvious reasons, no security cameras were permitted in the locker rooms, though there were some facing the two outer doors. She employed the first-aid kit for the cut on Val's hand and offered her a new locker and combination, but apart from that Val found herself pretty much on her own.

  Which was unpleasant but not unexpected. If he was devious enough to get into her locker, she saw no reason why he shouldn't be devious enough to escape being caught.

  Had he been watching her reaction? Savoring it? The answered seemed to be yes, because when Val got home, frazzled and a little sweaty from the walk from the bus stop, there was another message waiting for her.

  That wasn't very polite.

  It had been sent mere minutes before.

  What wasn't? She typed, knowing it was foolish but unable to help herself.

  Disposing of my gift so callously.

  Gift? That wasn't a gift. That was vandalism.

  I can assure you, my dear, that I am no garden-variety reprobate.

  A chill slithered down her spine. No high school student talked like that. Do you go to my high school? She paused. Are you a teacher?

  Everyone has something that they would like to teach.

  Was that a yes? A no? Either way, it wasn't reassuring.

  Why do you keep bothering me?

  Because I have something that I would like to teach you.

  What, how to act like a creepy pervert? Leave me alone, she wrote. I don't want to learn ANYTHING from you. Val swallowed, her eyes glued to the screen as she waited for the response.

  She didn't wait long.

  You don't have a choice.

  Val yelped, and blocked him. This couldn't really be happening. Things like this didn't happen outside of horror movies and creepy plays. Right?

  Another message popped up from a different user, but with the same picture.

  You can't escape from me, Valerian. I want you — and very soon I intend to catch you. To cage you. To make you mine. Forever.

  STOP TALKING TO ME.

  Mockingly, the messages continued to arrive, And who knows, Val —

  “Mom!”

  You may even find, given time, that you don't want to resist my control.

  “What is it, Val?”

  After all, dominance can be a very potent aphrodisiac.

  “This guy — ” Val could barely speak. “This guy keeps sending me messages.”

  Mrs. Kimble frowned, concerned but also puzzled. “Did you block him?”

  “I did, but he won't stop. I'm scared — the things he sends me, they're, well, scary. Look — ” Val pointed at the screen, backing up in her chair so her mother could read the message. She wondered if she might throw up.

  “Oh — oh my God,” Mrs. Kimble said. “I'll call your father — ”

  “No!” Val cried. “Don't! I don't want Dad to see this. Don't let him!”

  “All right, Val, but …” she put her hands on her daughter's shoulders, “when did this start? Is this the first time this has happened?”

  “Someone defaced my locker at school,” she sniffed. And watches me when I run. But she didn't say that, because she know her mother would call Coach Freeman, then, and have her suspended from the team. And apart from Art, and her own limited social circle, track pretty much made up her entire social life. “Is it — is it my fault, do you think?”

  “No, I don't. He sounds disturbed. But don't respond to him anymore. That was foolish of you to do. He probably took it as encouragement,” she added darkly, “Men like that do.”

  “Then what do I do?”

  “Ignore him, and he'll lose interest.”

  “But what if he sends me another message?”

  “Block him. Don't even dignify it with a response or an excuse. Just keep blocking him. And if he creates a new account to bother you with, block that one, too.”

  Val stared dismally at the screen. “Okay ….” But I don't think that's going to help.

  “And change your profile picture,” Mrs. Kimble added. “I've told you a thousand times, Valerian, that it isn't appropriate for someone your age. Look at you — half-naked.”

  “But it's just my track uniform,” Val protested. “It covers more than a swimsuit.”

  “Don't argue with me. Just change your picture and for God's sake, don't respond to him.”

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  True to her word, Mrs. Kimble didn't show Val's father the Facebook messages — probably because she knows she doesn't have access to my account, Val thought — but she heard the two of them discussing it after dinner in worried undertones. Without her. They were talking about Val as if she didn't even live under the same roof.

  No. Worse. As if the situation doesn't even concern me. It's my life. It's happening to me!

  She ende
d up locking herself in her room and calling Lisa, mad or no. Val needed to talk about this with somebody her own age or she felt like she would go insane. She would have preferred Rachel or Lindsay, but for the same reasons she was also afraid to talk to them. They were older and more mature. They might think she was stupid and naïve for getting herself into this mess in the first place, and Val didn't want them to think badly of her, too.

  Lisa answered on the first ring. “Go away, Mom! It's for me! Hello? Val?”

  “Hey. I wanted to talk. Is that okay?”

  “Just as long as you don't expect me to giggle over Gavin with you like a giddy schoolgirl.”

  “Lisa, don't be a bitch, this is serious and if you can't be serious I'm going to hang up!”

  “I'm just saying. But anyway,” she went on, “what did you want to tell me?”

  “Some creep is following me and I don't know who — or why. He's always sending me messages about how much he wants to, I don't know, own me, and today he broke into my locker and filled it with flowers and carved the word 'mine' into the door with a knife.” Val's voice broke. “I think he's watching me on the track field, too, but I can't tell my mom or she might call the coach and have them take me off. I'm scared, Lisa, and I don't know what to do.”

  “God,” Lisa said reverently, “and you have no idea who it is?”

  “No,” said Val.

  Lisa clicked her tongue. “It's like something out of a movie. Remember that one — ”

  “This isn't a movie, Lisa, and I'm freaking out because he seems to know a whole lot about my schedule, and a whole bunch of other stuff about me. I'm really starting to think that he might do something. Try something. You know?”

  “I'm sorry.” Thoughtful silence. “I know! I'll tell James to eat with us at lunch. He's big.”

  “It's not lunchtime that freaks me out,” said Val, “It's when I'm alone.”

  “Oh. Well. Have you ever stopped to consider that it might be Lover Boy? He's unhinged.”

  “Lisa — ”

  “Okay. Fine. It's not him. Who is it then? What does he want? And why from you?”

  Val hugged her knees to her chest, leaning back against her fuzzy pillow. “I wish I knew.”

  “I'd still bring it up with Gavin. See what he says, and whether or not he acts guilty. He's who I'd suspect.”

  “You're just saying that because you don't like him.”

  “No, I don't, and you shouldn't, either.”

  “Lisa!” Val closed her eyes. “Look. I also called you because I wanted to ask you for help.”

  “Help with what?”

  “You know everyone. Well … almost everyone. Everyone in our grade, anyway. Will you see what you can find out, or if anyone's mad at me? I wouldn't even know where to begin.”

  “Oh, sure. Of course!”

  Val had a horrific image of Lisa peering through a magnifying glass like a grotesquely teenybopper version of Nancy Drew — in jeggings. “Don't tell anyone,” she added quickly. “I don't want anyone to know. I mean it. If you tell anyone, I'll stop being your friend.”

  “But what if someone wants to know why I'm asking weird questions?”

  “Don't be that obvious.”

  “Easy for you to say.” Val could hear the eye roll in her friend's voice. “I'll do my best.”

  “Thanks ….”

  “You know, your stalker reminds me of Erik, from The Phantom of the Opera.”

  “The movie?” Val asked, immediately thinking of Gerard Butler.

  “No. The book. He was a lot more twisted in the book. Less romantic and tragic and sad. He even had a torture chamber.”

  “You're really not making me feel better, you know!”

  “Sorry. I just think it's a weird coincidence. I mean, the Phantom wanted Christine because he thought she had a beautiful voice, right? This guy wants you because he thinks you look beautiful when you run.” Lisa paused. “Weird, really, how a guy could take an innocent hobby and incorporate it into some twisted fantasy about sex and saving grace — you know?”

  “It's creepy,” Val said, in a tiny voice. “I don't like it. Being watched all the time. Or feeling like I am. It's just as bad, either way. I miss feeling safe when I'm alone.”

  “Hey — The Phantom of the Opera ended happily enough.”

  “This isn't a movie, Lisa! And even if my stalker did look like Gerard Butler, I'd still freak out.”

  “I don't think you have to worry about that,” Lisa said. “Him looking like Gerard Butler, I mean. Most likely he's a gross nerd with a small dick.”

  Val hung up on her without preamble. She let Lisa call her back three times before deigning to pick up the phone and let her apologize.

  Chapter Six

  Ms. Wilcox wasn't even there when Val arrived at her classroom, and yet the door was wide open. Probably because of the janitor. Technically, students weren't supposed to be alone in a classroom without the teacher present but Val was pretty sure nobody had seen her, and even if they had, she could always say that the teacher had only stepped out for a second or that she thought the janitor counted as faculty — which they did, surely?

  She sat down at an empty table, inhaling the smell of paint. More important, she needed the time and silence to contemplate how she was going to talk to Gavin. She had a feeling that, Hi, are you the guy stalking me on Facebook? wasn't going to cut it.

  Maybe she should just ask him if he had a Facebook and work from there.

  Do you cosplay? Do you participate in historical reenactments? Do you like putting on creepy costumes while scaring the hell out of your classmates?

  She really was terrible at this, wasn't she? She sucked at being manipulative. If Gavin was guilty, he'd know immediately what she was getting at, which would be bad. If he wasn't guilty, he'd just think she was a freak, and that would be bad, too.

  Grateful that nobody was around to see her embarrassment, Val set her backpack down on the desk and basked in the silence. Without the new-age music Ms. Wilcox was so fond of playing, Val could focus on the details she generally ignored in the face of the sensory overload which resulted from a large class-size. The sour tang of paint, the earthy wood of the carving blocks, the way the trees outside caused the light on the floors to dapple. Dust motes in the air caught and reflected the early morning light, sparking like burning embers and reminding Val of faerie dust.

  Magic.

  Art was magic, in a way. Each drawing was a window into the mind that created it.

  Val pulled her sketchbook from its canvas prison and fished around the bottom of her backpack until she located her fine-tipped pens and charcoal pencils. Expensive, the lot of them, but the difference in quality from ordinary pens and pencils was extraordinary.

  The first drawing in Val's sketchbook was her earliest attempt at sketching: a very sad-looking animal which resembled a horse but was actually supposed to be her neighbor's black Lab, Chocolate. If it were up to her she would have balled it up and thrown the drawing away, but Ms. Wilcox said that throwing away mistakes was forbidden.

  “Otherwise, how can you be sure you won't do it again?” She said, when she caught Val trying to tear out the page. “Keep it. Learn from it.”

  So the ugly picture, partially torn from her book, continued to remain in Val's portfolio to taint the rest of her collection and embarrass her every time she looked at it. She stuck out her tongue at the dog-horse, whose tongue was also sticking out, and flipped through the pages — flowers, hands, feet, tree — until she came to the sketch that she wanted to work on.

  This drawing, also unfinished, was of an old warehouse that lay on the edge of the town perimeter. Mrs. Kimble thought the building was an eyesore that ought to be replaced by a new, sparkling facade similar to that of Derringer's newly renovated downtown, which had been refurbished to look like what The Derringer Tattle referred to as a “west coast Cambridge.”

  But Val liked this building, rundown as it was. The crumbling roof tiles and
boarded-up windows gave it character; it was a building one might take a picture of on Instagram and then tag with an inspirational quote. She also liked her drawing, in spite of its flaws. It might not have the same charm as a saturated photograph, but it was hers, and contained part of her in it.

  She selected one of the sharper pencils and began shading in the grass in the shadow of the rusted chain-link fence. She was aware of someone sitting down in the desk besides hers, but only distantly, and she didn't look up. She was too intent on trying to recapture that juxtaposition of shadow and light, of color and contrast, in her mind's eye.

  “Chiaroscuro.”

  The word rolled off the speaker's tongue with easy fluency.

  Val jumped, and all the red that had vanished only minutes before flooded back into her face with a vengeance as she realized who was sitting beside her. He was leaning on his hand, watching her draw, though his eyes went back to her face when she stopped.

  “What you're doing there. That's what it's called.” He nodded at her drawing. “Chiaroscuro. The contrast of light and dark. I didn't mean to startle you. You've ruined your drawing.”

  Val cursed when she saw the scribble she'd inadvertently scratched into the pad. “It'll erase,” she muttered, rubbing at it, hoping that it would. “I'm surprised you remember.”

  “There was an assignment on it just two weeks ago.”

  Oh. He was right. Val stopped rubbing. Crap.

  “Then again, I am TA. It's my job to remember.”

  “TA?” She stared at his sketchbook, then at his face. “That's right. I remember now you told me in the ….”

  Wait. He was TA — so did that mean he'd graded her work? She thought of all the assignments she'd turned in and tried to remember if any of them were stupid or lame. God, he probably thought she was a total idiot, regardless; she couldn't come up with anything to say.

  “You're still allowed to participate?” she said at last.

  “I draw for fun. I've taken this class twice before — I can't take it for normal credit anymore.”

  “Oh.” She stared down at her white freckled hands, smeared black from the charcoals. Chiaroscuro. She wouldn't be forgetting now.

  A sudden bustling at the door made both teens look up. Ms. Wilcox, who had always reminded Val vaguely of Ms. Frizzle from the Magic School Bus, was incapable of entering a room quietly. Her blonde hair was frizzy and wild, held in place with a plastic purple clip in the shape of a daisy.