The Dead Ones (Death Herself Book 3) (5 page)

“Mom -”

“Get out!” she shouts.

“Mom, listen...”

“Get the hell out of this car!” she hisses, leaning over me and opening the door on my side. “You can walk home! I told you a long time ago, we don't talk about that! We don't think about it, we don't let it into our thoughts at all, and we sure as hell do not talk about it! That's the only goddamn rule I expect you to follow!”

“I'm sorry, I just -”

“Is that why you fainted?” she continues, leaning back and taking another drag on her cigarette. “Jesus Christ, girl, you know how to create drama.”

“Malcolm's dead!”

“Bonnie -”

“Is there going to be a funeral or -”

She tries to slap me again, but this time I duck out of the way and stumble out of the car before turning to her.

“One more word,” she sneers, “about any of that, and there will be
very
serious repercussions for you, young lady!”

“So we're just never going to talk about it?” I ask.

“We're never,
ever
going to talk about it,” she continues, her eyes wild with anger. “Seriously, as far as this family is concerned, it never even happened. You are an only child -”

“Liar!” I shout.

“You are an only child!” she continues, with tears in her eyes. “You never had a brother! I never had a son! You...” She pauses, and I can see that she's trembling with anger. Finally, she reaches over and pulls the door shut, slamming it with such force that the whole car shudders.

“When are we going to talk about this?” I ask, knocking on the window. I try the handle, but it's already locked.

“You can walk home!” she shouts, trying the engine again.

“And then what?” I ask.

“And then you can keep your mouth shut,” she continues, as the engine finally turns over, “and stop trying to cause trouble.”

“But -” Suddenly the car jerks forward and I step back, narrowly avoiding getting my toes crushed. I watch as Mom floors the throttle, sending the car screeching forward. Sighing, I wait as she races out of the parking lot, and finally I realize that she was deadly serious about leaving me here to walk home on my own. Even by her standards, that was kind of an extreme reaction.

It takes two hours to get back to the house. Along the way, I pass Mom's car parked outside one of her favorite low-life bars. I feel kind of dizzy, and a couple of times I suddenly notice that I'm not walking on the same street as a moment ago, as if somehow I'm flickering from one part of town to another. Telling myself that I need to keep my head straight, I try to focus on my steps, although I can't help noticing that my memory of the hospital seems to be fading already, almost as if I was never really there.

When I eventually get home, I find that Dad is also out, which means I've got the place to myself. After making some lunch, I head to my room and get ready to feed Rudolph. When I look in his shoebox, however, I see that he's dead again. I guess his resurrection was a little short-lived.

“I'll bury you tomorrow,” I tell him, after double-checking to make sure that he really, truly
is
dead this time. “Sorry, buddy.”

Once I've set the lid back on the shoebox, I stand in silence for a moment. There's a dark thought gnawing at the back of my mind, one that just won't leave me alone. I know what I have to do, but it takes a few more minutes before I'm ready. Finally,however, I decide that I've had enough of hiding. After hurrying to the kitchen and grabbing the key from the pot by the window, I head along the corridor and unlock the door to Malcolm's room. My hands are trembling but I have to do this, but I can't help flinching as I push the door open.

Chapter Seven

I thought the room would be exactly the same as I remember from three years ago, but I was wrong. I guess that's what happens when a bunch of federal agents go rooting through a teenager's bedroom.

The first thing I notice once I've pulled the drapes open is that Malcolm's computer is gone. I saw the agents carrying it out, of course, but it's still weird to see his once-cluttered desk now standing empty, with just a few wires poking up from the back. A pile of old magazines used to stand next to the desk, but that pile has also been taken away. In fact, almost everything is gone, and as I turn and look around I realize that his entire room must have been packed into boxes and carted away. I guess it all ended up being examined in some sterile evidence room somewhere, and then either retained or burned. Maybe it was offered back to Mom and Dad, maybe they turned it down, or maybe it all just got lost in the system.

Whatever.

The whole room is bare.

Even the mattress is gone. The basic bed-frame is still here, but they took his mattress. I remember they were worried he might have been in communication with other groups online, maybe part of some network, so I guess they were looking for anywhere he might have stored notes or contact details. Stepping around what remains of the bed, I head to the closet and pull the doors open, but of course all his clothes are gone too. Considering how messy his room was in the old days, it's so weird to so it like this now, cleared out and bare. All this time I've been assuming that most of his stuff got left behind, and now it's strange to realize that I was so completely wrong.

I stand in complete silence for a moment.

I expected him to be here. Even though I don't believe in ghosts, even though I've told myself a thousand times that I'll never see him again, in the back of my mind there was a part of me that thought I'd find him sitting in here even now, hours after his execution. Damn it, I can be so dumb sometimes.

I take a deep breath.

Silence.

I know I shouldn't do this, I don't believe in ghosts at all, but still...

I have to try.

“Hello?” I say out loud.

Silence.

“Malcolm?” My voice is trembling. “Are you here?”

I wait, but there's still no response.
Of course
there's no response, he's gone, but in the back of my mind there's still a little hint of doubt. I guess everyone has
some
desire to believe in the paranormal, and my desire – even if it's infinitesimally small – must have been nurtured by recent events. Stepping over the bed-frame, I head to the wall that adjoins my bedroom and I reach out, scratching my nails against the paint. I swear I heard noises in here this morning, but I'm starting to come around to the idea that my head isn't quite in a good place right now. It's only natural that I should be a little messed up, and going to the prison last night probably wasn't the smartest move in the world, but I'm still glad that I made the effort.

Malcolm probably had no idea I was there, and it's not like I actually changed anything, but it just feels as if it was the right thing to do.

“Things are looking a little more stable now,” a male voice says suddenly, his voice echoing all around me.

I turn, but there's no sign of anyone.

Hearing a faint bump over my shoulder, I turn and look back across the room. I immediately tell myself that the bump was nothing sinister, but I can't help waiting for a few seconds, just in case anything else happens. I know I'm probably just letting myself get spooked, but I feel as if there's a presence here in the room with me, and I back against the wall while watching for any hint of movement. I wait, and for the first time in my life I actually feel the hairs standing up on the back of my neck. I never knew that was an actual things before, but I swear to God, I feel like I'm not alone right now, almost as if -

Suddenly my phone starts ringing in my pocket, damn near scaring the life out of me. I pull it out and see that Molly's trying to get in touch.

“Hey,” she says as soon as I answer. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” I mutter. “I wish people would stop asking that. I was fine a few hours ago, and I'm fine now.”

“That's not what I'm talking about,” she replies cautiously. “Bonnie, have you seen the latest news on TV?”

***

“- but prison officials
have
now confirmed both that the footage is genuine,” the news anchor continues, “and that there were technical irregularities concerning Malcolm Bromley's execution. They would
not
, however, confirm whether rumors about incorrect use of drug mixtures might have been responsible for the awful scenes that are now circulating online.”

My hands are trembling as I open my laptop. I want to wake up, for this to be revealed as some kind of nightmare, but my heart is pounding and I can tell that it's all too real. Although our internet is laboriously slow, I finally manage to get onto social media, and sure enough people are sharing links to a video that apparently shows my brother's botched execution. There are various NSFW and NSFL tags, but I don't even think twice before following one of the links, which leads me to some dodgy-looking video site. Before I really know what I'm doing, I click to play the video.

Immediately, my laptop's speakers are filled with an agonized scream. It's my brother, I recognize his voice, and the video shows a jerky smart-phone video. There's a figure strapped to a table, and I can see him desperately struggling to break free from the restraints. I reach out to stop the video, but it's already over and I'm left sitting in silence as the scream echoes through my mind.

“Was Malcolm Bromley tortured to death?” I read out loud from a news article covering the video's leak. “That's the question being asked of prison officials after footage emerged that appears to show high-school shooter Malcolm Bromley writhing in pain just minutes after a cocktail of drugs was pumped into his body. Further leaks suggest that an experimental new mixture was used, and that Bromley spent almost twenty minutes in excruciating pain before officials stepped in and authorized the use of another drug that ended his suffering more quickly.”

Leaning back, I stare at the screen in disbelief. The scream I just heard in the footage was exactly the same as the scream I heard this morning, the scream that briefly came from my brother's room, even though I know that's not possible.

Flicking through to another blog, I find a screen-shot from the grainy video, showing a blurred image of Malcolm's tortured face. I flinch as I see his mouth wide open mid-scream, and his eyes clenched tight shut. While all of that was happening last night, I was outside the prison, shivering in the cold night air and waiting for news. There's no -

Suddenly I hear a scratching sound coming from the shoebox. I wait, convinced that I must be losing my mind, but finally I head over and lift the lid, only to find that Rudolph is once again alive.

“Hey buddy,” I mutter, “you seem to be having trouble making up your mind.”

I pause for a moment, before putting the lid back in place.

The scratching sound stops.

I move the lid aside, and Rudolph is dead again.

“What the hell?” I whisper, nudging his lifeless body with my finger. Once I'm sure that he's definitely dead, I put the lid back on for a few seconds and remove it, only to find that he's alive again. I try a few more times, with the same results. He keeps alternating, alive one time and dead the next. I tell myself that this is impossible, but for several minutes I repeat the experiment over and over, and every time it's the same.

Once he's alive again, I stare down at him, watching as he struggles with his broken wing.

“What's going on with you?” I mutter, leaning closer to get a better look at him. “How are you -”

Suddenly I hear a loud bump from somewhere else in the house, and I realize instantly that it came from Malcolm's room.

I wait.

Silence.

“Okay buddy,” I whisper, looking back down at Rudolph. “Hang tight and we'll figure this out. I just have to go check on something first.”

After setting the lid back on the shoebox, I head to the door. All my life, I've been absolutely certain that ghosts aren't real, and I'm damn well not going to let that certainty start fading now. I want to just stay here in the front room and ignore any weird sounds I might hear, but at the same time I know that I have to confront my fears. Taking a deep breath, I force myself to head along the corridor until I get to the door, and then I stop as I realize I can hear footsteps coming from inside my brother's old room, as if someone is pacing about in there. I take another deep breath, trying to calm my racing pulse, but I know there's only one thing I can do to deal with my fears.

Stepping forward, I enter the room.

The footsteps stop on a dime.

I wait.

Nothing.

“Malcolm?” I whisper, even though I feel incredibly dumb for asking such a stupid question. Taking another step forward, I look around the room, but nothing seems to have changed since I was in here a few minutes ago. I guess -

Suddenly the door slams shut behind me. I turn, and in a flash of panic I half expect to see Malcolm waiting for me. Taking a step back, I almost trip against the bed's metal frame, but I manage to stay on my feet even as I bump against the wall. My heart is pounding so fast now, I feel as if it might burst out of my chest, but I don't dare go to the door and get out of here, not yet. Besides, I keep telling myself that the only thing to fear is my own irrationality, so I force myself to stay so that I can see that there's no ghost. I mean, there
can't
be ghost, it's impossible.

At the same time, broken-winged birds shouldn't be able to flip between life and death, either. Clearly something strange is happening in this house right now.

“Malcolm?” I whisper again, hoping to force the issue. “I know you're not here. If you're here, then let me see you.”

I wait.

“Please,” I add under my breath, “just let it stop.”

A moment later, I hear a loud banging sound from the other end of the house, as if another door has been slammed shut. I stay rooted to the spot, listening to footsteps hurrying along the corridor, but after a moment they stop just outside the room.

I wait.

“Malcolm?” I call out. “Is that you?”

There's a pause, and then the door swings open as my mother bursts into the room.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” she shouts.

“Nothing,” I murmur, hurrying across the room and trying to slip past her. I immediately smell booze on her breath, and I'm not quick enough to avoid her grabbing my collar. Swinging me around, she slams me into the side of the door and then pushes me to the ground.

“Who told you to go in there?” she screams.

“I just -”

“Who told you?”

“No-one, but -”

Reaching down, she grabs my arm and starts pulling me along the corridor. I try to twist free, but she soon has me through to the front room and then she drags me to the front door.

“Don't you dare go into your brother's room!” she yells, pulling the door open and then shoving me outside with all the fury and strength of a beer-fueled tirade. “Who told you to go in there? No-one, that's who! Until you can learn to obey orders and respect other people's property, you'll stay outside like the common animal that you are!”

“Mom, wait -”

She slams the door shut just as I reach for her, and it's a miracle that I pull my hand out of the way in time to keep my fingers from being crushed. As the door shudders in its frame, I listen to the sound of Mom storming through the house, and a moment later I hear breaking glass.

Struggling to my feet, I take a step back and realize that there's no way I can argue with her. Whenever she gets into one of her rages, she's damn near out of control, and the best thing is just to wait until she passes out. That'll take hours, though, so I turn and limp away from the house. I flinch as soon as I hear more glass breaking inside, and I can only imagine what she's doing right now in my brother's room. It won't be safe to go home for hours, so I pull my phone from my pocket and bring up Molly's number.

“Come on,” I mutter, as I wait for her to answer. “Please pick up. I need you right now.”