Lurker

of the curvy figure that filled out the hips and chest of the male pajamas. Though she didn’t seem older than the others, she spoke as if she were the only adult. “We don’t want any screaming, do we?”

As Anne’s eyes clamped shut in annoyance, Shirley stuck her tongue out, long and pink. Mary stifled a giggle.

“I don’t like to rush. I like to talk a little first, that’s all,” Shirley said, lowering her eyes. “It helps soothe me.”

“Can’t have Miss Delicate tense,” Anne said, glaring at Shirley.

Mary finally turned from the window. “You heard Daphne. That’s enough. You’re only in a state because it hasn’t been your turn for a while. No one blames you for that. But attacking Shirley because you know she gets afraid, or me because I don’t care to argue, is cowardice. Why don’t you toss some of your clever barbs at Daphne?”

Anne eyed Mary coolly. She looked as if she were about to say something, but Daphne stepped between them.

“Yes, Anne. Why don’t you?”

The bitter girl made a face, then flipped her hand in the air in a gesture of temporary surrender.

A sound echoed in the great room, another wooden tick that could have been the old boards settling, or creaking in the wind, or not.

This time Anne snapped her head around and said, “What was that?”

“Still just rats…probably,” Daphne said, but even she looked up and peered through the darkness, searching it.

“It couldn’t be her,” Mary said. “The storm is loud tonight.”

The other three felt Shirley stiffen at that. Her head rose from between her slumped shoulders as if her whole body was tensed for flight.

Daphne petted her hair and smiled. “Don’t worry. We’re fine. Mary’s right about the storm.”

Shirley gave off a little laugh. She shivered and hugged herself, then said, “Rats,” and shivered again as if pleased to be scaring herself in just a small way. “Rats.”

“Sit down, Mary,” Daphne said. “You, too, Anne, by the lamp. We can chat a little more, but we should at least sit down together.” She folded her long legs as she nestled onto the floor. “This time you sit next to me, Shirley, so I don’t have to hear Anne moan if she doesn’t win again.”

Anne rose, her black T-shirt making her torso briefly invisible against the dark behind it, and said, “Fine, but Shirley better stop laughing through her nose. Last time she blew a chunk of snot into my lap.”

Mary and Daphne smiled at that, but Shirley bristled. “I did not!”

They all took their places, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Mary and Daphne flanked Shirley to keep the girl feeling as calm and comfortable as possible.

Settling in, Mary rubbed her hand in a small circle on the floor in front of her. “Rats. I hate the vile animals.”

“Because you think we’re all about souls, that people are better. Don’t underestimate the rats,” Anne said with a smile. “There’s a lot of power in pure hunger. A lot of pleasure, too.”

Mary stiffened. “I don’t underestimate animals. I simply choose, if at all possible, not to become one.”

“All right, girls,” Daphne announced. “Since Anne is in one of her moods, I guess we’ve had enough chitchat. It’s time. I’ve got the Clutch.”

“Well, at least you didn’t lose it,” Anne said, casting a look at Shirley.

Shirley seemed offended. She spat out a piece of nail and announced, “I’ve never lost the Clutch!”

“No, it only took you an hour to find the last time you hid it,” Anne said.

“It did not!” Shirley answered loudly. “Not an hour!”

“Shh. Don’t waste your energy, either of you,” Daphne said, sounding somewhat motherly, but really more like a boss. “After all, it could be your turn tonight.”

Shirley shrugged, bit at another nail, and mumbled, “I don’t see it. I haven’t had a turn in days either.”

“And how happy are we for that?” Anne asked with a sneer.

That was all the abuse even the mousy girl could take. At once, Shirley reared, her woolen gown unfolding as she rose, eyes widening as if she were a crazed bird, head shaking. Mary gasped, but Daphne, somehow faster than Shirley, managed to rise behind her and gently, but firmly, push her back down.

“Annie, that wasn’t very nice, or very smart. We’ve agreed to support each other. To wish each other the best, not tear each other down.”

“Right. I forgot the warm and fuzzy Oprah crap,” Anne said, and looked away. “Well, give them here. My turn to open the bag.”

Shirley seemed defiant a moment, as if still in the thrall of her sudden rage, then sighed and let her shoulders slump back into their usual position. Daphne drew a vermilion bag from the pocket of her men’s pajamas and held it toward Anne.

“Take it, then.”

Anne reached forward and snatched the bag. The sudden move rumpled her T-shirt, so she had to adjust it as she sat back down, legs crossed, her pale knees sticking out from beneath the folds of the shirt.

Everyone stared at the Clutch as Anne’s eager fingers unraveled the knot in the golden string that held it closed. As she upended it, hard, ivory shapes tumbled onto the floor between them.

They looked like bones, little ones. Animal bones, perhaps, or carved from something larger. Each had a shape: a tiny jawless skull, a thigh, a small spine, and more—five in all. There were dark lines on the faces of each, carved symbols.

Anne was staring—they were all staring—at the bones.

“Shirley goes first tonight,” Mary said, snapping them out of what started to look like a trance.

Shirley’s face remained solemn. She gingerly picked them up and pressed them between her small hands, gently rolling them back and forth across her palms. She held her hands out as if at the end of a prayer, then separated them, letting the bones just drop. They fell in a tight pack, almost clumped together, making hardly a sound on the floorboards.

The girls all leaned forward. Mary was the first to shake her head. “No.”

Shirley pouted, deeply disappointed.

Daphne moved things along. “Who’s next? Anne, isn’t it?”

Anne rolled her eyes and grumbled.

“What’s wrong now?” Mary said. “Are you going to be like this all night? You’re lucky to be second.”

Anne scowled as she scooped up the bones. “Oh, right. Anyone remember someone going second and winning? I don’t. Second blows. First and third. That’s always best.”

“It seems petty to keep score,” Mary said. “Besides, any time we see a pattern like that, it changes. Lightning never strikes twice. The only pattern that stays the same is the one that always wins. Three of that same mark.”

Anne grunted, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. She cupped the bones and shook them vigorously. The things chittered in the hollow of her hands; then she tossed them. Unlike Shirley’s gentle drop that had caused the bones to land more or less together, Anne’s throw made them explode on the floor and fly in all directions. Again they all leaned forward, but this time they waited until the thigh bone slowed its spin enough to read.

“Wrong again, Anne,” Shirley said, pulling free a nail-shard from her thumb. “You win. Happy now?”

“Thrilled. It’s about damn time,” Anne said, with a half chuckle. “Sorry for being so bitchy.” She leaned forward and pinched Shirley on the cheek. “With any luck you won’t have to put up with me much longer. But since that isn’t likely, I can at least try to scare the pee out of you again.”

Shirley swatted the hand away, then frowned and sort of folded into herself, lowering her cheek into the high collar of her woolen gown. “Why are the stories always so terrible?”

“Because life is terrible,” Anne said.

“But our stories, should we ever find them, will they be terrible too?” Mary said. “Shirley’s right. Murder, suicide, rape, incest—we’ve told the rats in these walls so many horrid things.”

Anne, considerably cheerier, now mocked Mary’s genteel tone as she had Shirley’s whine before. “Oh, but Mary, you know as well as I that these are mere decor. One must whittle one’s little finger past the muscle and the