Wicked Dead
Snared By Stefan Petrucha and Thomas Pendleton
THOMAS PENDLETON DEDICATES THIS BOOK TO
J. C. P. AND NICHOLAS KAUFMANN,
A COUPLE OF THE WICKED ONES.
STEFAN PETRUCHA DEDICATES THIS BOOK TO THE
DEAD—MARTIN, FELICIA, AMELIA, MICHAEL, FRANK,
MARY, JOSEPH L., AND THE MANY OTHERS HE
DOES NOT KNOW. HE HOPES YOU’VE ALL GOT A
GREAT GAME GOING SOMEWHERE.
PROLOGUE
A gaping wound the size of a dead body sat in a corner of Lockwood Orphanage’s once-fine copper roof, exposing the Headmistress’s quarters to the elements. Over years, rain and snow had seeped between brick and mortar while hungry moss and lichen patiently worked downward to reclaim the plaster walls and wooden supports. Like an animal, rot crawled into all the cracks, then grew and pushed to make more room for itself. Here the lines between civilization and nature, chaos and order, were severed. Here everything knew that one day, the whole of the old Georgian mansion would be gone.
A few stories down, though fragile, the precious lines remained: The hallway that ran the length of the building was relatively dry, its curved roof marked at regular intervals by fixtures that seemed as if they might light up; bulletin boards still bore dusty papers announcing meetings, tests, and plays. Here the mansion seemed intent to go on forever, as if it were yet the host of living things.
And the ghosts of the place could not help but play along.
Three figures, whose presence disturbed not even the air, moved as one along the narrow wooden floor. On one side of the hall, there was only darkness from the open doors, but on the other, the pale moon cast oblong rectangles of light. As the trio walked, they wove in and out of the shadows.
Every so often the shortest, timid Shirley, would draw her woolen high-necked pajamas close around her shoulders. Her green eyes wide beneath her straight red hair, she’d peer deeply into one of the doorways. This went on, room after room, until finally, too nervous to keep silent any longer, she stopped dead in her tracks and called, “Anne!”
Her high-pitched voice echoed down the long hall.
“Not so loud!” Daphne, the tallest, warned.
Shirley tugged at her hair. “Sorry. I’m just…I mean…you don’t suppose the Headmistress did something… permanent to her?”
Mary grimaced and shook her head, sending her blond curls swinging. “No. The Headmistress fancies herself our guardian. She believes her wicked punishments are for our own good. Anne must be off somewhere, licking her wounds after the Red Room.”
The name sent a chill through Shirley, and the other girls briefly wondered if she might have another anxiety attack. Instead she settled herself and just asked, “What’s it like, the Red Room?”
Before Mary could begin to conjure a description of the hellish place, Daphne’s arms shot out, stopping her companions. As they stood silently for a second, they all distinctly heard the creak of a floorboard. Then it went still.
“That’s not the Headmistress,” Daphne whispered, raising an eyebrow. She lifted her voice. “Anne, will you come out? We looked for you until dawn last night and we’ve already been at it for hours tonight. We just want to make sure you’re all right! Let us help you!”
Silence.
Daphne hissed. “She’s a stubborn bee.”
A slight smile came to Mary’s lips. “I know something that might draw her out.” A flash of lush vermilion appeared at the waist of her white nightgown. “A little honey for our reluctant bee.”
Shirley was aghast. “You’re taking out the Clutch right here? In the hall?”
Still smiling, Mary adjusted her gown and sat down in the center of the hall. “Yes. Why not? It’s as good a place as any. There are plenty of exits in case we’re disturbed.” Then she placed the bag in her lap and started to unknot its golden cord.
Shirley couldn’t believe it. It all seemed so wrong. Her heart spoke out loudly before her brain could quite catch up. “But we can’t play without Anne again!”
At once realizing the consequences if Anne were listening, she clapped her hand to her mouth.
Pretending she hadn’t heard Shirley’s ill-timed admission, Mary upturned the vermilion silk sack as if she were a stage magician preparing a tantalizing trick. Five bones, copper-brown with age, spilled onto the floor.
Helter skelter they all rolled, this way and that, chattering into one another on their random way.
“Let’s see if these catch her eye,” Mary said as they spread along the uneven floor. Soon enough, all the bones came to a stop, except for one, the skull. It didn’t seem to want to stop spinning. Long after it should have gone still, it continued to inch along the floor, as if pushed by a mouse, to the edge of a hole where it finally, just barely, came to a stop. Then, all on its own, it flipped up, jaw to the ceiling, as if taking a nap.
Perplexed, the three girls watched, until slowly the darkness above the skull shimmered as if the air were a pond disturbed by a stray wind. A pale white shape took form: a foot, its big toe pressing angrily down hard on the fragile bone.
Shirley spoke first. “Oh. Anne. Hi. Didn’t realize you were there.” Her voice rose an octave per word.
“No, kidding, Nancy Drool,” Anne replied as she made the rest of herself more visible. Her long black hair and black T-shirt still left her half-hidden in shadow, but her eyes glowed with rage like twin moons in a starless sky.
