Mary’s eyes wandered to the red bag in Anne’s hand. It looked like a bloody wound against her black T- shirt.
“Anne,” Mary began.
“Yeah?”
“Nothing. Never mind. Until tomorrow eve,” she said, turning away.
With that, the three girls faded off into the cracks and corners, leaving Anne behind.
She smiled, looked around, then stuffed the bag beneath the loose floorboard she’d considered pushing the skull under with her toe. Satisfied that all the red cloth was covered by wood, she straightened her shirt and looked up and down the hall.
It was long and dark and seemed to go on forever. The moonlight was fading, leaving only the wavering dark.
“Mary?” Anne called in a quiet voice. “Daphne?”
There was no response. She looked up at the ceiling and eyed it wryly. “Shirleykins?”
Again, nothing.
They’d played without her and called her a monster, and they hadn’t even really apologized. Not that it would’ve made a difference.
With a Mona Lisa half smile, Anne walked, not east toward the dormitory, where the Headmistress insisted they stay, but west to the staircase, where she climbed up and up, floor after floor, until she reached the sixth. Here was the wide hall, once elegant, now crumbling, that held the thick oak door to the Headmistress’s room. That was one advantage they held over her. They always knew where to find her, but at night, despite the fact that she seemed able to extend her presence anywhere in the orphanage, the Headmistress didn’t always seem certain where to find them.
Anne had one more story she wanted to tell tonight, and she didn’t need the bones to do it. She raised her hand and, after pausing a moment to allow the chill of fear to pass through her, knocked on the thick wood, once, twice.
After her third rap, the door creaked, vibrating slightly as it came free from the jam. There seemed to be no one opening it, though. A blast of cold, rank air hit Anne. She dizzied, then tried to steady herself as she took a step inside.
It seemed more forest than room. More swamp than forest. There were glimpses of rot and mold. Water dripped in thick streams from the edges of the hole in the ceiling, rolling over and apparently feeding some sort of thick green slime.
Fear rose along her spine like a living thing and swelled until it filled her completely. The more she became afraid, the more she noticed a fine mist hovering in the dark.
The droplets came together, and in moments the Headmistress appeared, her gown perfect and tight as always, her skin smooth as ice, her eyes dead.
Recognizing Anne, she did not seem amused.
“Well? Have you come back for more?”
Anne managed to swallow and shake her head. “No. I just wanted to tell you that I’m like really sorry.”
The creature before her twisted its head.
“I mean, I know you’re just trying to take care of us, right? To…raise us properly? I mean, where we’d be without that, without you? Guess I forgot that.”
“Yes. I suppose you did,” the Headmistress said. Her lips, so thin and gray, twisted up at the corners. The net effect looked more like the twitch of a dying worm than a smile. Then the worm split long-ways in the center, showing a row of gray teeth. “But I’m so glad you remembered. Things don’t have to be so hostile between us, you know, as long as you obey the rules and show the proper respect. That’s what rules are for, after all. Was there anything else?”
Anne nodded. “Yeah, speaking of rules and respect. It’s the others. They’re…”
“Yes?”
“They’re planning to meet tomorrow night after curfew. And I know where.”
The split worm of a smile twisted wider. “Do you? Dear child, you look so tired. Let’s chat a moment before the day begins.”
Anne stepped deeper into the swamp of a room, gritting her teeth, clenching her hands, thinking,
TO BE CONTINUED
About the Authors
STEFAN PETRUCHA was minding his own business writing many books, including TEEN, INC., THE SHADOW OF FRANKENSTEIN, and the award-winning Nancy Drew graphic novels, when a mysterious force entered his car in New York City and started talking about horror stories. Wicked Dead is the result. He has since moved to Amherst, Massachusetts.
THOMAS PENDLETON is a mysterious force with many names. All we know for sure is that under another name he is a critically acclaimed and award-winning horror author. He lives in Austin, Texas. We were afraid to ask him anything else.
You can visit them online at www.wickeddead.com.
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Copyright
WICKED DEAD: SNARED. Copyright 2008 by Stefan Petrucha and Thomas Pendleton. All rights reserved
