Don't Scream 2 Page 15

  "Just organizing all your things," he said. When he pulled away, my chapstick, sparkling water, and phone were lined up perfectly. "Now, would you like me to get you some chocolate, or—"

  "I think I'll just go to bed. It's been a long day."

  "Okay, Elisabeth." He walked towards the door and flicked out the light. "I love you."

  "I love you, too."

  When he left, I grabbed the bottle of sparkling water—a terrible consolation prize compared to the wine—and watched the old movie playing on TV. Some black-and-white film with Ingrid Bergman.

  Soon I was asleep.

  ***

  The next morning—Saturday—I woke up early. With Michael still asleep, I snuck out of the room and into the bathroom. As I peeled off my clothes and started the shower water, I caught my reflection in the mirror.

  I am not pregnant.

  Am I?

  The water was hot on my skin. I scrubbed furiously, as if trying to scrub the memories of last night away. Just some joke, I told myself, again. It's just some stupid joke. I towel-dried my hair, walked across the marble floor, and opened the bathroom door.

  Michael stood right in the doorway. Inches from the door. Every muscle in his face was taut.

  "What were you doing?" he asked.

  "Showering," I replied, uneasily.

  His face relaxed. "That's great," he said, leaving me and walking over to our immense closet. "I found a great outfit for you to wear today." He stepped out carrying an unfamiliar mint-green top, cinched underneath the bust.

  He gave it to me, and I saw the tag: Pea in the Pod.

  Maternity clothes.

  "I... I think I'd be more comfortable in a T-shirt," I said.

  "Sure." He went back into the closet and retrieved my oversized Kirby T-shirt. "Now, will you be okay here by yourself, for the next few hours?"

  "You're going somewhere?"

  "We were supposed to meet Caylinn and Thomas for brunch. Remember? I've already told them you aren't feeling well, but that I'd be there."

  "Oh."

  Secretly, I was thrilled. I hated Caylinn and her stupid fake teeth and five-carat engagement ring. And the way she laughed so daintily, with her hand over her mouth and her eyes all sparkly.

  And, more importantly... I still felt like none of this was adding up. I wanted time, alone, to process things for myself.

  He helped me into the guest room and turned on the TV for me. "I love you," he said, kissing me on the forehead.

  I waited until I heard the rumble of the engine and the tires roll against the wet road. Then I grabbed my phone off the nightstand—and dialed my mom.

  I tell my mom everything, in real time. She'd be able to give an exact timeline of when everything happened. The pregnancy. Everything else.

  Brzt. Brzt. Brzt.

  A busy signal erupted in my ears.

  My heart began to pound. I pulled my phone from my ear and dialed my sister. A few of my friends. Even my estranged dad.

  Every single number led to a busy signal.

  Hands shaking, I dialed Michael's number. It rang twice—then went to voicemail.

  This isn't right.

  I replaced my phone on the nightstand.

  That's when I saw it.

  A tiny, blinking red light. Just an inch or so underneath the edge of the lampshade. I leaned over and looked up.

  A black lens blinked back at me.

  What the hell?

  A camera?

  I grabbed my bottle of sparkling water and carefully placed it in front of the lens. When I was sure it was blocked, I slowly pulled myself out of bed. I gently walked across the hall. Then down the stairs.

  I grabbed my keys off the rack, got in the car, and drove right to CVS.

  I'm going to get to the bottom of this.

  I ran inside and grabbed a pregnancy test off the shelf. Then I was running to the store bathroom. Ripping through the foil. The floor was sticky, and the place stunk of urine, but I hardly noticed.

  I used the test, re-capped it, and waited.

  3 minutes. 3 agonizing minutes.

  Then I opened my eyes.

  One line.

  Not pregnant.

  Relief flooded through me. I pulled up my pants, threw the test in the trash, and headed out into the store. The aisles blurred through my tears, the ground felt wobbly under my feet; but I somehow made it into the car.

  Then I bawled my eyes out.

  What the hell is going on?

  He must have messed with the first pregnancy test.

  He knew I wouldn't believe him. That a positive test was the only thing that would convince me. But... why?

  Why lie to me? Deceive me?

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. I jumped, then pulled it out. Michael. My heart dropped. I set it on the passenger seat, unwilling to answer.

  But then he called again.

  And again.

  And again. The fifth time, I picked up, my hands shaking.

  "Elisabeth? Where are you?"

  He sounded angry. Sure, his voice was restrained, but I could feel the undercurrent of rage ready to break free at any moment.

  I steadied my voice. "I just... went to Trader Joe's. For some chocolate." It didn't sound very convincing.

  "You're on bedrest, Elisabeth," he said, his voice slightly calmer. "You're not supposed to be out and about. You could miscarry our baby."

  I fought back the sobs.

  "Come home. Right now."

  "Okay," I lied. "I'm on my way back."

  I pulled out of the parking lot. But instead of turning left, towards home—I turned right. I didn't know where I was going. But any place was better than "home."

  Brzt.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. Michael. I picked it up.

  "You lied," he growled.

  "Michael—what?"

  "You lied. You're not going home."

  The words sent a shiver down my spine. I glanced around the car—was it a webcam? A GPS tracker?

  "I am. The street's too busy to make a left. I made a right and I'm going to turn around."

  Better to play it safe. Pretend I didn't know what he was up to. I pulled into a parking lot to "turn around," then picked the phone back up and dialed 911.

  All I got was a busy signal.

  "Dammit," I grumbled, throwing the phone on the seat. I'd have to do this the old-fashioned way—drive right over to the police station. I started the car and began to pull out.

  No.

  A familiar, silver SUV was pulling into the parking lot.

  Michael's car.

  I pressed on the gas. The car lurched forward, and I swung towards him. With a screech of tires, he pulled forward.

  Blocking the only exit to the parking lot.

  Then the door swung open as he got out of the car. He charged towards me, eyes flashing in anger.

  I pulled forward—and shot over the grass.

  The car jostled wildly. Horns honked as I pulled onto the street. "Elisabeth!" I heard him shout behind me.

  But he was too late.

  ***

  It's been a year, and I still don't know why Michael did it.

  I don't know why the man I married three years ago—the man I fell madly in love with at only twenty-two—suddenly wanted to control every aspect of my life. To deceive me into thinking I was pregnant.

  The police arrested Dr. Jones. He was never really a doctor—just a friend of Michael's. He'd been my "primary care physician" since we got married and moved out here a few years ago. Now that I thought about it, it made sense—while he had equipment and an office space, he never prescribed me any medicine or ordered any bloodwork.

  And the "ultrasound" he showed me? Just a video clip he got from YouTube.

  So Dr. Jones is locked up and facing time for everything he did. Michael, however... is still out there. By the time the police arrived at our home, most of the evidence was gone. The fake pregnancy test, the webcam—all gone. The onl
y thing I had to show for it was the GPS tracker they eventually found in my car. And I can't prove he's the one who put it here.

  Without evidence, they were forced to let him go.

  I live across the country, now, several hundred miles away from where we built our life. I changed my name. I live in a small house, and make my living working at the local library. It's a modest life—a far cry from what we had.

  But I am free of him.

  And that's what matters the most.

  THE FLASHLIGHT GAME

  Have you ever played "The Flashlight Game"?

  I have. And now I will never, ever play it again.

  "Okay. Here are the rules," Rachael said, after we'd turned out all the lights. "It's like 'never have I ever,' but with flashlights. Instead of putting a finger down when you've done the thing, you turn off your flashlight. And then... you hide."

  "So it's like hide-and-seek," I said.

  "This sounds dumb," Emma complained.

  "Basement's off limits, but everything else is fair game. Sound good?"

  We nodded.

  It was the summer before ninth grade. The three of us were having a sleepover at Rachael's, and we'd run out of things to do. Her parents were away for the weekend, and her older sister—who was supposed to be keeping an eye on us—was at her boyfriend's.

  "You start, Ava," Rachael said, pointing to me.

  "Okay. Uh..." I glanced at the two of them. Their faces were eerily cast in shadow, as they held the flashlights to their chins. "Never have I ever... been kissed."

  Emma clicked her flashlight off. Rachael kept hers on.

  "Okay, I'll hide. Count to ten." Emma scrambled up and disappeared into the darkness.

  "One, two, three..."

  Rachael exchanged an uneasy glance with me. I shrugged and shot her a smile.

  "Eight, nine… ten!"

  I turned to Rachael. "I heard her go upstairs, right?"

  She nodded. We got up, our flashlights shining in the darkness, and started up the stairs. The wood creaked with every step. "She's gonna hear us," Rachael said.

  "Don't worry. We'll find her anyway."

  And we did. Easily. As soon as we walked into Emma's bedroom, I saw her silhouette, barely peeking out from behind the dresser. "Gotcha!" I yelled, shining the flashlight in her face.

  I froze.

  There was nothing there.

  "What?" I circled the dresser, shining my flashlight all the way behind it—but she wasn't there. I looked back at Rachael. She looked just as confused as I did.

  “You saw her there… right?”

  “I thought I did. But—but maybe it was just a bit of the wood sticking out, or something.” She grabbed my arm and tugged me out of the room. “Come on. Let’s check the other rooms.”

  We walked across the hallway. The door to the bedroom across from us hung open. Quietly, we stepped inside—and my flashlight fell on Emma.

  She was crouched right behind the door, grinning madly, her curls wild. "Okay, I lose. Let's play again."

  Before I could protest, she pointed at Rachael. "Your turn."

  "Fine," she said, shooting a pointed glance at Emma. "Never have I ever... stolen something."

  Something flit between them. Rachael glared. Emma sighed, whispered "fine," and clicked off her flashlight.

  After a moment's hesitation, I clicked mine off, too. Rachael raised her eyebrows at me in surprise.

  Then she began to count.

  "One... two..."

  Emma grabbed my arm as we ran out of the bedroom. "Did you steal something from Rachael?" I asked in a whisper.

  She didn't reply.

  "Five... six..."

  We crept down the stairs. Emma pulled open the basement door, and dragged me inside.

  "Wait—I thought the basement was off-limits—"

  "The basement is," she said, with a sly smile. "And we're not in the basement."

  We stood on a small landing at the top of the stairs. Only a few inches from my feet, the stairs started, descending into the pitch black below.

  "Ten!" I heard Rachael faintly call from above.

  Emma giggled. "She'll never find us here. We might as well get comfy." She slid down the wall until she was seated on the floor. "So. How's life, Ava?"

  I ignored her. "You didn't answer my question earlier. Did you steal something from Rachael?"

  "Oh. Pfft." Emma waved her hand dismissively, as though it was a ridiculous question. "Nothing, really."

  "She doesn't seem to think it's nothing."

  "Yeah, because she's a sensitive little butterfly who can't take a hit."

  "You hit her?"

  "No, that wasn't like, literal. Geez. I meant, she can't take a joke." She glanced over at me. "What did you steal?"

  My heart pounded. "I, uh... I stole Jenny Harback's gel pens."

  "What?!" She burst into laughter. "I didn't know you had it in you!"

  "I gave them back right after, though. It was too—"

  I stopped. Emma wasn't giggling anymore. She was staring past me. Down into the basement.

  I turned.

  Just in time to see a white light pass by.

  “What… what was that?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is someone down there?”

  “Rachael’s the only one here, and she’s out there,” I said, backing away from the stairs.

  “Maybe it’s her older sister. Doesn’t her sister sleep down here?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Emma peered down into the darkness. “Hello?” she called down.

  “What are you doing? It could be—”

  The pitch darkness of the basement slowly illuminated. Then the white light slid back into view. It snapped towards us—and shined in our faces.

  We both screamed.

  Then we leapt up and scrambled to the door. Emma twisted the handle, yanked on it—but it didn’t open. "What the hell?!" she shouted. "Rachael! Rachael, did you lock us in here?!"

  I glanced back down.

  The flashlight shone up at us from the top of the stairs. Watching.

  I couldn't see who was holding it. The light was too bright. "Help!" I screamed. "Open the door!" I grabbed the doorknob, yanked at it madly.

  "Rachael! Help!" she screamed.

  I glanced back down the stairs.

  The light was closer.

  It was halfway up the staircase. Twinkling, shimmering, blinding. I could barely make out a hulking silhouette behind it.

  "Help!" I screamed. "Please! Rachael—"

  The door sprung open.

  Rachael slammed it shut behind us, and clicked the deadbolt back into place. "What happened?"

  "Someone's down there," Emma gasped, nearly fainting. I just nodded, too terrified to speak.

  "Okay. I'll call Mom. Come on."

  We walked out to the kitchen, where she called her mom—and then, eventually, the police. But nothing was found in the basement.

  Except a flashlight.

  A week later, Emma broke down and confessed what she stole. It was a necklace—a gold R pendant—that Rachael's father had given her before he left. She ended up returning it. I guess what happened to us that night spooked her into doing the right thing.

  But, sometimes, I wonder if that was Rachael's plan all along.

  Because, after all—

  Who else could have locked the basement door?

  OBJECTS IN THE REARVIEW MIRROR

  There's someone in the backseat of my car.

  I can't see him. But I can hear him. I hear his ragged breaths over the soft tunes of the radio. Hear his soft words whispered in my ear.

  I feel him, too. I feel him pressing his hands against the back of my seat, as if he can feel my body through them. I feel the shift in air as he moves his head close to mine. Feel his fingertips as he brushes my neck.

  But all I can do is keep driving.

  My plan was to drive all night from Tulsa, Oklahom
a to Lancaster, California. My hometown. Where my wedding is to take place in two days.

  The drive started out well. The car is a rental from a family friend, Mr. Craggs, and it rode incredibly smooth. I put in a Journey CD, turned the volume up, and coasted through the darkness. The flat sand of the Mohave desert extended in all directions around me, under the purple sky.

  My mind was filled with thoughts of the wedding. I couldn't wait to marry the love of my life, Enrico… but I also carried a heaviness in my heart. Because my hometown did not hold happy memories for me. My parents had twisted my arm, begging me to hold it there, so our frugal relatives could all attend.

  Now I regretted that choice.

  I was driving through the Mohave desert around 4 AM when I first heard his voice.

  "Rebecca."

  My entire body froze.

  The voice was a whisper on the wind. Barely audible over the guitar chords, the beats of the drum. Must've been my imagination. I turned up the music and focused on the open road in front of me.

  Then I heard it again.

  "Rebecca."

  The car swerved underneath me. I stomped on the brakes. It came to a halt on the shoulder, next to a cluster of Joshua trees.

  Heart pounding in my chest, I wheeled around.

  The backseat was empty.

  "I'm okay. I'm okay." I took a deep, shuddering breath, and turned on the interior lights just to make sure it was empty. I even climbed halfway back there, peering at the blind spot behind my seat, making sure no one was crouched there. Even though, logically, I knew they couldn't fit.

  My heart finally slowed. I turned out the lights, turned up the radio, and pulled back out onto the main road.

  That's when I heard his voice again.

  "Made you look."

  My whole body froze. I glanced in the rearview mirror—yet again, the backseat was empty. All I could see were the black cloth seats, the rear window that looked out at the desert sky.

  "You're going crazy, Rebecca. The stress is getting to you," I told myself. It was true—in the last few days, I'd probably averaged about four hours of sleep a night. There were so many last-minute things to do. Namecards, favors, and rearranging the seating arrangement because a few people had cancelled last minute.

  That's when I felt a hot gust of air on my neck.