Grim anthology

Forget what I’d seen in Milly’s head.

“It’s just not good timing right now, Lana.” Skye reached out and brushed a sweaty piece of hair from my forehead, his touch featherlight. “Kimberly’s only been gone a few months, and it might look bad if I suddenly had a new girlfriend, you know?”

Overhead, something rustled in the trees, and on the distant interstate, I heard the blast of a car horn.

“Is that what I am?” I asked, folding my arms tightly across his chest. “Your girlfriend?”

Skye lifted an eyebrow, a smirk twisting his lips. “Do you want a ring or something? My letterman’s jacket? I mean, I don’t play a sport, and I’m not even sure they make those things anymore, but maybe Goodwill would—”

I shoved at his chest. “Don’t make fun of me.”

Something flashed in his eyes, something dark and angry. But it was gone as soon as it had appeared, and when Skye took my wrist in his hand, his grip was light. “I’m not, I promise. But this is tough for me. I don’t want to look like the dick who doesn’t even miss Kim, you know?”

This whole conversation was going nowhere, and suddenly I wished I’d never brought it up. We only had an hour, and we’d spent half that already, walking and arguing. Skye was right. There was enough weirdness about Kimberly’s disappearance, and we didn’t want to add to that.

But then I remembered Milly, the images I’d gotten when I’d touched her ring. “Milly—” I started, and Skye’s fingers tightened around my wrist.

“I told you, there’s nothing going on. She doesn’t even like me like that.”

“Yes, she does,” I said before I could stop myself. “I saw it.”

I hadn’t quite shouted the words, but they’d still come out a lot louder than I’d intended. In a nearby bush, a bird suddenly took wing, and Skye startled.

“What do you mean you ‘saw it’?” There was a deep crease between his brows, and his grip on my wrist was tight enough to hurt now. I shook him off, irritated.

“I...I can see things. When I touch people. Same as my mom.”

Skye blinked, once, then twice, his whole body going still. “So...this psychic crap is for real? Because you said your mom just—”

“I know what I said.” Shoving my hands into the back pockets of my jeans, I tilted my head back, looking up at the snatches of blue sky through the branches. “I didn’t want you to think I was a freak, but yeah, Momma can really tell a person’s future, and I can get...I don’t know, impressions. When I touch somebody. It’s not a big deal.”

Skye had backed away from me now, his face pale. “Have you done that to me?” he asked, and I immediately shook my head.

“No,” I promised. “Never. I only do it to help Momma out before her readings. Anything else feels—” I shuddered “—gross. Like a violation or something.”

Skye seemed to sigh with his whole body, the breath ruffling his hair where it fell over his forehead. “So when you touched Milly—”

“She’s into you, trust me.” I left it at that. The longing coming off Milly for Skye had practically wavered there in the air earlier. True, I hadn’t picked up anything else. If anything had ever happened between them, I hadn’t seen it. But that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened.

“I can’t help it if she likes me, Lana,” Skye said. His own hands were in his pockets now, almost mimicking my pose. “But I don’t feel that way about her. I swear.”

When I didn’t say anything, Skye took a step closer. “When we kissed earlier... If you’d wanted to, you could’ve looked into my head, right?”

“I told you I wouldn’t do that,” I snapped.

Skye was watching me closely now, ducking his head so that he could see into my face. “Do you promise, Lan? Do you promise you would never do that?”

If he hadn’t said that, maybe I wouldn’t have felt so tempted. But there was something so intense in his gaze, something that made the hairs on my arms stand up. And it was like any temptation, like Skye himself—once I’d been told I couldn’t, I had to.

“Yeah,” I heard myself say. “I promise.”

His expression softened. “And I promise Milly and I are just friends. She’s only hanging around me because we both miss Kim. That’s it.”

He smiled at me, a dimple flashing in one cheek. In the shady woods, his eyes seemed a darker blue, and when he tugged me to him, I let him.

When he leaned in to kiss me, I closed my hands around his forearms. The key tattoo was just there underneath my palm, and there was one brief moment when I tried to tell myself not to do it. That he had said there was nothing going on with Milly, and I needed to trust him.

But another darker part whispered, Then why is he still keeping you a secret?

He had asked me never to read him, and I had promised, but standing there in the woods behind my home, his skin pressed against mine, the temptation was too strong. Just a little bit, I told myself. So I can be sure.

As always, it felt like opening a door, and I tried to keep the door opened only a crack. Just enough to see if he was lying to me about Milly.

But the moment the door from my mind to his opened, it was like a hurricane blew through it. Skye kissed me as image after image assaulted my mind. Kimberly crying. Kimberly shoving at Skye’s shoulders. They’re in a field somewhere, and it’s dark, and she needs to shut up, just shut up, shut up. Skye’s hands around Kimberly’s throat, and she’s kicking him, but he’s stronger and her kicks are getting weaker and weaker, and sweat is dripping down his face as he wonders why she won’t die, would she just die already—

My heart was in my mouth, my stomach rolling, and it took every bit of strength in me not to scream, not to push him away. But we were alone out here, far from anyone, and I’d told him I wouldn’t look. If he knew that I knew...

We parted, and he pressed his lips to my forehead while I shook. Please let him think it’s from the kiss.

I wasn’t sure how I managed to smile when he looked down at me. His eyes were so blue. Kimberly had looked into those eyes as he’d choked the life out of her. Kimberly, who had never left town, who had no glamorous future in L.A. Kimberly, who was probably at the bottom of a lake, or in a hole somewhere in that field I’d seen. Kimberly, who’d loved and trusted Skye like I had.

We stood there in the woods, looking at one another, and I tried to force my heart not to beat out of my chest, tried to keep my breathing calm. All I had to do was get back to the trailer. Get back to Momma, and get away from Skye. I could do this. I could.

And then Skye winced.

We both looked down, seeing my hand where it still clung to his forearm. I may have slowed my pulse and steadied my breathing, but I hadn’t stopped my fingers from digging into him, hard enough to break the skin. My nails had pierced his flesh, and Skye and I both watched as a single drop of blood welled up just over the teeth of his key tattoo.

His eyes met mine, and I knew there was no lie I could tell that would convince him that I hadn’t looked inside his mind. That I hadn’t seen. That I didn’t know.

I was in the woods behind my trailer with a boy who’d killed the last girl who loved him. I could look off to the horizon all I wanted, but no one was coming to save me. Maybe I couldn’t tell the future like Momma, but in that instant, I swore I could see it. When her reading with Milly was done, she’d come out and find Skye sitting there. Maybe there’d be dirt on his knees, and he might be breathing a little hard. He’d tell her I’d left. Maybe I headed out for track practice early, caught a ride with a friend—no, he wasn’t sure who. And then maybe later, he’d come back to this quiet place in Woodland Hills, and by the end of the night, I’d find myself lying next to Kimberly McEntire, wherever she was. For just a second, I thought of taking one more peek, trying to see what he had done with her. But I was too afraid to look again, afraid that anything I saw might break what was left of my mind.

Skye’s hands were tight around my wrists now, and I could feel that same dark anger I’d sensed earlier pulsing through him. Oh, Momma, I thought almost from a distance. You were wrong. I’m not going to track practice today.

But as the bones in my wrists creaked and popped, I remembered what Momma had said.

You are gonna run and run today. Fast.

A laugh nearly gurgled out of my throat, high and hysterical. “You’re damn right I am,” I muttered. I reached out.

I shoved.

I ran.

* * * * *

FIGMENT

by Jeri Smith-Ready

It begins, as always, in darkness.

I awake in transit, amid the clamor of voices and the clatter of trucks. Then a steady jet-engine roar lulls me to the edge of sleep.

If I’m waking, it means that someone believes in me again. Maybe it’s the man, woman, boy or girl I’ll soon befriend. Maybe it’s a person close to them. Or maybe it’s only my ex-friend’s employee who took this padded envelope I’ve been trapped inside and put it on a plane.

All that matters is that someone, somewhere, believes.

* * *

A woman’s soft footsteps accompany what I hope is the final leg of my journey. Her hands hold my envelope level before her, not swinging casually at the end of her arm the way the deliveryman carried me. It reminds me of the way Gordon’s butler used to deliver his vodka and pills on a silver tray.

“No more tears,” she murmurs. “He wasn’t worth it.”

But I’m not crying. I never cry.

She sniffles, then takes a deep, slow breath. “No more tears,” she repeats.

Ah, you weren’t talking to me. Never mind. If she can’t hear my thoughts, that means she’s not the one I’m meant for.

She stops and knocks on heavy wood—a door, likely. I hear the muffled voice of a young man, a begrudging beckoning over the strum of guitar.

Hinges creak. The guitar grows louder, doesn’t pause while the woman who carries me stands still at what must be a seldom-crossed threshold.

“Eli, your father is dead.”

The guitar doesn’t stop, but it hits a sour note. Then Eli continues to play, picking up where he left off. “So?”

“He left you this.”

The guitar is set aside with a soft gong. Eli takes my envelope and squeezes it, crushing my face. “It’s soft. Is it a big fat wad of cash?” he asks with a mixture of harshness and hope.

“Just open it.”

Eli tears the sealing strip, letting in the first light I’ve glimpsed in...I won’t know how long until I see a calendar.

“What the hell?” He clamps the envelope shut, smothering the light. “Mom, is this a joke?”

Pull me out. Please don’t let me stay in here.

“There’s a story behind it,” his mother says. “It’s rather interesting, actually. Your father—”

“What did the others get?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“Never mind, I’ll look it up online. It’ll be in the news. One-hit wonder Gordon Wylde, 45, dies of— What did he die of?”

“A boating accident. They said it was instant. He didn’t suffer.”

“Good for him.” Eli’s voice cracks, causing me to wonder how far past puberty he is. His hands are large and strong, squeezing me tighter than ever, so perhaps the voice-crack is...sadness? Anger? I wouldn’t know.

“Eli, if you want to talk, I’m here.”

“I know you are,” he snaps. Then his voice softens. “Thanks, Mom. I’m sorry—I mean, if you’re upset he’s gone.”

“Not really.” She gives a wistful laugh. “Your father’s always been gone.” Her footsteps come closer, then a kiss, muted, laid upon hair instead of skin. “I’ve got a roast in the oven, but how about pizza tonight instead?”

“That’d be cool. Thanks.”

She retreats and closes the door. Eli takes a deep breath—as would I, had I lungs—and pulls me out of the envelope.

Amber eyes examine me, the same color as the streaks in his disheveled black hair. Eli pulls in his lower lip, brushes his tongue over the silver ring there. He could be as young as sixteen, but the piercing makes me think he’s closer to eighteen. “I don’t get it,” he mutters. “I do not get it.”

Eli tosses me on the bed—faceup, luckily. The ceiling features a wood-and-green-metal fan, currently off, as well as a poster of a brunette girl with wide blue eyes. The right edge is torn, the poster ripped in half to eliminate her partner. At the bottom it reads “she &” in a whimsical cursive hand.

He pulls a note from the envelope, the folded sheet of paper I’ve been lying on for...a long time, I think. I don’t remember how long, or even what form I’ve taken. It must be the same form as when I was Gordon’s friend, because vessels contain our spirits until they disintegrate (the vessels, that is). I never forget disintegration.

I am eternal. I can never die, only sleep. My kind has existed since humans first drew pictures on cave walls and told stories around campfires. We were born at the dawn of imagination.

“Call Tyler,” Eli says in a flat voice. It sounds like a command, but not, I hope, for me.

A tinny male voice emits from a cell phone speaker. “Eli! What’s up, bro?”

Eli picks me up and stares into my eyes, his own turned dark with loathing.

“My father left me a cat.”

* * *

I’m four inches long. My plush fake fur is black, except for my paws, which are white. My eyes are stitched yellow-thread rings surrounding felt black centers. Their perfect roundness makes me look perpetually astonished.

All of this I’d forgotten, because when no one holds you for...years?...you lose sense of your shape.

All of this I remember, because Eli has thrown me against the wall and I’ve landed, fortuitously, in front of a full-length mirror.

My puffy white forepaws extend forward, like I’m asking for double fist bumps, or worse, protecting myself. But nothing can hurt me, aside from being ignored.

Eli is ignoring me. In the mirror I see him sitting cross-legged on the double bed, his back turned. The fan is on low now, its wood-and-metal arms making lazy circles, casting hazy shadows on the ceiling and the girl in the poster.

I examine what details I can, to determine Eli’s state of living. His dresser and nightstand are basic pale wood, IKEA-ish. The boots sticking out from under the bed appear to be Timberland knockoffs. His jeans and black T-shirt are threadbare and distressed, but that might be the style still (or again). Through the floor I hear his mother in the kitchen, opening the oven door, then letting the door crash shut. A two-story house, then. Eli and his mother seem neither rich nor poor.

My gaze sweeps the walls for a calendar. I’m used to lying dormant for years between allies, but not knowing how many years is unsettling. Eli’s father crammed me into that envelope in 1997, when the world was throwing itself at his feet. He thought he didn’t need me anymore. I wonder how that worked out.

Some months or years later, Gordon opened the envelope, but only to add the note, which Eli read to his friend Tyler over the phone.

“My dear Elias,

Of all my sons, I’ve given you the least in life, so in death I give you the most.

This wee kitty has been more than a good-luck charm to me. It’s been a friend, perhaps the most loyal one I’ve ever had. I advise you to keep it at your side at all times if you want to succeed. And when (not if, but when) you find that success, do not make my arrogant mistake and cast the cat aside. Give credit where credit is due.

Your father,

Gordon Wylde”

Tyler laughed his ass off, naturally, and then Eli threw me across the room, where I wait, neither patiently nor impatiently, since I do not feel.

I do have opinions, however, an important one of which is forming now: Eli has more musical genius in that pouty lower lip than his father had in his entire body. His voice needs no enhancing, and his playing needs no amplification. He could most likely make hundreds a day busking in a subway station. God only knows what a decent record label could do for him.

But he needs more than talent. He needs me. Not just to set him on the path to greatness, but to keep him there. When inevitable misfortunes beset him, he must believe he’s destined. He must believe that luck is on his side.

First, however, he must believe in me.

Eli draws in a sudden hiss of pain between his teeth, then shakes out his hand. He’s played too long.

Sucking the pad of his right thumb, he turns and slides off the bed. For a moment I wonder what it would be like to unfold long legs so effortlessly—or to move at all. He lays the guitar in its case and starts to close the lid.

Eli, wait.

He hesitates but doesn’t look at me.

You can’t hear my words yet, I tell him, but you can feel what I want. Please, put me inside. It all starts there.

Eli snatches me up by one ear, then drops me facedown in the compartment in the guitar case’s neck. “There, Dad. Happy?”

He slams the lid shut and flips the latches. But instead of shoving the guitar case back under the bed where he got it, he lays his hand over the place where I am, pressing this end of the case against the floor. The carpet gives a little.

All it takes is a little belief to bring me to life.

Thank you, Eli.

His breathing stops. A soft suction pop marks his sore thumb coming out of his mouth.

I’m inside the case. But don’t worry, I won’t suffocate. I don’t breathe.

Eli’s whimper has a question mark at the end.

Yes, I’m real. Sort of. I used to know your father. If he bequeathed me to you, it means that you were important to him. Or that I was not. In any case, we’re together now.

“What the—” The latches rattle as he fumbles to open them. The lid lifts, letting in light.

Eli doesn’t pick me up. I wish I could see his expression, but I’m still facedown and can’t turn over.

He tugs my tail. “I’m going insane.”

On the contrary, you have a normal, healthy imagination. That’s what keeps me alive.

He lets out a curse and slams the guitar case shut again. A few moments later, he speaks in hushed tones, but not to me.

“Ty, have you had any, like, weird thoughts since Saturday night?”

The phone speaker is loud enough—and my cat ears sensitive enough—that I can hear the reply. “What kind of weird thoughts?”

“I don’t know. Hallucinations?”

“It was just a little weed. You didn’t even smoke any.”

“I know, but even secondhand, I definitely felt the effects.”

“Are you saying you’re seeing things?”

“Hearing things,” Eli corrects.

“It was a loud concert. My ears were ringing afterward.”

“This isn’t a ringing.”

“What is it?”

Eli pauses. “Nothing. I guess it is sort of like a ringing. I gotta go. Mom’s calling me for dinner.”

His mom’s not calling him for dinner, but after hanging up, Eli stalks from the room, shouting her name.

I hope she has answers.

* * *

“So you’re from Cleveland?” Eli has propped me up on his other pillow so that I can see him, but he doesn’t look at me as we talk. He sits against his headboard beside me, arms crossed, legs straight out, looking stunned.

Not originally, but that was where my essence was encapsulated in this temporary form. The musician who gave me to your father was from there. He was in a band called Raise an Axe. Ever heard of them?

“No.”

That’s because they had only one heavy-metal hit in the late eighties, off their self-titled album, Raise an Axe. Can you guess the song name?

“‘Raise an Axe’?”

Very good. That singer abandoned his band to embark on a solo career. He also abandoned me. When he realized his mistake, it was too late. I had no luck left for him.

Eli groans. “This is so bizarre.” He sweeps both palms over his wavy dark hair, holding it back against his scalp. Under all those tumbling locks, he has a pronounced widow’s peak, just like his father. “So who are you?”

A figment.

“That’s your name?”

It’s what I am.

“Like a figment of my imagination?”

I give the vocal equivalent of a shrug. A bit redundant, since by definition a figment is something that exists only in the imagination.

Heels together, Eli taps his bare feet against each other. “Like an imaginary friend.”

Precisely.

“I thought only little kids had imaginary friends.”

They’re not the only ones who need them.

“I’ve got plenty of friends.”

Friends or fleas? His father’s penthouse had been overrun with bloodsucking sycophants, people who only loved him for his money and fame.

Eli pulls his knees to his chest and rests his chin on them. “What I mean is, I’m not lonely or anything.”

I decide not to challenge this assertion. May I ask, what became of your father’s career once he left Boyz on the Korner?

Eli scoffs. “Nothing. He never had another hit like BotK had with ‘Ready, Set, Dance.’ Because he basically sucked. People realized that after he hit twenty-one and wasn’t adorable anymore.” He looks at me quickly. “Wait. Was that when he put you away?”

That’s when I entered the envelope, yes.

“Wow.” He shakes his head hard. “This can’t be real.”

You need to redefine “real.”

“Obviously. So why are you here?”

To help you succeed in life by bringing you good luck. You need the right people in the right place in the right mood. I can make that happen. Your talent will do the rest.

Eli gives me a sideways, suspicious look. “What’s in it for you?”

If I help you, you’ll believe in me, and I get to keep existing. I remember my image in the mirror. Also, I’d very much like some clothes.

* * *

Eli, it turns out, used to play with dolls when he was a boy. I don’t judge.

“If anyone sees me doing this, I’ll have my man card permanently revoked,” he says as he buttons my sparkly blue shirt.

So I won’t be meeting your friends?

“No, you’re staying here.”

But unless I’m in your presence, I can’t influence the thoughts of others around you in your favor.

He looks up from the box of doll clothes, horrified. “Other people can hear you?”

Not in words, the way you can. They can sense my desires and be swayed by them, but only if they’ve seen me and acknowledged my existence.

I catch sight of the doll sneakers he’s picked out of the box.

Please, no pink.

“So you are a boy. I wondered, since you don’t have any—you know.” He flips up my shirttail. “Anything to cover.”

Technically, I’m neither a boy nor a girl. I can be whichever you prefer.

He narrows his eyes. “What do you mean, ‘prefer’?”

In a friend.

“Oh. Well, a human for starters.”

You have no pets?

“Just fish. I’m allergic.”

And I’m relieved. Some dogs chew stuffed animals, and some cats hump them. Humiliating in either case.

Eli rummages through the box, which appears to have all sorts of doll clothes jumbled together in one mass. “If you’re an imaginary friend, why don’t you look human? Why are you trapped in this stuffed cat?”

Figments need a physical vessel so their friends can take them places. Or leave us behind, if you like.

“Us?” He casts a wary gaze around his room. “There’s more than one of you here?”

No, you only get one. But there are others of my kind in the world. There always have been.

“Huh. Hey, here’s a cool hat.” Eli holds it up with a flourish. It has three points and a giant purple feather, like one of the Three Musketeers.

Yes! Put that on my head. Now.

He laughs. “You like the bling, huh?”

I love the bling.

“Pimp my cat.” He tugs the hat down over my ears, then tilts it sideways. “Figment’s got swag, yo.”

Is that what you wish to call me?

“Or Fig for short. Is that okay?”

You may call me whatever you like. I hide my next thought from him: just don’t ever put me away.