The Writing Retreat(43)

“Poppy?” Roza turned to her.

By this time I’d refilled my glass and had silently drunk myself into a haze. The hatred burned in my chest like a tiny furnace.

“Oh, no, I’m going to pass if that’s okay.” She giggled. “I’m actually really scared of ghosts.”

“I have one,” I said. Everyone turned to me quickly, as if they’d forgotten I was there.

“Wonderful.” Roza smiled.

“Once upon a time there was a girl who had a best friend.” The words flowed out easily, from within the orange-blue flames of the furnace. “They did everything together. They played together, they went to bookstores, they played pranks on their families. And then one day one of the girls was kind of a bitch to the other girl, and so the first girl decided to kill her. She did a lot of research to figure out how to make it look natural. And she decided she’d poison her. So she started poisoning her friend’s food little by little, and eventually the girl became really sick. And the first girl pretended to take care of her, and sit by her bedside, but all along she was the one killing her.”

The others were watching me, eyes wide. I felt peaceful and separate, as if I were talking to screens of simulations instead of people.

“That’s the end.” I took a large swig, feeling satisfied.

“Okay.” Roza eyebrows rose. “True or false?”

“False.” Wren looked unamused. “You obviously just made it up.”

“Creepy, though,” Taylor said. “I liked it.”

Keira and Poppy nodded their assent.

“You made it up,” Roza said. “Yes?”

“That’s what writers do, don’t they? Of course I fucking made it up.”

Taylor and Keira glanced at each other, seemingly surprised by my sharp words. Wren hid a smile. She was loving this: me losing control, me looking like a sulky bitch.

“So, my dear.” Roza smiled. “You will need to go in darkness. Are you ready?”

“Sounds great.” I slammed down my glass and jumped up. Yana was at the doorway, waiting. She led me down the hall to the kitchen. In contrast to how the space had felt earlier that day, with Chitra bustling around, it now seemed cold and alien.

“Here.” Yana opened a door at the back of the room. A stairway descended into darkness.

“Wonderful.” I started clomping down the steps. I didn’t give a shit if I fell all the way down and broke my neck. Who cared, really? But as I descended into the chilly dampness, the drunken bravado seeped away. Now I just felt embarrassed. Why couldn’t I just keep it together? Why did I let Wren wind me up so much?

At the bottom of the stairs I looked back up, expecting to see Yana outlined in the doorway, but she was already gone. I stayed in place until my eyes adjusted to the darkness, breathing in the stale scent of mildew. There, a ways away, I could see a small light flickering. The candles.

I made my way carefully. There was stuff everywhere: cardboard boxes stacked six feet high, lumps of furniture covered by sheets, piles of gilt-framed paintings. No sounds except for something dripping from a distance. Now an unease overtook my humiliation. Away from all the others, something felt off. There was some dark energy at Blackbriar that lived in the walls. It felt connected to the random story that had streamed out of my mouth so easily.

And how had Wren told my story so flawlessly? At least she’d had the decency not to share the ending. How I’d gone home that night to hear Mom and Dad fighting upstairs. That wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was the sharp crack and Mom’s hoarse cry. Standing outside their bedroom, the smell of rotting filled my nose. It was like I’d brought the creature from the woods back with me to infect our house.

Dad left two weeks later.

There came a sound of something scuffling nearby. I paused and the sound went further away. A mouse, or a rat, or whatever else lived in this gigantic maze. The darkness squeezed at my ribs. I turned back to see the reassuring circle of light pooling from the stairs.

Finally, after bumping my shin on a low couch, I reached the table. Four candles surrounded an antique golden hand mirror. Only one was still lit.

Two should be lit, since Poppy hadn’t gone. Who had blown out more than one? Who had wanted to leave me in complete darkness?

I hesitated, considering. Should I just say I’d blown one out and leave this last one burning? Or would they know?

Whatever. I was over it. I picked up the hand mirror and stared at myself, drunk and red-eyed and ugly. I gave myself a wide, humorless grin.

Behind me, something moved in the dim gloom.

I whipped around.

In that moment, someone blew the last candle out.





Chapter 16




“Okay, guys.” I was holding out my hands in the darkness, as if ready to fight. “Not funny. Pretty fucked-up, actually.”

No response. I stood rigidly, my shoulders bunched into my neck.

“Okay.” I began moving towards the stairs. My other shin slammed into the couch. And then I bumped into a wooden piece of furniture covered in a sheet. This place was like a goddamn obstacle course.

Every step, I expected to be touched: hands pulling my hips, grasping my hair, gripping my neck. But after what felt like an hour, I made it to the stairs. Halfway up I crouched and looked out into the basement. All I could see were shadows and vague outlines.