Happy Halloween, everyone!
"Bits and Pieces"
“Jenny?” I cried, trudging up the leaf-strewn hill. “Jenny! Are you here?”
The wind kicked up, sending leaves cascading over my tennis
shoes. Briefly my left foot slipped, but
I caught myself with one hand before I hit the grass. But not at the loss of my
paper coffee cup, which bounced once on the grass before the top sprang off and
its contents spilled out all over the ground.
“Dammit!” I screamed, staring at the steaming place on the
dead grass. I had really been looking
forward to that cup of coffee.
But more than that, I had been looking forward to seeing
Jenny again. It had been a year since we had laid eyes on each other. I had
been looking forward to this day since we had first met, on Halloween the
year prior.
I pulled myself upright again and zipped up my sweatshirt
against another sudden breeze. The trees
in the old cemetery groaned and creaked, their damp, dead limbs protesting the
movement. The breeze brought with it the smell of dead things: decaying leaves,
old moss, and cold stone.
That was why I always came to the cemetery to write my breed
of dark poetry; it always seemed to put me in the mood to contemplate the
fruitless dichotomy of life and death.
Most people would have laughed and dismissed my work
immediately at the mere phrase “fruitless dichotomy of life and death.” But not
Jenny. She was one of the few people who really wanted to hear what I had
written, to get to know the deeper me beneath the metaphors. Even though we had only spent that one
afternoon together last year, I knew I had to see her again.
“Jenny, are you here?” I called. “It’s me, Claire. I brought
a lot of new material this year.”
I finally crested the top of the hill, the highest point in
the cemetery. This was my old go-to spot, where I came every Halloween to
surround myself in the macabre. Last year was the first year I had ever been
joined by anyone; I had gotten lucky, in finding Jenny.
This year, I wasn’t as lucky. A skinny man sat at the base
of the tree. He wore glasses that looked too big for his face, and at least
three sweaters against the chill in the air. The result made him look like a
turtle, poking its thin neck out from an overstuffed, puffy shell. The frock of
thinning hair on the top of his head stood out at comical angles in the breeze.
“Oh, hello,” he said awkwardly, blinking two magnified,
muddy-brown eyes at me from behind his glasses. “I heard you shouting. Are you
looking for someone?”
As my old introversions took over, I pulled my Chicago Bulls
cap down further over my face. “Oh, it’s nothing,” I lied. “I… um… I probably
should be going.”
I had responded before I had even thought about what to say.
I only got to see Jenny once a year; I couldn’t leave yet! But I didn’t want to sit next to that
creepy-looking guy. Something about him gave me the willies. Besides, I had no
idea if she would even appear if I wasn’t alone at the top of the hill.
“Oh, it’s okay,” the guy continued. “I won’t disturb you. You can sit, if you
like. I’m not going to be here much longer, and I don’t want you to miss your
friend.”
He was sitting in my spot.
This was my fifth year in a row at the cemetery on Halloween, and my second
year in a row with Jenny. It wasn’t fair that he was taking my spot.
Still, he got there first. And at least he wasn’t going to
stay long. Maybe Jenny would appear after he left. “Okay, thanks,” I said. I
trotted around to the other side of the tree and planted my rear on the thick
roots. From my backpack I produced my composition notebook, the one I had covered
with Sharpie doodles of skulls and ghosts.
Last Halloween, Jenny had showed me that, if I let my eyes
unfocus and cleared my mind, I could see the spirits of the people buried in
the cemetery wandering around. Halloween night was apparently the one time of
the year when the barrier between the worlds of the living and the dead was
thinnest. It has something to do with
why Mexican culture celebrates the Day of the Dead on November 1st.
It was also why today was the only day of the year I could see
Jenny.
I had chosen my old spot because of the view it allowed me
of the rest of the cemetery. The view from the other side of the tree simply
showed off the dead scrub of thorns and weeds that grew at the base of the
tree, separating the other side of the hill from the rest of the cemetery.
This sucks, I
moped, opening my composition book.
“So, did you say your name is Claire?” The guy’s voice said,
from the other side of the tree.
Great. First he takes
my spot, then he tries to force me into awkward small talk. I briefly
contemplated throwing myself into the thicket of brambles, but then I thought
better of it. “Yeah,” I begrudgingly
said, flipping through the pages in the notebook.
“I’d say Claire is a funny name for a boy, but I’d say
you’re probably tired of hearing it,” the guy replied with an awkward
chortle.
My short hair, lack of make-up, and unflattering clothing
had yet again brought out the razor wit in the best of society. As if I didn’t
get enough of that at school. Then why
bother saying it, asshole? I wondered. Instead of retorting, I chose to
simply remain silent; with any luck, the guy would take my silence as
indication he should leave, and then Jenny would feel free to come out.
On the most recent page of my notebook, I had drawn a (very
terrible) cartoon of me and Jenny, the way I pictured we looked last year at my
place on the hill. Me, in my hoodie and
cap, she in her school girl uniform, one knee-length stocking, and one black
leather shoe.
Something like electricity suddenly filled the air around
me. It was nothing I could perceive with my normal senses; it had no
appearance, no sound, and no physical feeling. But something happened, there in
that moment, which made me feel warm and alive and happy again. Like I had felt
when Jenny was around.
At the bottom of the page in my notebook, a single line of
beautiful script appeared, as if written by an invisible pen held by an
invisible hand.
It’s him.
I
froze, staring at the page. I wasn’t afraid. The feeling the air, the way I
felt her with my senses in a way that was nearly impossible to explain, told me
that she was near. It was the words that she had written on my page that gave
me pause.
When
Jenny appeared to me last year, she only had one leg. She said that when she
had been murdered, the previous February, the killer had taken her left leg. It was the
signature of the Doll Parts Killer. The police had been unable to catch him for
more than ten years. Every four or five months or so, another body popped up,
each one missing a piece. The police assumed the killer kept them as trophies,
like some sick big-game hunter.
My
hands starting to shake as the realization of what Jenny had written on the
page sunk in. I took a pen from my pocket and scrawled on the page beneath the
script: Are you sure?
IT’S HIM, CLAIRE.
I stood
so quickly that my notebook fell to the grass and I toppled my backpack,
spilling its contents at the base of the tree. I stood for a moment, listening,
but I heard nothing except for the light echo of traffic from the road, a few
hundred yards away. Somewhere among the graves, a crow cawed.
“So
what brings you out here, all alone, on a night like this?”
I
jumped at the voice and spun to find the awkward-looking man only feet from me.
He had come around the other side of the tree with barely a sound at all.
The
half of my brain that told me to run for my life prevented the half that tried
to stay calm from speaking. I choked on some words that slipped from my throat
in an unintelligible murmur. The trying-to-stay-calm half gestured at the
spilled writing materials.
“Oh,
let me help you pick them up,” the man said, taking a step closer to me. He
knelt at my feet and started gathering my pencils and books.
Good
thing the run-for-your-life part of my brain was still partially in control. I
took a step backward, away from the man, which put me nearly out of his arm’s
reach when he lunged for me.
He
grabbed my left foot and pulled hard, which set me off balance. I fell hard on
my butt on the wet grass. He pulled me a few inches closer to him by my foot.
He was stronger than he looked.
I
screamed and kicked with my right foot. He dodged, faster than a guy who looks
so gangly should be able to dodge, and grabbed my right shoe with his other
hand. I twisted and kicked my feet, but he had intertwined his fingers with my
shoelaces and held tight.
“Stop
screaming,” he grunted through gritted teeth, pulling with both hands again.
“If you stop screaming, I won’t hurt you.”
I screamed
harder as I slid a few inches along the grass, closer to him. “Help!” I cried, twisting my legs as hard as
I could. “Someone! Anyone! Help!”
On his
knees, he released one of my feet and lunged his newly freed hand for my face.
I managed to get my free knee between him and me, but he was too close for me
to kick my way free.
Then I
remembered the pen in my hand, which I had used to write my reply to Jenny’s
disembodied message. I thrust as hard as I could and plunged the pen into the
palm of the man’s hand.
He
screamed and flinched away far enough for my free kneecap to become my free
leg. I planted the sole of my shoe as hard as I could into his nose. His head
flipped back like a Pez dispenser, and my other shoe was suddenly free
of his hand. I scrambled to my feet and ran.
In the
movies, action like that would have bought me plenty of time to run away. In
real life, it felt like only a second before I heard footsteps following me
down the hill. “Stop running! Stop screaming!” He yelled, his weasely voice
full of rage. “You’re just going to make it worse!”
I
didn’t realize I was still screaming.
I ran
toward the road. If there were other people around, he would leave me alone.
Someone would come to help me.
But the
cemetery was huge, and the road was a long way away. My lungs burned from the
cold air and my legs ached from wrestling with the stranger and running full
speed down the hill. A stitch, like a cold knife, tore at my side.
A row
of stone mausoleums, each more than ten feet tall and at least as long, came
into view. I recognized them: the nine structures made a three-by-three grid.
Each held four caskets, one on top of the other.
I
darted among them, and when I was sure I was sufficiently hidden, I pressed my
back against the cold stone and tried to will my heart to stop pounding in my
ears. Behind me I heard shoes come to a stop on the grass.
He’s trying to find the best
place to enter, said
a voice in my head. It was warm, soothing, and kind.
Jenny! I thought, and I nearly
melted from relief.
He’s two monuments to your
left, Jenny
said. Move around the right side of your
block.
I did
as Jenny instructed. Somewhere close by, shoes crunched on dead grass. A
frustrated grunt met my ears.
Rotate again, same direction, Jenny said. That will leave you facing the road.
Again,
I did as she told me. I was now facing the outside of the mausoleums, and I
could see the road some hundred yards away.
He’s still looking for you. You
have to run for it.
My
heart lept in my chest. I can’t leave
yet! I haven’t gotten to see you!
Jenny’s
voice was frantic. Claire, you have to
go, now! This is your only chance!
But I won’t get to see you
for another year! I
protested. I felt on verge of tears, and, to my surprise, they weren’t from
fear.
There will be many more
years! Jenny
said. But only if you get out of here
alive! I care too much about you to let this bastard have you, too!
You’re the only one who’s
ever gotten to know me, I
replied.
And you’re the only one who’s
ever known me, Jenny
said, her voice thick with emotion. But
Claire, if you care about me at all, please save yourself! Run!
The
conversation had happened in less than the blink of an eye; at the speed of
thought. I gritted my teeth, squinted the tears out of my eyes, and ran as if
my life depended on it. Because it literally did.
It took
the pursuing footsteps a few seconds to figure out which was I was going, but then they thudded behind me. Panic filled my chest and I ran
until my heart felt like it was going to explode and my legs felt like they
were made of hot slag.
I love you, I thought to Jenny as I
approached the cemetery gate and my body screamed for me to stop.
I love you, too, she replied as I stepped
past the gate and into the parking lot.
I
didn’t stop until I got to the road. When I finally had the nerve to turn
around, the man was gone. In full sight of all cars on the road, I pulled my
cell phone from my pocket and dialed 911.
Police
arrived. Armed, they went into the cemetery to find the guy who had chased me.
He was nowhere to be found, but they did recover all my stuff from the top of
the hill.
I
wanted to go back in with them. I wanted to talk to Jenny again. But they
wouldn’t allow it.
My
parents showed up. A news crew interviewed me the next morning. A police sketch
of the man went on every news station in three states.
I had
no idea why the Doll Parts Killer was in the same cemetery as me on Halloween
night. I would have asked Claire for some insight, but by the time I made it back to the cemetery,
days later, there was no answer from her.
So I decided what I had to do.
First,
I had to find another way to talk to Jenny. I needed her.
Second,
I had to catch the Doll Parts Killer.
