close it, but Hamlet blocked me.
“The air bites shrewdly,” he murmured. “It is very cold.”
“Yeah. That’s why I’m closing the door
.
”
He stopped me from reaching for the doorknob again. “It comes!” Hamlet’s cracked-ice eyes were stuck to something through that open doorway. “It wants to speak to you alone.”
I inched forward, across the threshold. There wasnothing beyond that door but chilly darkness. Not as far as I could see. But as I set my toes on the first cement step, I caught something else. A sound. A soft, repeating, rasping sound.
Hamlet hung back as I crept down the steps.
The cement floor was frigid. The scents of rust and gasoline and dirt and of something else—something sharper—twisted in the air. Our garage had no windows, and still, everything was suddenly lit with that fuzzy silver moonlight. The dingy walls. The stained workbench. And, right in front of me, the hulk of a strange black car.
It wasn’t our car. It didn’t belong here. But I knew exactly what it was.
The rasping sound came from the car’s far side. It sounded almost like someone raking dry leaves. Like heavy, painful breathing.
The side of the car that faced the kitchen door looked perfectly ordinary. I edged around the trunk, my throat turning sour, my heart tightening. The car’s other side slid into view.
It was destroyed. Just as I knew it would be. Metal panels crumpled inward. The front right corner folded up like a paper fan.
Something jingled against my toes.
I looked down. The garage floor was covered with broken glass from the car’s windows, some of the fragments as fine and powdery as snow.
The front passenger-side door stood open.
A body hung in its cavity, knees on the floor, head hidden inside.
My stomach lurched.
I didn’t want to see this. I didn’t want to get any closer.
But the rasping sound dragged me.
I staggered forward until I could see that the body wasn’t still. It was moving, rhythmically, back and forth, again and again. As it leaned back, I caught a flash of brown hair. A wide velvet collar.
I took another step.
Warmth seeped between my toes.
Something dark and thick was dripping through the open door. It splattered down onto the cement, pooling, spreading, its edge reaching for me.
The rasping stopped. Shakespeare turned and looked up at me, a red-stained rag in his hands. More stains, deep red against white, seeped up from the edges of his cuffs. He shook his head wonderingly. Tauntingly. “Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?”
For a beat, I was sure I was going to be sick. I lunged backward. My feet clinked through the glass as I charged around the wrecked car, up the stairs, back into the kitchen.
I slammed the door behind me.
Doubled over, heaving, I stumbled through the dining room. Hamlet had disappeared. I pounded up the staircase,along the silent hallway, and through the door of my own bedroom. I slammed that door too.
I flung myself onto the bed and switched on the reading lamp. I yanked the quilt over me, curled into a tight ball, and pressed my thundering head against my knees.
Breathe.
The shards of glass. The dark puddle. That awful rasping sound.
I dug my fingernails into my palms until pain lanced up my arms.
Empty stage. Empty stage. Empty stage.
But I couldn’t clear this away. And if I was sleeping, I didn’t wake up.
CHAPTER 7
O utside the high school, the morning was still dark. There wasn’t even a hint of sunrise in the black sky, just the electric glow from the city beneath it. It might as well have been the middle of the night.
But inside, it was bright. And warm. And loud.
Sadie dragged me through the crowded hallways. “Excuse us,” she blared, nudging a knot of underclassmen out of the way. “Coming through.”
“Could you maybe try to sound less like a carnival barker?” I jerked my elbow away. “Everybody’s staring at us.”
“Everybody’s staring at
you
.”
“The air bites shrewdly,” he murmured. “It is very cold.”
“Yeah. That’s why I’m closing the door
.
”
He stopped me from reaching for the doorknob again. “It comes!” Hamlet’s cracked-ice eyes were stuck to something through that open doorway. “It wants to speak to you alone.”
I inched forward, across the threshold. There wasnothing beyond that door but chilly darkness. Not as far as I could see. But as I set my toes on the first cement step, I caught something else. A sound. A soft, repeating, rasping sound.
Hamlet hung back as I crept down the steps.
The cement floor was frigid. The scents of rust and gasoline and dirt and of something else—something sharper—twisted in the air. Our garage had no windows, and still, everything was suddenly lit with that fuzzy silver moonlight. The dingy walls. The stained workbench. And, right in front of me, the hulk of a strange black car.
It wasn’t our car. It didn’t belong here. But I knew exactly what it was.
The rasping sound came from the car’s far side. It sounded almost like someone raking dry leaves. Like heavy, painful breathing.
The side of the car that faced the kitchen door looked perfectly ordinary. I edged around the trunk, my throat turning sour, my heart tightening. The car’s other side slid into view.
It was destroyed. Just as I knew it would be. Metal panels crumpled inward. The front right corner folded up like a paper fan.
Something jingled against my toes.
I looked down. The garage floor was covered with broken glass from the car’s windows, some of the fragments as fine and powdery as snow.
The front passenger-side door stood open.
A body hung in its cavity, knees on the floor, head hidden inside.
My stomach lurched.
I didn’t want to see this. I didn’t want to get any closer.
But the rasping sound dragged me.
I staggered forward until I could see that the body wasn’t still. It was moving, rhythmically, back and forth, again and again. As it leaned back, I caught a flash of brown hair. A wide velvet collar.
I took another step.
Warmth seeped between my toes.
Something dark and thick was dripping through the open door. It splattered down onto the cement, pooling, spreading, its edge reaching for me.
The rasping stopped. Shakespeare turned and looked up at me, a red-stained rag in his hands. More stains, deep red against white, seeped up from the edges of his cuffs. He shook his head wonderingly. Tauntingly. “Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?”
For a beat, I was sure I was going to be sick. I lunged backward. My feet clinked through the glass as I charged around the wrecked car, up the stairs, back into the kitchen.
I slammed the door behind me.
Doubled over, heaving, I stumbled through the dining room. Hamlet had disappeared. I pounded up the staircase,along the silent hallway, and through the door of my own bedroom. I slammed that door too.
I flung myself onto the bed and switched on the reading lamp. I yanked the quilt over me, curled into a tight ball, and pressed my thundering head against my knees.
Breathe.
The shards of glass. The dark puddle. That awful rasping sound.
I dug my fingernails into my palms until pain lanced up my arms.
Empty stage. Empty stage. Empty stage.
But I couldn’t clear this away. And if I was sleeping, I didn’t wake up.
CHAPTER 7
O utside the high school, the morning was still dark. There wasn’t even a hint of sunrise in the black sky, just the electric glow from the city beneath it. It might as well have been the middle of the night.
But inside, it was bright. And warm. And loud.
Sadie dragged me through the crowded hallways. “Excuse us,” she blared, nudging a knot of underclassmen out of the way. “Coming through.”
“Could you maybe try to sound less like a carnival barker?” I jerked my elbow away. “Everybody’s staring at us.”
“Everybody’s staring at
you
.”
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