Secrets never die, p.1
Secrets Never Die, page 1
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For Charlie and Lucas
Trick or Treat
There’s too much blood.
It streams down my face and splats on my sneakers, and my heart is pounding in my chest.
I didn’t want this. Every Halloween the plan is the same. We go to Dom’s House of Horrors party and, while our classmates drink and dance, we sneak into the woods for the ritual. But this year it’s ruined before we’ve even left the house.
A pool of red spreads across the bathroom tiles, staining the baseboard, and my best friend Haran says, “Sorry.”
But I’m barely listening. I’m too busy scrubbing my face until it stings.
“You look fine, Sam. Honest.”
“I said subtle,” I reply. “You made me look like Carrie!”
“Loose lid,” Haran says, pointing at the bottle of fake blood leaking over the bath mat.
I stare at my reflection. My costume is soaked pink, like it’s been washed in spaghetti sauce, my hair stuck in red clumps, my face rubbed raw.
“You’re still going though?” Haran asks, and I nod and say, “Give me your costume.”
“What? No.”
“This is your fault.”
“So go as Overkill,” he says. “Go as Disappointment.”
I’ve never hit him but I’m this close to changing that.
Haran grins and says, “Go as Panic … or Desperation.” He sees my expression and says “Sorry” again, meaning it now.
I don’t really want his outfit. It’s store-bought whereas I like to make my own.
“Wait,” I say. “I have an idea.” And two minutes later we’re next door, explaining all the blood to Chloe Atwood.
When we were kids, Chloe and I played together while our moms drank tea. We’d race up and down the hill on the corner and she’d beat me every time; then we’d practice kickups in the street until sunset. Back then, it didn’t matter that she was a year younger. Now, with different friends and different lives, we mostly smile and wave from separate driveways.
At school, she’s one of those quiet, studious kids clustered around the tables in the study center. She’s smart, which means, fingers crossed, she can help.
“Aren’t you a bit old for trick-or-treating?” Chloe asks.
I know I’m blushing when I say, “Do you have anything … my size?”
She raises her eyebrows. “This is unexpected. I’m honored. Come in.”
In Chloe’s room, watching her spread stuff over the bed, I ask where she’s going tonight and she says, “Nowhere.”
She’s dressed all in black, and I assumed it was the start of a costume. Chloe sees my confusion and says, “I had rehearsals after school.”
Black leggings and tops are the school dance team’s unofficial uniform. But it still seems weird, that she isn’t getting ready for tonight.
“How come you’re staying home?” I ask, and Chloe sighs and says, “My mom hates Halloween, you know that. She makes us sit with the lights off, so people think we’re out.”
“You want to come with us?” Haran asks, and I give him a look he ignores.
Chloe pulls a face but doesn’t answer. She takes the bottle of blood from Haran and busies herself in the corner for a minute. Then she turns back.
“Try this,” she says, dumping an armful of clothes into my arms. I change in her bathroom, then stare at the result, wondering if it’s enough.
I’m wearing gray shorts, tights covered in tiny skulls, black boots with metal toe caps, and a white T-shirt with SCARED OF LIFE, TIRED OF DEATH written with the last of my fake blood.
It’s not what I’d planned, but it’s something.
Through the door, Chloe shouts, “Show us,” so I open it, and she grins and says, “Perfect.”
Haran nods, then turns to Chloe and says, “So, you gonna come?”
She shakes her head and asks who will be there.
“Everyone,” I say.
“I don’t have a costume.”
“It’s not compulsory.”
“Says the guy who turned up on my doorstep asking for one. And what’s he dressed as?” she asks, giving Haran a once-over.
Haran spreads his arms, unnaturally long in his outfit, and says, “I’m Slenderman.”
“Well, it’s fucking creepy.”
Haran takes her hand in his spindly fingers, bows, and says, “Chloe … would you like to come to a party with us?”
She sighs, stares at the ceiling, then says, “All right. But it better not be lame.”
* * *
We drive toward the trees, their branches pointing in all directions but leading us to only one.
The woods loom over the far end of town, ominous in the gloom. If you want to leave Hayschurch, drive the other way and hope that, unlike most, nothing brings you back.
We’ve been here lots of times, but it always feels like we arrive by accident, as if country roads are pieces of string juggled and dropped by the wind.
I know just one person who lives like this, wrapped in skinny lanes and creaking trees.
When my headlights merge with the fog, it reminds me of the horror movies Dad let me watch when I was little, while Mom was out with her friends. I remember that mixture of fear and fascination; of being excited that my father was sharing a moment with me but knowing, deep down, that it was wrong.
“What’s this place like?” Chloe asks, and I say, “Imagine a haunted house.”
“Okay.”
“It’s like that. But Dom lives there.”
“Dom Simmons?”
“The one and only.”
Chloe frowns and says, “I should have stayed at home. That guy is the worst.”
“He’s okay when you get to know him,” I say weakly. Then add, “He’s one of my oldest friends.” As if that’s an explanation.
When we arrive, empty cars line the shoulder that leads to Dom’s house and I wish we’d got here sooner.
As if he can read my mind, Haran shrugs and says, “Accidents happen.” Then he strides confidently toward the open front door as dance music and screams spill into the night.
I hold back for a moment, the house a gray mass above us, and Chloe sighs.
“Finally, I get to attend one of Dom Simmons’s famous Halloween parties,” she says. “I can tell the other losers what the fuss is about.”
“You’re not a loser.”
Chloe grins and says, “That depends who you ask.”
I poke my head in the living room, nod some hellos, then go to the dining room, where a vast wooden table stretches along the back wall, covered with drinks and snacks and Halloween decorations.
Dom has gone all out this time—the familiar decor of previous years surrounded by even more new purchases. It probably cost the same as most people’s yearly food budget, but the Simmons family aren’t most people.
“Well?” I ask, ducking under a massive cobweb, and Chloe shrugs and says, “It’s not terrible.”
“It’s the best night of the year!” Haran shouts.
We fight through the crowd to get some drinks, sticky punch in red plastic cups, then head to the kitchen, where someone in a yeti costume is DJ’ing. Their decks cover the center island and I wonder if Dom paid for this as well. We used to spend days arranging playlists for these parties. Now even that’s gone to another level.
There are lots of Deadpools and Harley Quinns and a who’s-who of movie killers.
Three zombies slither past in a groaning conga line while Pennywise and Scarlet Witch dry-hump against the dishwasher.
“Classy,” Chloe says, and I wonder if bringing her was a bad idea.
Tonight—not the party, but the other thing—is special to us. We do something no one else knows about. As much as I like her, Chloe isn’t part of that. I hadn’t thought that she probably doesn’t know anyone else here. What if we can’t shake her off?
I stare around, at all the strangers I’m unsure about underneath their masks and their makeup, all the older people and the ones from other schools. I know why they’re here, but it still feels disconcerting.
The kids from Hayschurch Academy are the worst. It’s not a private school but it acts like it is. The students are all given a smirk on their first day that they wear even on weekends.
“I’m going to find Dom,” I say, nudging my way toward the stairs. The first room is locked and I don’t try the second. In the third, everyone is watching someone else play the new Resident Evil.
The toilet is occupied, at least three voices inside.
I head back downstairs and rejoin Chloe and Haran. In the hall, someone spins me around and, before I can focus, Dom is shouting, “I thought you were going to be … whatever you said.”
“The Zeitgeist,” I mumble.
“What’s this then?” he asks, looking me up and down.
He smiles but I can see he’s not happy.
Dom tells everyone what he’ll be wearing three months early to avoid clashes. His costume is nothing like mine, but I went off script and he doesn’t like that.
Everything he wears is expensive and this is no different. He’s a manga character I’ve already forgotten the name of, but I do know he paid hundreds to ship it over from Asia.
“There was an accident,” Chloe says. “He got blood on his other costume. Too much blood.”
Dom stares at her, then looks at me and says, “No Elisha tonight?”
“She’s coming.”
“Good.” He grins at me. “It would be a shame if one of us was missing.”
Dom winks at Haran, then turns to Chloe and says, “Enjoy.”
When he’s gone, she says, “That guy is a dick,” a little too loud for him not to hear. But he doesn’t turn around. He just disappears into a crowd that has grown even bigger since we arrived.
“He’s not that bad once you get to know him,” Haran says. Our standard Dom response. The truth is, he’s not that bad to us.
Chloe yanks my arm and says, “I’m going to the bathroom.” When I turn back, Haran is in the corner on his phone. He’s probably chatting to his boyfriend, Brendan, so I leave them to it. They are the poster couple for long-distance. No jealousy, no drama, always together at a party, even when they’re one hundred miles apart.
I head to the kitchen, hoping to find a familiar face in the crush. But all I see is a girl wearing a mask with a creepy smile and intense stare. When I look closer, two black contact lenses peek through the fabric. She screeches, “Hey, you! I haven’t seen you in ages,” and I nod, thinking, I haven’t seen you ever.
“Have you seen Patrick?” she asks.
“I don’t know him.”
The girl punches my arm and says, “Fun-eee! Everyone knows Patrick.”
“So where is he?”
The girl shrugs and says, “You’ll find him. I know you will.”
“Okay.”
“You’ll. Find. Him,” she repeats, jabbing my chest. I edge away into the crowd, and when I look back, she’s staring after me.
When I find Haran, I ask if he’s seen this Patrick guy and he says, “Don’t know him. Is he cute?”
“I have no idea.”
He puts his hands on my shoulders and says, “I’m genuinely sorry about messing up your costume. You know that, right?”
“This would feel more sincere if you had a face.”
He lifts his mask, grins, and says, “Better?”
“Much.”
Someone with a white sheet over their head is scrounging through the fridge. On their back it says Lastminutecostume.com.
“You okay?” Haran asks. “You seem a little … distracted.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, catching Elisha’s eye as she elbows her way across the room.
“It’s busy,” she says, kissing me and squeezing my hand because she knows how I’m feeling. She replied to my message about the spilled blood with two words—It’s fine—but only now can I relax.
She’s made her own costume—a crimson-soaked hand bursting from her stomach, its claws sharp and twisted, fake ribs jutting out like broken prison bars.
“Sam is unhappy,” Haran says, and Elisha hugs him, then says, “I heard about the accident. But this is … interesting.”
My girlfriend steps back to get a better look at my outfit, then sees Chloe standing awkwardly in the doorway and waves her over, saying, “I hear you saved the day.”
“Desperate times.” Chloe smiles then, because Elisha has a way of making everyone feel better.
“How’s chemistry?” Elisha asks, and Chloe says, “It’s good, actually. Maybe I can be Mrs. Ryder’s favorite next year.”
“I have no doubt.”
I’ve lost count of how many kids Elisha has tutored during high school. Even at her darkest point, she never said no to a teacher. That’s why, while Chloe and I mostly share neighborly nods these days, she and my girlfriend have private jokes about science.
There’s yelling in the hallway. When I force my way through, I see three trick-or-treaters standing outside, the stars on their costumes glistening in the light of the pumpkins on the porch.
“Fresh meat!” someone yells, and the yeti DJ pulls the smallest kid over his shoulder and runs back into the house.
The girl screams, and the other boy steps forward, then back, then forward again.
“Don’t worry,” I tell them. “He’ll be fine.”
When the girl starts to cry, I say, “There’s lots of candy in the dining room. Fill your bags with whatever. And take double for your friend.”
There are cheers from another room. Then the yeti bounds past, chanting “Trick! Trick! Trick!” while the boy hangs on and shrieks.
Dom crouches next to the girl and says, “You shouldn’t knock on strangers’ doors. Anyone could answer.”
She and the boy run to the end of the path, where their friend is waiting with a look of sheer terror.
“That was fun,” the yeti says, high-fiving Dom as he walks past.
“It’s nearly time,” Dom whispers to me. “Find Haran and Elisha. And get rid of that other girl.”
The Dark Place
No one notices when the four of us sneak away.
We go through the gate at the end of Dom’s massive garden and step into the woods, the music and laughter softening then silenced the farther we walk into the black.
“How many people are there this year?” Elisha asks, and Dom says, “Enough.”
What he means is: It’s a lot easier to leave your own party unseen when it’s absolutely crammed.
Elisha squeezes my hand and I squeeze back. It’s our secret sign that we’re safe, because the noises are just animals and the shapes only shadows. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
“I can’t believe it’s been a whole year,” Haran says.
Our steps are slow and careful, while his are fast and thoughtless because he can’t wait to get there. A few times we lose him in the darkness, but he never goes far.
Eventually he stops and waits for us, because even Haran is cautious in the woods.
Dom holds his flashlight out straight, never moving from the path, never risking a sideways flash.
Your eyes play tricks in the dark, and it’s better to focus on one direction. We come in, we go out, we never deviate.
Someone’s footstep cracks louder than the rest, and I shiver. It’s only a twig or a pile of dried leaves, I tell myself.
The first year I took part in the ritual, my fear was mixed with uncertainty. I was twelve, and Dom said it would help after what had happened to me. I had no idea how much.
Back then I wanted to hide. I wanted to be alone. Yet Dom’s pitch was impossible to ignore. That’s when I realized how good he is at getting his way. No matter how many excuses I made, Dom always had an answer.
We walk into a small clearing, the lights from our phones bouncing off the trees and casting long shadows around us. In the far corner is our secret hideaway. Where our secrets are buried.
“We’re here,” Dom says, pointing his flashlight at a wooden hut with a sheet-metal roof.
The door is ajar and candles flicker through the gap; then a shadow fills the wall and someone inside coughs.
Haran doesn’t pause. He runs forward, pushes the door open, and shouts, “Happy Halloween!”
There’s a laugh and I feel relieved. Dom’s sister, Lauren, is waiting for us, the only one brave enough to come alone.
“Hey,” she says. “Welcome back.”
Lauren is a year older than Dom and, technically, she’s in charge while their parents are away. She’s supposed to be protecting their house from bad decisions, but we have more important things to do than party.
She graduated last year, left for a summer internship, then came back empty-handed.
“So,” Dom says. “Who wants to go first?”
* * *
We call it the Dark Place.
I don’t know who built it or when but, for us, it’s a sacred spot. And now Haran is alone inside.
The rest of us sit beneath the twisted elms—an arch formed by two bent trees that have wrestled each other toward the ground. We wait here until it’s our turn and then we go inside and confess our secrets.
