“How was the drive here, Sam?” Mom asks. “Were you nervous?”

  I sat in the back of Dad’s car with Molly, but Mom kept glancing around like I was going to have a panic attack.

  “It was fine.”

  Another chance to be honest that I deflect with a lie. Because it wasn’t fine. I don’t want to drive anymore. I don’t think I ever will.

  Dad’s smiling, and I wonder if it’s because Molly hit some new level of viral. But it’s as if he’s a different person. No … not different … just the version I like most.

  “Remember the first time we came here?” Dad says. He’s looking right at Mom.

  She grins and says, “You were trying very hard to impress me.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Nope.”

  My parents laugh so loud that it fills the restaurant. For the tiniest moment I’m embarrassed, because people are looking, but then I’m not. I’m just happy that we’re the ones laughing.

  “Tell us about the flowers,” Molly pleads, and Mom shakes her head and says, “Those damn lilies.”

  Dad snorts. “I was trying to be romantic.”

  I’ve heard this story a thousand times but I never tire of it.

  “Okay,” Mom says, focusing on my sister. “I think we all know your father was enamored with me. But he’d never actually asked me out.”

  “Because you liked somebody else,” Dad says.

  “Well, so the story goes. But when he did finally pluck up the courage, I said yes.”

  Our father coughs and says, “Actually, you said, ‘Why not?’”

  “Anyway, he turns up at the restaurant with this ridiculous bouquet of lilies. I mean, huge. It must have cost him a fortune. There’s nowhere to put it so I leave it on the floor, and it keeps tripping up the waitress and staining everything it touches. People keep sneezing. Your dad was mortified but I couldn’t stop laughing.”

  Mom goes quiet, and she and Dad just look at each other for a moment. Then she says, to all of us, “So I guess ‘Why not?’ was the right answer.”

  Three years later they went off to college, did the long-distance thing; then, like everyone, they came back to Hayschurch, and the rest is, well, us.

  While my parents talk quietly, and Molly stares at them like she’s watching a rom-com, everything that’s been happening lately slithers back, twisting around my happiness until it’s all I can think about.

  I want to ask Dad about him leaving the key in the garden, if Dom really could have come and gone on the day everything changed for us. I want to tell him his guilt was misplaced all these years, that it wasn’t just him at fault for the fire that left its mark on his home and his marriage and his body. It was my fault and Dom’s fault, too.

  But maybe now that I’ve lived for so long with one version of the truth, it would be wrong to reveal another. Because they are happy and, tonight, that’s all that matters.

  “You’ve been coming here a long time,” Molly says.

  Mom holds Dad’s hand across the table. “Twenty-three years.”

  My sister grins, and I wish it could always be like this.

  I wish my friends hadn’t betrayed me. I wish I’d driven everyone here tonight because my car wasn’t wrecked. I wish the Dark Place still felt safe. I wish Lauren and Malika were still together, and I wish Elisha still looked at me the way she did when we came here two years ago.

  She laughed at all my dad’s jokes and talked quietly with Mom. Every few minutes Elisha would glance at me and smile and I wondered how many times we’d come back here.

  But this is my parents’ special place. As soon as they walk through the door, I see echoes of who they were before us.

  Elisha and I don’t have anything like that. I thought it might have been the Dark Place, but now I realize how twisted that was. I should have listened to Dom when he said no to her joining us. And I should have walked away, too.

  Molly makes a point of rubbing her tummy, like she’s got a stomach ache; then she reaches for another slice of pizza.

  She smiles and takes one tiny bite, then passes it to Mom, who does the same. And me and Dad.

  This is how we finish the meal; the four of us having one last piece. Then they pack up the rest for us to take home.

  Molly falls asleep in the car and I stare out of the window, as our parents whisper about the past.

  I want this moment to be every moment, but I know life doesn’t work like that. So, I focus on the late-night love songs on the radio, the sight of my sister dreaming, the sound of Mom and Dad when they are lost in each other’s words.

  And I keep my own eyes open, because I don’t want to miss a second.

  Family Portraits

  Mom unlocks the front door while Dad tries to get Molly out of the car without waking her. He scoops her up with practiced ease.

  Over his shoulder, I see my sister open her eyes, work out where she is, then fall instantly back to sleep.

  When she was a baby, my parents tried everything to soothe her. There was a sweet spot, halfway between the kitchen and the living room, where she would sleep for hours, but only if Dad stood and rocked her. Now she’ll crash anywhere.

  “Hot chocolate?” Mom asks, but she already knows the answer. It’s a family tradition. The perfect end to a great night.

  Dad comes downstairs, then stops before he gets to us, a strange look on his face.

  He turns, unhooks a photo from the wall, and says, “Did you do this?”

  “Do what?”

  “This!”

  Dad passes me the frame, and I make a noise that sounds like a whimper. Mom stops making the drinks and stares at me.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  I look at Dad, then back to the photo.

  “There are more,” he mumbles. “I think it’s all of them.”

  Mom comes closer and gasps.

  I know every single pixel of this photograph. It’s been hanging above our fireplace for years: the four of us smiling real smiles, wearing our best clothes, the perfect family portrait.

  Except, it’s not that anymore, because my sister’s face has been scratched out.

  I look at the bookcase, where Molly’s school photo has pride of place. But all I see is a mess of jagged paper and holes where her innocent face should be.

  Mom pulls the curtains back and grabs a frame from the windowsill. We’re on vacation, me, Mom, and Molly all squeezed onto a sun lounger while Dad pokes his head in from the side. That picture wouldn’t win any awards or get many likes, but it’s one of my favorites.

  Except now, Molly’s face has gone.

  The room starts to spin and I sit down before I pass out. Then I breathe in for four and out for six, but it isn’t helping.

  Dad comes back with the canvas that usually hangs halfway up the stairs. It’s me holding my newborn sister, only, she’s not there anymore.

  The sickness comes so quickly I almost vomit on the rug. But I push my hand against my mouth and swallow the sting until I’m in the bathroom.

  They didn’t just stare through our window this time. They came inside and …

  “Dad!”

  “What is it?”

  “What if they’re still here?”

  Fear and rage flicker across Dad’s face and he marches toward the stairs. We go straight to Molly’s room and stand over her but she’s fast asleep.

  Dad quietly opens her wardrobe then looks under her bed before I check the other rooms. Together, we comb the house. There’s no one here, just the damage they’ve left behind.

  Every single photo of Molly has been ruined—hacked to pieces while everyone else is untouched.

  When we’re certain the house is safe, we go downstairs to where Mom is holding my sister’s school photograph and crying.

  Dad wraps his arms around her and she sobs.

  “Maybe it was someone who’s jealous of her talent,” he says.

  “It’s not,” I say.

  My parents look up at me. This is it.

  “I haven’t been honest with you,” I say. “The car crash wasn’t an accident—someone threw that dummy at the car for a reason. And I didn’t shoplift because I was being bullied. It’s bigger than that.”

  Mom and Dad look at each other, but they don’t speak.

  “Someone has been stalking us—me, Elisha, Haran, Dom, and Lauren. First, it was weird messages. Then they filmed us. And then, it got worse.”

  “Worse how?” Mom whispers.

  “They followed us home one night. Three of them … all wearing these horrible masks.”

  Mom frowns. “A mask? What sort of mask?”

  “Yellowing cloth, with dark holes for eyes and a red mouth. I was finally going to tell you, but you seemed so happy. I wanted tonight to be normal.”

  I stare at the ruined pictures of my sister and feel relieved that she’s asleep. I hate the thought of her seeing this.

  “We should call the police,” I say. “Whoever did this might come back. I’m sorry. If I’d told you sooner, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  Mom nods and reaches for the phone. I go into the hallway and I see Dad joining her.

  Sasha warned me. They sent me that video of Molly. I should have told our parents then and they could have done something.

  We were so close to the perfect night. Instead, it feels like a horror movie.

  A floorboard creaks in Molly’s room and I freeze.

  I walk up the stairs. No one’s here, I think. We checked.

  On the landing, I stop. The air feels different, like the silence is holding its breath. And then I see it. Our attic hatch isn’t quite level, the thick slab of wood that usually covers the hole raised on one side so a slice of darkness creeps through.

  I quickly push Molly’s door open and there’s a shape standing over her, holding something.

  The shape turns and charges at me before I can move, pushing me against the wall and darting onto the landing. They are dressed all in gray, a hood pulled low over their face, and their mouth and nose covered by a plain black mask.

  “Dad!” I shout. “They’re still here!”

  I’m running down the stairs as fast as I can but they are already at the front door, flinging it open and sprinting out.

  “Sam!” Dad yells. “Stop!”

  I keep running. I can hear his footsteps slapping on the pavement behind me. The shape turns left at the end of our road, flinging a garden waste bin into my path that I dodge at the last moment.

  My legs are burning and my heart is racing, but they were in my house. They were in my sister’s room.

  Whoever it is, they’re fast, their outline fading into the black until I stop, hands on my knees, panting into the cold night air.

  “Which way?” Dad asks, and when I point, he charges after them.

  Someone peers out of their front window, while curtains fall back into place two doors down. That’s what happens when there are late-night noises around here. People check for answers and those answers are usually grocery trucks or wailing cats.

  Now, though, no one comes out to ask what’s wrong.

  I could shout into the emptiness, pleading for help, but the longer I wait, the farther my father disappears into the gloom. That’s why I burst forward again, until the gaps between the streetlamps widen and the noise shifts, from the hum of suburbia to the buzz of the wild.

  I see Dad standing in the road next to the kindergarten. He whispers, “I think we’ve got them.”

  Before I can answer, he puts a finger to his mouth and points at the kids’ playground.

  I stare into the shadows. The swings Molly used to love, the jungle gym she hated, the merry-go-round that’s always broken. And then one of the shadows moves. It’s barely a flicker but it’s there—a shape creeping through the black.

  A low iron fence surrounds them, and Dad starts creeping right.

  “Stay here,” he whispers, and for a moment I’m frozen to the spot. Then, something snaps me into action. I can’t let him go in alone, so I approach the playground from the other side.

  Can they see us as clearly as I can suddenly see them? Because that’s all I’m focused on—a shape that doesn’t quite fit the pattern around it.

  There are two gates into the park, but I don’t risk making a sound. Instead, I gently climb over one while Dad eases his open.

  I brace myself for the shape to move, because it has to. They can’t simply wait to be caught. Not after all this. But there’s nothing.

  Dad gestures to me to wait. He creeps closer and closer. Slowly, slowly, feet soundless on the ground. The shape doesn’t move.

  Dad is so close now. He lunges, grabs it, spins it around, and the mask that’s been haunting us stares deep into my soul.

  Its eyes look deep enough to fall into and its grin is written in blood, but the body doesn’t move. Because it’s not a body. Not a real one, at least. It’s plastic. A mannequin; like the one thrown at my car.

  It’s leaned up against the back fence, its face terrifyingly real despite everything below.

  Dad peels the mask off and holds it in front of him and I can’t read his expression. The dirty fake skin looks so lifelike in the gloom, hanging in the space between us, forcing me to look away.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”

  They were hiding in the attic, I realize. Watching through the crack while we convinced ourselves that our home was safe again.

  “It’s not your fault,” Dad says, and that’s when I fall apart.

  “Of course it is. This is all my fault. Why are they doing this to me?”

  He puts his arms around me and I cry into his sweater for a long time.

  Eventually, he steps back and says, “Let’s go home.”

  He stares at the mannequin one last time, then tucks the mask under his jacket.

  I look back at the school and the main road, searching for eyes in the darkness; then I follow my father to a house I couldn’t protect, to a sister I failed, to a mother standing under the porch light with Molly’s tiny arms wrapped around her neck.

  “We lost them,” Dad says as he walks past, straight up the stairs and into my sister’s room.

  I follow in silence.

  He flicks on the light and five dolls’ heads smirk at me with one-eyed faces.

  I stand behind Dad, watching as he untangles the string hanging over Molly’s shelves and her headboard.

  “We got these in our lockers,” I say, and Dad’s shoulders tense.

  He doesn’t reply until all the heads have gone and Molly’s room looks almost normal again. Then he stands in front of me with his hands on my shoulders and says, “It’s not your job to protect this family, Sam. It’s mine.”

  “But … but we need to tell the police,” I say.

  “I know,” Dad replies. “We’ll call them first thing tomorrow.”

  All the times I stopped myself from telling him what was going on, and this is what would have happened if I had. His face would have flickered with the rage of a protective father. He would have stepped up.

  “I’m sorry,” I say—for tonight, for hiding the truth, for doubting him.

  “No need,” he replies, squeezing my shoulder on his way back downstairs.

  Molly is asleep on the sofa, Mom stroking her hair while cartoons play quietly on the TV.

  “It’s done,” Dad says, before he carries the box of heads to the garage and then stares at the smashed pane of glass in the patio doors.

  Tiny shards glisten on the conservatory tiles along with dirt, and he brushes them up, then drops them like dust into the trash.

  “Shouldn’t we leave that?” I ask. “For when the police get here?”

  With his back to me, his shoulders stiffening, Dad says, “Leave it to me, Sam. Like I said.”

  “But … it’s evidence.”

  “It’s dangerous.”

  Dad does one final sweep, then walks past me with his eyes to the ground. Is he angry that this happened on his watch? Does he believe all the superhero movies and think he’s the one destined to end this?

  Through the doorway I watch as he goes to Mom. “You need to see this,” he says quietly.

  He pulls the mask from under his jacket and she flinches.

  Slowly, reluctantly, she reaches out and touches it. Then a tear creeps down her cheek and she pushes it away.

  I hate myself for putting them through this. They’ve suffered so much through the years and most of it is because of me.

  I go into the garden and look at the fences that I always assumed were too big to climb.

  Then I watch from outside—my parents and Molly framed by the arch that separates our living room from our kitchen, the light amplified in the dark as if they are on stage and I am the audience.

  Something cracks underfoot. I crouch down and fragments of glass glow in the moonlight. I hold the biggest piece carefully between my fingers, then study the hole someone made to break in.

  There are no bricks or rocks or obvious weapons lying around. “What did they use?” I say to myself.

  I run my hands gently over the ground, and tiny shards stick to my skin.

  The glass Dad swept up had specks of dirt mixed in, as if it had come from the garden. But that doesn’t make sense.

  Unless the door was smashed from inside.

  Crime Scene

  Mom spends the night in Molly’s room, easing her cries with that voice I know so well; the one that kept me company after the fire.

  Sometimes Molly talks back, her words fragile and full of fear, and I want to go to her. I want to lie with them but something stops me. Maybe it’s shame. Maybe it’s my own fear that swells in the darkness but feels more manageable on my own.

  I stare at the ceiling, convinced sleep will never come, then jolt awake each time it pulls me under.

  In my nightmares, I’m back in Molly’s room, watching the shape standing over her bed. It looms over her, the single eye from the dangling dolls’ heads lit by the glow of my sister’s night-light. Then the shape bends down and picks Molly up. I try to tear my feet from the floor but they are frozen, and all I can do is watch as the shape carries her slowly away.

  My head is aching when I finally go downstairs the next morning, the walls and shelves filled with freshly printed copies of my sister’s pictures.

 

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