3:14 A.M.
I felt a tug, like clammy fingertips, at my toes.
Go away, I thought, though I couldn’t’ve said who I was talking to. I kicked my feet and rolled over. That’s when I realized:
The ground was hard, solid underneath me. Instead of my mattress, or a sweaty mess of sheets and blankets, I was pressed against wood, all knotty and warped against my bare chest.
It was like … like waking up inside of a pine box.
I snapped my eyes open. “Where—”
I realized right away.
The boathouse.
I could hear the slosh of the river lapping against the dock posts, could smell the algae creeping along, slick and slimy against the bottom of the rickety little shed.
Somehow, I woke up in the boathouse.
There was a shovel next to me.
Someone—or something—wanted me to dig.
Amity, I thought.
I stood.
THE NEXT MORNING, I WAS BACK IN MY OWN BED.
When I opened my eyes, I thought I remembered, sort of, the boathouse, the shovel. And digging, maybe? Did I dig last night?
The sun was bright, really pounding through the window, shouting at me to get moving. I tore the sheets and blankets off and threw them on the ground. My spine crackled when I swung around and lowered my legs onto the floor. I was coughing the last dregs of night up when my eyes finally focused and I caught sight of my feet.
They were covered in mud.
Next to the bed there was a battered old binder, filthy white plastic that was cracked at the corners. It was covered in mud, too. It stank like the air in the boathouse, like that dead-body rot I smelled in my dreams.
Did I dig this up? I couldn’t say. The buzzing in my fingers made me think yes.
Was this what Amity left for me in the boathouse?
I grabbed the binder and flipped it open. It felt like being electrocuted, kind of, when my fingers touched the cover. But in a good way. It was some kind of scrapbook, filled in with hole-punched newspaper articles and other clips, some pages like a photo album with the clear sheet over the sticky stuff.
I turned the pages, skimmed along. Some of the clips had highlighted parts. Memigassett, I read. Burial rituals. Nexus of power. It was like reading along to the pictures I’d seen in my dreams.
There must’ve been a breeze then, even though I didn’t feel it, because the pages kind of ruffled on their own. On my lap, the book flopped open to a bold headline, like almost a scream:
THE CONCORD RUNS RED AGAIN: FAMILY SLAUGHTERED AT AMITY.
The date on the article was the future. But close, like something that was going to happen real soon. And there was a picture, too. It was blurry, hard to make out, but I could tell:
It was a picture of me.
I didn’t bother to wonder about who put the book together, or why it was important to get it to me, or even how there was a newspaper clipping from a date that hadn’t happened yet. None of that stuff really mattered.
It was pretty cool to see my picture there, honestly. Even all blurry.
I liked it a lot.
THERE WAS OTHER STUFF IN THE SCRAPBOOK, TOO, like information, I mean, about Amity. And, yeah, it was all pretty similar to what Jules told me at night, in those waking-dream times.
I read this thing about the basement, which I’d kind of already guessed. Those giant, smooth stones were used for walling up hideouts, like all way back when. So later that day, I went down there, into that stale dark, tapping along the walls, listening for echoes, wondering what was buried on the other side. Nothing knocked back. But I was listening, ready.
I remembered about the red room from my dreams, you know? In the dreams, I’d been inside of it, like right in the middle of all of Amity’s strength. I wanted to get back in there, to be in there all of the time, as much as I could.
So there I was, tapping along the wall, banging my knuckles all over, listening for hollow places. The stones looked smooth enough, but they were scratching up the backs of my hands pretty good, and actually, it kind of sounded like all of them were a little bit hollow, were echoing, like kind of calling out, you know?
I crouched, knees popping. Right under the staircase, the basement floor was poured concrete, but as I ran my hands along the ground, my fingers grazed the little space where the wall and the floor came together. Right there, like a little skinny gutter, sort of, where the concrete stopped, I could feel cold, hard-packed dirt. I pressed at it and it gave, just a little.
Interesting.
You couldn’t dig up concrete, not without serious equipment.
But you could dig up the dirt.
And I had myself a shovel, right? As of last night. It was right outside, in the boathouse. It was waiting for me there when I woke up in the middle of the night. It was still waiting for me there.
I just needed to go and get it.
THE SHOVEL WAS THERE, propped against the door to the boathouse, just resting upright, like it knew I’d be coming to find it, to use it, today. Like it knew I went down to the basement and saw something that was maybe worth digging up.
I picked up the shovel. The rusty metal of its handle was rough.
“Connor.”
I almost jumped. For a minute there, I kind of forgot about the rest of the world, you know? Like everything just fell away, except Amity. But here was Jules, coming up behind me, clapping a palm on my shoulder.
“Jesus.” I shook her off.
She moved back a few paces, eyeing me kind of funny. “What are you doing out here?” Her voice squeaked.
“Nothing.” Why was she so bent out of shape anyway? “I wanted the shovel.”
“Clearly.” She twisted her hair in a knot at her neck. It was still wet from her morning shower and the shoulders of her T-shirt were soaked. “You left a mud pit in the bathroom this morning.”
“Sorry,” I said. I tried to be nice about it. But I wasn’t sorry, really. Mostly, I wished she’d leave me alone. I wanted to be by myself, didn’t want Jules poking around in the boathouse right now. Not for any reason, I mean. It just was.
“Getting into trouble out here?” She said it kind of joking, but I knew Jules well enough to tell it was a serious question.
“Come on. I just got out here,” I said, even though we both knew I never needed too much time to get into trouble. I could find trouble on a dime. Usually did.
Jules shot me a look. “You were using that shovel for something,” she said. She pointed her finger right at the same time as her jaw dropped down to her knees. “Connor. What the hell?”
I looked where she was pointing. It was the tip of the shovel, all crusted over.
Streaked with gore.
Interesting.
A head rush came over me and I rolled my shoulders back.
“What were you digging?” she asked. Her voice was all hoarse and raspy.
I stared hard at the shovel, trying to tell myself that the reddish clumps at its tip were just rust, or clay from the riverbank, or something. But inside my head, even through all of that static and fuzz, I knew better. I knew the truth. Even without being able to remember too clear.
It’s blood.
My eyes closed, that charged, rushing feeling coming back over my skin. My mouth wanted to pull into a grin.
Interesting.
Rather than tell Jules that I had no idea, frankly, what I’d dug up, I thought I’d see for myself. I shoved her out of the way and tossed the shovel down so that it landed flat on the ground, spraying some pinkish-white gunk up as it fell.
I threw the boathouse door open and went in.
JULES WAS RIGHT BEHIND ME, so once we got inside, she was the one who saw it first.
My eyes flew from corner to corner all quick, but not really taking any of it in. It was the same old boathouse as always, stinking like mildew and pond scum, with wet sections of wood curling up in splintering hunks. The floor was rotting away, and mud bubbled up through the holey parts.
I was thinking, You could dig there. You could dig all of that mud up if you wanted to. I still didn’t remember doing that, but I was caught up in thinking about it when Jules saw what she saw, and screamed.
Her shriek was sharp like broken glass, right in my ear. It made my teeth go all on edge, and for a second, I felt like I wanted to hit her. Or worse.
“Connor,” she sobbed. “What did you do?”
She grabbed me, really pinching my arms, and swung me to the left corner of the shed. She was so upset she was hyperventilating, sort of, digging into my skin with her gnawed-up fingernails.
There. There it was. There they were.
Squirrels. A little family, looked like. A mama squirrel and three little babies, curled tight, real still, piled up in a nest of leaves.
It would’ve been kind of cute, I guess, if it wasn’t for all of the blood.
Whatever killed the squirrels just completely ripped them apart. Mama’s torso was split from right underneath her chin all down between her rear legs, a mess of oozing innards pouring out. The babies’ heads were twisted so far around they were looking over their shoulders. Their paws were caught up in Mama’s guts and the nest leaves were all shredded and stained with blood. A little cloud of gnats hovered over them. It was pretty gruesome.
I smiled.
Jules let go of my arms. Behind me, I heard her retch. “What the hell?” she asked again, her voice kind of choked.
That static was back, a hornets’ nest in my head. “I didn’t—”I stopped.
I didn’t do this was on the tip of my tongue, just a reflex, really, but the truth was …
I couldn’t remember.
Maybe I did.
“I’m going to be sick.” Jules moaned, running out the back of the boathouse to the edge of the dock and leaning over just in time. She dropped down to her knees and spewed for real this time, shoulders heaving all up.
I heard a bang. The shotgun, I thought, and then realized—of course—the boathouse door just slammed shut behind us. Of course, of course. Amity.
I heard a cracking sound. It was the dock, and the snap it made when it split in two was way brighter, louder, than you would’ve expected that old, soggy wood could make.
There was another scream. It took me a minute to get that it was Jules again, louder even than when she saw the squirrels.
I watched as she plunged from the dock into the water and down.
EVEN HEARING JULES HIT THE WATER, for a second there, I was still mostly interested in the squirrels. Wondering what happened to them, I mean. Whether I happened to them.
It’s not like it would’ve been the first time, you know?
So I was kind of caught up for a second or two, like not paying attention so much to my sister. But then there was that sharp, snapping sound, and that cut-off shriek, and then a splash, and I understood that the river, she had Jules.
Which was maybe the one thing that could have pulled me back, away from the squirrels.
I rushed out the back door onto the dock. I could see the jagged edge of plank where the dock broke off, where Jules fell. I dropped down, just like Jules had, and saw her flailing, hair coming loose and fanning out all around, right under the surface of the water. She tilted her head back and just broke the surface, but when she opened her mouth to call to me, the river rushed in, choking her off. She sputtered, slapping her arms up and down again, her eyes getting wide and nervous.
She could swim, but just barely. It was the same with me.
The shovel, I thought, and ran back for it.
I HELD IT OUT TO HER, AND JULES GRABBED AT IT, desperate. She caught the slime-streaked blade and wrapped her hands around it. She kicked and coughed and I pulled, throwing my whole body into it.
Jules squawked my name once, twice, then disappeared under again, her fingers pressing hard into the metal, turning white.
There was a pull on the other end of the shovel, like someone had Jules by the legs and wasn’t going to let her back up on the dock, back up to me.
Amity. I could feel her power in the air all around us. The static in my head was louder now and, for a minute, I thought about just letting go—just leaving the shovel to sink, and Jules along with it.
For whatever reason, Amity wanted her gone. I thought that was enough for me.
I uncurled my fingers and let the shovel go a little bit slack.
With one hand, Jules slapped at the water, fingers waving panicky now, bubbles rising from where her hair streamed out like a big, gaping wound.
Jules. This was Jules in the water, underwater, drowning. The one thing—person, I reminded myself, person, not thing—I couldn’t let Amity take.
I grunted, trying to concentrate and push through that buzz, bracing myself. I slid forward as far as I could, thinking I was for sure following Jules into the water any minute.
Of course, if I did, whatever was wrapped around her legs would welcome me. Would help me back to shore. What Amity wanted from me was different.
Maybe there was a reason Jules was being held under, being held back, you know? Like a good reason Amity wanted her, in that different way, I mean. Wanted to destroy her.
That buzz inside, it burned at me, saying maybe Jules was supposed to stay under, was supposed to be buried. Supposed to be part of the Concord, of Amity, that way.
Her fingers twitched against the shovel and I blinked. A bottle rocket exploded in my temples.
I shook my head and opened my eyes, breathing hard.
Jules.
This was Jules. In the water. The one thing—person!—I couldn’t let Amity take.
I flexed my elbows, yanking her back with all of my strength, everything I had in me.
HER ARMS BROKE THE SURFACE FIRST, white as bone, and then her face, turned up to the sky and gasping huge swallows of air. Her T-shirt clung and her shorts were soaked, sagging low as I pulled her over the edge of the dock. Once we were safe—steady, I mean—she flopped over, barely looking me in the eye.
She looked worn-out. Dead, almost, like something dragged back from beyond. The sun disappeared behind a cloud, and I thought, again, how maybe she was meant to be drowned. That buzz sparked behind my ears, the corners of my mouth wanting to jerk up again, wanting to grin.
She coughed. “Something was pulling on me,” she said. “Something was keeping me under there.” Her voice was flat.
“Come on.” I gave her my most blank, most not-real face. I didn’t usually do that with Jules, but the static, it was pounding now. It felt like that blank look was all I could handle. “That’s nuts. Like what?”
Her face tensed like she knew I was bullshitting her. “You didn’t come after me. Not right away.”
I couldn’t think of what to say to that. I mean, I pulled her up, right? Eventually? I didn’t let Amity take her.
After a second, Jules started to cry, big heaving sobs that made her whole body shake. “You didn’t come after me,” she mumbled again, her voice thick.
Usually Jules’s crying just breaks me in half. But right now anger flared red behind my eyes. I pulled her back up finally. Even though Amity wanted her. And here she was, still whining.
I hated her for a moment.
I was thinking I should have maybe let her go.
Ignoring her sniveling, I picked up the shovel and walked back up the hill to the house.
Back to Amity.