part0012

Kirby’s house lay in a well-kept, suburban housing estate. Everyone took care of their gardens and around Easter, the daffodils began to bloom in their pretty shades of yellow and orange. It was dark now however, and although Kirby was asleep, her subconscious could hear the voices again. They whispered over and under each other in a haunting lullaby; but she was safe in the arms of unconsciousness. “When will she join us?”

“When will she become one with us?”

The voices of the dead sang, male or female, the gender was unidentifiable in the moonlit room, but the spirits stood in their ghostly apparitions around her bed, trying to see the sleeping girl. “Soon, soon, she will join us,” one of them said, and this seemed to quieten the group for now. “Even if we have to push her a little…” The apparitions disappeared back into the moonbeams and their lullaby finished. Kirby stirred and turned over onto her back, she lay somewhere between sleep and awake. She went to move her arm and realised she couldn’t. Her body seized with terror. Sleep paralyses again; it had been plaguing her since the deaths. She opened her eyes; bodies filled her bedroom. One lay over her: a boy, rotten and green in the bluish moonshine. Half of the stranger’s teeth were visible through his rotting jaw. He stared at her in his death shroud. He was one of the twenty-four suicides that had beset the town within the last year. “Join us,” he whispered, without moving his frozen jawbone. The muscle crawled with maggots. Kirby could do nothing but stare, in her sorry state, at the piles of victims strewn across her bedroom. All were in different stages of decomposition; all were dressed in their funeral clothes. Their Sunday best.

A thump hit against her bedroom window, causing Kirby’s eyes to gaze outside. Her sister hung by the rope that had taken her life. Her dead face pressed against the window pane. Still pretty, even with the blanket of death on her greying flesh. Her eyes flew open and glared at Kirby. She jolted, desperate to move. “Join us Kirby, I miss you,” Carlie whispered, in a ghostly voice that echoed in Kirby’s head. Kirby’s head moved and she turned it from the window. The suicide children disappeared from her room when she looked back. She looked at the window, and her sister was gone, also. She trembled, turned to her bedside dresser and grabbed a cold cup of coffee. She had had enough for one night. No more sleep paralysis.

Kirby lay on her bed holding a picture of her sister, Carlie, and her. It had been six months since Carlie had taken her life, and with it, she’d broken off a piece of the whole family’s soul, that had been buried with her, to rot. Her mother was now a neurotic mess: she’d thrown herself back into Catholicism, and had started cooking like it was going out of fashion, though none of them ate much. Her father spent his nights home from work outside, fixing up an old car and drinking beer. Kirby hardly saw him. She rested her head on the pillow and as the watery morning sun rose, tears slid down her sun-kissed skin.

She showered and went for a run to clear her mind. She jogged through the forestry of Georgia Park, slowing near a bench where she and her sister used to stop and stretch together. Kirby could almost see them, laughing and talking about how cute Ryan Gosling was and how none of the boys had that old-fashioned charm anymore. She laughed aloud in the quiet park, remembering a joke, and her hand went straight to her mouth; she felt an immediate guilt for her laughter. Had she laughed since Carlie’s death? If so, she couldn’t remember. Carlie would never laugh again, Kirby thought bitterly. Guilt consumed her as she ran back to her home.

Kirby walked up the path, past her father’s perfectly mown lawn, and unlocked the door. “Anyone home?” The house’s silence answered with a resounding ‘no’ – she went to the kitchen, got a carton of milk from the fridge and glugged the ice-cold liquid back. She wiped away her milk-moustache and headed for the stairs. The phone rang as she placed her right foot on the first stair. She sighed and went back to grab the phone on the wall. She dreaded it being another journalist. “Hello?” Kirby’s ear was met with a burst of static. She jerked the phone away, placed it back, and then listened to the sound. She was sure she could hear voices. A manic chant. “Join us, join us, join us…” Kirby clicked the phone off. She remembered her dreams. I’m hallucinating from lack of sleep , she told herself. On top of everything, her sleep paralysis was getting worse. She’d never experienced such bad bouts of it.

“Hey honey, why did you lock the door?” It was her mother, Kara. Kirby opened it, to see her holding a laundry basket and smiling. It was a strained smile. She was mid-forties and attractive, with bright eyes and large curls of dark hair. “Oh, and this parcel was left on the porch for you.” Kirby took the large, flat package that was wrapped in newspaper out of her mother’s hand. She read a fragment of the story printed on the newspaper: ‘Suicide cult’ in Bridges Lock claims its 20th.’ That would make it two months old then.

“Nothing important,” Kirby said, tearing open the paper. Inside was a white sweater, belonging to her, and some odds and ends with a note attached, reading; “I miss you, Cody xx.” She groaned; it was her ex-boyfriend. They’d broken up after her sister’s death. He couldn’t handle the situation. She couldn’t handle him not being able to handle it. “It’ll be soup again, later,” her mother said, picking up her laundry basket. “You haven’t broken for Lent, have you?” Kirby looked up from her place on the bed.

“What? Oh, no, why?”

“Just checking; I think since Carlie…I just think it’s important for us as a family to stay close to God. With everything that’s happened in th is town this year. There’s a church service later tonight too. You didn’t forget?”

“No, I didn’t forget.”

“Remember, whoever perseveres to the end will be saved.” Since her sister’s death, her mother’s Catholicism was taking over every spare moment the family had. Kirby curled back up on her bed, she felt sick at the thought of the smell of incense and flowers, again.

The next morning, Kirby was up and dressed early. She needed to go for a run to clear her head, and the weather was nice. As she pulled open the door, she noticed a familiar red van outside. The door opened and Mary Wendice stepped out, her camera-man, David Reed, in tow. She was wearing a dark brown suit and black heels. Kirby hesitated on her porch, before walking down the steps. Mary ran up to her, beckoning her camera-man to follow. “Kirby, how are you?”

“Why do you care?” Kirby asked, nonchalantly. She stopped out of morbid curiosity. Mary Wendice worked for a local news channel, and like the Grim Reaper, wherever death was – so was she. “What do you want?”

“So, you haven’t heard?” Mary pulled a face that just barely expressed human emotion. “One of your classmates, Morgan Davies, hanged himself last night.” Mary searched Kirby’s face as the girl gasped, her blue eyes widening.

“What?” asked Kirby. “I don’t understand…” The world around her started to spin, all she could see was the red power-light on the ca mera. “Get that thing out of my face!” she screamed, stumbling back up her porch steps.

“That’s bringing the total up, including your sister, to twenty-five,” Mary continued. “Have you heard of or made a suicide pact with any of the local teens? Were you and Morgan close?” Suddenly her father’s arm was around her, and she was being pulled back inside the house. Mary clicked her fingers and pointed to Craig, Kirby’s father. The camera focused on his angry face. “Mr Vale, could I have a few words with you?”

“Leave us to grieve in piece!” The door was slammed shut. Mary stepped back and turned to David. She held back a smirk as they walked in unison towards the van.

“Please tell me you got the reaction shot…” Mary whispered. David nodded. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but I’m going to get to the bottom of it – and when I do, they’ll make me a Dame…”

“Do you think she’ll kill herself?” David asked, loading the equipment back in the van. He was tall and solid, a kind of body-guard for Mary, as well as a camera-man. God knows she had her enemies . Mary was deep in thought, her manicured hand trailing itself around her neck as she theorised.

“I’m not sure… she doesn’t seem the type, but then – who does? They’re so random, these suicides. No obvious correlation. Still, there has to be something connecting them,” Mary got back in the front seat. She was desperate to get the scoop first .

“Honey, I wish I knew, I really do.” He pulled away from her and put his rugged hands together in prayer. “I wish Carlie was here,” he said. “I just wish I knew where she was…” and suddenly he was sobbing. Kirby got up and hugged him from behind. She was a petite girl, and she felt even smaller around her father, smaller still whenever her dead sister was mentioned.

“Promise me you’ll tell me if you ever feel like…like Carlie did,” he said, his eyes closed.

“I promise,” she whispered gently.

She took the back gulley out of the house to avoid ‘Mean Mary,’ as she liked to think of her. Also, ‘Monstrous Mary’ and simply ‘bitch’, depending on her mood. As she walked through the quiet, eerie labyrinth of gullies that led between the houses, she wondered if the ghostly voices had called to Morgan last night. Had they convinced him to kill himself? She hurried along the slim lanes between the houses, feeling like ‘Alice in Wonderland,’ until she reached the back of Conner’s house. Conner was a close friend of her family.

Her sister had been her confidante whenever things got bad, before. Now, who could she talk to? She’d found Carlie, six months ago, hanging from the overhead fan in their connecting bathroom. She had found her. Who could she talk to about that ? The school bloody counsellor? That was all she’d been offered. The doctor had given her nothing , not even for her insomnia, not even for her anxiety. In fact, he had already, against her wishes, started weaning her off the anti-depressant she’d been given initially.

She walked up the steep steps to Conner’s back door and knocked. As she waited, she readjusted her grey camisole top and tight blue jeans. She could hear shouting inside, arguing , and then she saw Conner’s mother at the window. She had raised Conner alone, as a single mother. She looked tired and old in the early spring light. She opened the door. “Kirby… I’m so sorry dear,” she said. “I just saw you on the news.” Kirby’s hand went to her mouth in shock. She could have throttled Mary.

“They put that out already?” she asked stunned, walking into the kitchen and looking up at the TV where her shocked face stared back at her.

“I went to the local MP to try and get these blood-suckers stopped from interviewing you kids,” Conner’s mother said angrily, her fist clenched. “It’s like a disease that’s spreading. We need to cut off this flow of information.”

Kirby nodded, looking up at the greying woman. But she didn’t think this was as simple as teens copying each other. To her, that was ludicrous. Conner walked into the kitchen, wearing red pyjama’s. He looked younger than his sixteen years. Kirby walked up and hugged him; she could see he’d been crying. Morgan had been his friend since childhood .

“Ma, we’re going up to my room for a while,” Conner said, taking her hand and leading her toward the stairs.

Normally, this would be his mother’s cue to say, “Don’t you two get up to anything I wouldn’t do,” with her eyes twinkling. She liked to tease and she often talked about how beautiful Kirby was; too beautiful for her geeky son. Kirby knew the mother and son didn’t get along, but Conner had never told her why. He was quite the clam-shell when it came to his family matters. This wasn’t the time for teasing though, and his mother must’ve seen that. Kirby’s once-long hair had been cut short so she wasn’t reminded of her sister every time she looked in the mirror. It was up in a golden-blonde quiff, held by clips and a lot of hairspray; like Sharon Stone’s hair in her infamous ‘Basic Instinct’ interview. Kirby felt her beauty was a plump ripe peach, rotten inside, a bug squirming away, feeding on her fragile mind.

“What’s going on?” Conner whispered, when they were out of ear-shot. “I’ve been on the web, everyone’s covering it. It’s crazy! I can’t believe this about Morgan… he seemed fine yesterday, happy even.” Conner’s eyes were bloodshot. Kirby took the seat by his desk. Conner’s room was covered in movie posters, mostly horror and thriller, a few of Spielberg’s, such as E.T.

“I didn’t know him like you guys, but yes, for what it’s worth, he seemed happy.”

Conner took a seat on his bed, near the window. “I spoke to Eric; he’s gutted. They used to hang out a lot, even before Cinema Clu b .” Kirby winced at his choice of phrase. “Anyway, they’re going to talk about him in the Easter service tomorrow.”

“Have you experienced anything odd lately?” Kirby asked. “Or seen anything weird?”

“Strange question. No, why would you ask that? Have you?”

Kirby hesitated. “My sleep paralysis is getting worse and I’m seeing the most horrific visions. The teens that have killed themselves, and Carlie. Their bodies lay in heaps in my room, and I can’t move, or even scream.”

Conner sat forward. “Have you told your parents?”

“No.” Kirby crossed her legs and folded her arms. “I shouldn’t have told you . I feel crazy just saying it.” She turned her head away, fiery tears burning behind her eyes. Conner kneeled in front of her and put a hand on her knee. She took it in her own hands.

“I believe you’re seeing what you say,” he said. His dark brown eyes looked gentle behind his glasses.

“Have you and your mother been fighting?” Kirby asked. She saw Conner instantly tense, and he took his eyes away from her. He was now staring at a picture of Eric, Morgan, Kirby, Leigh, and himself all smiling; a shot of them in cinema club.

“No,” he said curtly, his cheeks flushing pink. He steered the conversation back to the subject at hand. “I can’t see any connection among all the deaths,” he said.

“What do all the suicides have in common? And what do they have in common with me and my sister?” She closed her eyes, trying to concentrate, but her mind was haunted with thoughts and images. She wanted to ask him about his mother, perhaps there was something she knew.

“I don’t know about the others, but our parents were all in the same year in secondary school…” Conner began, thinking out loud. Kirby looked at him; perhaps there were answers to be found at home.

Eric lay on his bed in a half-awake state. He felt dizzy and lazy. Morgan had been his friend, and now he was gone; just another teenager’s name on a long list in this town. Eric had type one diabetes and his blood sugar level was low. He could feel all his body’s signs of a pending “hypo.” The stress was too much, and he hadn’t eaten. There was a bottle of Pepsi across the room, he needed to get to it. He usually carried a small bottle around with him, but the shock of Morgan dying had hit him hard. If he didn’t drink some soon, he’d fall into unconsciousness, though. He’d left it on his computer desk last night while he was working. He tried to call out for help, but his voice was already useless. His saliva felt thick and gooey. Panic stirred in him. He’d have to roll off the bed and get to the Pepsi himself. He looked across the room and a worm of terror writhed inside his stomach: a man stood in a rabbit costume, white with startling red smears of blood. He had a noose draped around his neck, the frayed rope nearly touching the floor. He wore a mask with black whiskers bending every which way, and one ear flopped over. His eyes glowed red through the mask; and large off-white teeth curved around its chin. It’s just a hallucination, you need sugar , Eric told himself. He was travelling into the arms of unconsciousness. The rabbit man just stood there, watching him. Eric used the extra adrenaline to roll off the bed, cracking his nose on the bedside cabinet. It started to pour blood.

“Why bother, Eric? You’re just a burden to your family and friends.” The rabbit-man’s voice had a dream-like quality. “They have to watch you like a child. Your diabetes has made you little more than an infant. Why not just let your body do what it wants to? It wants to die, Eric…” Eric started to crawl towards his computer desk, his limbs impossibly heavy as they dragged across the carpet. His head dropped, leaving logic and reason, and hit the floor, leaving a blotch of dark red blood from his nose. “Your mother regrets giving you this life of pain and constant surveillance, did you know that?”

Eric lifted his head and tried to shake his head; he knew that wasn’t true. It wasn’t . “No,” he managed to croak. The desk was just a small distance away now. The rabbit moved closer and dropped to his knees.

“Yes,” he reasserted, his red eyes aflame. “Just close your eyes and fall asleep. You’ll feel nothing, I promise.” Eric was at the desk, finally, looking up to the lidless Pepsi. He reached up and touched the bottle. It fell to the ground. “See , fate is telling you to die, Eric. Why fight it?” The Pepsi was pouring out onto the grey-carpeted floor, staining it dark brown. Eric lost all sense and agreed to relax into the arms of unconsciousness .

“Okay…you’re right…” Eric mumbled. The noose slid over his half-awake head and tightened as the rabbit threw it over the beam in Eric’s bedroom and pulled him up. He suddenly found it hard to breathe. Eric watched his body get pulled backwards, then his feet left the floor. He felt like he was floating, except for the pain around his neck. He couldn’t breathe now. A minuscule burst of panic occurred to his sleepy mind as he saw the rotting teenagers watching him; they appeared to be willing the rabbit-man on. “Join us!” they chanted repeatedly to Eric. His breath stopped and his eyes fluttered. Then, he joined them, and looked up at his own body hanging from his bedroom beam. He smiled in the arms of unconsciousness.

“Mother, we’ve had pancakes for days… I like pancake day and everything, but it ended,” complained Kirby.

“I’ve been making them for the Church fate tomorrow. Besides, I spread Nutella on them, with sliced strawberries and whipped cream.” Her mother smiled, “They’re delicious.” Kirby pulled a kitchen chair out and sat down as her mother placed the pancakes on the pine table.

“What’s this?” Kirby asked, pushing the plate aside and looking at a wicker basket filled with various Easter eggs, sitting on the table. She took a small one out. It was stained deep red. “What is this? It’s an actual chicken egg, isn’t it? ”

“That’s where Easter eggs come from, honey. People used to stain the eggs red for Easter. Dyed red to represent the blood of Christ, and the egg symbolizes the sealed tomb that Christ was placed in after he died. The cracking of the egg symbolizes his resurrection from the dead… it’s all really interesting actually.”

“Well, I think I’ll stick to chocolate,” Kirby said, picking out a regular Easter egg from the basket and ripping off the gold foil. She started breaking small parts off and stuffing them in her mouth. “Mum, I hate to bring it up, but did Carlie or I have any connection with the suicide teens?”

“Oh, Kirby…” Her mother cut her pancake, strawberry juice flowing onto the plate, and shook her head. “I’ve told you before, none that I can think of.”

“I’m still having that terrible sleep paralysis. Seeing terrible things,” Kirby said, her voice wavering.

“Honey, you’ve been under a lot of pressure lately.”

Kirby stood up from the table. “I don’t feel too good. Where did you get those Easter eggs? They taste… off.”

“Someone left them on the front porch. It must be someone from church to make traditional eggs like that.”

“And you let me eat one?!” Kirby’s voice rose in pitch with every word, so that she ended in a near shriek. Her mother tutted and rolled her eyes.

“No one from church would do anything bad to us, Kirby.” Kirby left the kitchen, her stomach queasy, and ran up to her bedroom, shrugging out of her jacket and pulling her sneakers off. Her eyes widened as a wave of dizziness swept over her. She felt her stomach clenching and throbbing along with her heartbeat. “Mother…” she tried to yell, her voice weak. She stood up and the room swam. She shivered violently. Quickly, she grabbed the wicker waste-paper basket, sat on the edge of her bed and pushed her fingers down her throat. A heaving lurch from her stomach sent up a brown liquid tinged with blood. She puked twice then breathed deeply, her eyes closed, bile dribbling from her lips. “What the hell…” she fell backwards onto her double-bed and stared up at the white ceiling. She could smell flowers in the humid room, from all the decorations her mother had been making for Church. The cracks and lines started to swirl and she closed her eyes, ashen-faced.

She was in her high school suddenly, and she realized she was unconscious. “The Easter egg,” she whispered to herself, touching her lips. She walked down the main hallway of her school, as autumn leaves blew gently around her bare feet. She turned to see only darkness; there was no entrance or exit. She looked up at a huge banner painted in red and gold – “The Easter Dance 1985.” The paper was old and as she passed it, one side of the banner tore and drifted languorously down. The doors to the classrooms were open and a flower-scented breeze that cooled Kirby’s face drifted along the hallways.. As she passed by each door and looked in, she saw all the classrooms were empty, but on each blackboard was written her mother's recipe for pancakes .

“Kirby, you came…” a dreamy voice echoed. She looked over her shoulder to see a man wearing a mask and a filthy rabbit suit; a strangely distorted rabbit suit with blood all over its matted fur. Kirby gasped, whirling around and bursting into a sprint. She raced down the hallway, her feet smacking the cool tile flooring and crunching the crisp leaves. The walls were covered with more posters advertising the dance; these too were rippling from a faraway breeze. She could hear voices chanting rapidly: “join us, join us, join us.” Something flew towards her from the ceiling and hit her full force in the chest, as she turned a corner. She landed on her back, skidding. She got up onto her elbows and looked skyward. A teenage boy hung from the tiled ceiling by a thick brown rope. She gasped at his limp, pale-blue limbs; he was long-dead, the smell alone told her that. The ceiling was slowly turning red. It crept along, like a sponge soaking up blood. It spread along the white tiles, towards her, and started to drip through. She screamed, as the warm liquid splashed onto her skin. The tiles gave way and over a dozen bodies came flying down, swinging by their necks. Her screams intensified, until she felt and tasted the thick blood dribble onto her lips. She snapped her mouth shut, whimpering. She could hear the creaking of the ropes that held the bodies and a distant laughter rattling down the hallways. She wiped the blood from her face. “No, no, no, this isn’t real…I’m not here. I’m unconscious.”

Her sister appeared at the other end of the hallway, holding out the noose that was meant for Kirby’s neck, while Carlie’s own noose held tight around her throat. “Join my ever-growing collection,” the rabbit man’s voice whispered to her through her sister’s mouth. The words reverberated in her mind. She stood up and put her hands to her ears, backing away from it all. She skidded in the blood and hit one of the teenager’s bodies, causing it to swing violently.

“We can always make it look like you joined the suicide squad,” he said, laughing manically as the rabbit re-appeared where her sister had been.

Kirby turned to run, but another dead body plunged through the ceiling in front of her followed by a fresh gush of blood. It was her sister again. Kirby closed her eyes, her screams burning her sore throat. Her sister’s eyes sprang open, gleaming white with a blue sheen of death.

“Join us, Kirby, it’s peaceful here. All your pain just melts away… Besides, what do you have? No boyfriend anymore, no job anymore. You’ve lost everything: including me!” The corpse’s skin turned more and more ashen, until fragments of it started to break off and turn to dust, drifting away on the breeze, leaving only a grinning skull.

“Enough!” she yelled, bursting into a race towards one of the large windows. Outside it was dark. Storm clouds gathered and drifted too quickly past the building outside. She shoved the window open and stepped up onto the window sill. She expected to see the grass below, but there was only mist swirling around in the black void. Suddenly, he was behind her. His red eyes shone like garnets in his Wonderland face. He offered her the noose. “I will never, never , do that! Do you hear me?” she screamed .

“They all say that, at first….” he said, through his thick bone-teeth. His face twisted and the school behind him started to fall apart, the bodies dropping like meat to the floor, as the ceiling crashed down. He shoved her abruptly, hard.

She fell backwards and plummeted through the mist, her legs pedalling air and her hands trying to grasp something. Her scream heightened, cutting through the darkness, turning into…

An ambulance siren. “We’ve got her!” a man shouted. “Kirby, can you hear me? Kirby?” The bright lights blinded her, momentarily. She got up on her elbows and found she was in an ambulance. Her mother was sitting just beside the shouting paramedic. Kirby looked around with drugged, half-open eyes; then she puked.

Kirby opened her eyes. She could hear the beeps of machines and her own heartbeat, the sound of people talking and the smell of disinfectant. Her mother was sitting by the bed. “What happened?” she asked groggily, with a voice which rasped from a red-raw throat.

“You took an overdose, that’s what.” Her mother glared at her. “How could you do that to me and your father, after this year from hell? I thought you were an individual, not a sheep that wants to follow the rest of this fucking town off a cliff.” Kara closed her eyes, and gripped handfuls of her curly hair, elbows pointing towards the heavens.

“What about me, mother?” Kirby met her mother’s eyes. “Do you honestly think that I would try to kill myself?”

“Well, then you tell me what happened! ”

“Someone tried to poison me, mother. Those Easter eggs on the porch… I ate some, remember? The next thing I know I’m unconscious.”

Kara looked up, still playing with her hair. Her eyes were glassy with tears. She reached out across the bed and took her daughter’s hand.

“I’m so sorry, baby, but what was I supposed to think? How can I—”

“What happened at the High school dance of nineteen eighty-five? What did you do? And don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about…”

Her mother’s eyes widened in shock and her hands flew back to her thick hair, grabbing handfuls and squeezing. “How do you know about that?” she said breathlessly.

“The person that poisoned me, the person that killed Morgan and Carlie… They weren’t suicides, they were set up to look like suicides by whoever he is. A guy dressed as a fucking rabbit! And I’m not talking thumper; he’s hideous!”

Her mother got up and drew the curtain around the hospital bed. She turned back to her daughter, eyes sombre. “Brandon Conners was a gay kid at my secondary school… he came out at a time when none of us were used to gay people; when none of us knew how to accept it. The kids were cruel. …I was vicious to him…” Kara turned away from her daughter for a moment, and when she looked back, she was crying. “I never told anyone that, not even Father Callahan….”

“What happened? ”

“We had a school dance, most of the kids were nice to Brandon, well, nice to his face. When it came time for the announcement of the King and Queen of the dance -” Kara stopped, her breath coming out laboured. She’d kept this in for so many years. Only in her silent prayers had she admitted her wrongs to her saviour, Lord Jesus Christ. “He was the school football mascot – but the guys didn’t accept him when he came out and so, I had this idea…’ Another long, laboured breath. “He was voted Queen of the dance.”

“Oh my God, how could you be so cruel?”

“That night he took his life, he – when his parent’s found him, he was hanging from his bedroom light wearing his school mascot costume.” She clamped a hand over her mouth, muffling the sobs.

“What was the school mascot?”

“A rabbit… a vicious rabbit for the rangers,” Kara whispered. Then she sat up straight, clearing her throat and composing herself. “And that’s the story of Brandon Conners. I’ve never forgiven myself. I don’t expect you to. I gather your father told you…”

Kirby ignored her mother. Let her have her self-pity , she thought. That’s her problem . Brandon Conners was her problem; hers and Conner’s and Eric’s and God knew who else. He was out for revenge . She had to stop him.

“I need to warn people. They’re not suicides, Mum. It’s Brandon.” She ground her teeth and ripped the drip out of the back of her hand. She pulled too hard and blood jetted out, hitting the plastic curtain around the bed with a splish-splash. Kirby whimpered and then grabbed her folded-up clothes from the end of the bed and started dressing.

Kara took her daughter by the shoulders. “You need to stop this! You’re in mourning, Conners is dead Kirby!”

Kirby ripped her mother’s hands off her, and stared up at her angrily. “Were Conner’s parents involved?” she asked. “With Brandon’s death? Were they involved?”

“In a way,” Kara said bitterly.

“What about Eric’s?” Her mother turned from her, nodding her head.

“The other teens?”

“Yes and yes! God, Kirby, are you crazy!? Because it looks like you’re suggesting Brandon Conner’s ghost is killing people. Is that what you’re suggesting? Actually, you know what? Don’t answer!” She shook her head. “It’s a tragic trend created by media hype. ”

“If believing that makes you feel less guilty. Go ahead!” replied Kirby, angrily.

Kara slapped her daughter. It was a sharp, precise slap, its noise startling within the quiet room. Kirby put a hand to her cheek and looked up at her mother, hurt but defiant - always defiant . Then she walked out.

Leigh was just about to park her Camaro, when she noticed Kirby rushing out of the hospital entrance. Her eyes narrowed in recognition. She caught up to Kirby and drove alongside her, winding down the window of the car. “Kirby, it’s good to see you up and about!” she called. Kirby span around to see Leigh’s car, she stopped running and smiled. “I heard you’d taken an overdose. I didn’t believe it for a second,” Leigh said.

“Thank God, somebody still has faith in me,” Kirby said. Leigh pulled up along the roadside and Kirby climbed in. “It’s great to see you,” Kirby smiled. Leigh and Kirby had clicked years ago when Leigh’s family had first moved to Bridges Lock. Leigh was the only black girl in school, her family the only black family in town; nevertheless, both girls got along like Betty and Veronica. Kirby being the Betty, Leigh being the Veronica. Leigh slowly drove down the deserted track that was covered in a canopy of willow branches, the lights to the vehicle lighting up the long road. The hospital lay in a secluded spot near the dense woodland surrounding most of the town.

“I need your help with something very important,” Kirby said, coming straight out with it.

“Anything. What is it you need?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Kirby said. “That’s the problem.”

The car pulled to a stop. “Try me. There was a time you were the only person to give me the time of day here. I remember that ,” Leigh smiled sincerely, one glamorous hand tapping its manicured finger-nails against the steering wheel. Kirby looked at her friend. She had to tell someone .

“I know why these “suicides” are happening,” Kirby told her friend in a conspiring tone.

“Before you go any further, I have to tell you some bad news,” Leigh said, turning towards the window, which in the darkness only showed her own reflection. “Eric hanged himself today.” Leigh and Kirby sighed heavily, the weight of the world on their shoulders. She had trusted Leigh would believe her, but she was scared. Still, she was desperate enough to take the gamble.

Leigh listened to Kirby’s story with pity and horror; pity that the girl she called her ‘bestie’ might be so unhinged, and horror that the story might actually be true.

“So what do you plan to do about this… Brandon guy? That is his name, isn’t it?” Leigh asked.

“I’m going to take myself to the brink of death, kill him, and come back out. ”

“What? Are you crazy! How’re you going to do that?” Leigh’s hand flew to her mouth, aghast.

“I’m going to hang myself until I get to him and then you’ll resuscitate me before I die. I’ve checked – I’ll have thirty seconds before I’m brain dead.” She looked around the car, embarrassed, and feeling she probably should have kept that bit back. It was a lot of pressure for anyone.

“Brain dead?” Leigh looked at Kirby with wide, nervous eyes.

“I’ll do it with or without you, I just think it’ll be safer with you. I’m not sure if I could cut myself down after that long a time.” In fact, Kirby knew she couldn’t do this without her friend’s help.

“…I’ll do it because you’re so fucked up,” Leigh said with nervous laughter. “And because I think you’re crazy enough to do it alone.” Kirby smiled at her, tears making her eyes glassy. The girls smiled at each other in a tender moment. “But you better be right, and you better not die,” Leigh said, her voice taut with tension. She started the car up, and the radio that sat above an old cassette player, came to life at the same time. A speaker started spurting out different voices and Leigh tuned it until she found a station. A female voice that Kirby recognized as the despised ‘Monster Mary’ boomed inside the car.

“And yet another teen suicide rocks the small town of ‘Bridges Rock’ tonight. Seventeen-year old Eric Saunders had no history of mental illness, or any affiliations with gangs; and so the question remains, why are so many local teens taking their own lives?” An upsurge of grief overtook Kirby, her already pale face becoming ashy, and the dizziness causing her to put her head in her hands. Poor Eric . He’d been so scared of death.

“I’m sorry Kirby, I had no idea it had hit the news. Are you okay?” Leigh put her hand on her friend’s knee, clearly showing concern. She wasn’t going to tell her about Eric yet. Damn that bitch, Mary . It had been hard enough for her to take.

“Yes,” she said, the word coming out in a deep, melancholic sigh. Their hands found each others and intertwined. Leigh gave a reassuring squeeze.

Leigh bit her crimson lower lip, thinking. “Look, Kirby, I’ll help you with this… I can’t bury another friend. I’ll be there to cut you down after thirty seconds. That way, you’ll be as safe as you can be in these circumstances.”

“I’m waiting for it,” Kirby said, looking at Leigh with an eyebrow raised.

“Waiting for what?”

“I think we should record it on my phone,” Leigh said, then placed a hand up to silence Kirby. “Look, if anything strange happens, we’ll have it on camera. Besides, what if it did go wrong? I could end up in prison, Kirby.” Leigh turned to her. “I’m your best bet as a reliable, trustworthy witness.”

“You’re right,” Kirby said. She looked out at the cornfields whizzing past in the darkness. “I know you’re right. I hope I still have enough time to save Conner. ”

“Worry about yourself, Conner and his family are probably at the church with most of the town. There’s a tribute to Morgan. I wonder if they’ll squeeze one in for Eric now, too,” Leigh pondered aloud.

Kirby couldn’t think about that. She needed to catch herself a rabbit.

“Your mum still keeping up appearances?” Leigh asked, looking sombrely at Kirby.

“My mother never misses a church service, Leigh, it might look bad to the neighbours,” she said. “You know the way; let’s do this.” They walked up the stairs, Kirby in her ankle boots, Leigh in her red high heels.

“Do you remember when we used to speed down these stairs on bean-bags?” Leigh laughed. “The good old days when we had no worries.” Kirby laughed at the memory.

“And my mother would get so mad, saying we were going to break our necks,” Kirby giggled. “I guess that literally could happen tonight.” Suddenly, the mood turned sombre again, with the click of a finger; they were ripped out of their sweet memory.

“Where do you plan on doing it?” Leigh asked. Kirby looked up to her ceiling fan. It brought back horrific memories of her sister’s limp, swinging body. Brandon must have been behind that too – with her mother’s part in his suicide, it made complete sense .

“I need rope and a knife,” she said. She could feel her grief being overtaken by a cold, incensed rage.

“I’ll be waiting,” Leigh called after her. She looked around the bedroom; it was all your usual teenage shit. Posters on the walls, Daredevil, Nirvana, Marilyn Monroe, a ‘Scream 4’ movie print. Her dresser was covered in various perfumes and lots of make-up; it appeared that Kirby didn’t wear much at all, which meant, like Leigh, she was good at it.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Kirby said, walking back into her bedroom. She was carrying a kitchen knife and a long, thick, piece of rope. “Filming a snuff film would do your YouTube channel wonders though,” Kirby winked.

“Don’t even go there, girl! You’re just lucky I trust you. Most people would call you foolish. It’s Easter and you have a homo-repressed guy dressed as a bunny, bumping people off when they’re unconscious. Seriously ? If it were anyone else, I’d say they were crazy, and I was even crazier for getting involved,” Leigh shook her head as she spoke.

“Don’t you think it’s strange that twenty-five people would kill themselves? All in the same way . All in the same place ? All in the same year ?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “If I were a parent, I think I’d take solace in knowing that my child didn’t choose to end their life. ”

“I think I’d feel worse knowing my kid got bumped off,” Leigh countered, eyeing the rope.

“Turn on your camera, I’m not taking any chances with your life. You hold no accountability with this as far as anyone is concerned,” Kirby said. She handed Leigh the knife and waited until Leigh adjusted the angle of the camera on her phone. The light illuminated Kirby’s face.

“My name is Kirby Lane. I am of sound body and mind and I am -”

“That’s debatable,” Leigh said sarcastically. Kirby ignored her and continued.

“I am asking my best friend – Leigh Jacobs, to help pull me back from death. I am going to hang myself, and after I pass out, Leigh is going to cut me down and resuscitate me while filming the entire thing,” Kirby turned to Leigh, ducking her head away from the camera. “You know CPR right?”

“Of course…” Leigh said, a roll of her eyes. Leigh adjusted the camera back onto Kirby’s face.

“I’m asking her to do this. I’d have done it without her.” Kirby shook her head. “God, it sounds so crazy when I say it aloud.” She looked back at the camera, resolute. “But I’m fucking doing it.”

They both looked at each other, and then after a moment’s hesitation, Kirby pulled her desk chair out, climbed up, and started tying the rope around the static fan. Leigh watched with a cautious, fascinated face. Her hand felt clammy around the handle of the knife. She was scared. She didn’t want to end up in jail. She wouldn’t last a day with her big mouth and great legs. Mostly, she didn’t want to watch her best-friend die.

Kirby looked down at her. The noose was itchy and rough against the tender skin of her neck. “If this goes wrong, I’m sorry dad,” she said looking at the camera. Her hands closed into fists and, closing her eyes, she kicked the chair out from underneath her and dropped. Leigh jumped.

The noose tightened. Her hands immediately flew up to the rope, scrabbling at the hard, thick cord. Leigh, suddenly alarmed at this crazy thing they were doing, made a move to help her, but made herself stop. She looked at her watch, she’d time it from now, she decided. Kirby’s bulging eyes looked up to the ceiling as she clawed at her neck. Her legs kicked as her lungs begged for oxygen. Her legs kicked, then jolted, then flexed. Her arms dropped. Then everything disappeared. ‘Let’s get unconscious honey. Let’s get unconscious ,’ Kirby could hear the sound of a beautiful woman’s voice, singing, as she closed her eyes.

Kirby sat up and found herself in the same school hallway as last time. The crumbling walls and tattered posters; an apparition of a previous life. The breeze drifted across her skin and brought with it the laughter of children long lost, left or dead. Her bare feet crunched against dry, autumn leaves. Dust motes drifted in front of her face. “Brandon?” she called, and it echoed along the seemingly never-ending hallway. She looked up to see the banner advertising the school dance; it was back hanging just below the sagging ceiling. The school creaked and groaned in the dimming light. “Brandon Conners! I know who you are!” She walked towards a dust-covered rectangular box and broke the glass with her elbow. She took out a fire axe. It was still in the same place as years later, in her world.

“You came back to me,” Brandon said, his voice echoing along the corridor. Stepping out from a hallway. He had a noose in his hand. “I see you won’t be needing this.” He tossed it to the floor.

Kirby ran at Brandon. He stood his ground, red eyes glowing. She reached him and threw the axe with all her strength, burying it within his shoulder. She yanked the axe back out and a foul-smelling dust, yellow in colour, burst out of the wound. “How can you kill someone who’s already dead, you stupid child?” he taunted. Then he pushed her and, effortlessly it seemed, she went skidding down the decrepit hallway on her back, still clutching the axe. What had she been thinking? She got up and ran, her feet pounding the floor. She turned at a corner and started running up the large stairwell.

It’s been ten seconds; I should cut her down … Leigh thought to herself. No, I promised . She was standing on the chair, her heels kicked off. Her shaking knife hand trembled precariously near the dense twine. She studied her friends face, wondering what was going on in her head. How had she let her do this? Leigh questioned herself. It was so irresponsible. So unlike either girl; but the town had gone crazy lately, and Kirby’s story made sense in a senseless world .

Kirby made her way past several single-paned windows with sections of glass smashed out and a howling wind blustering through the openings. She started a slow jog into the darkness, turning a corner and coming face to face with a tall dark figure. She lifted the axe, her eyes wild.

“Wait!” Conner yelled, his hands up in defence.

“Conner, …what the hell are you doing here?”

“I don’t fucking know. I was eating an Easter egg, next thing I know, I’m here. What is this place?” Kirby stepped back and eyed him. He was wearing a black onesie. “Kirby, are you listening to me?”

“Shhh! Just stay behind me,” she said. “We’re in danger.”

Suddenly, a large window on the second floor imploded and glass, paper and leaves flew at them. They crouched down, Conner wrapping an arm around her. Little strips of paper were gathering at their feet. “What the hell?” Conner picked one up and examined it. “It’s to vote for the king and queen of the Easter dance. Nineteen eighty-five? Here…” he handed her one of the ballots. “Let me hold that,” he said, reaching for the axe.

“It’s okay, I got it,” she said, reading through the ballets. Under Queen: Brandon Conners. Under King, Beth Easton. She picked up another, the same, and another. She turned to face Conner. He had stepped back into the shadows. “Your mother’s name…”

“Beth Easton. Elizabeth Easton as you know her. My mother’s a dyke, and my father was the queen of the dance, the belle of the ball. Surprise!” Kirby stared at him in disbelief. “He was gay, big deal, but that didn’t stop my parents from wanting children. All it takes is a turkey baster, apparently.” Kirby stumbled backwards, almost dropping the axe. “It’s not very romantic, I know, but it proved they really wanted me, I guess,” he continued, “and it did at least result in the conception of yours truly.” He grinned nastily.

“How do you exist here?” Kirby asked.

“My father, my real dad, I believe you’ve met – Brandon. He came to me in a dream and pulled me in, just like you. Getting inside people’s heads is a neat trick. Like Freddy on Acid.”

“You’re evil! You killed all those people,” Kirby stared at him astonished.

“I did indeed,” he said smugly.

“My sister?” She asked in a voice which was growing strong with anger.

He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “Technically, they killed themselves.”

“You were my friend!”

“I was never your friend! ” he snarled. Your mother was a real mean girl, the original Regina George – she started the whole thing. Vote the gay guy the Queen and the Lesbian the King. Nothing hurt her more than seeing her daughter die though,” he finished, an intimidating look on his face. She would never have thought it was the same person she’d been speaking to only hours earlier.

“So why not her instead? ”

He smiled. “Oh, we’ll get to her. They need to suffer first, like we’ve suffered. First they grieve, then they die.”

“That’s right,” Brandon’s voice agreed behind her. She spun around, axe raised. There they were. Demented father and son, and they had her cornered. Conner suddenly moved. Kirby was too slow. He punched her, hard, in the face. She fell backwards, hitting the wall and then the ground. Dust, leaves and ballots lifted into the air as she fell. Conner looked down at her, red light reflecting in his glasses.

Kirby licked the blood from her split lip, then tightened her hand around the axe handle. She burst into hysterical laughter, saying, “A gay bunny out for revenge?!” Suddenly, she swung the axe at Conner’s left ankle, feeling the thud along her arms as it connected with bone, and came out the other side. Conner shrieked as he grabbed his leg that now ended in a stump, spurting blood. Then their world started to shake.

“No!” Brandon yelled, as Conner lay on the floor screaming. Kirby scrambled to her feet. She glared at Brandon, whose eyes were filled with dancing flames.

“Oh my God! She has a split lip!” Leigh gasped to the camera. “It’s been twenty seconds. Screw thirty! I’m cutting her down…” She pressed the sharp blade into the rope and sawed, but it barely made a mark. She started sawing manically at the rope and little by little it frayed. “No, no, no!” Leigh cried out to the empty house. “Hang in there Kirby, don’t you die on me! ”

Kirby ran behind the moaning Conner, using him as an obstacle between her and Brandon. The old school was falling apart, shaking under their feet, dust and plaster falling from the walls. Brandon tore the rabbit mask off and ran to his son. He knelt down and held him. Then he looked up to Kirby with dark-brown eyes. The same eyes as his son’s; and they were equally evil. “Haven’t you and your family done enough?”

“…Silly rabbit,” she said, with a wry smile that was full of sarcasm, and swung the axe again, burying it deep into Conner’s throat, with a satisfyingly ensuing sound of bone and cartilage crunching. His head flopped sideways on his half-severed neck, blood spurting out of the main arteries and pouring out of his mouth. Brandon now screamed. He clutched his son’s twitching body, trying to keep his head straight on his body by his hair, his face contorted with grief as fresh blood gushed onto his white fur suit, drenching it red. After a few moments of twitching, finally, Conner became still. Brandon let his body fall. He stood up and looked at Kirby murderously. She blinked and suddenly he was before her, his rabbit mask back on, as if he’d never taken it off.

“Now, you meet your sister!” He grabbed her by the throat and lifted her off the floor, snarling. His eyes were raging, burning with anger as she pawed uselessly at his strong grip, choking and spluttering, her eyes bulging …

Kirby’s body dropped to the floor with a thud as the rope finally gave way. “Thank you Lord!” Leigh dropped to the floor next to her, threw her phone down, and kneeled over her body. Kirby’s lips were blue, she looked dead. Leigh desperately loosened the rope around her neck, “don’t you die on me! I swear to God. Oh Lord, please don’t let her die,” Leigh cried. The realization of everything fell upon her and she felt close to becoming hysterical. She started CPR, first she pressed her red lips to Kirby’s pink and gave her oxygen, then she pounded urgently on her chest. Leigh’s face crumbled when nothing happened. She bent to give her more oxygen.

Kirby thought that somewhere very far away she could hear Leigh’s voice, and it brought her back to the fight with a start. She lifted both her heavy arms and pushed her thumbs into those glowing red eyes. She felt softness under her thumbs as she pushed down. The red glow started to dim. The bunny-man released his grasp, howling in pain, he dropped her. Kirby fell to her knees as Brandon stumbled backwards, paws to his face. Then she brought both hands together and pushed him hard. He tumbled backwards over his dead son’s body. This was her chance. She got to her feet and ran for the window – it had been her escape route before, enough to wake her from this place. Plaster fell in great heaps as the world around her started completely caving in. Without his son to ground him, would Brandon have any grasp on the real world? She saw the window and jumped, knees up, arms over her face – her petite body flew out. Some shards of glass caught her side, but now she was falling in the darkness again. She could hear Leigh’s voice, she tried to hold onto it. Hurtling through the air, the horrific idea that she might be trapped here entered her head. Legs kicking, arms flailing, Kirby continued to fall through the darkness wondering if she’d wake to see Leigh’s face.

Leigh pulled her mouth away from Kirby’s body. She looked down at her in horror, trembling as if a terrible fever had come across her. She’d been giving her mouth to mouth for what seemed like forever. “No, no, no – this can’t be happening….” She leaned close to Kirby’s ear, her black hair laid plastered to her skin in sweaty tresses. “Girl, you better get your act together and wake the fuck up!” Leigh screamed, leaning back on her knees. Then she lifted both hands, closed them together in a fist and brought them down on Kirby’s chest with all her might. Kirby’s body jolted, then fell back. “Come on!” Leigh screamed, and she brought her clamped- fist down again, twice, onto Kirby’s chest.

A huge gasp of air raced through Kirby’s body as her eyes shot open. Leigh burst into tears of joy. “Thank-you, Lord, thank-you,” she cried, her voice broken with nerves. She bent over her friend and hugged her. As she felt Kirby put her arms around her back, she wept even more. “We are never, ever , doing that again,” Leigh said, helping her friend to sit up a little. “Are you okay? You’re not brain damaged are you?” Kirby’s glassy, blood-shot, eyes took a while to take everything in .

“That matter’s open to opinion,” Kirby said with a raspy voice, and then Leigh knew she was safe and she allowed herself to laugh a little. “I feel like someone beat the shit out of me.”

“Sorry…That would be me ,” Leigh said, helping her friend get the noose off her neck. “Oh Lord, I thought you were dead.” Leigh took a deep breath and pulled her hair away from her face.

“I think I was,” Kirby said, and both girl’s embraced. They hugged each other hard and for a long time, like sisters.

Steven Stacy’s story was inspired by actual events that took place in his life and in a nearby town. The traumatic loss of his sister, at the tender age of twenty-one, brought to the forefront of his mind the unbelievable events that had transpired during 2008, in the close town of Bridgend, South Wales; where twenty-seven young souls took their lives, all within the same year and, all but one, in the same way; by hanging. This is when the story is set.

An article in ‘People Magazine’ reported that by Feb 2012 seventy-nine people had committed suicide “in the area,” again, all by hanging. These inexplicable events prompted an outcry of confusion and disbelief. None of the victims knew each other, and so it left people asking the question, why? The powerful role of the media was particularly brought into question.

Steven felt that if he could write a piece, and approach the subject in a delicate way, using his personal experiences, he could keep alive the memories of the victims and help their families by not letting their memories fade. Steven has a great amount of sympathy around this subject, losing his sister and two close friends to suicide within six months of each other.

If in some way this story helps to keep the victims’ memories alive then he feels he has somehow helped the families and gained support for suicide victims everywhere. He and his family know all too well about the growing inclination within society towards suicide, and the lack of understanding of mental health issues in general. If, through his writing, he feels he can highlight the growing problem of mental health issues, and the lack of support to the people desperately suffering (in all backgrounds), and the victims’ families; then he feels he has somehow helped raise awareness of the issue.