Jennifer Mcmahon - Dont Breathe a Word

Dont Breathe a Word

A Novel

Jennifer McMahon

Dedication

In memory of my grandmother,

Laura Koon Howard, M.D.,

who had a rational explanation

for everything

Contents

If you are holding this book in your hands, you are one of the chosen. You must understand that with this privilege comes great responsibility. The knowledge contained in these pages will change your life forever. But you must be very wary of who you share this knowledge with. The fate of our race depends on it. On you.

Phoebe

June 23, Fifteen Years Ago

H otter than hot, no air-conditioning, sweat pouring down in rivers, the Magic Fingers motel bed vibrating beneath her, Mr. Ice Cream doing his thing above. Hes not bad-looking, a little paunch-bellied, but hes got a nice face. Blue eyes that remind her of a crystal stream. Of that song Crystal Blue Persuasionsomething her ma listened to all the time. Of course, she told him that, and now sometimes he sings it to her, his idea of foreplay. She wishes hed shave his mustache, but no chance, the wife loves it.

The wife, however, does not like to ride. But Phoebe does. Hes got a Harley and he takes her out every Saturday, and sometimes in the evening after they close the shop. Wind in her hair, bugs in her teeth, the bike roaring like something unholy underneath her. He likes to park way out at the end of a fire trail, do it to her on his bike. Sometimes shes sure its the motorcycle hes screwing, not her. She doesnt mind. Its hard to compete with all that glossy paint and chrome so shiny she can see their reflections. And it beats the crap out of the high school boys who dont last five minutes in the backseats of cars.

Phoebe doesnt mind, no. Shes just turned twenty. Three months ago, she moved to Brattleboro with her friends Nan and Sasha. She wanted to go farther, California maybe even, to put as much distance as she could between her and her mother. But Sasha had a boyfriend in Brattleboro, and Vermont was better than the shit old mill town shed grown up in down in Massachusetts. And when her ma calls the apartment, drunker than drunk, Nan and Sasha talk in silly accents, say shes reached the China Star restaurant. Her ma says, Is Phoebe in? and Nan says, Peking duck? Okay. You want wonton? Special today. Then they all fall over laughing.

Theyve got a low-rent hovel of an apartmentgreasy walls, squirrels nesting in the drop-down ceiling (one fell through when Sasha was cooking ramen noodlesa great story to tell at parties), but theyre hardly ever there, so its okay. Phoebe got a job scooping ice cream at the Crazy Cone, which pays her share of the rent and keeps her amused. Mostly kids come into the Crazy Cone for the arcade, dumping change into The Claw with its promise of stuffed pink poodles and fake designer sunglasses.

Her boss, Mr. Ice Cream, is twenty years older than she. He takes blood pressure medication and wears orthotics in his shoes. He has hair on his back. She tries not to touch it but always ends up running her fingers through it anyway. Being repulsed but unable to stop at the same time. Phoebes like that.

Shes on the lumpy motel mattress trying not to think about the hair on his back, or that his breath is particularly bad today. Rancid, like old meat. Maybe Mr. Ice Cream is really a werewolf. Phoebe imagines him covered in hair, sprouting fangs by the light of the full moon. Enough. She clears her mind, tries to relax, to let the Magic Fingers do their thing underneath her while he does his thing on top. She looks up at Mr. Ice Cream, whos got his eyes clamped shut, his face sweaty, lips swollen-looking under his caterpillar of a mustache (her friends think its so cool that shes going out with an older guy, a rich guy), but what catches her eye is whats happening on the wall behind him.

The TV flickers and glows with the dull blue fire of the evening news. Theres a story on about the girl whos disappeared in Harmony. Three nights ago, she went into the woods behind her house and never came out again. She said there was a door in those woods, somewhere in the ruins of an old town long abandoned. Shed told her little brother shed met the King of the Fairies and he was going to take her home to be his queen.

The newscaster says all that remains of the village in the woods is chimneys and cellar holes. Some lilac bushes and apple trees in old dooryards. The little settlement was called Reliance, of all things, and was never shown on any maps. It disappeared without explanation. Perhaps everyone died off in the flu of 1918. Or maybe, went local legend, the fifty-odd residents were spirited away. The newscaster gets a little gleam in his eye here because everyone loves a good ghost story, dont they?

Some of the townspeople I talked to claim to have heard strange noises coming from the woods over the yearsa ghostly moaning, crying. Some even say if you pass by on the right night of the year, youll hear the devil whisper your name. Others report seeing a green mist that sometimes takes the shape of a person.

The camera shows a close-up of an old woman with a craggy face. Its no place for children out in them woods. Reliance is haunted and everybody knows it. I dont even let my dog run loose down there.

The newscaster says theres been no trace of the missing girl except for a single pink and silver sneaker found in a cellar hole. A size-six Nike.

Then the camera pans back and shows the woods, which could be the woods anywhere, in any small town.

Phoebe turns from the TV, tries to focus on the here and now. Runs her fingers through the pelt of fur (is there more now?) on Mr. Ice Creams back.

But still, she finds herself thinking of those woods in Harmony, wondering where the door might be. In a thick tree trunk? Behind a rock?

Most people, they would say theres no such thing as doors like that. Imaginary.

But Phoebe knows the truth, doesnt she?

Dont look under the bed.

A drop of Mr. Ice Creams sweat lands on her chest, giving her a chill.

Its stupid, really. Crazy. The fact that in every bed shes slept in since childhood, she stuffs everything she can underneath: heavy boxes of books shell never read, Hefty bags full of sweaters and shoes.

Youre so organized, Nan and Sasha say.

But what she is is afraid. Because when she was a little girl, she saw the trapdoor under her bed that only appeared in the darkest hours of the night. Heard the scrabbling, the squeaking of hinges as it was opened. And she saw what came out.

And she knows (doesnt she?) that sometimes hes there still, not just under the bed but in the shadows at the bus stop, lurking with the alley cats behind the Dumpster at her apartment building. Hes everywhere and nowhere. A blur caught out of the corner of her eye. A mocking smile she tells herself shes imagined.

Phoebe shivers.

Mr. Ice Cream finishes with a werewolf roar.

How was it? he asks once hes caught his breath.

Like eating an ice cream sundae, she says, trying to banish all thoughts of doors and things that might come out of them.

With a cherry on top? he asks, smiling.

Mmm, she says. Gotta love that cherry.

He laughs, rolls off her.

Hey, she says, aint we near Harmony?

Arent . Hes always correcting her grammar, and the truth is, Phoebes grammar is pretty good, she just talks like this sometimes to piss him off. And yes, I think its the next town over.

Can we ride by there before we head back. I wanna see the woods where that girl was taken.