Indelible - Dawn Metcalf

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Joy was uncertain whether she intended to say that this was all a big mistake or demand some sort of explanation, but his next words cut her short.

      “If you would be so kind as to deliver that missive to Ink, young lady, I’d very much appreciate it.” Then he pointed to the shell in her hand and winked. “Don’t spend that all in one place!”

      “Ink...” Joy began. The man stopped and turned slowly, his eyebrows twitching with a sort of itchy suspicion. “...is really busy,” she amended quickly. “I don’t know when I’ll see him next...to give him this.” She held up the envelope, which quivered in the wind. “And I’d hate for you to have to wait.” He looked at her and then at his envelope in her hand. Joy folded it carefully. “Is there anything you’d like me to tell him? In case he asks?”

      The man’s face shifted. “He lets you handle the business, then?”

      Joy nodded. “Yes.”

      His face relaxed into a gentle smile. “Oh, well, lehman—I’m old. What do I know?” He shook his umbrella at the envelope. “It’s all written down, of course. Always best to keep records. But then, this won’t involve the Bailiwick, so that hardly matters, does it?” It didn’t sound rhetorical and he looked expectantly up at Joy.

      “No,” she said.

      “Fine, fine,” he said happily. “I don’t mind if you read it, then. Just be sure to let Ink know.” He shuffled off, pausing to pet the tree stump with a gentle hand. “Pity,” he muttered and gave a sad, parting smile. “Well, good day.”

      “Good day,” Joy said and watched the little man amble off through the trees, picking his way through the neighbor’s yard and poking at the ground with his umbrella as he continued out into the woods. Joy followed. She kept her eyes on him as she circled the house, one hand outstretched, touching the wall. She squinted across the neighboring property, but between one tree and the next, he disappeared.

      She backed up a step and then inched forward. She turned around. There was no one there. Nothing.

      That did it.

      Joy sprinted across the driveway, half-blind with tape and fear, crossing the open expanse of lawn in a rush and dashing out into the street. Kept running. She ran herself to exhaustion, finally slowing halfway between home and school. Gasping, Joy tore open the envelope and read the shaky script:

      Twelve roses on her bier, as promised.

      Mary Anne Thomas-Wakely, Thursday, 5:15

      Love marks her twice. Let it be done.

      Thank you for the honor of your service,

      Dennis Thomas

      She folded the paper and placed it in her backpack. It didn’t sound like a drug drop. It sounded like a sweet old man ordering flowers for a grave. Joy walked home, regaining her breath. But what did any of this have to do with a gutted house, a woodland monster, a bunch of strange messages and some guy named Ink?

      The answer was as elusive as a pair of all-black eyes.

      * * *

      Joy fumbled with her keys as she punched in the new alarm code. The security system beeped clear. Instead of feeling safer, Joy felt caged. Something was out there and she was locked in here. Alone. Now Dad didn’t even have to come home from late nights at work. He could just log on to the site and check in via remote. It was worse than being invisible—it was a high-tech way of being ignored.

      Dropping her backpack, Joy went to get some ice water, gulping it down painfully cold. She ground her teeth against brain freeze and filled the glass again. The kitchen window was taped over, crisscross lines obscuring the view. Dad’s note on the fridge said that a repairman was coming at five. She hurried out of the kitchen to avoid standing too near the glass.

      Joy wrapped herself in the afghan. She didn’t know what to think about what she’d seen at the house on Deer Run, or what she’d thought of the old man out in the woods, but whatever had happened there at midnight, she didn’t want it happening here.

      She picked up the rumpled envelope and Officer Castrodad’s card. From her corner of the couch, Joy considered both pieces of paper. She should call. She should file a report or make a claim or whatever. But she wasn’t sure what she could say that didn’t involve admitting that she’d both trespassed and withheld evidence that might have prevented a crime. Did that make her an accomplice? She didn’t watch enough police dramas to know for sure and wasn’t eager to find out. The last thing she needed was another reason to get in trouble with the police or, worse, Dad.

      She read the two strange texts on her phone again. Maybe she could tell the police to warn everyone named Alice Moorehead or to keep watch over every South 40 overpass at 4:00 p.m. But that made her sound like a terrorist. How would she explain? She didn’t even know what to say, because she didn’t know anything herself and it would just link her to them—whoever “they” were—with no proof that she wasn’t involved. Would the police even believe her? Would anyone?

      Joy sat debating what to do when the doorbell rang. As if on cue, her stomach rumbled. Monday. Dad’s late day. Frozen dinner in the fridge. She’d forgotten about the repairman.

      The bell rang again.

      She got up, wincing around an old injury of two broken toes, and dropped the afghan on the way to the door. For the first time ever, Joy looked through the peephole, attempting to see into the hallway with her untaped eye. Colors slid up the sides of the lens, bowing out of focus and bending out of shape. Frustrated, she called through the door.

      “Hello?”

      She felt the second knock by her ear. Joy flipped on the lights and opened the door.

      Five frail women glowed in the hall.

      They were identical in that they all had long golden hair, warm, honeyed tans and the same high-cheekboned faces with tiny, button chins. They wore plain sleeveless dresses that hung down to their knees, and all five were barefoot. Their toenails were far too long.

      “Ink,” they said together.

      Joy shook her head. Their mouths had moved, but the sound hadn’t come from them. The word hadn’t even sounded like a voice, but more like feedback from hidden speakers. It buzzed in her teeth.

      “Um...” She felt her fingers on the doorknob. She couldn’t remember how her hands worked.

      “Ink,” they repeated.

      The world slowed, unfocusing into a fuzzy, muzzy mess. Joy tried to think of what you were supposed to do when something like this happened. Glowing, honey-colored girls appearing on the doorstep did not compute with her version of something like this.

      “I think you have the wrong apartment,” she said thickly.

      “You bear his mark,” they said. “We have a message for Ink.”

      Joy’s hand still wasn’t working. Everything felt slippery.

      “We require a witness at Grandview Park by the head of the foot trail at 3:16 post-meridian, tomorrow.” There was a pause. “Can you remember that?”

      Could she? Why should she? She couldn’t quite recall. Breath oozed in and out of her lungs, shaping words.

      “I think so,” Joy said.

      “Tell him,” they chimed.

      “Wait,” Joy managed. “Who is Ink?”

      While they might be identical, they each had a unique expression of disdain.

      “Don’t be coy, lehman.”

      And the door swung closed under her hand.

      * * *

      They were gone when she opened the door a second later.

      The fuzzy feeling wore off as she stomped

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