THE MARK

  THE MARK

  Rebecca Daff

  Copyright © 2018 by Rebecca Daff

  All rights reserved.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States as well as all other countries of the Copyright Union. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the author. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this book is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s permission.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locations, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  To Mom and Dad.

  Thank you.

  CHAPTER 1

  The envelope lay on her nightstand. There, in the middle, was her name and address. In the upper left corner, Fenton Academy’s trademark steeple. Christina nervously popped her knuckles even though she knew that was the last thing a pianist should do. She couldn’t help it. This was the moment she had never thought would come, especially since she wasn’t the one who had sent them her video in the first place. Micah was behind that.

  It had started with a dare. Micah thought she wouldn’t put a video of herself playing piano online, but she did. It got a few thousand views, nothing crazy, but at the end of their sophomore year he fessed up to sending it to the admissions office at one of the country’s top music schools: Fenton Academy. Christina was so furious she didn’t speak to him for a whole week. They had long since made up, but there was this letter on her nightstand, dredging up the whole thing all over again.

  Christina stood, took a deep breath, and tied her black, curly hair back in a ponytail before grabbing the envelope and tearing it open.

  “Dear Ms. Miter,” she mumbled to herself as she read, “…saw your video… unorthodox method… but would be pleased to meet you in person to discuss your plans for the future.” Silently, she read the rest. The head of the admissions department wanted to set up an appointment and suggested she apply for a scholarship. Stunned, Christina sat on the edge of her bed. Micah had said that sending them the video was just a joke, but for the life of her, she couldn’t see what was so funny about it.

  She and Micah had spent almost every single day together that summer. It was like that one week apart had to be made up for, so he came over to her house most days to watch TV or movies or they would go hang out at the local diner. But now he was texting her, wanting to come over, and all Christina could think to text back in reply was, “Got a letter from Fenton. Don’t feel like it.” Fifteen minutes later he was banging on the front door.

  “I’ll get it!” Christina yelled as she thumped downstairs.

  “Tell Micah we’re having spaghetti tonight!” her mom yelled back.

  Christina stepped out on the front porch and closed the door behind her. As soon as it clicked in place Micah asked, “What did it say, Chris?”

  Christina peeked through a window to make sure her mom wouldn’t overhear them. When she was sure it was safe, she sat in one of the wicker chairs and Micah sat in the one opposite. “They want to meet me,” she said.

  “Holy crap!”

  “I know. Why did you have to send them the video in the first place?”

  Micah’s excitement was quickly replaced by a profound bewilderment. “You’re seriously still mad about that?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  He leaned back in his chair and the wicker popped. Chris thought about how funny it would be if the whole thing collapsed right then.

  “I could see you being mad if they turned you down or something, but it sounds like you might actually get in. This is kind of a big deal.”

  “I know.”

  “You should tell your mom.”

  Chris sighed. “How many times do I have to tell you that I’m not going to a music school?”

  Micah stood up and walked to the edge of the porch, not dignifying what she’d said with a response.

  They had this fight at least once a month. He and her mom thought the same thing: she should go to a music conservatory instead of a regular college and then play piano professionally. Like concerts or accompanying orchestras. It wasn’t like she didn’t think she could do it. Chris knew she was good. Not in a stuck up way. It was just a fact. But that didn’t mean she wanted to play piano for a living. Being a nurse would be much more practical. She would make more money, enough to help her mom out, and she’d be helping others. Chris could only hope that Micah and her mom would come around eventually, see her side of things.

  “Micah?”

  He didn’t respond, just stood there with his back to her. She really didn’t want him to be mad all night, so she tried a surefire tactic.

  “We’re having spaghetti,” she said. “Wanna stay for supper?”

  “Yeah,” he said reluctantly. “But there better be meatballs.”

  * * *

  When Chris woke the next morning she found she had the house to herself. Trying to find something good on TV, she plopped down on the sofa and flipped through the stations, but nothing was on. The CDs she had were the same ones she’d been listening to all summer. And it wasn’t like she could get online. Internet service was a luxury she and her mom couldn’t afford at the moment. So, with nothing to distract her, it wasn’t long before she was walking through the house with the letter from Fenton in her hand.

  She stopped in the hallway outside her dad’s old study. It had been a while since she’d gone in there. Her mom kept the door closed year round. She had said it was because it was just another room to heat or cool, but Chris was pretty sure it was really because of the same reason she didn’t go in there anymore. They really were a lot alike.

  Chris pushed the door open. Hot, stale air wafted out with the scent of old books and dust. Her fingers trailed across the wall’s surface, following its contours, the peaks and valleys that made up the soundproofing. A black baby grand piano sat in the middle of the room, a thin layer of dust on top of it. The wall opposite of her was lined with windows and the back wall had built-in shelves full of books. Sitting in the corner was a desk cluttered with papers and a tattered blue chair. The only sound was the ticking of a small clock on one of the shelves. It was all exactly like he had left it.

  She only hesitated a moment before pulling out the piano bench then sitting down and lifting the piano’s cover. The white keys gleamed back at her, a smile in the otherwise somber room, and for a moment she just rested her hands on middle “C,” feeling the familiar coolness of the keys beneath her fingers.

  Closing her eyes, she remembered. Dad wanted her to play his favorite ballad even though he would sometimes drowse off in his chair. She kept her eyes closed and began. Her fingers were stiff at first from too much rest. It had been too long since she’d practiced and the notes came out stilted and soft. But after a while she began to sway with the music. She imagined the keys were liquid and playing was like dipping her fingers into pools of milk, the point of contact spreading out, rippling to the next note. She sat up straighter on the bench for the key change. After so much time away, the sharps and flats were murkier to her, and the black keys stuck to her fingers like molasses, threatening to trip them up. Then there was the other key change and it was back to the brightness again. The melody built to a final crescendo and Chris pounded the keys, hitting the last chord with a flourish. Liquid flew up around her body, coagulating, the dots glistening, hanging in the air like stars.

  Reluctantly, Chris opened her eyes and they were gone. Everything was the same as it was
before. The final chord reverberated until the sound finally died out and all that was left was the ticking of the clock across the room. Then it was just as quiet, just as empty. Whatever magic she had felt while playing was gone. Nothing had changed.

  Except… weren’t all the windows closed when she had come in? A breeze was blowing, rustling the papers on the desk. The window was only open a crack but Chris could have sworn they were all shut a minute ago. She pulled the window back down and locked it, peeking over the tops of the bushes outside, looking for what, she didn’t know.

  “I’m here!” Micah yelled from the front door, startling Chris. She couldn’t let him find her in that room. He’d never shut up about her being back in there. She ran to the door and took one last look around before closing it behind her.

  Some things were better left alone.

  CHAPTER 2

  They were on the couch watching a movie Micah had brought over. The hero was making all kinds of mistakes that were getting his friends killed. Why didn’t they just stay at his mom’s after he found out she was okay? Why go through all the trouble to get everybody to a bar? They were all sitting around a table just then, eating pork rinds and drinking beer while the world ended around them. Not for the first time, Chris’s attention wavered, and in her mind she sat around the table with her own family.

  “We’re cursed,” Claire said. She spooned mashed potatoes onto her plate, a petite dab, the mere suggestion of carbs. “Genes don’t lie, Chrissy, and yours are giving some serious testimony.”

  “Claire.” Dad lowered his head and peered over the frame of his glasses in that I’m-chastising-you-but-not-really-because-you’re-just-too-precious kind of way.

  “Really, Claire. Be nice to your sister,” Mom said. “Christina is just starting to grow into her body. This is an awkward time.” She looked at Chris, and Chris wondered if she pitied her.

  Looking down at her own legs, Chris wondered if they were, in fact, too big. They had a nice tan going, but now that she thought about it maybe they were getting chunky. The more she looked at them the more she imagined was wrong with them. Her chest tightened. She balled her hands into fists.

  “Well, at least I’m not dating Spencer Wills,” she said.

  “Not that it’s any of your business,” Claire said through clenched teeth, “but we broke up.”

  Dad cleared his throat. Mom shoved her lettuce in circles on her plate. They were all avoiding eye contact.

  “Again? What happened?” Chris asked.

  Claire’s eyes filled with tears and her face scrunched up. She pushed away from the table and stormed out. Moments later her bedroom door slammed shut. Chris could feel her own face growing warm.

  Her dad cleared his throat again then reached over and patted her on the back. “It’s okay, Chrissy. She’s just upset about the break-up.”

  “Am I allowed to ask what happened?”

  Dad looked to Mom who in turn got up to clear the table. “Some things are best left alone,” he finally said. “Just give her time. She’ll come around.”

  Chris blinked and she was back in the living room with Micah. She didn’t know what had prompted that memory or why she was thinking about one of the many times Claire and Spencer had broken up. At least she wasn’t thinking about the last time… She blinked hard and sat up straight, willing herself to not go there.

  “So what did you think?” Micah asked. The credits were rolling.

  “It was funny,” she said.

  Micah smiled and turned off the TV. “I was hoping you’d like it. Actually, I’m kind of surprised you got through it. You get queasy so easy.” He cleared his throat. “Didn’t mean for that to rhyme.”

  The house was quiet again. Micah kept looking at her. He scooted an inch closer to her and she heard a rustling sound. He said something else about the movie, but his words were muffled by what sounded like someone macheteing their way through a dense jungle.

  “You hear that?” Chris asked.

  It was so loud. She was about to ask him again when he shook his head. Try as she might, she couldn’t pinpoint where the noise was coming from. It was a paper bag crumpling, sandpaper rubbing together, waves breaking on the shore kind of sound, and it grew and grew. It grew until she thought her ears were going to bleed.

  Then, suddenly, it stopped.

  The very bottom of Micah’s beard twitched. A fly parted the hairs, pushing them off to either side. It winked at her.

  No way did a fly wink at her. She leaned closer to get a better look. Micah leaned forward at the same time and they bumped foreheads.

  “Ow!” He pulled away, rubbing the spot where they’d collided.

  “There’s a fly in your beard.”

  Micah hurriedly combed his fingers through his facial hair, but he missed the fly every time. Finally, it grew bored and flew to the windowsill.

  “Did I get it?” he asked, still swiping at his face.

  “Yeah.”

  Did she really just see what she thought she saw? Nah. It was a regular fly. She was just tired. Her nightmares had been getting worse. She had dreamed about her father and sister nearly every night for a week.

  “Let’s go to the diner,” Micah said.

  Chris was about to say that what she really needed was a nap, just so she could be alone again for a while, but across the room the fly nodded. On second thought, maybe she should go and clear her head. She had the unsettling feeling her little guest would still be there when she came back.

  * * *

  The Fly bounced off her forehead when she walked in the door then hovered a few inches in front of her face before raising one of its thin legs and waving at her. She panicked, swiping at it, and it zoomed away. Chris stayed up all night, flyswatter in hand, waiting to see what it would do next. It didn’t come back that night, but the next day it reappeared.

  It was drawn to strange objects. Like whenever her mom or Micah was around it would land on their clothes, Micah’s beard, or the sash on her mom’s robe. It seemed to like her dad’s study the most. Oftentimes it would rest on her dad’s tobacco pipe collection and the picture of Claire from elementary school. It would stand on the gap where Claire had lost a tooth, blacking it out further. Chris saw all of this but said nothing. No way could she tell her mom or Micah about any of it. But she knew they saw The Fly too because one time her mom had casually brushed it off her arm. Chris had never been so relieved.

  After sitting up all night she had finally figured it out: it must have come in through the open window in the study. It didn’t look like it was mutant strong or anything, so she doubted it had opened the window itself. So it must have been open before she had gone in there. Maybe her mom had been airing the room out. Regardless of how the window was opened, Chris was certain that room was the point of entry, and she was seventy or eighty percent sure that if she hung out in there long enough she could usher The Fly back out the window since it wouldn’t sit still long enough for her to get it with the flyswatter. Then she might finally be able to relax.

  So that’s what Chris was doing, sitting on the piano bench with the door open waiting for The Fly to come in so she could shoo it out the window. Her mom had gone to the grocery. Chris had told her she had a book she was wanting to finish reading, but this was her plan all along.

  Just in case, she walked to the window and checked the thin strands of cobwebs that strained and sagged against the windowpane’s corners. No luck. But out of nowhere there came a soft tapping on the glass. Chris looked outside but there was nothing there. There was no breeze, no trees close to the house, nothing to brush against it, just the bushes against the siding and the empty flowerbox that hung just below the pane.

  She turned her back and heard it again. She swung around, determined to catch whatever or whomever it was in the act. Below the flower box Chris could just make out a blue pancake of hair on top of a large head. A hand with long and pointy fingernails reached up and tapped one last time before pressing against
the glass and raising the window.

  “Micah?” Chris called out, her voice shaking. Her heart was pounding in her chest like the bass in Micah’s old truck. If it was him, if he was in some stupid costume trying to scare her, she’d kill him.

  The creature scrabbled up the side of the house, grabbing onto the windowsill before hefting itself over the threshold. Its arms were long and gangly, knuckles nearly dragging the floor, and there were sucker-like things on the ends of it fingers like a frog. It was short—only coming up to Chris’s chin—but solid, and an iridescent sheen covered its slimy skin, shining blue then green then purple, never quite settling. The long black robe it wore touched the tops of its bare feet.

  “You could have let me in,” it said, brushing off the front of its clothes.

  For some reason its voice reminded her of chimes blowing in a strong wind. All the moisture was gone from her mouth and it took a couple of tries for her to finally squeak out, “What are you?” She didn’t realize she’d been backing up until she bumped into the piano, and she grabbed onto it before her knees gave out. Her hands were shaking so badly she had to tuck them into her pockets.

  “I’m Leroy,” he said.

  The Fly flew into the study. It buzzed around the room frantically until it finally came to a rest on the windowpane, careful to avoid the cobwebs. Without warning, Leroy raised a purple green blue hand and then brought it down hard, smashing it. The Fly bounced off the side of the windowsill before coming to a rest upside down. Its legs spasmed in the air briefly then stilled.

  “Bugs,” Leroy said, disgusted.

  Chris suddenly felt a deep ache in her chest, and it didn’t make any sense. She had tried to kill The Fly herself, after all. But she couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss.

  “Hey, why so blue?” Leroy said, then chuckled, pleased with his own joke.

  Just then The Fly flipped itself upright, shook its entire body, and glared at Leroy who just rolled his eyes and inspected his fingernails. The whole scene was starting to take on a fuzzy, muffled quality. Chris shook her head and lowered herself back onto the piano bench, worried she might be close to passing out. She licked her dry lips before asking, “How is it alive?”