Lizzie Read online

  For Karen,

  whose love of all things spooky is even greater than my own—this one’s for you, babe

  BEFORE

  I’m dying.

  Sharp pain zigzags across my shoulder blades and trips along my spine. My abdomen is stretched out and bloated. Cramped. I try to lift my head, but it’s stuck to the cement, ripe with the scent of rodent feces, stale bread, musky earth. The stench curls under my nostrils and twists into my skin, making me gag.

  A steady pulse hammers against my skull.

  Where am I?

  I lift one eyelid and peer into the heavy darkness. My shallow breaths ripple through air so still my heartbeat echoes like a prayer chant.

  In.

  Out.

  In.

  I squeeze my eyes closed and tamp back the bile inching its way up my throat. Try to focus. Process. There’s no way it can be night—

  I squint into the dark. Fragmented memories slash across my vision like windshield-wiper blades. Swipe. My hand on the railing, and me staring down the staircase into the dark abyss. Swipe. Shadows dancing across the cellar floor. Swipe. My head light, dizzy with confusion. I sway forward—

  Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.

  My eyes flit shut—

  Open.

  Swipe.

  A black spider scampers in front of me. It pauses, stares—eight beady eyes—tiptoes away. Rat-a-tat-tat through the eye sockets of a tiny rat skull, spindly legs dangling against the cream-colored bone.

  My breath catches.

  Swipeswipeswipe.

  This spider is the last thing I remember before everything goes—

  Swipe.

  It’s so dark.

  I run my tongue along my teeth, pasty with dried drool, the metallic tint of blood. The left corner of my mouth is pushed into the floor, lips against the cement. I close my eyes and open them quickly, as though speed will bring the light back faster. Instead my vision clouds with tiny dots that swirl like constellations.

  I shift my legs and pause.

  My thighs are sticky. I force them apart and the strong scent of copper drifts under my nose. I slide one hand along my waist, curling the thin material of my dress in my fingertips. The other weaves over the curve of my hip and between my legs.

  Light from the kitchen cuts through the open door at the top of the landing and bathes my skin in a translucent glow.

  I am a ghost.

  Unable to lift my head, I curl into the fetal position, digging my fingernails into the cement floor as pain snakes through my lower abdomen. My anguish squeaks out in a muted scream. It’s barely even my voice.

  I wedge my hand between the soft flesh of my thighs and wrench them apart.

  The skin is damp.

  Tacky.

  I pull back and hold a shaky hand up to my face. My chipped fingernails are outlined in deep red.

  Blood.

  My blood.

  CHAPTER

  1

  FIVE YEARS LATER

  There must be a million things cooking can’t cure, but I don’t know of any. I have whisked away anger, can knead-roll-knead through sadness, despair, even grief. Crank up the heat and negativity simmers and evaporates, just—poof!—disappears. I remember every ingredient I’ve ever used, the textures of the labels I’ve touched, the tangy scent of each herb.

  The kitchen is my fortress, my sanctuary.

  Until she walks through the door.

  A tight flutter of foreboding claws at my throat, slice, slice, slicing away at my euphoria. My eyes flit to the polished silver crucifix that hangs over the door, and I mouth a prayer. Lord, give me strength.

  But even He can’t save me from my stepmother.

  Abigail.

  I work my knuckles through the slab of ground hamburger on the granite countertop, focused on anything but her. The knots in my shoulder blades tense, release, tense. Across the kitchen, the gears on the wall clock click and catch. I glance up just before it strikes ten.

  “Lizbeth, that’s inappropriate attire for Mass.”

  Her voice scratches like nails on a chalkboard. I clench my hands into fists, forcing the slimy egg yolk to ooze through my fingertips. “I’m not going.”

  Abigail steps closer, her thin neck arched and craning downward. A large gold cross dangles from a thick chain, suffocating in the fleshy folds of her cleavage. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she says. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

  I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. My nose twitches at the scent of raw beef mixing with the tart evergreen-and-cinnamon wreath that hangs crooked in the window. I gather the meat mixture into a tight ball and slam it into the bowl with enough force that hamburger chunks slap against the backsplash and trail down the tiles like maggots.

  Disgust curdles from somewhere deep in Abigail’s throat. “Dear God, Lizbeth.”

  My heartbeat picks up speed. I yank the dish towel off the counter and swing at the mess, smearing rosemary and beef bits into the tile. “I need to take care of the meat loaf,” I say, pitch rising.

  I draw in a calming breath.

  Abigail’s arm swoops forward, the gold sequins on her totally inappropriate dress shimmering like reptile scales under the stark overhead fluorescents. She upturns her palm and her tongue flicks out. My eyes lock on the thin gold band encircling her wedding finger. My throat goes raw. It’s still so jarring after four years.

  “You never miss church,” Abigail says. She puts her hands on her wide hips. “It’s practically your second home with all that senseless volunteering.” She shakes her head, knocking loose a few wayward curls. “This can wait.”

  My voice drops to a hoarse whisper. “It can’t.”

  She sighs heavily, the weight of her exasperation landing on my shoulders, already burdened with guilt. I shrug it loose and use my forearm to wipe clear the flecks of wet hamburger stuck to my cheeks. Irritation prickles between my shoulder blades, like an intense itch I can’t reach, can’t scratch. It burns with need.

  I drop my hands into the bowl and continue to massage the gooey meat mixture with far more vigor than required. Hamburger spackles the countertop, the wall, and my journal, the place where I have carefully written every revision of this particular recipe, even the subtlest change. I use my wrists to try and wipe it away, but no matter how hard I scrub, the page won’t come clean.

  Another tsk of disgust from Abigail. “Lizbeth, calm down. You’re—”

  Don’t say it.

  “—manic.”

  I breathe out slow and blink to deter my tears.

  “Honey, have you seen my car keys?” The echo of my father’s voice down the hallway lops off what’s left of my oxygen. My throat closes in and I go still as a mouse. Abigail’s mouth twists into a cruel smirk. There is a beat of silence and then louder, harsher, “Abigail. My keys.”

  My father’s approaching footsteps pound against my rib cage like a kick drum. Thump-thump-thump. My skin feels thin, stretched out like Saran Wrap. I suck in a sharp breath just as his enormous shadow darkens the threshold of my sanctuary. The tension in the room goes so heavy, you couldn’t hack through it with a hatchet.

  “Abigail?”

  A charcoal blazer hangs from my father’s shoulders like giant vulture wings, and his polished shoes gleam under the overhead lights. On the surface, he is disguised as perfection, but I know what lives behind that mask. His piercing gaze lands on me with a thud and my pulse skips a beat.

  “You’re wearing an apron to Mass?” he says, disgust like molasses on his tongue.

  I blink.

  He gestures at me with his enormous hands, palms stretched out as if in prayer. “I don’t expect you to win any beauty pageants, Lizbeth, but at least make a goddamned effort not to embarrass me.”

  A gaping hole opens inside
my chest.

  Abigail rolls her eyes. With all the gaudy makeup on her face, they’re more bulbous than usual, like they might pop out onto the counter, bounce across the granite, drop onto the floor. “She’s not going,” she says.

  I stuff my trembling hands back into the metal bowl, imagining them wrapped around my stepmother’s throat. The meat slithers between my fingers like human entrails.

  Dad recoils. “Not going?”

  A wave of guilt grips me in a vise, this dark specter of my past, my present, my future. A cruel and vicious voice whispering at the nape of my neck, reminding me that I am unworthy, tainted, undeserving of any freedoms.

  The expression on my father’s face reaffirms this, and I duck my head to avoid his searing disapproval.

  Through hooded eyes, I watch him advance on me, forehead wrinkles exaggerated, lips pressed together in a firm line. I shrink under his oppressive shadow, my throat shriveling, heart racing. He grabs my wrist and squeezes so hard I gasp. “You’re hurting me.”

  “Hurting you?” His tone turns incredulous, wounded even. “For Christ’s sake, Lizbeth, don’t be such a little girl.”

  But I am a girl.

  Tears spring to my eyes. I blink, blink, blink them clear. My father studies my face, as though searching for a map to help navigate the rocky terrain of our increasingly dysfunctional relationship. Things haven’t been right between us since Mom died, since Abigail moved in.

  “Honestly, Lizbeth, I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” Abigail says. She snaps on a pair of pearl-colored gloves that once belonged to my mother, and glares at the mound of raw meat in the bowl.

  I resist the urge to stuff her smug face in it. To rip those gloves—my mother’s gloves—from her body.

  My father clears his throat. “It’s Christmas Eve.” The ominous undertone of his voice causes an itchy sweat to spread across my back, and I wait for him to issue his command. Remind me that I have no choice but to do as he says. “What will folks think if you’re not with your family, tonight of all nights?”

  I bite down hard on my tongue. In this small Massachusetts community of Fall River, my father pantomimes the American dream—success, wealth, the illusion of a wife and two daughters who worship him. Maybe that’s true for Abigail and my older sister, Emma, but my adoration snapped the first time the flat of his hand connected with my cheek.

  My skin burns now as though I’ve gone back in time. I hear the crack of bone, the sharp sting of pain. The lump in my chest aches, a phantom reminder of a heart that was once whole. I touch my face to soothe the tingle that never quite fades.

  “It is my duty to tend to the inn,” I say, calmly wiping my cheek with the edge of an apron soiled with cow’s blood. The pungent scent intensifies, filling my nostrils and trickling down my throat. “Besides, Mr. Dent forgot his keys last night. . . .”

  “Ever the martyr,” Abigail mutters.

  Fresh pinpricks of guilt ripple down my spine.

  I am expected at church for Mass. Over the years, I’ve become a staple at Father Buck’s side, serving as youth leader, chairwoman of the annual bake sale, and special events coordinator. I’ve earned the title of Fall River’s youngest Sunday school teacher—but my halo is not without tarnish, my service to God not selfless.

  Being at the church allows me untethered freedom from the stifling rule of my father’s iron fist. It’s a place where I’m not forced to pretend that we are a unit, a family. To go there, tonight of all nights, with the very forces that trap me under this roof, would strip any solace the church offers, and I’m unwilling—unable—to make that sacrifice. I’d rather play babysitter to the lone guest at the Borden Bed and Breakfast.

  My father stuffs his hands in his pockets, drawing my attention to a speck of ground hamburger on his thigh. It will fall off long before he gets to the church, but it gives me a little thrill to know it’s there, a flaw in his otherwise perfect facade.

  I glance at the giant cross above the kitchen door, my distorted reflection mirrored in its surface, and pray for the Lord’s forgiveness.

  “It’s best she stays behind anyway,” Abigail says, her voice thick with disdain. “She doesn’t look well.”

  My spine stiffens.

  Dad sighs. “You will lock the door.” Not a question, but an order. I nod with rehearsed obedience. “And you’re not to set foot outside this house,” he adds, as though I don’t already understand the consequences of leaving.

  Abigail flicks a piece of black lint off her shimmering sleeve. “Oh, Andrew, where would she possibly go?”

  The meaning behind her words rings crystal clear. Within these walls, I am no more significant than a pigeon, a nuisance to be caged or eliminated. But beyond them, I am nothing.

  No one.

  My father stares at me a long beat, expression unreadable. “Fasten all the dead bolts,” he says, ever exercising his paranoia and steadfast control. His gaze moves to the meat-loaf mixture. “And turn off the oven when you’re done.”

  My face goes tight with annoyance. “I’m not a child.”

  Abigail snorts. “Oh, but you most certainly are.”

  She throws back her head and cackles, and the sound reverberates off my skull and makes my teeth chatter with unease. “Don’t you see, Lizbeth? You can never be more than your father’s silly little girl.”

  CHAPTER

  2

  I press my nose up against the kitchen window, tension draining as my father’s Cadillac inches along Second Street. When the headlights round the corner and disappear into the lightly blowing snow, I release the breath I’ve been holding with a loud swoosh.

  The tightness in my chest begins to ease off.

  Freedom. If only for a few hours.

  I rinse my hands under hot water and snag a box of saltines from the cupboard above the sink. A grin spreads across my face. This is the secret ingredient in my meat loaf.

  A sense of pride overtakes any lingering anxiety. This dish encompasses everything I’ve learned from watching rerun after rerun of my idol, Chef Emeril Lagasse—he’s from Fall River too. A lot of semifamous people are, I guess.

  I crumble three crackers between my palms and sprinkle them over the meat mix like confetti.

  BAM! Kick it up a notch.

  I stand back and rock on my heels to admire my handiwork. It is a meat-loaf masterpiece, an edible Picasso—

  A sudden ache crackles across my lower abdomen. I grab on to the edges of the sink, eyes clenched shut against the sting of soap, and take a deep breath. Exhale. My head starts to spin. A second pain hits me like the blunt edge of a knife burrowing into my gut, and I bite my lip to stop from crying out.

  Unease bubbles across my flesh. I turn and lean up against the counter, hand pushed tight against my stomach.

  Not now. Please, God. Not now. Is this my penance for missing Mass?

  I swallow hard to dislodge the dread, and exhale slowly. False alarm. It has to be—it’s too early. I flip through my journal, blood and oil and spices smearing the paper like a page from Pollock’s sketchbook, and count back the days since my last “incident.” Twenty-eight, marked with a bright red dot. I should have at least two days before it happens.

  My transformation.

  Yeah, I know how that sounds.

  I rip off my apron, gather the material in my fist, and blot my forehead. A meat maggot smears across my skin. I bash my hand at it. Rub, scratch, rub until my flesh goes raw. No matter how hard I press, I can feel it. Slimy. Wet. A sticky dot of hamburger lingering between my eyes.

  Familiar panic rockets up my spine.

  It’s like this every month.

  Anxiety. Paranoia. The fear of what happens when everything goes dark.

  It’s not like I bark at the moon or Hulk out, but each month, at around the thirty-day mark, I . . . change. Our old family doctor says my condition is even rarer than werewolf-ism—lycanthropy, or whatever—if that were a thing.

  Most girls my age get their p
eriod and their hormones shift out of whack. My older sister Emma turns into a blubbering mess. Abigail goes mad with rage, though her menstrual cycle has little to do with it, as far as I’m concerned.

  Me?

  I black out.

  For minutes. Sometimes hours. And it’s not like I’m just lapping up extra beauty sleep—though Lord knows I could use the help. My brain is a honeycomb. Pieces of memory go missing. Erased from existence. Just—

  Gone.

  I wish I could blame it on amnesia, or one of those diseases that attract massive public fund-raising campaigns in the quest for a cure. Dementia or Alzheimer’s, maybe. Apparently, there’s no antidote for my special brand of affliction. I have postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome, which basically means my heartbeat goes into overdrive and I black out at the exact instant blood starts flowing from my V.

  It happened in the middle of Father Buck’s Easter sermon once. Talk about a reenactment of the crucifixion. Red everywhere. Bloodcurdling screams. And then—

  Pitch-black.

  I always remember the minutes leading up to an episode. I can account for the blank spaces in between—I mean, it’s not like I blackout-walk. At least, the doctor doesn’t think that’s possible. And I’ve been tracking symptoms, marking the calendar, anything I can do to predict, if not control, the blackouts. But lately, strange things have begun to happen.

  Strange, inexplicable things—sometimes when my period isn’t due at all. Like that time I supposedly switched out the salt for sugar in the condiment containers at the B and B like some prepubescent prankster on April Fool’s.

  Abigail accused me of trying to poison the customers.

  My pulse ratchets up. Enough with her lies! Every word that slips off her forked tongue is meant to hurt and confuse me. Fill me with doubt. She’s consumed with one purpose—convincing my father that I belong in a psych ward, that I’m a danger to others.

  A psychopath.

  The doorbell buzzes, snapping me back to the moment. I hold my breath and listen. Who could it be? Abigail locks down registration at nine p.m. sharp. We flick on the NO VACANCY sign, dim the lights. It’s practically a morgue.