Chapter Twenty-Seven Goldie
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Goldie
Halloween
I read the note in my hand one more time from my sister, narrowing my eyes as I do.
Golds,
I had to do a couple of fixes on some bodies before we head out today, so I left you a present. Enjoy!
PS—make sure you pack up because the bus leaves at 3:00 p.m. sharp.
xx, Evie
“This is suspicious,” I say to myself while staring at the TV.
I’d be irrational not to second-guess her intentions, since my heart’s been getting a full cardiac workout from the time we pulled into the parking lot, pre-fucking-camp.
I scoot off the bed before standing and inspecting the vintage TV. It’s one of those old tube ones from like the eighties. I didn’t even think they made them anymore, but I can see the guy who’s throwing this weird retreat being all in.
The polish on my thumbnail chips as I nervously scratch it. I’m looking for a clue as to whether this thing’s been rigged by Evie and her minions so that, once I turn it on, a child who looks like she’s half dead will actually crawl out and scare me to death.
The thought actually makes me shiver, and my fingers curl into a ball as I whisper, “Hello . . . come out if you’re in there.”
I reach out slowly, very slowly, trying to internally prepare myself for any and every possibility, even being shocked. I literally wouldn’t put anything past these freak-ass horror geniuses.
“Please just be a real TV,” I exhale shakily, drawing my hand back right before I almost touch the knob that turns it on.
Is this how I make it work? Shit. I don’t even know how to get rid of my read receipts on my phone, and I’m supposed to figure this out?
But to my surprise, when I pull the knob, not only does nothing happen to me, but the television just powers on.
“Huh,” I let out, surprised, my eyes big.
I stand there for a second, watching the news, still skeptical—as one would be, seeing as I’ve felt like a war’s been waged on me. Finally I back away before turning around to the bed, only glancing over my shoulder a few more times as I crawl back in.
An audible sigh of relief (or maybe leftover disbelief) releases as I give in and fluff my lumpy damn pillow before I grab the remote off the bed.
It’s the size of a brick, but whatever—it works. I press one of the buttons, changing the channel to a morning show, and smile. The picture isn’t 4D, but it’ll do.
Two hours later, I’ve snuck out to the cafeteria to grab some snacks and brought them back like a little squirrel. I’ve been watching a show that I remember my mother watching when I was a child.
God, Evie and I used to make so much fun of the fact that she watched soap operas. They were so dramatic and full of toxic relationships, but baby, I am hooked. This is so much better than watching those gross scary movies Evie loves.
I stuff some chips in my mouth as I point at the screen, talking to it like the people can hear me.
“She’s cheating on you, dum-dum. With your brother. God . . . how do you not see the chemistry between them?”
The brunette vixen who everyone seems to be obsessed with begins giving her big monologue, and I’m riveted. But suddenly the picture goes out, turning to snow, before it pops back to normal just as fast.
“Shit.” I frown while shoving more chips in my mouth as the TV does it again. “Uh-uh. No, no, no . . . what is happening?”
I sit up and stare as lines start to populate over the show, like the television’s about to take a shit.
“Dammit. Noooo . . . I need to know who she picks.”
I scooch off the bed quickly, not knowing what to do other than to channel my father. So, I hit the side of the box a couple of times.
“Work . . . if evil Hannah chooses Rick, Paul might go feral and marry good Hannah.”
I squeal when it starts working again, but it only lasts for a second before the sound transforms into my favorite sleep track—white noise—and the picture stays a grainy black and white.
“Come on. How did people live like this?”
A sigh spills out, my soap opera disappointment heavily apparent, before I turn back to the bed to grab the giant remote, hoping a button on there can fix this problem.
But as I do, the faintest sound of a whimper—no, not a whimper, but like a distant cry—fills the room. It stops me in my tracks, my brows drawn together as I immediately look around, wondering what the hell it is.
No sooner do I wonder than I hear it again.
Is it coming from outside? I walk toward the cabin wall and press my ear to it, feeling as sketched out as I probably look, but that’s when I hear the voice.
“Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep . . .”
“What the fuck.” I turn my head in slow motion over my shoulder to the fucking television as my heart starts beating out of my chest. “Ohhh, no, no, no, no, no. We are not doing this.”
I’m already grabbing my shoes, hopping as I put them on my feet, when I hear, “Mommy, can you hear me? It’s Carol Anne. I’m scared,” before a demonic screeching bursts from the TV speakers.
I was never a runner in high school; in fact, I never had any aspirations to become athletic. But today I’m winning an Olympic gold for fastest sprint away from a haunted fucking television.
I’m yelling incoherent words as I burst from the room, chills running down my spine, only to skid to a stop because my sister and her colleagues are standing out in front of me with smiles plastered to their faces.
Someone’s dying today.
I reach down and take off my shoe, watching everyone scatter as I chuck it directly at my sister.
She scream-laughs as I jump up and down, shaking out my arms, before I stab my finger toward the open door of my cabin.
“Someone get that goddamn television out of my room. Now . . . right now.”
Evie’s boss is almost doubled over as he hands her a hundred-dollar bill. She winks at me. “I told you she’s never seen Poltergeist.”
“I am officially trading you in for a better model when we get home,” I yell at her before storming back toward the room, only jumping out of the way as they roll the television by me before I slam the door behind me.
I am so glad we are leaving today.
Noah
“Why are you dressed like that?”
Chase is walking down his stoop, looking like a contract killer trying to blend into a crowd.
He stops in his place and holds open the jacket like he’s modeling it. “Dude, I’m incognito.”
I scoff. “Not even a little. You look wildly suspicious.”
He looks behind him as if I’m speaking to someone else. “What are you talking about? No, I don’t. The hat . . . the black trench and glasses are making it so I’m not suspicious. And also so that nobody recognizes me.”
Why did I tell him about the text? What was I thinking? I should’ve left him here. I cross my arms, staring at him.
“Do you get that a lot . . . people finding you unforgettable? Or maybe unable to place how they know you?” I wave my hand aggressively in front of his white work van that has the name of his restaurant on the side. “Just get in.”
He drags his sunglasses down his face as he walks toward the passenger door. “Jesus. Okay. A girl breaks your heart and someone tries to kill you, but all you want to do is hurt my feelings? Weird choice, but I forgive you.”
I can’t with him today. “We deserve to die,” I grit out as I walk around to the driver’s side.
I don’t care if it’s his van, no way was I letting him get us to where we need to be.
He’d have us re-creating some fucking movie scene to deflect from the seriousness of what’s going on.
I know that’s why he’s acting like this.
It’s what Chase excels at—making a shit situation seem tolerable—but I’m in no mood.
I slide inside the van and turn it on.
“So, what’s the plan?” he breathes out. “Should we stake out the coffee shop before going in?”
With one hand on the wheel, I back up, then pull out onto the street.
“The plan is to sit down and tell Matthew Wright the truth, in the hopes it brings her parents some peace. It’s the least I can do for them.”
Chase drops the bullshit for a minute. “Do you think maybe they could help you find out some information about your dad? This guy’s a private investigator after all.”
“Working in line with someone else’s interest.”
We stop at a red light as he looks at me. “But he’s a professional. His interest is his bottom line. I don’t think it would be far-fetched to ask.”
I hit the gas as the light turns green. “You got a point. Okay, I’ll ask.”
Chase taps the dash like he’s playing the drums. “This is good. Last thought. Don’t be mad . . . Do you think we should have code names?”
“Shut up until we get there. Just no talking.”
The car goes quiet, but I still hear him whisper “So, that’s a no” under his breath. We drive deeper into the city before I turn onto the street where we’re meeting the investigator. Parking is impossible, but we find a spot half a block away.
As we’re getting out of the car, I glance at Chase.
“You’re really going in with the whole getup?”
“I’ve committed, Noah,” he answers back.
“You should be committed,” I whisper, but he ignores me.
We walk the block as the muscles in my jaw start doing more work than they should. I’m nervous and I don’t know if I’m making a mistake. Before we walk inside, my hand comes to Chase’s chest.
“Am I fucking up? Should I risk the information getting back to her?”
I know she’s in Portland, and I’m committed to keeping her safe. But a piece of me is still scared to death that if she called and told me to come get her . . . I would.
Like a selfish, irresponsible asshole, I would run both of us away and try to never look back, because it’s starting to feel like I’ll never know how to live without her.
Chase pulls his glasses off and stares back at me. “Not telling her is another lie . . . I know I’m not supposed to say this, but you have to decide if one day when all this shit is finally over for you . . . Do you want to win her back?”