Chapter 3 #2
Home, she thinks bitterly before she can stop herself. The word slips easily from Arden’s mouth because she’s never had to question what it means. A temporary room with temporary walls can be “home” to Arden, since she’s always had a real one to return to.
Remorse immediately floods her. Arden has been nothing but generous to Mallory for the past six years.
Asking her parents to rent a summer cottage on the Cape big enough for Mallory to join, teaching her the words to prayers in church when she didn’t know what to say.
Whatever Arden considers to be home, she’s always made Mallory a part of it.
Swallowing lingering guilt, Mallory trails Raf and his understudy—a boy named Lucas—toward the back hall.
“You doing alright, Mal?” Raf asks. “You seemed out of it during the read-through.”
“I didn’t get enough sleep,” she answers, even though it’s the opposite of the truth.
“Well, start tanking up,” Christina advises, stretching the tape measurer along Raf’s torso, “ ’cause the first-year show is intense. An entire five-act Shakespearean tragedy in less than a month? We’re all going to be more coffee than blood by the end of this.”
“No kidding,” Raf says, holding his golden-toned arms wide. “Hey, what do you think Hendrix would say if I told him that in my head, Romeo has definitely hooked up with Mercutio?”
Christina cracks a laugh. “I think he’d probably agree with you.”
“I mean, we need a bisexual Shakespearean hero, right?”
“I’m pretty sure we already have Hamlet,” Lucas pipes in, and Mallory offers a smile.
She contemplates what it would feel like to reply, My version of Juliet might not be straight, either, but instead picks at her nails. She hasn’t figured out the right name for that part of herself yet.
Raf and Lucas dissolve into a side conversation as Christina turns to Mallory.
“You’re quiet,” she says bluntly, winding the tape measure around Mallory’s hips. “Not like most acting majors.”
Mallory shrugs. “It just takes me a bit to feel comfortable in a group.”
Christina shoots her a glance. “Fair enough. While I have you, Juliet, do you mind coming to the costume dungeon with me? I found the prettiest vintage dress for the wedding scene—just want to see if it needs adjustments.”
“The costume dungeon?” Mallory echoes as Christina loops the tape around the crown of her head.
“Basement,” she clarifies. “We just call it that because, well. You’ll see.”
“Want us to wait?” Raf asks, and Mallory shakes her head.
“It’s okay,” she replies, waving them off.
Christina hooks the tape measure around her wrist and motions for Mallory to follow. As they descend the spiral stairwell at the end of the hall, the air seems to grow colder, their surroundings thick and quiet.
“Why does Shore keep costumes in the basement?” Christina mutters to herself. “ ’Cause they secretly hate us! If there’s one thing that’s known to be great for delicate fabric, it’s extreme temperatures.”
Mallory cracks a smile, following her through a set of double doors and down a tight corridor, lit by a row of dim bulbs.
The walls seem to whisper on all sides, the arched passageway like a tunnel of shadows.
As they enter the congested room, Mallory eyes the cobweb-dusted corners framed with racks of clothes.
“You weren’t kidding,” she mutters. “This place really is a dungeon.”
“Right?” Christina ducks behind one of the racks. “Sometimes I forget what sunlight is down here.” She emerges, arms draped in white lace. “Here. I have a hunch this is gonna look drop-dead gorgeous on you.”
Christina pushes the white dress into her hands.
It has long, flared sleeves and a steeply scooped neck, and the entire gown is covered in lace florets.
Mallory holds it to her chest, glancing in the full-length mirror.
She can already tell that the bodice will cling to her curves perfectly, that the skirt will hug the fullness of her hips.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Would you mind trying it on? I’ll pin you anywhere we need to take it in.”
Mallory nods, returning the dress to the rack, and Christina starts for the exit.
“I’m gonna grab the veil from the sewing room—back in a minute.”
Christina slips out the door, leaving it cracked, a greenish glow spilling through the gap. Just as Mallory reaches for the hem of her sweater, her phone vibrates inside her bag.
She fishes it out, finding a text from Aunt Penelope.
Leaving for my wellness retreat but will be home for Thanksgiving! How are you?
Mallory twirls a lock of hair and contemplates her answer. When Aunt Penelope asks this, she means: Are you taking your anti-anxiety meds and staying out of trouble? Mallory has a hunch that once she graduates, the messages will grow further apart, if they even come at all.
I’m fine, Mallory finally texts back. Proof of life. That’s all Penelope wants. But for a singular, desperate moment, she contemplates adding: Do you know anyone named Lily?
She knows it would be useless. Penelope never listened to a word of what happened in the blue house, chalking up Mallory’s visions of a bloodied woman to her mother’s fanciful stories.
And whenever Mallory insisted her mother was haunted, that she even referred to that dreadful woman as her ghost, Penelope would wave her off with a crisp Ghosts aren’t real, Mallory Eleanor.
Penelope scheduled her to see a child psychologist, but he didn’t believe her, either; Mallory once overheard them whispering in the waiting room after a session, catching phrases like maladaptive daydreaming and childhood fantasies, and she remembers lying awake that same night, trying to remember what it felt like to have a mother who truly listened.
What it felt like to be believed.
Mallory shoves the phone back into her bag. Tugging off her brown sweater and skirt, she carefully steps into the vintage gown, the zipper’s teeth loud in the thick silence.
As she’s about to turn to the mirror, the door slams.
“Christina?”
When hushed quiet is her only answer, Mallory reaches for the handle. Her breath hitches. It’s locked.
“What—?” Mallory rattles it, hard. “Christina!”
She closes her eyes, trying to calm her nerves. The latch is probably stuck, it’s an old building, it’s—
A creaking groan snags her attention, and she looks toward the mirror. Cobwebs cling to the wooden base, the glass layered in a thin film of dust. And when she spots her reflection, a scream rips from her throat.
Because the dress she’s wearing is covered in blood.
Just like her mother’s ghost.
Just like her mother, the last time Mallory saw her.
Mallory staggers, careening into a rack of clothes, hangers clattering to the floor. She barely registers the sound, eyes glued to the splash of crimson across her breasts, the way it spills down her stomach in rivulets of red.
Hands shaking, she touches the fabric, finding it wet. The blood is fresh. Real. Mallory lunges for the zipper. But her fingers slide over the metal, unable to get a firm grip.
She darts another glance at the mirror, this time focusing on her face. Her terrible, withering corpse of a face. Purple-gray flesh peeling from cheekbones. Sunken onyx eyes.
It’s her. That ghost. Just as she looked in the blue house, hovering in the corner of Mallory’s bedroom in the deepest parts of night.
But the more Mallory stares, the more the woman in the mirror blends with her own reflection, until she’s not sure who she’s seeing at all. The ghost? Her mother? Herself? The question paralyzes her, solidifying the suspicion that’s been growing roots since auditions.
This thing wore her mother down, coaxed her somehow toward death.
And now, it’ll do the same to her.