Becca
Chapter 27
Becca
47 Days Dead
Degraded. Desperate. Depraved.
These are all the things Stasi’s made me. Just some of the reasons she’s bad for me…why we absolutely, under no circumstances , can be together.
This should go on the list. Pulling out the journal that is definitely not a diary, I revisit the list I made to help me remember why I need to stay away from her.
THINGS I HATE ABOUT STASI
She’s a stalker?
She’s arrogant.
She ALWAYS has to be right.
She’s mean. She’s a LITERAL bully.
She thinks she knows me, but she doesn’t. It’s annoying.
She walks around like she owns the place in a skirt that is way too short to be practical.
She makes me act like someone I don’t recognize.
So it’s not a very long list… yet . And maybe it’s a bit immature. But this is what I’ve devolved into at her hands. At least I don’t pretend to know all about her, not like she does me. I bet if she had a list, it would be filled out with all the lies she tells herself about me. She says I’m hot and cold but it’s not just me. We’re both responsible for making things messier than they need to be.
Warmer, colder. Warmer, colder.
Closer, farther. Closer, farther.
Around and around each other we go.
Up until the last few weeks at least. The first few days after our fight were easy, all the fresh wounds of her malicious words and baseless accusations still tender and raw. But as the days have gone on—and on, and on, and on, and despite the quietude, her absence is loud.
The days are long, no matter how many abandoned hobbies I try to pick up—that old calligraphy set finally got some use—or meaningless challenges I set for myself—apparently, I’ll just never be skilled at makeup—there’s nothing that fills the void she’s left. Being dead gives us nothing but time—time to regret, time to mourn, time to yearn, but also time to face my past.
I guess there’s no more running from it; it’s time to go dig up the part of my life that I stuck beneath the floorboards—where nobody would find it, where I’d be able to forget about it. Years have passed since I’ve allowed myself to look back on everything that happened at the end of seventh grade. My memories are foggy covered by the sheets I’ve draped over them in hopes of moving on. But if I want to get out of this cycle, I need to clean out my attic.
Like a child sneaking around, I peer under my bedroom door, trying to see if there’s anyone in the hallway or approaching from either direction. No shadows creep closer and the silence remains steady, so I quickly travel from mine to Aiden’s room.
I’m greeted by iconic images of Queen, Def Leppard, and ACDC, all his posters and vinyls still lining the wall. The wrinkles from where he sat on the edge of his bed to lace up his combat boots still crease his charcoal comforter. Aesthetically, it’s like he never left, but without his energy buzzing within it, the room is distinctly empty. Luckily for me, he didn’t take much, which makes my work easy when it comes to finding what I’m looking for. At the top of his closet is my seventh-grade yearbook, the one he took after it was ruined by our classmates.
It weighs twenty pounds now that it’s in my grasp; the heft of the shame makes my bones ache with the effort it takes to hold it. My plan is to take it back to my room, but the edge of the yearbook swipes some of Aiden’s sketchbooks that sit on his desk. The subsequent thump is enough to make me drop the book in surprise. I don’t dare grab it, though, as my dad enters the room wide-eyed and defensive.
He flicks on the light to see more clearly, but it also illuminates the rapid aging he’s suffered over the last few months. Being this close to him it’s easy to see that his typically slim runner’s build now appears sunken. The wrinkles around his eyes are grim reminders of his loss instead of just signs of someone who’s spent a lot of days out in the sun. And the frown lines that bracket his mouth have made themselves at home.
The vast majority of the time I avoid looking too closely at their faces, afraid of what horrors I’ll see there, but in this proximity, there’s no other option but to accept the impact my death has on them still. It would be naive of me to think that the loss of their only daughter wouldn’t destroy them, but I’d hoped it would get easier with time, as it has been for me. Apparently, I was wrong.
My guilt urges my hand forward, desperate to feel the warmth of him, needing to console him in some way. But instead of comfort, chills of unease cover his skin, and his shoulders nearly touch his ears.
I’m not his little girl anymore. I’ve become a parasite, clinging to my parents, sucking them dry.
I wish they’d leave like Aiden did, the urge to scare them out of here is strong, but I also know how much this house means. It’s not my place to choose what’s best for them, just like there wasn’t anything they could have done to stop me from killing myself. We all make choices for our own reasons.
I remain resolved to stay out of their way, to continue to go unnoticed. I won’t risk hurting them more. That’s why I stay completely still as my dad reaches down to pick up the spilled books that are mere inches from my feet.
An exhausted sigh leaves his lips as he straightens the stack on the desk, but he hesitates, rubbing a thumb over the cover of the yearbook. Pulling out the desk chair, he sits and opens it up, flipping to the page where mine and Aiden’s photos sit side by side. At that age, we still looked quite similar. Before I was allowed to start wearing makeup to school and Aiden’s striking features really hollowed out. A small laugh escapes me as I stare at the picture longer, remembering how Aiden convinced me to go along with his plan. Knowing we’d be next to each other, him first, me second, we’d purposely cast a sideways glance no matter how much the photographer tried to correct us. In the photos it looks like we’re scheming—I guess we were. Those were the good days.
My dad laughs too; he must remember how mad my mom was at us. It’s not a full laugh like the ones that used to boom around the dinner table, but it’s something. It’s warmth I haven’t felt in so long. Even when he’s gone, Aiden’s charm is impossible to ignore.
The splash on the waxy paper is jarring, breaking me from my revelry. While I’ve been walking down memory lane, my dad has too, thumbing through the pages, stumbling across what I’d come looking for but had successfully kept hidden from my parents until now.
“Oh, Becca.” He shakes his head as he touches the words on the page like he can soothe that sad little girl who cried over the things that had been written there.
Becca Murphy loves Ana Eden.
H.A.G.S. (making out with Ana)
2 Good 2 Be 4 Forgotten (as the gayest girl in school)
Becca and Ana sitting in a tree.
Looking at the comments now, it seems almost silly that I allowed them to have such an impact on me, but I was twelve. Then there were the ones that did more than embarrass me. My dad turns the page. These were the ones that made the cold sweat of shame coat me before I entered any room.
Girls like you shouldn’t be allowed in the locker room.
If you’re reading this, you’re finding out you’re uninvited to Tracy’s party.
Call me, let’s hang out! With the number next to it desperately scribbled out.
My stomach sinks further as my dad covers his mouth and another tear hits the page. I wish more than ever that Aiden was here. He was so good at comforting people the way they needed and at fixing things, like how he’d replaced my yearbook with his when he saw me crying over it. It was empty except for the letter he’d written to me.
He deserved so much better than how I traumatized him. They all did.
Deflated with the onslaught of negative memories, I sink to the floor and watch helplessly as my dad mourns his daughter once again.
“Becccaaaa,” my name comes from the darkness behind me. I shoot to my feet, knocking into some of the empty hangers. My first instinct is to look for my dad’s reaction, but he’s long gone.
“Stasi?” I whisper despite knowing better.
“Becccaaaa,” now the voice is Aiden’s. The icy chill of dread freezes my muscles as I search the closet for the source. Parting the clothes, I peer into the back of the closet. “What are you so afraid of?” it says now in Stasi’s voice.
Fear tugs me backward as I back out of the closet, nearly tripping on sneakers as I search the walls for whatever is in here with me.
“Becca, stay with me.” Aiden’s voice pleads with me from above and I stop moving. My neck tilts reluctantly, rusty hinges screaming as I look up, up, up.
I clutch my hands around my mouth, suffocating the shriek that wants to leave me as I stare into the black mass that hovers there.
“You’re such a fucking coward,” it laughs, mirroring Stasi’s antagonistic sneer.
Before I can second guess my decision, I take off in a sprint, terror nipping at my heels as I shove open the sliding door. I slide to a halt outside the guest house.
“I don’t need her,” I scold myself, but when I turn back, the dark figure is looming on the other side of the glass door. In a decision that I’ll surely regret, I swallow my pride and crack the door open, slipping inside the quiet room.
To my surprise, Stasi is curled up in the bed, sleeping soundly with the blankets tucked under her chin. She looks so peaceful that I hesitate for a moment. But a shadow passing over me spurs me to action.
“For fuck’s sake, you nearly gave me a heart attack,” Stasi hisses when I clutch onto her arm. “What the hell are you doing here?” She sits up quickly, the blanket falling away and puddling in her lap.
“I....I, umm,” my words fail me as I glance up at the inky depths gathering above us.
“What are you—” she stops mid-sentence as she follows my gaze, then jumps out the bed, tucking the sheet around her haphazardly.
“That’s what.” I point at it, emboldened by her standing beside me.
“Dammit, it’s so big now.”
“You’ve seen it before?” Grabbing her arm, I look at her for answers.
“Yes. Before I died…and after.” She dresses quickly as she gathers her thoughts. “I think it’s an entity that feeds off negative emotions—despair, loneliness, anger.”
“Are you saying there’s something haunting us?” I thought death was supposed to be peaceful, but it just keeps getting worse and worse. “How is that even possible?”
Stasi sighs, frustration furrowing her brow as she looks up at it. “To be honest, I’m not well versed in this side of things.”
“What side of things? What are we even talking about?” I shift myself slightly behind her and she glares at me.
“The occult, the paranormal, witchcraft, all of it.” There’s no teasing in her voice. She’s as matter-of-fact as if she was lecturing me on history.
“And your side of things, what’s that?” If I hadn’t seen this thing with my own eyes, I’d be a bit more skeptical, but this all feels very real.
“I guess I’d consider myself an eclectic witch, but I don’t really like to put a label on it. It’s kind of personal.”
I have so many questions, none of which matter right now. “Fine. So what do we do about it?” Anticipation is heavy in my gut as it pulses and contracts silently above us.
Stasi clears her throat, working her hands against one another. “You’re not going to like this, but I’m going to need you to remain very calm. Do you understand?”
Fear grips me, tangling my tongue. All I can do is nod.
“You can’t let it intimidate you.”
“I think that’s easier said than done.”
“I know, but it only grows stronger when you give it power. Your fear, your desperation, that gives it strength. Our grief has helped it grow. We have to stop feeding it.”
“Five, four, three, two, one.” I count down in my head, trying to settle my nerves. “Okay.”
“Come here.” Without hesitation, I meet her where she stands in the middle of the floor. Her fingers lace through mine, confident and secure in their hold. “You’re going to repeat after me.”
“Shadows of the past fade into the night,
In your place, I welcome the light
Banish all harm
Banish all fear
With these words, I make it clear
No longer welcome
You must depart
From my life
From my home
From my heart
Negativity leave us be
With this chant, we set you free.”
“You have to say it like you mean it,” Stasi insists, squeezing my hand tighter. Clearing my throat, I do as I’m told, desperate for this to be over as the air above me feels increasingly heavy.
Whispers crawl over my shoulders, trailing up and down my neck like ants.
Coward. Coward. Coward.
Needy. Needy. Needy.
Failure. Failure. Failure.
I grit my teeth, pushing down the urge to scream out as the high-pitched recitation of some of my greatest insecurities pelt against me relentlessly.
“Ignore whatever it’s telling you. It’s pushing back, but that’s a good sign. It’s threatened.” She squeezes my hand, insistent on gaining back my attention. “Banishing requires determination. Stay focused.”
Trusting her, I keep chanting, and each time we reach the end again, we start over, and over.
The voice that circles me is just as persistent.
My arms shake and my voice wobbles, but I refuse to break, I won’t fail at this. I can’t let her down. I can’t let myself down. I’m tired of letting others have so much influence over my emotions. Holding onto her and planting my feet, I say the words again. Weary and raw, my throat protests, but I follow Stasi’s lead, continuing the chant. I’m on the verge of crying out with exhaustion when there’s a ripple in the atmosphere around us and the whispers dissipate. Between deep breaths, I find the courage to finally crack my eye open. Relief unknots my tight muscles.
“Stasi.” She continues chanting. “Stasi, it’s gone.” I try to tug my hands out of her hold, but she keeps a firm grip as she opens her eyes and assesses the room for herself. After completing the chant a final time, she releases me.
Her shoulders are slumped, and her lids hang low over her eyes.
“Are you okay?” It’s a struggle to tame the concern that’s sprung to life inside me.
“I’m fine. Banishing can be draining, especially with how much energy it has amassed. It was much stronger than the last time I saw it.” She runs a hand through her hair. “I’ll be fine. Honestly, I’m just relieved it worked. I’ve been very disconnected from all my practices since I’ve died.”
I keep the interrogation barred behind my teeth. Our last conversation sits awkwardly between us, taking the idea off the table. In fact, she knocks it over the edge like a cat with a glass.
“Well, as fun as that was, I’m still not interested in doing this.” She walks over to the door, holding it open.
“Thank—” The door closing in my face cuts me off. The rejection singes hot on my skin. So that’s how it’s going to be? Fine by me. I don’t need her. I never did.