Chapter One
Tag
I’m no hero, believe me. I’ve never rescued babies from burning buildings. I’ve never volunteered to save humpback whales or the rain forest. I’ve never been to protest rallies, fed the hungry in Africa, or righted any of the eighty thousand things that are wrong with the world these days. Heroism isn’t a trait commonly found in teenage boys.
Stupidity though? We’ve got that in spades.
Stupidity is why I’m huddled behind a large sofa bed, underneath a heavy blanket, drenched in my own sweat despite the AC humming in what is otherwise silence. The television is tuned to the least scary show I could find: a Jersey Shore rerun—horrifying in its own way, but not in the way that matters, which is the most important thing. I stare at the TV screen—and not because I’m eagerly awaiting Snooki’s next freak-out. I watch the screen because I want to know when it’s coming to find me.
Earlier this evening, I’d taken a raggedy-looking doll—its cotton stuffing already scooped out—and replaced it with uncooked rice and a few fingernail clippings. And I’d sewed it up with red thread. When you’ve done this as many times as I have, sewing becomes as good a weapon as any. Then I waited for three a.m. to roll around before filling the tub with water and dropping the doll in the bath.
“Dumbelina, you’re it.”
The name was not my idea, but it was what I had to work with. Using the same name that Sondheim and his girlfriend used in the ritual they started and never finished—that’s how it knows you’re singling it out. Just to ensure there were no misunderstandings, I said “You’re it” two more times.
The doll, like most dolls, said nothing. It gazed up at me from beneath the water, a drowned, ball-jointed Ophelia with synthetic brown hair and plastic eyes in a yellow broadcloth dress made in some sweatshop in China. The doll was common enough, the kind that could have been a knockoff of a knockoff.
The air changes. Then that invisible spider crawls up my spine, tickling the hairs behind my neck. I have come to know this spider these last couple of years. It whispers there’s something else in the room, breathing with you, watching you, grinning at you.
I hate that damn spider.
For one moment, the doll’s stringy brown hair glitters a shiny black under the fluorescent lights. For one moment, the doll’s glassy gaze takes on the faintest tinge of malicious self-awareness. For one moment, that thing’s head breaks through the water’s surface and looks at me.
I switch off the lights. I back out of the bathroom and close the door. I hide.
It sounds pretty idiotic, playing hide-and-seek with a doll. It’s not. It’s part of the rules I gotta play by.
The first rule is this: I have to finish the game. No matter what happens.
I’ve taken a mouthful of salt water at this point, and I begin counting in my head. One thousand and one, one thousand and two, one thousand and three, one thousand and four…
On the TV screen, an orange-skinned, heavily built Italian guy with gravity-defying hair is arguing with another orange-skinned, heavily built Italian guy with gravity-defying hair.
…one thousand and five, one thousand and six, one thousand and seven…
I briefly wonder where Ki is. She’s often been quick to turn up when I’ve done other harebrained rituals like this one. At the moment, she’s nowhere to be seen, which worries me. It’s not like she’s got something else to do.
I’m no hero, but I do have a superpower. Except my superpower tends to wander off when she’s bored.
…one thousand and eight, one thousand and nine…
The noise of the television fizzles out. Then the sound returns, but it’s warped, like an inexperienced DJ is spinning on a broken turntable and he has the song stuck on repeat. The voices drop several octaves until they’re rough and scratchy and incomprehensible. Jersey Shore switches to static.
Immediately, my gaze swings back toward the bathroom door, which is standing wide open.
I’m pretty sure I closed it.
Something is moving around the room. I’m hoping it’s Okiku, but I doubt it.
It sounds like something is dragging itself across the floor. Like it isn’t quite sure how to use its legs properly yet.
I risk another glance over the sofa bed.
Wet tracks lead away from the bathroom, water stains seeping into the carpet. The television screen is blank, though the disturbing noises continue.
And then I see the doll lying facedown in a puddle of water several feet from where I am.
I retreat back into my blanket fortress to retrieve a plastic cup half-filled with the same saltwater mix that is in my mouth. I also pick up a small paring knife. Then I emerge from my hiding place, peering nervously up over the sofa again…
…and I come face-to-face with the doll, which is perched atop it. It has a small, peculiar, black gash across its face, which on a person would have been a mouth.
The doll in the bathtub didn’t have a mouth.
It lunges.
I duck.
It sails over my head and crashes into a painting behind me. I have enough presence of mind not to swallow the salt water or spit it out. I don’t waste precious seconds looking behind me—I make for the closet, my backup hiding place in case anything went wrong, which it almost always did.
I slip in and slide the door shut behind me, wriggling in among the clothes and shoes, trying to make as little sound as I can. You don’t need to find the most complicated hiding spot when a ghost is hunting you. The instant you trap them inside a vessel, like a doll’s body, their perception of the world becomes limited.
I wait for several long seconds. Everything’s quiet, but I’m not buying it. If you move when they’re there to see, they’ll find you. They’ll find you fast.
Through the small slits of light coming in through the slatted closet door, I make out a movement. Then I catch a glimpse of yellow as something small and decidedly doll-shaped shuffles into view.
It’s crawling on its hands and knees.
Its every movement sounds like crunching bone.
It’s searching for me.
I hold my breath and wait until it twitches away.
The second rule of the game: it gets to look for me first. Then it’s my turn. We swap roles every few minutes until someone succeeds. First one to stab three times doesn’t get to die.
Time’s up.
I count another ten seconds, because starting my turn late is better than starting it too early, while it’s still on the hunt. Then I step out, curbing the desire to take the coward’s route and hide ’til morning. Or better yet, to race out of the apartment screaming like a little kid.
The doll lies flat on its back, its midnight-black eyes boring through the ceiling. It isn’t moving.
I run toward it, knife raised and ready, because the rules say I have two minutes, but experience says these bastards cheat. When it comes to dealing with ghosts, the general consensus is to hit first and hit hard, because chances are you’ll be dead before you can get off a second attempt.
I strike. My knife finds its mark, plunging into the doll’s chest. I spit the salt water that’s in my mouth onto the doll, soaking its cotton dress. “I win!” I sputter and then rip the knife free so I can stab it again.
The television chooses that moment to flicker back on. Momentarily distracted, I glance at the screen. The two guys are still arguing. When I look back down, the doll is nowhere to be seen.