THIS BOOK WILL KILL YOU

11_tubbyinmyhead_

Consider me officially freaked out.

I'm trembling as I look up from the laptop, and that makes me realize how close I am to peeing myself. I snap the computer closed and fly into the bathroom, no time even to close the door. My eyes are watering with the relief of it, and it's only when I've washed my hands and splashed water on my face that I notice the bath is full. There's no tubby in it, I'm happy to say. But there's a wad of mom's hair in the water, about the size of a hand, just floating there.

I reach in to pull the plug, the water still warm, my hand coming free with a curl of hair wrapped tight around my fingers. I wipe it off on the towel then crash onto my bed.

Tubby's in my head, and I know that's the whole point of CreepyPastas, I know that's why people write them, but this one's getting to me. It wasn't even particularly good. I open up the laptop, the story fizzing out of the dark as the screen comes to life, like a shark appearing from deep water. Those last three words go on forever, the author must have written them a thousand times. When I finally get to the comments they're mostly positive, a couple of shout downs, one accusation of plagiarism, and of course Cara's comment somewhere in the middle.

i don't' know if this is right but look at the table, look at the table, it's the same

A table full of food, I think. A table full of meat.

And it's not just that, is it? The building described here isn't a million miles away from the building in _pinch_.

It's not a million miles away from the building in my story, either. The building I used to see in my dreams.

Except that's ridiculous, because all they say is a high rise, and how many of them are there here, in this country? A million? I'm jumping to conclusions, I'm seeing things where nothing is there. It's just a story, written by some kid who was probably sitting in a bedroom like this when they did it, laptop on their knee, annoying brother playing the Xbox in the room next door.

To prove it to myself, I click on the author's name, but it's an unknown page, which is weird in itself. I'm looking too deep, I know it. Like Flint told me yesterday, this is just a case of a lonely, sad, horror-loving girl who probably found out her douchebag boyfriend was cheating on her with her best friend and decided she just didn't want to be here any more. Megan was trying to throw me off the scent with the whole game thing, casting the blame at Tanner. Back when Dad had been alive he always told me I thought too much, about everything. His favorite thing to bring up was Occam's Razor. Whichever solution to a problem is the simplest is almost always correct, or something like that.

Sad girl commits suicide? Or two people play a weird witch game based on CreepyPastas that ended up with one of them dead and one missing and which by the way might have something to do with a dream you used to have when you were a kid.

I actually laugh, and the room feels a little brighter for it. I could click out of creeepy now and never come back, I know. I could go through my whole life and never think about Cara Pierce again.

And I almost do. I almost do.

But I don't. You know I don't. You wouldn't be reading this story if I'd left the dead girl alone.

You'd still be safe if I had left the dead girl alone.

You'd still have a chance.

I'm back on Cara's page before I even know it, scrolling through her photos, nothing but that weird blurred image. I check Megan's page next, and halfway through her feed I see it, an image of her and Cara sitting at a bar, cocktails in their hands even though they were way too young to order them. The explanation for this lies with who's serving them, a young, tanned guy with a three-million dollar smile and a barman's uniform. There's no ID on him, but the caption reads Tanners always spoiling me and the photo's geotagged.

Outcast Bar.

I've not heard of it, but Google comes to the rescue again. It's on Peterson and 4th, a subway ride away. I close the laptop and lie back, staring at the ceiling. There's a string of cobweb hanging down from my lampshade, as thick and dark as hair, and even as I notice it I hear a splash of water from the bathroom again, a heavy body moving, then footsteps pounding across the landing and down the stairs. Nothing passes my room, though. It must be from next door, I think, but the truth is my stomach is churning, my skin's trying to crawl off my bones.

"Just forget about it!"

It's Donnie, shouting, and he sounds close. I clamber off my bed and walk to my door, poking my head out to see my little brother standing right there, staring into space.

"Forget about what?" I ask him, and his eyes crawl to meet mine. The rest of him seems utterly motionless, a glitch in time. Then, just like that, he sneers at me.

"The door, you idiot," he says, turning and galloping down the stairs. Somebody's knocking, and I'm chasing after him.

"I got it," I hear myself say, but he's making a point of it now, stomping to the front door. There's a pair of shadows hanging in the marbled glass, broken into a thousand pieces. "Wait, Donnie, hang on."

He slides the deadbolt and opens it, but somebody grabs my shoulder, hard, and I turn to see mom there. Her mouth is open, like she's yawning. Like she's silently screaming, and there's a wad of darkness sitting on her tongue, stuffed down her throat like a rag. She moans, chokes, her jaw snapping like a nutcracker's, once, twice, then she's speaking.

"Where are you going? I don't want you skipping out again, getting drunk."

My entire vocabulary is lodged in my throat. I look at her, standing there in her bathrobe, a towel wrapped around her head, strands of damp hair hanging down from it.

"What?" mom says. "Did you hear me?"

I remember the door, turn back to see that it is closed. There's definitely a shadow in the glass, though, getting bigger, getting closer. The latch turns, the door opens, and Donnie's there.

"Forgot my phone," he says, pushing past me into the kitchen, then walking back again.

"That goes for you too, Donnie," mom says. "Six at the latest. Hear me?"

"Yeah yeah," he says. He grins at me.

"What's up with you, dork? You look like you've just seen mom and the milkman doing the naked fandango on the dining room table."

"Donnie, enough!" mom says, chasing him out the door with the back of her hand. He's laughing as he drops down the steps onto the sidewalk. Mom's laughing too as she closes the door behind him. I'm not laughing. I'm not sure I will ever remember how to laugh again.

"Six," mom says, twirling a finger in her hair, pulling out a thin strand, staring at it. "No later."

She walks to the stairs, heads up them, and as she turns the corner I swear I see her put her finger, put that little curl of dark hair, in her mouth. I can hear her chewing on it right up until the bathroom door slams behind her, and the bath starts running.