THIS BOOK WILL KILL YOU

17_threedeadthings_

out onto the street, slipping on the damp sidewalk and landing on my ass.

I'm up again as fast as I can, backing away from Breakers. Out here my scream is a whimper, like I left my voice behind with Flint, with her. I can still see them, through the glass. Flint's face is normal again, she's giving the other me a hug, the other me is hugging her back. They're talking the way any friends would talk, my hands gesticulating, Flint's head tilting back as she laughs. They hug again, then they're both walking toward the door, heading right for me.

I can't bear to see Flint's face fall again, I don't want that thing to turn the scooped out shell of its head in my direction. I clutch the papers to my chest and put my head down and walk, no idea where I'm going just so long as they're far behind me. I'm not even sure how long I walk for, but when I next look up it's like half the day has been swallowed, the evening moving in. I'm soaked through, a steady rain falling.

My hand is aching and I realize it's because it's still clenched around the sheaf of papers, pressed against the ridge of my breastbone. I've been holding them there so long it's like trying to move a dead girl's arm, the rigor mortis holding it in place. My fingers crack as I peel them open, but I don't throw the papers away. I know that if I toss them to the floor they will just end up back in my hand anyway. Somewhere that isn't here, somebody will give these pieces of paper to a girl that isn't me, a girl without a face, and they will be back in my hand again.

This story wants to be read.

I'm in a park, one I don't know. Everything's half dead, more brown than green, but there are families here, dog walkers too. They're all giving me a wide berth because I'm out here without a jacket, and judging by the way my face aches too I've been grinning like a corpse all the way here.

There's a bench across the green and I walk to it, hating the way my clothes cling to me, the way they feel like a burial shroud. I'm shivering so hard I can barely uncrease the paper, and when I do I see that the ink has run, although not so much that I can't read it. I don't read it, though. The thought of it makes me feel sick, makes the acid claw up my throat. I spit, scaring another dog walker away from the bench.

The note's getting wetter by the second, so I glance over it. It's written in small, blue handwriting on a sheet of yellow paper, printed pink hearts clustered in the top right corner.

Tommi who's not a boy,

I have no idea why I'm giving this to you. I feel like I should burn it, after what happened to Cara. I feel like I should burn all of it, but the cops took most of it so there's not much I can do about that. But Cara gave me this and told me to keep it safe, told me not to let anyone read it. She told me not to read it too, and I haven't, because I saw what it did to her. I think she gave stories to other people too, Tanner for sure.

Rambling, sorry. I don't know what Cara was into before she died, but this is part of it and I don't want it any more. Read it, shred it, fucking roll a joint with it and smoke it. I don't care. She called it a game, but it's not a game. Cara's gone, Tanner's gone, I don't want any part of it, and I don't want to see you again, do you understand? Sorry.

Megan.

I read it again, then scrunch it up and put it in my pocket. I count five pages of story, printed from a website. I know which one because the format and the font are the same as always.

_threedeadthings_

added by _unknown_ on 01.01.2001.

It's the story that was missing when I was looking through Cara's creeepy.com page, the one she'd commented on. I can't even remember what the comment was, or if I even read it. My eyes take in the first line without my permission.