THIS BOOK WILL KILL YOU

26_tubbyback_

—into the hallway and looking back to see nothing, nothing except not-me sitting on the sofa, a hole where my face should be as I pick up the story I left there.

And it's in my hand again, clenched tight as I stumble away from Cara's apartment. I toss it to the floor, clattering down the stairs, slipping on loose teeth, reaching for the handle of the lobby door only to see my hands are full of paper again. I throw it away but I know that the not-me is picking it up again in my not-hands and sure enough it's back, slick with my blood, refusing to be let go.

"Fuck you," I breathe. "Fuck you fuck you fuck you."

I'm so exhausted I can't even keep a straight line as I walk down the street. The day is broken because there are people everywhere, people just going about their lives like the night isn't hanging over them. I see kids getting into cars, yelling at their parents. I see business people in suits, speaking on their cellphones, I see a mailman running up the steps of another apartment block. I check my phone to see that it's past eight in the morning, which is impossible of course because I can still see the stars.

I duck into a corner store, grabbing a bottle of water and a Babe Ruth because I'm so dizzy and faint I'm going to keel over and fall right out of this world. The man behind the counter's grinning at me like a loon, his moon-eyes the brightest thing in the store. I fish my purse out of my bag, my finger throbbing so much I almost drop it.

"Nice morning," he says, and I nod, fishing out a couple of bucks. He pushes them back to me and I notice that he's missing the tip of his middle finger, the one on his right hand, an old wound. "On the house. He's hungry."

I don't question it, I just grab the goods and back away, back through the door, out onto the dark day street.

"Watch it," a woman says as she pushes past with a pram. I don't get where she's going, where any of them are going, because the sun isn't there, it just hasn't risen, the streetlights are still blazing and the birds are quiet because the sun isn't there.

I open the water, put it to my lips, drink deep. I finish the whole thing, tossing the bottle in the trash and opening the Babe Ruth. I'm putting it to my mouth when a hand pushes through the gap between my arm and my chest, something standing right behind me. It grabs the candy before I can move, before I can stop it, and I stagger, spin.

There's a man there, a man so obese he squats on his giant haunches, like a toad. His head is a pimple on a cushion of flesh, his piggy eyes gleaming as he stuffs the Babe Ruth into the cavern of his mouth. He turns to me, duck-walks a little closer, his whole body trembling. Only his arms are thin, only his fingers as he pokes me in the gut, grunting.

"Tubby," I say, but it's not Tubby. I can see that. Even though his face is disfigured I can see who this is. I was looking at his photograph a few minutes ago, on Cara's computer. "Daniel," I say, but if he remembers himself he shows no sign of it, pushing me, prodding me, trying to get me to feed him.

I'm numb as I turn away from him, numb as I stare up at the stars. The world has started turning on a new axis and there's nothing I can do.

Nothing I can do.

Except there is, isn't there. There is something I can do. I'm playing her game, I accept that now. There are no rules. Sooner or later I'm going to end up like Cara, like Daniel, like the Cross girl, like Tanner, like Flint, like however many other kids who clicked on one of her stories and started to read. There's no escaping it, the world is already rotting around me, it's decaying, festering, dissolving. Soon there's going to be nothing left of it to hold me, and that's what truly scares me, because where do I go when I fall through the crack?

Cara was onto something, I'm sure of it. The stories she printed out, the ones she wrote on, they were clues. She never had a chance to use them, but she knew what they were, she knew what they were telling her. And I think I know what they mean, I think I know how to use them.

I'm back at the subway station. There's a busker playing a saxophone by the steps, a woman throwing money at him, kids shouting abuse as they emerge from underground. I wonder if they see what I see—the immense, black firmament overhead. I wonder if they know what I know—that if I don't do this, the sun might never rise again.

I open my bag, see the folder of stories inside. Maybe they're not so much clues as a map, I think, sliding out the one I need.

_thetubegame_

Yes, a map.

I check to make sure the knife is still there, then zip the bag closed, looping it back on my shoulder.

A map to where she lives.

The witch is here, in this world, but at the same time she isn't, not really. I don't think she can be here, not for longer than it takes to push herself inside your mind for a moment, not for longer than it takes to chew off a finger. No, she's somewhere else, somewhere with bare floorboards, somewhere with a table full of meat. She can't be hurt here, I don't think, but there?

There is a different story.

If Cara was right these stories are a way inside her building, a way inside her world. Don't ask me how she knew, or how these stories got out into the world. But they did get out, and they found me, and I'm going to use them.

I drop onto the first step, reading through the instructions of the game.

Instructions:

- start at the northernmost station.

I'm going to use them.

I'm going to find the witch.

I'm going to kill her.