House of the Lost Girls (Flocksdale Files Book 2) Read online

  My sweatshirt hung limply from the doorknob of the closet. I pulled it on over my head. Sounds of water swishing and waves breaking drifted through my window and into my room. But how could I hear it so clearly?

  I was surprised to find the window half-open. I couldn’t remember opening it before I went to sleep. How strange. And eerie.

  I started to close it, but paused, looking at the dark rolling river beyond. Pushing it the rest of the way up, I leaned out the window, checking out my new backyard.

  A skinny alleyway ran behind the house, with a stone floodwall covering a good portion of it. However, my section was clear, open to the raging rapids behind our house. Two lone street lamps shone brightly, illuminating the murky, brown river. Despite the day’s clear weather, the water seemed angry. It whipped and whirled, choppy waves of pissed off shit-water gushing up on the bank in angry torrents. Even through the warmth of my sweatshirt, I shivered.

  I didn’t like it here. For the obvious reasons of leaving my friends, my kinda boyfriend, and school behind, then there was the macabre history. But it wasn’t just that. This place gave me the full-blown creeps, unlike any other place I’d been to.

  I slammed the window shut, jumped in bed, and promptly hid my face below the covers.

  Chapter Three

  Climbing down the twisty staircase, I could hear the clatter of breakfast dishes and smell the sweet scent of maple syrup downstairs. My mom and George sat comfortably at the kitchen table, eating what looked like French toast. What…they couldn’t even wait for me?

  Determined to be more cheerful today, I’d gotten dressed and put on makeup this morning. Shimmery shades of hot pink eyeliner were smudged on my lids. I’d even braided my hair. But now I was ticked off again…French toast was my favorite!

  “We wanted to let you sleep in, sweetheart,” my mom said cheerily. She set a plate filled with French toast in front of the empty seat for me. I sat down, sniffing the delicious breakfast. My mom was instantly forgiven as I took my first bite.

  “It’s the Fourth of July,” George said, smiling. “I haven’t been here since I was a kid, but they always used to have a big parade and fireworks show each year.” I chewed slowly, thinking about last Fourth of July. I’d gotten drunk with Meg and Marcy, then watched the fireworks on Jaime’s lap. I’d been so happy and giddy.

  Needless to say, it would take a lot to top last year’s Fourth of July celebration.

  Maybe I could go explore the town on my own, I thought, trying to cheer myself up. But then I thought about my bike, which was my usual means of transportation back home, and I remembered it wasn’t here yet. “What time are the movers going to be here?” I asked Mom hopefully.

  “Sorry, baby. Since it’s a holiday, they won’t be here till tomorrow. Why? Is there something you needed?”

  “My bike,” I muttered angrily.

  “Well, you got feet, don’t ya?” George asked, gulping down a huge cup of coffee. He slammed the cup down, startling me and my mother. He stood up. He was tall, massive in fact, with the shoulders and chest of a football player. He stood over my mom. I couldn’t help getting the sense that she was cowering beneath him, literally.

  “I’m done,” I said, pushing my plate away. “Going for a walk,” I mumbled, heading for the door. My mom tried to say something, but I was already out the door, the screen door clanging shut behind me.

  I stared at George’s SUV in the driveway. Technically, I had my driver’s license. My mom and George let me drive their SUV a few times, but most of the time, they said no. Well, George said no. They’d promised to buy me a car when I went to college. “When she’s accepted to college,” George once corrected, as though he was implying I might not get in, or go at all.

  I fought the urge to kick his SUV as I passed it, heading down Clemmons Street. Unlike last night, today the street was bustling. Kids outside playing, tossing those annoying Pop-it’s in the street. Before George said it, I’d nearly forgotten about the holiday.

  To my right, an old man and woman were standing in the street, taping red, white, and blue ribbons to a rusty wagon. “Happy Fourth of July, and welcome to the neighborhood,” the woman said in a sweet, grandmotherly voice.

  “Thank you,” I said, smiling at them both.

  I walked three more blocks, taking in the sights and sounds of Flocksdale. The houses on stilts looked even cooler in daylight. Why can’t we have one of those? Instead of that creepy ass Victorian, I thought gloomily.

  There were kids everywhere, hyped up for a day filled with loud booms and shiny bright things. Most of the kids I passed seemed younger than me, but as I got closer to town, I spotted a small cluster of teenagers around my age. They were huddled together beneath a weeping willow tree in front of a small, dumpy building with a sign that read ‘Mac’s Super Skateland’ on it.

  They looked toward me, suspicious glares on their faces, as though I’d caught them doing something wrong. I averted my eyes, walking past. But then one called out, “Hey, girl! Who are you?” I stopped. Sighed. I hate that question. Do any of us know who we really are? I felt like asking, but knew I would sound like a pompous jerk if I did.

  “I’m Marianna. Just moved here,” I answered. I kept going, heading toward town.

  “Wait! Come here,” a girl with black hair and clothes said. There was a dark-headed boy standing next to her and another girl with dirty-blonde hair. I hesitated, but then walked toward the trio. I joined them beneath the tree in the shade.

  I understood their need for secrecy. They were smoking pot. “Want some?” the girl with dirty-blonde hair asked, offering me a tiny joint the size of my pinky. They’d obviously smoked the rest of it before I came. The blonde was wearing a holey t-shirt with the words ‘Kill Your TV’ scrawled across it. I wondered what the hell that meant. Her fingernails were painted in alternating colors—green, black, green, black—with a frowny face on each thumb.

  “No, thanks,” I said, smiling uncomfortably. “What’s your names?” I asked, trying not to look at, or smell, the pot. It stunk. I’d smoked it before. I didn’t enjoy it then, and probably wouldn’t now. It made me feel strange and short of breath. Not a feeling I associate with having fun, but that’s just me.

  “Christa, Lexi, and Lou,” Lou said, pointing to himself. He had black hair like the girl, and now that I could see them up close, they were undoubtedly siblings.

  “I’m Christa. I just moved here a few months ago too,” the blonde said, passing the joint to the black-haired girl named Lexi.

  “Are you guys related?” I asked, pointing at Lexi and Lou. They giggled, the sort of giddy laughter that comes with getting high.

  “Yeah. Unfortunately, he’s my brother,” Lexi said, nudging Lou.

  “You got any siblings?” Lexi asked. I shook my head. I often wondered why my mom and dad never tried for more kids. I guess it’s a good thing they didn’t, considering he wanted a new girlfriend. I pictured that day…reading his note…I’d ripped that fucker to pieces. A torn-up letter was nothing compared to my shredded heart…

  Lou was staring at me. His dark eyes and hair looked strange against his pale white skin, but he was cute in a strange, emo kind of way. The polar opposite of Jaime, with his pretty boy face, tan skin, and Abercrombie attire. Lou’s sister was the female version of him, even down to her all-black clothes.

  He knew I’d caught him staring, and he smiled shyly, looking away. “Where are you from?” he asked, quietly.

  “Cincinnati, Ohio. My stepdad’s the new judge here,” I blurted out, kicking myself internally.

  Admitting your stepdad is a judge is never a good thing, but especially not when you’re standing with three kids getting high. The looks on their faces were priceless. Lexi and Lou froze up, and Christa started looking around anxiously, as though The Honorable Judge Georgie might jump out of the bushes and catch them.

  But then there was a burst of laughter, and the next thing I knew, all four of us were laughing hysterically. I
took the joint from Lexi, took one small puff and handed it back. “So, you must be the ones who moved into that big, ugly house on Clemmons Street,” Christa said.

  “Yep. That’s us,” I remarked, staring dazedly at a group of young kids riding their bikes past the skating rink.

  Once upon a time, I smoked pot with Jaime, Marcy, and Meg. It was fun. More fun than this. “Well, it was nice to meet you guys. Christa, Lexi, and Lou,” I said, pointing at each, trying to remember their names. “I’m headed to town. Going to check out a bookstore I saw on the way in,” I said.

  “We’ll come with you if you want,” Lou offered sweetly. I started to decline, but then thought better of it. It couldn’t hurt to make a few new friends, could it? Plus, I couldn’t quite remember where the bookstore was anyway. At least I’d have a few locals who could show me around this wretched town.

  ***

  I don’t know what it was about bookstores, but I freaking loved them. I swear I could just stand in them all day, perusing the pages of any book I could get my hands on. I’d always been an avid reader. It didn’t matter if it was a hard-boiled mystery, hardcore fantasy, or historical romance—I’d read it.

  The bookstore in Flocksdale was such a jewel of a place, it almost made me change my mind about this town. Almost.

  Christa, Lexi, and Lou didn’t seem to share my love of books. They wandered up and down the aisles, knocking over books and giggling at random covers with snorts of childish laughter. The teenage boy working the counter was clearly annoyed, so I intentionally distanced myself from them, ducking down an aisle of nonfiction texts.

  My arms were already filled with a half dozen paperbacks when a title on one of the book spines caught my eye. The Horrifying History of Flocksdale, it read. “Are you almost done?” Lexi whispered a shout in my ear. I jumped back from the book, nearly dropping the ones in my arm.

  Damn, they could have just went on without me, I thought, sharing the cashier’s annoyance. I would have liked to stay longer. I made my way to the counter, my new three amigos following in my wake. The boy at the front rolled his eyes at them, but looked at me fondly.

  “I love this one,” he said, scanning the first book from my stack. “You new here?” he asked, staring at my other selections approvingly.

  “Yeah. Just moved to Clemmons Street. You know, the creepy house on the river?” I said, jokingly. For a moment, his smile faded but then he pushed his glasses up from his nose and kept scanning.

  “I’m Marianna,” I added, trying to keep the conversation going. He was nerdy but cute, in a hipster kind of way. Plus, he worked in a freaking bookstore. He had to be cool if he hung out around books all day.

  “My name’s Sam,” he said, pushing buttons on the cash register. “Twenty-eight bucks.” He reached for a bag under the counter.

  “Wow, that’s cheap,” I commented appreciatively.

  “Don’t sound cheap to me. Not for a bunch of moldy old books,” Lou chimed in over my shoulder. Sam looked at him hatefully, narrowing his eyes.

  “I was hoping not to see your face till school started,” Lou snarled at Sam. Sam pursed his lips, holding the bag of books out disgustedly, like now it was filled with dog doo-doo. Obviously, these two boys had history.

  I tried to smile at Sam again, but he looked away, obviously ready to get rid of us. “Come on! I want to show you my brother’s boat!” Christa whined. I gathered my books and followed them out of the store.

  The main street—the one that was completely deserted yesterday when we came into town—was bustling with people: Kids dressed in patriotic colors and adults carrying armfuls of fireworks. Everyone smiled at the new girl. I tried my best to be friendly and smile back.

  I’d planned on scoping out more of the stores downtown, but now we were headed back toward the river. Christa’s brother had a pontoon boat and she wanted us to go for a spin. I wasn’t too crazy about the idea, especially considering they were high, but I followed them anyway, toting my heavy bag full of books.

  We were nearly there, crossing a street called Saints Road, when I saw George’s SUV. “Oh shit. It’s the judge,” I said, snorting. He screeched to a stop beside us, rolling down the driver’s window.

  “Time to come home, kiddo. Your mom’s making lunch and we’re going to watch the fireworks together later,” he said, eyeballing my new friends.

  I wanted to remind him that I wasn’t a little “kiddo” anymore, especially not his “kiddo,” but I simply said, “Okay.” We stood there staring at each other until finally I said, “I’ll walk back. Be there in a few, Georgie.” He shook his head, put the SUV in gear, and drove away haughtily.

  “Your stepdad seems nice,” Lexi said, sucking on a tootsie pop playfully. “And cute too.”

  “He’s a dick,” I said, rolling my eyes at her.

  “You really gotta go back?” Lou asked, sweeping my hair behind my ear sweetly.

  “Unfortunately. You guys want to walk me back?” I asked, turning in the direction of Clemmons Street.

  “We need to get to the boat,” Christa whined. She’d been whining all day. Her ‘Kill Your TV’ t-shirt looked stiff and crusty from the salt of her sweat.

  “That’s fine. You guys go on,” I said, crossing the street with a wave.

  “Wait! Instead of watching the fireworks with them, come find us tonight. We’ll be at my dad’s trailer. It’s the one up on stilts. On Lincoln Boulevard. You can’t miss it. There’s a big red tractor out front, painted up for the holiday,” Lou said.

  “Okay. I’ll try,” I promised.

  Chapter Four

  I was surprised to find a feast when I got back. There were barbecued pork chops, baked beans, potato salad, coleslaw, and ripe ears of corn. For dessert, there was a heaping plate of fresh-baked sugar cookies, covered in red, white, and blue sprinkles of course, and a pineapple upside-down cake. What the fuck?

  My mom had always been a great cook. But when my dad was still around, we spent more nights eating Thai take-out than home-cooked meals. I never thought she’d be the Suzie Homemaker type. In fact, I sort of liked her sloppy housekeeping, refusal to cook much, and preference for books over babies.

  But that was before George. Now that she’d given up her job to move to Flocksdale, was this how she’d spend her days? Preparing a feast for King George?

  I stood there staring at the food and my mom. She was dressed the part in a lacy cook’s apron. Instead of disgust, I felt sadness.

  My mom loved her job in Ohio. She and her best friend, Shelley, owned the Shell Shop downtown. The store itself had nothing to do with shells, the name simply a cute pun for the two friends’ names, Michelle and Shelley. They sold handmade costume jewelry, cutesy hair bows, and beaded purses. But now my mom was here, while only one of the “Shells” ran the Shell Shop.

  I sat down at the table and stared at my mom. “How was your day, honey? Where did you go?” she asked cheerily. I set my bag of books on the table noisily, my way of showing her where I went instead of telling. I knew I was being childish, but I resented her for moving here—for giving up her life in Ohio, and making me give up mine.

  “Do you want me to fix you a plate?” she asked, pressing on with her unshakably good attitude.

  “Not hungry,” I said, standing up and gathering my bag. I turned to walk away. Ran into a brick wall. Not a wall—it was George. King George, in fact.

  “Where are you going, young lady? You need to eat first,” he said sternly.

  “I think I’m coming down with the stomach flu.” It was a lie, but I was feeling sick. Sick of this town. Sick of him. Sick of my mother, who loved him. “Can I be excused? I thought I’d go lay down, maybe read a little bit. Take a nap…”

  I half-expected him to force me to eat, but my mother said, “That’s fine, Marianna. Let me know if you need anything.”

  Once in my room, I stripped off my jeans and t-shirt, lying down on the cool sheets in my bra and panties. I smiled at the bag of books beside m
e. Books had always been a welcome friend of mine. Closing my eyes, I reached in the bag, randomly selecting my first read. I was weird like that—I liked to surprise myself when it came to reading. In fact, I’d often fantasized about stumbling through a bookstore blindfolded, picking up books based on smell and feel, then bringing them home and enjoying the surprise revealed by my choices.

  Like I said, I was weird.

  I flipped to my belly and started reading a gruesome mystery by a young author I’d never heard of. A few hours later, there was a knock at my door. My mom and George were going down to the river to check out the festivities and watch the fireworks at dark. I told them I still felt ill, and waited to hear them leave.

  ***

  I didn’t see the fat blanket of smoke hovering above the river, or the brilliant fireworks show that caused it. I wasn’t even outside when the first firework fractured the sky, creating 3-D images in the air and sounding off a jaw-rattling boom.

  The streets were littered with black-tipped sparklers, bits of sawdust, and remnants of “snakes.” After all the anticipation, the show was finally over. And like every other Fourth of July, the townsfolk headed back to their own lots to call it a day. It was a celebration like none other, the day filled with cold beer, kids on four-wheelers, American flags flying, and a local parade.

  But like I said, I saw none of it. I was too busy, my cheeks—yes, those cheeks—pressed against the glass of Lou’s bedroom mirror. While everyone else stood by the water, enjoying the evening’s festivities, I’d been hanging out with him, spilling cheap wine and smoking cigarettes. And…getting pressed against his bedroom mirror, as he stuffed his tongue down my throat.