House of Grimm

CHAPTER ONE

THE ONLY THING WORSE than being dead is being missing and

presumed dead.

When the police found Rachelle’s muddy jacket floating in the

river six days ago, everyone around me assumed the worst. That my

best friend had drowned, and her bloated body was hooked on a tree

branch deep below the surface of the water. Waterlogged and too far

down to see.

That’s why I’m standing here, in front of an empty casket, attending

a funeral for a not so dead, but most likely dead, dead person.

“Are you okay, Dora?" Aunt Charlotte whispers beside me.

No. My best friend is missing, how am I supposed to be okay? But

she’s only trying to comfort me. I clutch at the small yellow rose in

my hand, reluctant to lay it on the casket. Then all that’s left to do is

walk out of this suffocating, overly decorated room.

“No good soul goes to waste,” my aunt murmurs.

She reaches down and places a long hand over mine, then slides

the rose out of my fingers and guides it gently to its final resting place.

"May peace go with her," she says, and bows her head.

I try to do the same, but it doesn’t make sense to cry over a

missing person.

It makes more sense to try and find them.

I hear a few sniffles behind us and step aside; there's a line. Most

of the faces are unfamiliar, and I cringe as some stranger hugs me

and tells me how she loved “dear, sweet Rachelle” like she’s already

gone for good.

I grind my teeth as I duck out of the woman’s grasp.

None of this seems real. The flowers, wreaths and garlands that

decorate the altar, the sickeningly sweet smell of hydrangeas mixed

with the musty scent of the church. It’s making me sick to my

stomach. Rachelle’s mother mutters a quick prayer before turning

away, her fingers trailing the side of the coffin as she walks past us,

barely able to put one foot in front of the other.

Even her own mother thinks she’s dead.

“You sure you don’t want to go to the cemetery?” my aunt asks.

I turn to leave and nod. I can’t watch Rachelle be buried, even if

it is just the idea of her. Because once they put that coffin in the

ground, rather she’s in there or not, she might as well be. And I’m

not giving up on my best friend like everyone else has.

“We’ll just go home then,” she says, her voice cracking.

I glance out of one of the wide-paned funeral home windows,

looking out over the expanse of the cemetery. I wonder how many

empty coffins lie in shallow graves, and where all the actual bodies

are. How many best friends never came home.

And then something catches my eye.

In the middle of the cemetery, propped up in the wet grass, is an

old motorcycle. The rider is standing next to the blue tent and tarp

splayed out for Rachelle’s faux burial. I watch as she drops a flower

into the freshly dug earth and brushes a long strand of dark hair

behind her ear.

Then she turns around and stares up at me.

"Come on," my Uncle Phillip grunts from behind me, "let's get

you home, then."

When I turn back to the window, the girl is gone.

We stumble through the crowd of mourners toward the church’s

doors. Elbows jab me left and right, and everywhere I turn is a teary-eyed classmate or neighbor. It’s hard to concentrate on getting

through the throng when I can barely see two feet in front of me.

Then, suddenly, a shoulder hits mine and I pause.

“Sorry for your loss,” a dark haired stranger mutters above the

mixing voices.

It’s the girl with the motorcycle.

“Thanks,” I manage to say back.

She touches my arm for a moment, her long fingers curling

around my bicep like she’s trying to comfort me. It’s weird. Then

she’s brushing past me. I look after her for a moment, and then blink

as her dark hair sweeps into an adjoining hallway and disappears.

My aunt and uncle are silent as we pull out of the church’s

parking lot and hook a right on Red Street. We bump over the old,

abandoned railroad tracks, the ones Rachelle and I used to play cops

and robbers on, and move closer toward the expanse of trees that

hides our little neighborhood, The Wood. It's the oldest subdivision

in Grimsby, home to houses that shouldn’t even be standing

anymore, and are priced as such.

I scan the trees as the houses get older and older, a timeline of

our town's history whizzing past my window. Until finally, like

always, we reach that one gate that catches my attention:

The Grimm Estate.

The towering mansion is perched on a hill, glowering down at

me. The estate is the oldest of the old with its rusted iron gates and

cobblestone drive. Beyond the gate, I can only see a wall here and

there; most of the front lawn is covered in ancient trees. But wow,

those trees call out to me. The way each one stands tall in front of

Grimsby’s oldest secret, protecting it... it reminds me of a haunted

castle, all dark and brooding. Even today, when everything is wrong,

I still crane my neck to get a better view of it.

It's magnetic, that place.

I take one last glimpse at the ivy-covered walls and overgrown

front lawn before we've turned the corner, then lean back in my seat.

I've never seen more than that in all my seventeen years. Soon, the

truck has climbed the steep hill to our home, and my uncle pulls into

our drive. I dash out of the backseat and toward the house.

“Dora, let us know if we can—”

But I’m through the front door before my aunt can finish.

When I reach the top of the stairs, I rip the black funeral hat from

my head. My curls are coated in hairspray. Gross. I shake my head

and they fall stiffly down my back, biting my skin. It’s a short walk

to my room.

I step inside the last door and pull it closed, my gaze immediately

going to the ceiling. When I was six, my uncle and I painted the white

cinderblocks black, and he helped me cover them in cheap sticky stars

and planets he bought at the drugstore. It's beautiful. Rachelle and I

spent a lot of time in here, playing spaceships as kids. But now the

stars are all old and turning a faded yellow, and I can’t help but think

that everything fades out eventually.

Slowly, I cross to a small mirror next to my bed and gaze in. I

hardly recognize myself. Over the last few days I've cried a lot, but

today my eyes are dry, making the brownness in them seem darker.

Blank. I'm not sure how to feel. Everyone is sad and crying and

hugging me like I’m broken, but all I can do is wonder how life can

be so clear and unclear at the same time. It’s like the day my parents

left. I was five, and instead of crying I just stopped talking

altogether. My aunt and uncle didn’t know how to deal with that, so

they hugged me until I finally started speaking again. But I was

never the same.

And now Rachelle is missing, too.

I sit on the side of my bed and sink into the covers, stretching

out on my back. My arms flop out next to me like I'm floating on the

ocean. Serene. I wonder what Rachelle feels right now, if she can

hear me in my ocean, lying under our fading stars. I wonder if she

knows I’m going to find her.

I roll over and something sharp pokes into my ribs.

“Ouch,” I mutter as I feel around in my black jacket for whatever it

is that stabbed me. My fingers brush something long in my pocket that I

don’t remember putting there. I yank it out, bending it in the process.

It’s an envelope with my name on it.

“Dora, dinner’s ready!”

But I’m not hungry. I ignore my aunt and rip into the sealed

envelope, careful not to tear the contents. A neat stack of photos

comes spilling out, and I flip through them one by one. My breath

hitches in my throat.

They’re all of Rachelle.

Different photos have different settings—some were taken behind

the bleachers of our high school, some in the woods next to the old

railroad tracks. But all of them have one chilling thing in common:

The tall stranger Rachelle is talking with.

“Dora, are you up there?” Aunt Charlotte calls again.

“Yeah, give me one minute!”

He towers over her, long and dark, his pressed suit giving him a

sophisticated air. My pulse pounds in my ears as I take him in: blonde

hair and blue eyes, a scar in the shape of a crescent moon etched along

the side of his jaw, up to his brow. I’ve never seen him before.

Rachelle never talked about him.

“Dora, your food is getting cold!”

“I’m coming!”

I shove the photos back into my pocket and head downstairs, my

heart racing. The only thing I can think of as I take the stairs two at a

time is how those pictures could have gotten into my pocket—I

didn’t feel them there before the funeral.

“Sorry for your loss.”

I remember the words of the dark-haired girl as she bumped into me.

I wasn’t paying attention.

She could have slipped anything into my coat pocket.

“Dora, why didn’t you answer me?” my aunt asks, scooping a

lump of tuna noodle casserole onto a paper plate and handing it to me.

“I was in the bathroom,” I lie.

I take the plate and settle down at the kitchen table next to my uncle.

“You okay kid?” he asks.

I nod but don’t respond. My mind is too busy thinking of

Rachelle and the last things I remember before she disappeared. The

last day I saw her was two weeks ago today, the last thing she texted

me was four short words:

Going to be late.

She never showed up to my house that afternoon.

“Dora, try to eat something please,” Aunt Charlotte says with a frown.

I thought she’d bailed on me, but she didn’t go home either.

“Dora, quit playing with your food.”

Her mother filed the missing persons call that evening.

“Dora, did you hear me?”

“I’m not hungry.”

I set my fork down.

“Even if you aren’t hungry, you haven’t eaten all day,” my uncle says.

I push my fishy macaroni around for a few more moments

before I shove my plate away completely and get up from the table.

“Where are you going?” Aunt Charlotte asks.

“I need some air,” I say as I make for the front door.

Outside, it’s chilly and goose bumps dot my arms. I step from

our front steps to the damp grass and close my eyes, taking in the

evening air. The sun sets quickly after six and what was a sunny sky

minutes ago is now dark. I let out a slow breath and watch the fog

dance off into the night.

I walk to the end of our driveway and keep going, past our

mailbox and the houses on our street, barefoot and freezing. When I

come to the bottom of the hill and exit our neighborhood I stop and

look both ways, then cross the street. The streetlamps start to flicker

on one by one as the night thickens, spreading a warm glow over the

frigid asphalt. I don’t stop walking.

I pass the Grimm Estate.

I pass my high school.

I pass the center of town.

Before long, I find myself staring up at a crooked iron sign that reads:

Grimsby City Funeral Home

I wrap my arms around my body and walk around to the back

of the building I was in no more than an hour before. There are a few

stragglers left from the funeral, and I watch as they get into their cars

and pull out of the parking lot. She’s in the center, right in the middle

of all the dead people, and when I make it to the freshly dug earth that

everyone thinks my best friend is under, I can’t stop myself.

I bawl like a baby.

Fat tears roll down my face and onto the mound of dirt. I drop to

my knees and let the stench of fresh soil and dying flowers surround

me. I know she isn’t in there, I know she’s alive. I’m not crying

because I’ve lost her.

I’m crying because it feels like I’ve lost my mind.

“Are you okay over there?” a deep voice says behind me.

I jump and grab the closest object I can find: a granite flower

vase. Then I fly to my feet and raise it over my head as a figure

approaches me.

“Whoa there,” he says, “no need to get graphic.”

I lower the makeshift weapon.

Squinting in the dark, I can faintly make out the shape of a boy

holding a bouquet of flowers. He steps closer towards Rachelle’s

grave, towards me, and stops.

“Just came to pay my respects,” he says. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

He stoops down and places the flowers on the hill of dirt.

“Did you know her?” I ask him.

“Yeah,” he says.

“She’s my best friend," I tell him.

The boy nods quietly, standing back up and looking up at the

sky. It’s too dark for me to make out his features, but he seems

young. Then, he looks back down at Rachelle’s grave and over to me.

“An empty coffin,” he says, and I nod.

“They only found her jacket,” I tell him.

Headlights from cars pass behind us, slicing through the

blackness, and for a moment I can make out pieces of his face. A

flicker of yellow and I see his dark eyes, sharp jaw.

I tremble in the breeze.

“Good luck on your search,” he finally says, and turns away.

I watch him go, quiet.

Nobody knows I’m searching for Rachelle, and I’ve never seen

this boy before in my life. As he steps from the gravel drive to the

curb he turns slightly, waves, and walks in the same direction I’d

just come from. I watch him until the street disappears and he’s

enveloped by darkness. Then, I touch the envelope in my jacket

pocket and start for home.

As I make it back up my driveway, my thoughts are overrun with

hope. Ever since Rachelle went missing, all anyone ever did was cry

and mourn, and I was done with it. Two strangers, one pile of

photographs, and a fake funeral later, and I had something to go on.

I’m going to find my best friend, no matter what it takes.

CHAPTER TWO

THE NEXT DAY AT SCHOOL, I step into the main hall of Grimsby

High. Whispers whiz past me, Rachelle’s name surrounds me. I keep

my eyes straight ahead, unblinking. I steady my breathing, focus on

the sound of lockers slamming and papers rustling.

“I didn’t go yesterday,” one girl says into her locker, breaking through

my waning resolve. "But did you see her? Like, was there a body?”

I go cold, unable to help myself, and listen to the conversation.

Students knock into me from all sides, weaving around me like

water bouncing around a buoy, but their flippant words hold me in

place.

So casual, so uncaring.

“No, but some people think they did find her but the body was

too gross to show,” the other girl says, her brown ponytail bobbing

as she closes her locker and turns to her friend.

“If so it must have been pretty bad cause they didn’t even open

the casket.”

"No way," the other girl whispers.

I step forward, fury rushing through my veins. My bag drops

from my shoulder to the floor, and it's only then that the two turn to

me. They raise their eyebrows, searching me over, before recognition

has them taking a step away from me.

"Oh, that's the best friend," the brunette says matter-of-factly, as

if she recovered from my presence and I'm not even there.

The other girl gives me the same pitying gaze the entire school

has given me for the last week. I cut them both a hard glare, the bell

ringing over our heads signaling the start of first period. The girls

scoot past me, and I catch the arm of the brunette. She gasps. Good. I

become very aware of every other set of eyes in the hallway staring

at us, at me.

"Don't," a low voice says behind me.

I feel a hand fall on my shoulder and I let go of the girl’s arm.

The two gossipers skitter away, and I turn around to a familiar sight.

It’s the dark-haired girl.

“Punching some basic bitch out in the middle of the hall won’t

help the pain,” she says, tightening her grip on me.

“You’re following me,” I tell her, windmilling my arm out of her grasp.

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

She pauses, glances at me sideways, and then chuckles lowly.

“So what if I am? You’d be suspended right now if I wasn’t,” she

says, crossing her arms and grinning.

“I wouldn’t have actually hit her,” I say defensively.

She raises an eyebrow.

“Sure you wouldn’t have.”

But the truth is I really wanted to hit that girl. Hard. I wanted to

clang her little brown ponytail in that locker and slam it shut.

Gossips like her are the reason everyone thinks Rachelle is dead.

I turn around and look at the place the girls had just been standing,

and imagine my best friend standing there instead. Rachelle would

never hurt anyone, and here I was almost decking people on her behalf.

I really was losing my mind.

“Who are you anyway?” I ask as I turn back around to face the girl.

But when I do, she isn’t there.

Floored, I look up and down the hall but she isn’t anywhere. It’s

like she evaporated or something. I make my way down the hall and

toward my first class, my eyes peeled and searching every corner for

the dark-haired girl as I go.

But I never find her.

Bewildered, I make my way to the half-filled classroom, all eyes

on me. I try not to pay them any mind. The next person who talks

about Rachelle may actually get hit, and I can’t deal with suspension

right now. A couple of girls in the front row lower their bubble-gum

pink cell phones with matching rhinestone cases as I pass, but I

ignore them. I sit down in my assigned seat like I do every day.

Rachelle’s empty chair next to me cuts like a knife.

“If everyone could get out their notebooks, I’m going to start the

lecture with some light facts on vectors and how to solve them,” the

professor says as a clamor of zipping and unzipping erupts all

around me. I pull out a pad of paper and my pre-calculus textbook,

but instead of taking notes with everyone else, I slip the stack of

photos out and start to study the stranger in them. I jot down notes

as I go:

Blonde hair

Blue eyes

Tall (over 6 ft)

Suit and tie

Scar along right side of face (moon-shape)

I stop there, look up. He’s wearing the same thing in every photo,

which is strange. It’s like he never changes. Rachelle has on different

outfits in every image, so they’re definitely from different days.

“So class, when we describe a vector, what two components are

we looking at?”

“Direction and magnitude,” a dozen voices chime out.

“Very good, let’s continue.”

I keep studying the photos. In some Rachelle is wearing short

sleeves, and in others light sweaters or jackets. That leads me to

believe that these were taken over the course of a few months or

weeks, not just days; the seasons were changing. There are fifteen

photos in all, and the leaves on the trees in the first few are bright

green, while the last two or three are a dull orange.

Summer to fall.

That means these secret meetings were going on from midsummer

to just before Rachelle disappeared a couple of weeks ago.

“Miss Klein, do you have an answer for us?” the professor calls out.

“Hmm?” I mumble awkwardly, my voice catching in my throat.

I shove the photos under the palm of my hand and search the

textbook page frantically for answers.

A few chuckles erupt from behind me.

“How do we find the difference between two vectors?” he asks again.

Nothing comes to mind. The silence thickens as images of Rachelle

being held hostage somewhere flood my brain, but nothing about

vectors or subtraction or the overlapping arrowed lines scrawled across

the blackboard.

“Um…you just, well you see…” I fumble for words but lose

them every time I open my mouth.

“It looks like somebody isn’t following along in the right

direction,” he says, and the class chitters with laughter. I bite the

inside of my cheek and stay quiet for the rest of the lecture.

The bell doesn’t ring quickly enough.

When it does, I’m out of my seat and through the classroom

door before anyone else. Ducking and weaving through the throng

of students, I keep my eyes open for the dark-haired girl as I make

my way to the cafeteria. Hordes of my classmates are waiting in line

for cheap noodles and spongy chicken nuggets, the food of the

adolescent gods.

But she’s nowhere to be found.

When I get to the back of the line, a commotion starts at the front.

"Hey everyone, look at Skinny!" someone shouts.

I glance up, peering between heads to get a better view. There's a

small girl I’ve never seen before splayed out in front of the spaghetti

station, long, wet noodles covering her hand-me-down dress. I

cringe. She seems mortified, her cheeks blushing with color.

"Skinny's covered in noodles," the same voice chides. "And

they're bigger than she is!"

The snide voice belongs one of two figures next to her, their blue

eyes narrowed on the girl. I go rigid, my fists clenching. There’s no

one that makes my blood boil more than Harry and Gretchen

Waverley, Grimsby’s resident ass-wipes.

"Need some help?" Harry asks her.

His hand is outstretched like he’s going to help her up. The girl

takes it and I almost try to warn her, but I’m too late. Gretchen takes

the opportunity to take a cup of spaghetti sauce and splatter it all

over her. I wince. It drips down her legs and into her sandals,

staining her pale toes a deep red. Gretchen laughs, flipping her long

blonde hair behind her, and her brother retracts his hand.

"That's what you get, Skinny," he spits, and the pair saunter off.

Everyone in front of me steps over the girl, but I can’t and push

my way out of line. When I reach her she’s attempting in vain to

squeeze red sauce out of her hair. I grimace.

“Not a good look for me, huh,” she mutters as marinara splashes

to the ground.

“Here, let me help,” I say as I pick up her tray and pile the

remnants of her lunch back on it.

“You don’t have to do that.”

She takes the tray out of my hands and steadies herself.

“Thanks, not many people have been nice to me today,” she says

with a sigh. “Being the new girl isn’t exactly all it’s cracked up to be.

Especially when they’re serving spaghetti Bolognese on your first day.”

“Better than tuna casserole,” I mutter.

I grab a tray and a few lunch items, and she follows me to the

check-out line.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

The line moves forward an inch.

“I’m Rella,” she says. Our hands are full, so instead of extending

a hand she sticks out her elbow. I touch it with mine and laugh.

“I’m Dora.”

“Nice to meet you.”

The lunch lady takes my three dollars and grunts for Rella’s

cash, then we hurry to an empty table.

“Are those two always like that?” Rella asks.

“You caught them on a good day,” I tell her, glancing across the

cafeteria at the twins. Harry has his arm around one of the cheerleaders

and Gretchen is checking her makeup in a window reflection.

“Lovely,” Rella says, and I grin.

“So, you’re new here?”

Rella nods, popping open her carton of milk and taking a sip. I

watch as she wipes her mouth with her sleeve and pulls at a strand

of her sticky hair.

“My mom and I just moved here last week,” she says, “into the

old house off Applewood Court.”

“That’s the street I live on,” I say.

“Seriously? Well, at least I know someone in the neighborhood

now. It’s only been a few days but I haven’t met anyone yet. It’s kind

of lonely being new, you know?” She sighs and pushes what’s left of

her noodles around with a plastic fork.

“Hey, is it true about that girl? The one they say was murdered a couple weeks ago?”

I freeze.

“I was just curious because I heard about it on the news last

night. Such a sad situation, I really feel for her family and friends,”

Rella murmurs, twirling her fork around.

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” I say.

“Yeah, it is kind of depressing,” she says. “She looked really nice

from her school pictures.”

A lump rises in my throat at her use of the word murdered, and

of the past tense. I attempt to look unaffected. My fingers tremble as

I reposition the napkin in my lap, little words such as looked and used

to be pinging around in my head.

Nobody understands that she’s still out there somewhere.

***

The bell rings to signal the end of lunch as I enter my seventh-period

English class, which Rella is also in. She picks a seat next to me in the

back row. As we’re sitting down something hits the back of my head

and I flinch, a wad of paper lands at my feet. I stoop to pick it up, but

it's blank. Spinning around, I try to find its source.

Another wad hits me in the ear.

"Hey," I begin, but I hold back from uttering the rest of my threat.

Harry and Gretchen are eyeing me from the other side of the room.

Harry smirks and his sister winks at him, with another piece of paper in

her hand, ready to chuck it at me. Their blue eyes glint, devilish.

"What do you want?" I ask, and she grins, arm ready. Harry runs a

hand through his gelled hair and cracks each of his knuckles individually.

"My sister and I were wondering," he says, "if you went to the funeral?"

I wince.

There are a few awkward coughs from the other students,

but mostly silence. No one looks at me directly, except Rella. My eyes

sting from the way Harry emphasized the word funeral. But instead of

engaging with them I open my copy of Robinson Crusoe and wait for

Mrs. Holle to start the lesson.

"Oh come on, everyone knows you two were like this." Harry

twists his index and middle finger together tightly, and Gretchen

giggles and does the same.

I can feel Rella stiffen beside me.

"Yeah, weren’t you two, like, girlfriends?"

She eyes me maliciously, and something stirs deep down inside

me. I want to fight back. To lash out. It takes a lot of self-control not

to throw my notebook at them. Instead, I swallow my words and

focus again on Crusoe.

Pulling Gretchen’s thick black eyelashes out one by one won’t

bring Rachelle back. Just like getting angry with my parents for

leaving won’t bring them back, either.

“Class, let’s settle down and start to discuss chapter twelve,”

Mrs. Holle, our English teacher, says.

But before she can even crack open her teacher’s edition, the

room fills with the popping of the school’s old loudspeaker, and

Principal Stilt’s voice comes blaring over the intercom:

“Students, teachers and faculty, before we begin the last class of

the day let us all take a moment of silence to remember a fellow

student. I’m sure many of you closest to Rachelle Harlow attended the

funeral services yesterday evening, so let’s all take a moment to—”

A wave of feeling crashes over me and I jump from my seat,

tears blurring my vision. I don’t hear the rest of Principal Stilt’s

speech, because before I realize it I’m halfway out the door with my

bookbag and down the hall. I push past bewildered students caught

in-between bells at their lockers. Some stare at me when I pass and

others look up at the hall intercom while they listen to Rachelle’s

remembrance speech. I shut my ears so I don’t have to hear yet

another person who insists that she’s gone.

I flee to the girl’s bathroom and into one of the stalls. Then it

starts. All the feelings from the last week come out, and the half-used

roll of cheap, single-ply toilet paper has met its match. By the time I

shudder out my last sob, I’m left empty, swollen, and kneeling in a

pile of wet tissues in a dirty bathroom stall. It doesn’t get much more

pathetic than this.

Grabbing the wad of sopping tissue and flushing it down the

toilet takes forever. I follow the tissue with my eyes as it swirls round

and round the toilet basin and disappears. It feels good, like all my

memories are being sucked down into the depths of the earth, too.

That’s where I want my emotions to stay for the moment.

The bell rings and the thunder of students fills the hall, the

shouts and the squeak of tennis shoes on linoleum reaching my ears.

The buses will be waiting on the front curb as students, with their

green and white bookbags, climb the steep bus steps and settle in for

their rides home.

I blow my nose one last time and take deep breaths. The clamor

outside the bathroom fades away until I know I’m the last one here. I

hastily grab my bookbag and sling it over my shoulder. But as I

fumble with the stall latch the bathroom door creaks open.

I freeze.

"Dora?" A voice asks.

I don’t answer.

Soon, though, a tiny pair of studded sandals appears in front of

my stall. The toes in them are stained a faint shade of spaghetti

Bolognese red. A small tap resonates throughout the bathroom.

"You in there?"

I flinch, then quickly dab my eyes with the edge of my blouse to

make sure they’re dry, and unlock the door. Rella is standing with

her hands in her dress pockets. She reaches a hand up to her almost

white hair and sweeps a strand behind her ear.

“You okay?” she asks, then, “I’m no stranger to hiding out in

bathroom stalls."

She smiles then takes a step back. We stand there a moment,

awkwardly, until I start toward the door.

“Wait,” she says, putting a hand on the door to keep it closed.

“That was your friend that died, wasn’t it?”

“She didn’t die,” I state frankly.

She glances down at her feet, then back up at me.

“I know how hard something like that can be.”

Rella is silent for a moment, her lily-white fingers still pressed

against the women’s room door. I hold her gaze.

“I don’t want to talk about that,” I tell her for a second time today.

“I understand,” she says. “When I was five my mother bought

me a beautiful porcelain doll. She had a frilly pink dress and a tiara,

and little brown curls around her face. I loved that thing more than

life itself. I even took it to dinner with me and set it a plate.”

Rella stops, looks me right in the eye.

“And then when I was ten, my mother was hit by a truck and

suffered severe brain damage. And I threw the doll away.”

I wince.

“Sometimes it’s easier to ignore the feelings than to let them in.

But talking to people makes the weight lift a little faster.”

I wait for her to move but she doesn’t. I swallow, my tongue

feeling heavy in my mouth. All I want to do is go home and close my

door and be with my stars. But something about this girl makes me

stop and think. We have something in common.

Trauma.

“Want to walk home together?” I ask.

She smiles and opens the door for me.

Rella is mercifully quiet as we leave the school. But by the time

she steps from the curb to the road, she opens her mouth, and I

know my luck has run out.

“If you ever need someone to talk to, feel free to talk to me,” she says.

I glance over at her and grunt my thanks. It's the best I can do. I

wish I could be a bit more articulate, but I’m simply not good at

making friends. Cars whiz by us, stirring up dead leaves and

memories. Days walking home with Rachelle flit across my mind,

and I can’t shake the image of her dancing after the leaves, trying to

catch one. Catching a leaf before it hits the ground is good luck, Dora.

Rella picks at a string on her powder blue dress, and adjusts the

strap on her bookbag.

We turn right onto Red Street and I slow down.

“Hold up a minute,” I mutter.

The familiar feeling of curiosity tugs at the edge of my senses.

Off to my left is the beginning of The Wood, its steep hill sloping up

to my aunt and uncle's house. And off to my right, the Grimm Estate.

We come to a halt in front of the looming iron gates, and I look up.

"It sure is big, isn't it?" Rella says, and I nod.

Rachelle and I would always stop to look at the estate on the

way home from school, but today I'm looking at it alone, and it feels

weird. Well, alone plus Rella.

"Ever wonder who lives there?" Rella asks.

“The Brothers,” I say, my eyes falling on the crumbling wooden

mailbox at the drive’s end. The loopy letters carved into the side of it

read, “The Brothers Grimm,” but no one has ever seen anyone go into

or out of the house. Ever.

She raises an eyebrow.

“Who are the brothers?”

She motions to the old mailbox and I shrug.

“That’s all anyone really knows about them,” I say. “Just a name.”

She leans in to get a closer look at the letters, nearly invisible

from the road, then reaches to touch the wood.

A voice booms behind us.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”

I jump, and Rella grasps my arm. A man walks slowly toward

us, a hat on his head and his hands shoved into the depths of his suit

pockets. His hat hides his face, but I don’t need to see his expression

to know he’s determined. His steady pace—toward the gate—makes

that clear.

“That’s private property, you know. My property,” he continues,

and unlocks the gates.

I’m surprised at how tall he is. He overshadows me by at least a

foot, maybe more. And he’s young, too, judging by his voice. Like,

maybe in his early twenties. It’s bizarre that a man so young would

live in a house so run down.

It’s kind of creepy, actually.

“I wouldn’t go lurking around other people’s gates, ladies,” he

says with a sinister grin. “Unless you want to find yourself on the

other side of them.”

He tips his hat, revealing a deep scar stretching across the right

side of his face, and I go cold.

It’s the man from the photographs.

“Yes sir,” Rella mutters.

But I can’t make my lips move. No words come out. The only

thing I’m certain of is the feeling in the pit of my stomach, that this

man is dangerous. He looks exactly like he did in the photos, and the

scar up close is even more terrifying than I could have imagined. It

stretches from his earlobe to the corner of his mouth, and even

though it’s long since healed over, it's left a sort of crescent moon

etched in his skin, one that will never fade.

It twitches upward as he smiles.

“And you probably don’t want to find out what’s on this side.”

He chuckles darkly and opens the rusted gates, then swings them

closed with a sharp clang. Thick vegetation envelops him. It takes a

moment for his words to register before I realize what he said.

“I think he was…threatening us,” I tell Rella.

“Weird…” she says, trailing off, and I shiver. My fear turns to anger as

I realize that this guy has something to do with Rachelle’s disappearance.

And that means the estate does too.

“Let’s go,” I say.

I’ve lived in Grimsby my entire life and I’ve never seen anyone

go into that house before. For me it was the stuff of stories, a legend

that people picked apart around campfires on cold nights when they

had nothing better to do. Nothing that involved me.

Until now.

A tremor rolls through me as we walk away, and I think of what

lies beyond those gates. Monsters with bloody teeth and crooked

hands crawl into my thoughts, raking across my vision. The kind of

monsters that scare you as a little kid. Only, I’m not a kid anymore.

An icy chill crawls down my spine.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" Rella calls to me. She gives me a small

smile and a wave, and I feel obliged to return the gesture.

"See you tomorrow," I say, albeit somewhat reluctantly. Because

now I have even more evidence that Rachelle’s case isn’t closed.

Which means I’ve got some investigating to do.

When I reach my front door, my pocket buzzes. I reach in and

pull out my phone, glancing at the screen. Unknown Number. I click

on the message and open it.

I have something for you.

At first I almost laugh. I don’t know who this is or what that

means, and I haven’t given my number out to anyone lately. It’s

probably a practical joke, but I respond anyway:

Who are you?

My phone buzzes a second time, and I freeze, my hand on the

front doorknob.

Come to the railroad tracks after school tomorrow.

I swallow hard, sudden fear rising in my throat. That doesn’t

sound like a joke.

Is this Rella? I type back.

No.

The next line of text pops up almost instantly:

Don’t you want to find her, too?

I think for a second, not knowing what to do. The man’s threat at

the gates was too creepy to ignore, and these text messages have that

same vibe. It would be stupid to meet a stranger in the woods with

everything that’s been going on lately.

But my gut tells me this is a lead, and I’ll do anything to find

Rachelle and bring her home.

My palms start to sweat as I tap out the next four letters:

Okay.

CHAPTER THREE

"HOW WAS SCHOOL, DORA?" my uncle asks me from the head of

the table, and I lift my head.

"Fine," I tell him. “Pretty quiet."

It's a lie, but I don't want to talk about how much everyone

gawked at me. Talked about me. And Rachelle.

"That's good," my aunt says and scoops a lump of mashed

potatoes onto her plate. "Was that the new neighbor I saw you

walking home with?"

“Are you stalking me?” I ask, setting my fork down.

“Absolutely,” Aunt Charlotte says around a mouth full of food.

“The family moved in on top of the hill – just the girl and her mother, I

think. So she could probably use a friend. Very quiet, moved in very

abruptly. But I think the mother’s---” she stops, pursing her lips, “---

well, not quite all there if you know what I mean.”

“Not all there?” I ask.

My aunt shrugs.

“I’ve heard that she’s a bit… off,” she says finally.

Silence.

“Well, regardless, I’m glad to see you’ve made a new friend

sweetheart.”

"She is not my new friend."

I drop my fork onto my plate and my aunt and uncle go still. I'm

surprised at myself. The words came out so angrily I hardly

recognized my own voice. But that word new got to me.

"Sorry," I say, then set my crumpled napkin on the table. "I'm not

really hungry." I get up, casting them an apologetic glance, and leave

the table.

My room greets me with a twinkle of light. The stars glint down

at me from every surface; even my dresser and mirror. I click a small

button hanging from my door frame. Bright white lights flash alive,

tracing swirling patterns along my walls, adding to the ever-present

stickers. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, flopping onto my

bed with a heavy thud and letting myself sink into my mattress. The

familiar scent of lavender laundry detergent greets me, wraps me up

and tells me everything's okay. But I know it’s not.

I roll over and fish the photos out of my school bag.

“Time to find out who you really are, Mr. Scarface,” I whisper,

laying the photographs out on my desk side-by-side. I try to arrange

them chronologically, with the greener-leaved trees on the left and

the orange ones on the right. Sure enough, the images fade into a

gradation of summer to fall foliage, all with Blondie sporting the

same suit I saw him in today.

There’s no mistaking that scar. It’s definitely him.

I pull out my notes and scrawl Rachelle’s appearance next to his.

Day one, tank top and shorts. Day two, t-shirt and jeans. Days three

to six, summer dresses. And then the clothes become warmer until

day fifteen, ending with the little orange jacket she was wearing the

day she disappeared.

The one they found in the river.

Then I notice something even stranger.

Not only does the man’s suit stay the same while Rachelle’s

attire and the scenery changes, but so do his shoes, tie, and a tiny red

stain on the cuff of his left sleeve.

Those details are too specific to be from different days.

With my heart skipping a beat, I tear the contents of my bulletin

board down and start tacking up the photos in order. Then, I power

up my laptop and type Murders/Disappearances in Grimsby into the

search bar.

The first link stops me cold.

It's a Grimsby Journal article from twelve years ago, the year I

moved into my aunt and uncle's house. The title reads, "Deadly

Double Disappearance."

My parents’ faces smile up at me from below the caption.

I hesitate a moment with my finger hovering over the link. A

heartbeat’s pause has me wondering why I’m even thinking of

opening it, perusing the contents of a life I’ve left behind. But that’s

it—that’s what gets me. Being left behind. My parents left me and

now Rachelle has, too, and now the unanswered questions are

getting harder and harder to ignore.

I tap the link and hold my breath.

Two faces peer up at me, ones I vaguely remember but

remember all the same. The ones in my dreams that I hate that I love

to see. My thumb lays limp on the keys, unable to scroll down any

further. Mom's dark red hair and smiling lips make my eyes pool

with tears, and even though I was only five when they disappeared,

I still remember the night like it was yesterday. You hold onto things

that let you go.

“Go up to your room and lock the door, sweetheart,” my dad had

said. “Wait there and play with your toys like a good girl. We’ll be back in

an hour.”

But they never came back. Six hours later, the police broke

through my front door and coerced me out of my room. They took

me to my aunt and uncle’s house immediately. No explanations. No

answers. Nothing.

My aunt made sure to remove all traces of the tragedy from my

life. She hushed the neighbors when they asked questions about her

sister, and insisted the other children at school not know about my

past. I don't know how she did it, but somehow my aunt made sure I

could start fresh. Be new. She had this thing she always told me

when I asked if they loved me, why they left me. "Dora, the difference

between love and leave is only two letters. And sometimes they go hand in

hand." But that didn't stop the pain that I tried to ignore.

And it didn't stop this article from existing.

I shake the thought away and reorient myself, then tap Grimm

Estate into the search engine bar and click enter. The first thing that

pops up is a grainy black and white image of the house on the hill,

and I bypass it. I flip through articles written by the home owner’s

association about the state of the lawn, various pieces about the

sight’s rich history, and finally land on a link titled “The Brothers

Grimm: Fact or Fiction?”

That’s the one.

When I click on it, though, the screen goes black.

“What the…” I mumble, powering down my computer then

powering it back up. I go back to the search engine, type in Grimm

Estate, and click on the link for a second time.

It goes black again.

Cursing, I power my laptop up for a third and final time, this

round focusing on a different search. I type Rachelle Harlow into the

search bar, and wait with baited breath as copious amounts of Grimsby

City Police Department links pop up. I scroll past them, each one

showing up purple because I’ve already clicked them multiple times in

the last couple of weeks. I select one of the crime reports I’m most

familiar with and watch as it’s pulled up relatively effortlessly.

So it’s not my computer.

I go back to the initial search engine and stare at the blinking

cursor. Finally, I type out the words Murders, Grimsby City and wait

as the engine pulls in thousands of articles from the last fifty years.

The ones on top are Rachelle’s (not a murder, but whatever),

followed by accounts of grisly homicides in the last decade.

My hands pause when I read some of the keywords:

Girl left without parents, wolves, mysterious Good

Samaritan.

I click on that link.

The page pulls up almost instantly, the article title reading Little

Girl Saved from Vicious Wolf Attack by Good Samaritan.

I pour over it hungrily:

“Late Tuesday evening a young couple and their child were

put through the worst nightmare that a family could possibly

endure. As David and Barbara Red were backpacking

through Grimsby Forest National Park with their little girl,

their campsite was attacked by a ravenous pack of timber

wolves, mauling and killing all but the five-year-old child.

However, thanks to the brave intervention of a Good

Samaritan, who prefers to be left nameless, the little girl is

making a full recovery at Grimsby Medical Center, and will

be released into her grandmother’s custody within the week.”

Below the article is a photo of the little girl in the arms of her

rescuer. It’s the same man from the photos, the man I ran into at the

estate gates earlier. Only, he doesn’t have that crescent scar in this

photo. I stare at the pair for a moment, almost like I’m trying to

remember something. Something familiar.

I feel like I’ve seen the girl before.

There's a tap at my door and I flip my computer screen down quickly.

"Can I come in?" Aunt Charlotte asks.

“Just one minute,” I say back, hastily tacking a sheet over the

photos on my bulletin board. I give her the all clear and she opens

the door, a plate of mashed potatoes and a dinner roll in her hands.

"Thought you could use some food anyway,” she says as she

lays the plate on my dresser. That's the thing about my aunt. No

matter how mad I get, she's always here.

"Wow," she whispers, "when did you put all these other ones up?"

She motions to the lights on the walls, the bright spirals reflecting

off of her reading glasses. I smile. Walking over to the hanging button, I

click it twice, and the lights start to dance in a faster pattern. My aunt

smiles, laugh lines hugging her eyes.

"You know, Dora," she tells me, "it's okay if you made a friend

today. Rachelle wouldn't be mad."

I shrug my shoulders, clicking the lights back to their normal

setting, and grab the plate. I munch at the potatoes absentmindedly,

chewing on my thoughts of wolf attacks and mysterious Good

Samaritans instead.

"I'll leave you with that," my aunt continues. “But if you ever

need to talk, know I'm here."

“Thank you.”

I don’t know what else to say. Aunt Charlotte thinks Rachelle is

dead too, so I’m not sure what there is to discuss. Instead I settle for

nodding as she stands and kisses my forehead, a strand of her redgray hair brushing my cheek. Then she leaves me alone with

twinkling lights and mashed potatoes.

After I know she’s downstairs, I lift up my computer screen. I

print out the pictures of the little girl and the blonde man, and hang

them on my bulletin board too. I’m not sure how they’re connected

to Rachelle yet, but something in my gut says they’ll come in handy.

* * *

The next day at school Rella follows me around like a shadow, eating

lunch with me and sitting next to me in every class we have together.

Which, as the day goes on, I realize, is most of them.

At first it’s a bit overwhelming, but now, at the end of the day,

I’ll admit that it’s nice to be around someone who doesn’t pity me. I

haven’t heard a peep more from Unknown Number about meeting

after school. Not a text or anything. Which is good…I think. In fact,

today’s been good, all in all. The school day went by pretty fast, with

fewer trips to the bathroom than yesterday.

"Want to walk home again?" Rella asks.

"Actually," I tell her, "I have to meet someone. You go on ahead.

I'll catch up." She smiles sweetly and gives me a thumbs-up, then

bounces off down Main Street.

Walking up the street, I inhale and make my way toward my

side of town. I get more and more nervous as I duck into the trees

surrounding the road, making my way toward the old railroad

tracks. But every time I stop to turn back, images of Rachelle’s empty

coffin push me forward.

I’m doing this for her.

I reach the old tracks and pause, looking around for some sign of

life. No one—just me and the abandoned railway, rusted steel

stretching in both directions and trees bordering the edges. Unknown

Number told me to be here after school. Well here I am, and here he’s

not. Exhausted, I shake my hair out of its ponytail, deciding that I’ll

give Mr. Unknown two minutes, tops.

A twig snaps in the trees behind me.

“Who’s there?” I ask, spinning around.

My shoes sink into the muddy ground as I search the clearing for

whatever made the sound, but there’s no one here. Slowly, I turn to

leave. My skin is prickling and my nerves are shot, but no one comes

out of the trees to greet me as I pass.

“Dora, stop.”

The voice comes from behind me, from the tracks.

“Who are you?” I ask without turning around.

The voice is male, and strangely familiar, and it’s all I can do not

to run from the scene. But something keeps me tethered to the earth;

whether that’s curiosity or pure stupidity I don’t know.

“I’m a friend,” he says.

I hear a shuffling of material. I turn suddenly, and there he is

standing on the tracks directly in front of me. His long coat brushes

the ground, and he’s got one hand in an open satchel by his side.

To my relief, it’s not Scarface.

“I have something for you,” the stranger says, repeating his text

message from yesterday. His dark eyes search mine, and it’s then

that I remember where I’ve seen him.

“You were at Rachelle’s grave the other night,” I say, and he nods.

“That I was.”

He pulls something from the velvet depths of his bag.

A leather book.

“Take it.”

I hesitate for a moment, torn between the mystery of this strange

meeting and safety. It is the same boy from the church graveyard;

the dark hair and square jaw are unmistakable in the light. Carefully,

I extend my arm and reach for the book, taking it in my hand.

He lets go.

“But who exactly—” I start.

As I’m talking he turns to leave.

I watch as the back of his coat recedes into the trees, and I’m left

standing in an empty clearing with the leather book in my hands. I

swallow, look down at the cover.

It has my name on it.

“No way,” I mutter, and then flip to the first page. It’s bare,

nothing but blank lines on white. It’s an empty journal, and there

isn’t a single word written in it yet.

I stuff the book in my bag and turn for home, a hundred

questions burning in my mind.

CHAPTER FOUR

"WANT TO COME OVER?"

Rella is standing on my front porch, a glass of water in her hand,

her eyes hopeful. She’s the first thing I saw as I rounded Applewood

Court and walked up my drive. I almost feel bad about how much I

want to run in the opposite direction right now. I eye her warily, not

wanting to hurt her feelings but also wanting to duck inside so I can

check out the mysterious book in my bag.

"Did you come here after school?” I ask.

Rella nods enthusiastically.

"We didn’t walk home together so I figured I’d wait for you.”

I shift on the porch as she smiles, my stomach knotting as I think

about the book and all of the research I have to do.

“How did you know which house was mine?” I ask.

“Your aunt was in the front yard and she said you’d be home soon,”

she says, and I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes. “She gave me

some water and we chatted for a bit. She’s really nice, I like her!”

“Right.”

The front door creaks open a crack as we’re talking.

“Dora, go to your friend’s house,” I hear Aunt Charlotte start to

say. First her head and then her entire body appears as she steps out

onto the porch. “I’ll have dinner ready when you get back.”

She turns and winks at Rella.

I sigh.

"It's right up here," Rella says to me, beaming as we walk the short

distance to the next street over. She’s pointing to a little house up on the hill.

It's old like every other house in The Wood, and surrounded by trees. But

the trees in Rella’s yard seem off. They're darker, and covered in shadows.

"Mama isn't expecting you, so she may be surprised," she says to

me. “But no worries. She'll love you, I know it."

Rella's smile and the glow in her eyes tell me she’s actually

excited about introducing me to her mom. Well her expectations sure

are low. A dirt drive leads us to a front door—it's old and crusted

over with yellowed paint. She pulls a blue key out of her pocket, and

fits it neatly into the lock.

Rella pops the door open.

I step inside after her. Everything in the house is dark and still,

quiet. It makes me nervous. Rella flips a light switch and my eyes

burn as they adjust.

“Sorry about the mess, I tried to clean earlier but I didn’t have

much time.”

But there isn’t any mess. Just a spotless floor and living room.

Rella takes off her bookbag and lays it in a wicker basket, then steps

over to a door on our left. I follow her.

"Hey Mama," Rella says as she creaks the door open. “I brought

a friend to meet you. Her name is Dora.”

She peers into the bedroom. There, on the bed, is a small woman

in a fuzzy purple bathrobe. I wave awkwardly as we walk in but

Rella’s mom doesn’t react, she just keeps flipping the channels on an

old antenna TV emphatically, searching the screen for something in

particular. It reminds me of a kid trying to find cartoons on a

Saturday morning.

"Mama," Rella says, "it's Friday. It's not on yet."

"But I need it," the woman says, lifting a pair of gentle green eyes to us.

She holds the remote out to Rella, who nods, understanding

something I miss. She clicks a button and grabs a cassette tape from a

drawer, pressing play. The TV screen flickers to life and brightly

colored cartoon characters dance around, singing some song about

friendship. Rella's mom instantly softens and smiles, watching the

screen. We back out of the bedroom and Rella closes the door.

"She likes you," she says, grinning wide.

"Yeah, um, your house is very clean," I say lamely, glancing at

the gleaming floors and counters.

"Thanks. I wish I could have tidied it better today," she says

again as she straightens a picture frame on the wall. "I clean every

day, because Mama can't, but she likes things to be neat."

She steps into the kitchen and pulls an orange jug from the top

shelf. She pours herself a glass of juice and I watch as she carefully sets

the jug back in the fridge. She doesn't lift the glass to her lips, though. In

a moment, she's crossed back to the bedroom, and steps inside.

While she’s in the back room I take a glance around. There’s a

photo album resting on the side table in front of me, and without

thinking I reach for it. Dusty pages filled with images: a little girl

with blonde braids in a woman’s arms, a first day of school, a trip to

the beach. One of the pictures shows the girl in the woman’s lap,

cradling a curly-haired china doll.

“I love that book,” I hear Rella say behind me, and I drop it. She

stoops to pick it up, laying it gently back where I found it.

“They’re nice memories, back from before the accident.”

“Do you mind my asking what happened?” I ask, and Rella

shakes her head.

“No, I don’t mind. I told you my mother was in a pretty bad

accident when I was ten,” she pauses, takes a tiny breath. “She was

walking me to school, and a truck driver didn’t stop at the sign. She

threw me across the street, but got hit.”

My eyes sting as she wraps her arms around her waist.

“Time kind of stopped for me after that, you know?”

I nod, knowing exactly what she means.

"Anyway, would you like anything?" she asks, gesturing to the pantry.

“No thanks.”

For some reason I don't want to take anything from her, it

doesn't seem right. She simply shrugs her shoulders, and plops

down on an ottoman next to the couch. She gestures for me to follow

suit, like maybe we can watch TV together or something. I hesitate.

Suddenly this all feels too real, like Rachelle’s grinning up at me

from that couch, her eyes a similar shade to Rella's; sharp blue and

waiting. I feel like I’m betraying her, hanging out with Rella instead

of trying to find my best friend.

I turn away.

"I have to go," I stutter, and start for the door.

I pull it open and hurry down the dirt path, my bag thumping

against my back.

"Dora, wait!" Rella calls. "Please don't go.”

And even though I can't see them, I can hear the tears in her

eyes. I feel like such a bad person.

"We can't be friends, Rella," I say carefully, controlled, trying to

rip this bandage off as emotionless as possible. The sooner she

understands this the sooner she can move on, befriend someone who

will actually return her feelings. Because I can't. You mean you won't.

Something in my head tries to make me turn around, but I don't. I

block it out.

"Go into town with me tomorrow," she says.

I blink. She's still trying, even after I walked out on her.

"There's this fall festival, and I really want to go. With you."

She sounds so hopeful, so excited to have a new friend. And

now that I've been in her house and seen a glimpse of her life, I feel

like I owe her that.

"Tomorrow," I say, feeling out the idea. “Fine. I’ll go with you

tomorrow.” Then I walk swiftly down the hill toward Applewood

Court without waiting for her to respond.

I make it home before the sun sets and close the door behind me.

The living room is empty and quiet. I like it that way. I cross to the

kitchen and pull a case of leftover tuna casserole from the fridge. I

cut a small square and pop it into the microwave on a paper plate.

"Sorry there's no dinner," a voice behind me says.

I jump, the tinfoil in my hands landing at my feet. Aunt

Charlotte stoops to pick it up, the strings of her yellow bathrobe

brushing the ground.

"It's all right," I tell her. "Leftovers are good."

There's a ding and I grab my food, then carry it over to the

kitchen table. It's a little cold in the center, but otherwise good.

"How was hanging out with your friend?" my aunt asks.

She watches as I shove a forkful of cheesy tuna into my mouth

and shrug, the universal sign for "it was good but I don't feel like

talking about it." She nods, a quick movement, and then falls silent.

I'm wary as she pulls up a chair next to me. I love my aunt, but she's

not good about hiding what's on her mind for very long.

"Why were you late getting home from school?" she asks.

And there it is.

"Um—" I swallow a large bite of casserole. "I was busy talking

with someone."

She smiles at this, and I avoid her eyes. Damn it, should have lied.

But I can't lie. If there's one thing I can't do, it's bend the truth. I've

always been completely and utterly honest. It's why I never had

many friends, other than Rachelle. She knew me. She knew I told the

truth all the time because I had to, because it hurt not to. Because

once upon a time a little girl was left on her aunt’s doorstep without

a single explanation and no one ever told her the truth about why.

"Someone as in…a boy?" Aunt Charlotte asks, practically on the

edge of her seat.

I cringe.

"Not a boyfriend. An acquaintance."

"I see."

She thinks for a second, chewing on her bottom lip.

"Rella and I are going to the fall festival tomorrow, so I'll be gone

a few hours," I spit out, changing the subject. My aunt might as well

know. I'd have to tell her tomorrow anyway, so she won't worry. I

look over and she’s beaming at me, her hands clasped together like

she's keeping herself from exploding in excitement. I raise an

eyebrow. She unclasps her hands.

"That's nice, Dora," she says, staying composed and putting her

hands back in her lap.

I squirm in my chair. This is why having friends is a bad idea. Too

many feelings from too many people. Things with Rachelle were always

simple, easy—and having a new friend now that she’s gone feels like

I’m doing something wrong. Aunt Charlotte stands up and wraps her

arms around my neck, then pulls back and looks into my eyes.

"Listen sweetie, this girl sounds nice. Maybe you should give her

a chance." She kisses my forehead.

"Do you need any money for the festival?" she asks.

I shake my head. The fall festival is free, and I'm not going to

buy anything. But she merely sighs and leaves the kitchen. I hear her

rustling around somewhere in a backroom, then she returns with her

purse in tow.

"Here," my aunt says and hands me a twenty dollar bill. “And

don't worry about the change."

I don't want to take it, but I know not taking it would only cause

more trouble. She might try to give me more. Exhaling, I take the

bill, and thank my aunt. She grins, sweeps her hair behind her ears,

then disappears into the back bedroom.

I set my head on the kitchen table, feeling completely out of control.

CHAPTER FIVE

AFTER I FINISH EATING, I rush to my bedroom and shut the door

behind me. The minute my stars burst to life I pull the leather book

out of my bag and sit down at my desk. The lines are faded and the

corners yellowed, and when I open it the smell of old paper greets me.

I flip through the pages, fanning them out and searching between each

one to make sure I don’t miss anything, that it really is blank.

I’m about to close it for the night when a notecard falls out. It’s

small with curly writing all over it. It must have been stuck between the

middle pages. I lift it to my desk lamp and try to make out what it says.

Dear Dora,

Don’t be concerned with what the pages lack, but rather with

the potential they hold. Use this to document what you see,

and create what you do not.

Speak soon,

Jakob Grimm

My heart leaps into my throat as I read the name threaded across

the last line. Jakob Grimm. One of the brothers. I prop the card up

against my lamp and flip my laptop up, clicking to the same search

engine I’d used the day before. I type in “Jakob Grimm” and wait as

the blue links pop up below. Then I click on one that reads “Jakob

Grimm, Younger Brother of the Acclaimed Wilhelm…”

My screen goes blank again.

“Damn it!” I hiss a little too loudly.

Every time I try to find out more about these brothers my computer

blacks out. I push it aside and stare at the notecard for a minute more,

picking it up and turning it over in my fingers. The boy that was at

Rachelle’s grave, that gave me this blank book, is Jakob Grimm.

Could Mr. Scarface be the other brother?

Setting the card back down, I focus on what it says. Use this to

document what you see, and create what you do not. So…write in it. My

fingers tremble a bit as I pick up a pen and flip to the first blank

page; just knowing this book was close to someone who could be

related to Rachelle’s kidnapper terrifies me. But I’m curious to see

what happens when I follow Jakob’s mysterious directions.

Document what you see.

I look over at my laptop. It’s still black, the screen refusing to

allow my research to continue. Carefully, I press the tip of my pen to

the first blank page of the journal and begin to write:

The screen is black.

My room is still and silent, the stars twinkling down at me as I

watch the screen. Nothing happens. I don’t know what I expected to

happen, but all of a sudden I feel silly for expecting it. I swallow and

look back down at the page. My throat goes dry as I realize that my

sentence is gone, slowly being replaced by a new one:

Write what you want to be, not what is.

As the last word literally writes itself across the page, I drop my pen

and cover my mouth with my hand so I don’t scream. The phrase

complete, the writing stops, and I stare wide-eyed at the line that wasn’t

there a moment before. It hits me that the writing is loopy, just like the

font on the notecard. Slowly, I regain control of myself, and pluck the

card from my desk. I place it next to the sentence and compare.

Both are in Jakob Grimm’s handwriting.

“What the hell…?”

I jump back as the sentence erases itself. It takes me a moment to

digest what he meant, but then I pick my pen back up and place the

tip back on the page. I try to write what I want, not what I see:

The screen flickers to life, and the article I’m looking for is

displayed for me to read.

My breathing slows and I close my eyes, counting to ten. While I

stare into the darkness of the backs of my eyelids, I contemplate just

how stupid this is. Books don’t talk and sentences don’t write

themselves. That’s impossible. Ever since Rachelle went missing I’ve

been losing it, going crazy, and this is just a culmination of that.

But when I reach ten and open my eyes, I go cold; my computer

screen is on, and the article is splayed across the top, ready for me to read.

“No way…”

I spring into action, scrolling down the screen and filtering

through the information:

Jakob Grimm, younger brother to acclaimed novelist Wilhelm

Grimm, is said to start work on his first project this summer.

It’s yet to be determined if the young novelist will provide

any sneak peeks of the book, but the world is waiting with

baited breath for its release.

Novelists. The Brothers Grimm are book writers? It’s hard to

believe that a book writer would want to kidnap my best friend. I’ve

never thought of novelists as particularly murder-y. Plus I’ve never

heard of them before. If the world were waiting “with baited breath”

for a book of Jakob Grimm’s, wouldn’t I have heard of him before?

My screen shuts off again.

I glance back down at the page and realize that my sentence has,

once again, been erased. A new one is being written in its place:

Don’t trust my brother.

My heart pounds as I realize that somehow I’m talking to a real

person right now, through this book. I shake as I write my response

beneath his:

How do I know I can trust you?

There’s a pause, then both lines are swept away by an invisible

eraser. I wait on the edge of my desk chair for his response, but it

does not come for a few moments.

Then it appears:

Because I’m going to help you find Rachelle.

CHAPTER SIX

JAKOB DIDN’T WRITE me anymore that night, so I finally

wound up falling asleep in the early hours of the morning, albeit

somewhat reluctantly.

When I wake up the next afternoon the first thing I notice is my

phone buzzing. The message is from Rella, asking what she should

wear for the festival. It's in an hour and she can't decide. “Wear

whatever you want,” I tap back quickly.

At my closet, I push a few hangers aside and try to find

something decent to put on. I'm not one for flashy clothes; I like

simple things like jeans and t-shirts. But today I feel like wearing

something nice, and it disappoints me that my closet is so bare.

I glance over at the leather journal.

It’s still sitting there, the first page open and exposed on my desk. It

almost seems like I dreamt the entire conversation last night. Holding

my breath, I take the book in my hands, grab my pen, and write:

Despite the overwhelming presence of dingy T-shirts and

ripped jeans, Dora manages to find an old dress in the back of

her closet she’d forgotten about over the years.

I bite my lip and close my eyes, wondering if it would actually

happen a second time, or if last night was some fever dream induced

by the horror that was the past few weeks. When I open my eyes,

though, I see something peeking out from the back of my closet.

It’s a deep green dress; one that I’ve never seen before.

I slip the dress over my head and run my fingers across the

fabric, feeling how incredibly real it is. Not an inch of it feels

imaginary. When I look in the mirror it looks just as present as me,

just as solid. None of this makes sense, it’s so impossible that I

wouldn’t believe it unless I was the one doing it. Maybe if I can find

Jakob Grimm again he can explain it to me.

And help me find Rachelle like he promised.

I run my hands through my curls, letting them hang loose over

my shoulders, and then I grab the notebook from my desk, shove it

into my bag, and head downstairs.

"You leaving?" My uncle calls from the couch.

My aunt is next to him, and as I open the front door, she smiles

and waves.

"Have fun dear. Be safe."

I wave, and then begin to make my way up the big hill toward

Rella's house. The trees on Applewood Court are already dropping

leaves, the cool oranges and browns floating around me and

gathering in storm drains. The wind rocks a red leaf back and forth,

and it lands soundlessly at my feet. I walk over it. Funny how

everything dies eventually, but life keeps walking on.

Funny.

When I knock on Rella’s front door, she answers it immediately,

as if she were waiting at the doorknob. She's grins, a cream-orange

dress hanging from her small frame, little gold shoes on her feet. The

yellow scarf, embroidered with falling leaves, is a nice touch.

"You ready?" I ask her with raised eyebrows.

She nods as if this is the most important moment of her life.

Focused. I almost laugh. Her intrinsic innocence is hard not to like.

We walk down the hill toward Red Street, and for the first time,

Rella doesn't say much.

"Everything okay?" I ask her, but she doesn't respond. She

avoids my gaze, choosing instead to keep her eyes fixed on her

sparkling shoes. Something in me doesn't like quiet Rella. The

silence isn’t natural.

"Okay, what's up?" I stop walking.

It takes Rella a second to realize.

"Nothing," she says, then glances away. "I just…am I bothering you?"

I chew my bottom lip. More feelings. I've had more feelings

thrown at me in the last few days than ever in my entire life.

Doesn't anyone know I'm not good at this?

That was the thing about Rachelle, she knew I couldn't handle

people's emotions. That I shut down when things got too personal.

But she always knew what to say. If she were here, she’d reassure

Rella for me. I release my lip from my teeth, giving it a try.

"You’re not bothering me.”

Rella stands there, her arms crossed, studying me.

"Are you sure?"

I flinch, lost for what to say next. I fall back on the truth, even if I

can’t admit it to myself.

"I like your company,” I tell her.

Something in Rella’s face changes and a smile creeps across her lips.

"So we're…friends?"

It’s the question I've been avoiding for days now and am not

quite comfortable answering. I close my eyes for a second, shooing

images of Rachelle and me away. But one sticks with me. My first

day of kindergarten, Rachelle and I are both sitting alone at the arts

and crafts desk in our pretty pastel dresses. Mine was green, hers

was blue. I'd lost my red crayon, and Rachelle had an extra one.

"Want to be friends?" she'd asked, plain and simple, like giving a

girl a crayon was the way all great friendships started. And hey,

maybe it is.

Because I'd said yes.

Now, looking at Rella, I realize how much she needs a red

crayon right now.

"Sure," I tell her, nodding awkwardly, "we're friends."

Soon, glimmering lights blink in the distance and the faint smell

of butter and salt floats to us on the wind. The Waverley Country

club is packed with sweating bodies and screaming coasters, and it’s

a bit of a sensory overload. Rella steps toward the gates in delight.

“Oh my gosh. It’s huge,” she exclaims, her neck craning to the

point of breaking.

The Grimsby Fall Festival is held on the Waverley golf course

every year, hosted by Harry and Gretchen's father. He donates the

land and half of the money needed to have the event, so it only

makes sense that he’d cater it, too. Everything in Waverley has his

name on it. Even the country club toilet paper.

"Tickets, ladies?"

Rella reaches down and unbuckles one of her shoes. She slips

two tickets from her sock, and hands them to the snaggle-toothed

woman behind the booth.

“Enjoy the festival.”

Walking into the country club is like walking into a comic book,

all the colors and stripes melting together and making my head spin.

Couples walk arm in arm, the girls laden with stuffed animals that

their dates probably won to impress them. Like cheap, fluffy proof of

their love. I hug my bag close to me and try not to bump into

anyone. There are a few kids that I know from school, but none that I

would actually talk to. Then Rella points to the Ferris wheel.

"Sure," I say, "but we'll be waiting for a while."

Secretly I’m hoping the wait deters her, because heights aren’t

really my thing.

"That's all right," Rella says, and I start to get nervous as we

proceed to the end of the very long line. She plants her feet on the

ground firmly, like the little plot of earth we're standing on could

run away at any moment. I don't know how she does that. Enjoys

herself like no one in the world is here, like she's alone with the

Ferris wheel and her thoughts. To me, this entire place is teeming

with life and energy and stress.

"Hey, Dora."

The voice is so close I jump. Rella flinches, but otherwise stays

focused on the line. I look over my shoulder and see Charles Hunter the

Third. It’s odd for him to be talking to me, considering he’s Gretchen’s

ex-boyfriend. My greeting comes out like a question. “Hey.”

I step forward, the line moving, and he falls in step behind us,

smiling at Rella. She doesn’t notice. Then, he's back to me. His dark

eyes and curly brown hair go well together, his muscles defined and

barely noticeable beneath his black T-shirt. I look around, searching

for his date. Waiting for some form of feminine energy to flounce up

and grab his arm. Charles is the kind of guy every girl at school

drools over.

But he seems to be here alone.

"Liking the festival?" he asks us.

"Yeah," I say, "do you know Rella?" I step to the side, letting him

extend a hand. When Rella doesn't turn around, I nudge her gently.

"Hmm?" she says, then her eyes fall on Charles. She studies him

up and down.

“Pleasure,” she murmurs, and they shake hands.

“No I think the pleasure’s all mine.”

She blushes, then turns right back around, focused solely on the

twinkling ride in front of us. Charles seems sort of confused, and I

can't help but smile a little at Rella's oblivious social skills. She’s

worse at this than me, and it's sort of refreshing.

"We're almost there," Rella whispers gleefully to herself.

Charles stays in line behind us, trying in vain to start up small

talk with Rella. Each attempt ends in a noncommittal “mmm hmm”

on her end. But that doesn’t stop him from trying.

As the Ferris wheel squeals to a stop, I look up at the massive

ride; it’s huge and rickety from years of use, and jam-packed with

people. Not a seat is empty. Beads of sweat break out on my

forehead as I think about looking down over the side of one of the

flimsy tin carriages. But I feel like I owe it to Rella, after being kind

of rude the last few days. She may not be Rachelle, but my aunt is

right, Rella seems nice so I should try to be, too.

At the front of the line, a sturdy woman begins to pull a thick

red rope from one side to the other, blocking our way.

"Can only fit one more," she says, and motions between Rella

and me.

Short on patience, the woman ushers me though, leaving Rella

and Charles behind. I raise my eyebrows but she just waves, and

stays in line for the next carriage. I think I catch Charles grin.

The woman opens the carriage door for me.

“I saved you a seat, Dora."

My heart stops beating. Jakob Grimm is sitting there, obscured

by shadows, the only other person in the carriage. He motions for

me to sit down across from him, and I do. The ride jolts to a start and

I reach for the closest object to me—a solid metal pole in between the

benches. I hang on for dear life.

“You’re Jakob Grimm,” I say finally, dislodging the lump in my throat.

He nods.

“And you’re Dora Klein.”

I narrow my eyes.

“How do you know my name?” I ask.

But Jakob doesn’t answer. He simply leans back and places his

hands on his knees, grinning at me. His eyes are dark and patient, his

smile tilting upward at the corners of his lips. There’s something light

about his mannerisms, like he’s enjoying an inside joke with himself.

"How were you writing to me last night?” I ask, tightening my

grip on the pole as our carriage creeps upward. It gains speed, and

lights from the festival whiz past my face. “What is that book you

gave me?”

I reach into my bag, lifting out the journal.

"You caught on pretty quick," he says, excitement in his eyes.

"Caught onto what?”

He chuckles so hard he snorts a little—it’s kind of dorky and it

catches me off guard. I lift one eyebrow and he composes himself

quickly, coughing politely and narrowing his gaze. A part of me

thinks he seems harmless, but I can't stop thinking about the fact that

Wilhelm is his brother, that he’s one of the Brothers Grimm.

“Do you live in that house?” I ask suddenly, and he snaps to attention.

“In a way,” he says.

“Then how come I’ve never seen you before now?” I ask him,

letting go of the pole and leaning back in my seat. The carriage rocks

with my weight, and I tremble.

“You’re scared of heights,” Jakob says, and I nod. But it wasn’t

a question.

“Maybe I’m scared of you,” I say.

“You shouldn’t be.”

He laughs and moves to sit next to me as the carriage lurches to

a halt at the top of the ride, sending my stuff flying and rattling the

tin walls. I freak out for a second, before Jakob throws out an arm to

steady me.

“Easy there. Don’t die,” he says.

“Thanks,” I mutter, whipping my head around so I don’t look down.

"So," he says as we sit idle at the top of the ride, "do you want

my help?"

The wheel comes to a stop and I look out over the festival, at the

tiny dots littering the confetti-colored grounds. Everyone's enjoying

themselves, playing innocent little games with each other in this

massive carnival play-set. A little blond head bobs into one of the

cabins below us, followed by a larger head of brown hair, and I

know Rella and Charles got on the ride together. I swallow dryly.

“Do you want me to help you?” he asks again, softer this time.

I can feel him next to me, heating the space between us. It’s

close quarters in this cabin, and I’m suddenly nervous. My palms

start to sweat.

Looking over at him, it hits me that this is the boy I’ve heard so

many legends about. He doesn’t look anything like his older brother.

His features are sharp but soft, nothing like the scarred and

intimidating smile of Wilhelm Grimm’s.

“I want your help,” I finally mutter, and Jakob nods.

A few moments go by before he speaks again.

"Funny, isn't it," he says, looking out at the fair with a new

sadness seeping into his voice. "They can all just go on about their

lives, like she never existed, like Wednesday didn't happen."

I flashback to Wednesday, to her empty coffin and the yellow

rose, how I'd been so reluctant to let go of it. Of her.

“I know she’s still alive,” I say, looking over at him.

“She is,” he says, and my heart thuds against my ribcage. “And

we’re going to find her.”

The sky is darkening outside, the sun setting, and we're still

perched at the top of the ride. Peering out over the Waverly

neighborhood gives me flashbacks, glimpses of afternoons of hideand-seek with Rachelle. My uncle would drive us to real estate lots

in Waverley when we were little, and his boss would code us in.

We’d spend hours hopping from McMansion to McMansion, playing

in the ones that were on the market. Sometimes there were even

cheese plates and fruit bowls on the counters. Fancy stuff like that

used to be exciting.

My thoughts snap back to the present. We’re not playing hideand-seek anymore.

And Rachelle isn’t here.

I bite my lip nervously. Jakob realizes that his arm is still around

me and he retracts it. “Sorry,” he mumbles, and I wave him off.

“What’s with this book, though?” I ask him, taking it out of my

bag. “How does everything I write in it come true?”

“That’s a question for another time,” Jakob says, picking up my

bag and opening it so I can set the journal back inside. He zips it up

and sets it in my lap. “The easiest answer for now is that this,” he

points to my bag, “is our weapon of choice.”

“But what exactly are we fighting?” I ask.

Jakob is silent for a moment, his eyes on the sky. A small breath

escapes his lips as we make our way back toward the earth, toward

bustling crowds and candy-filled stalls.

“We’re fighting reality,” he finally says.

CHAPTER SEVEN

WHEN WE STEP OFF of the little silver platform and onto solid

ground, Jakob walks off in the opposite direction, his back

disappearing into the crowd. Another mysterious exit without any

sort of explanation as to what the hell is going on.

Perfect.

My phone buzzes as Unknown Number lights up the screen, along

with a message:

I like riding Ferris wheels with you.

I blush, and then quickly change Unknown Number to Jakob G. in

my contacts.

Rella shouts down at me. She's hanging dangerously out of the

carriage at the very top, waving, and not paying any attention to

Charles. The little tin box shakes violently as she continues to wave,

and Charles grabs her from behind. She disappears into the carriage.

"Out of my way!" a shrill voice screams.

I turn around to find the source of the high-pitched shriek. Not

to my surprise, Gretchen Waverley is stomping this way, hopefully

not toward me. She pushes a kid out of her path without even

looking at him. Harry is behind her, a girl under each arm, both

holding big pink teddy bears that he must’ve won at the stands. Or

took, seeing as his daddy paid for them anyway. As I had feared, the

group stops in front of me and Gretchen glares up at the Ferris wheel

like she’s trying to melt the steel carriages with her eyes. And for a

moment I don't doubt that she can, jealousy oozing from her. I

chuckle without meaning to.

"You laughing, freak?" she barks, redirecting her flaming eyes on me.

“I am,” I say before I can stop myself. “If you keep staring at

them your eyes are going to pop out of your head.”

There’s a collective gasp from Harry and the two girls, and I freeze.

Gretchen raises an eyebrow.

“You think you’re smart, huh?” she asks. “You think because

you’ve got a new Rachelle and she’s saddling up to my guy, you can

push me around.”

My insides turn to fire.

“She’s not Rachelle,” I say. “And I’m done with this conversation.”

Gretchen falters, takes a step closer to me.

“I say when you’re done talking. What's your little friend doing

with Charles anyway?"

She points a long manicured finger up at the ride. I shrug, not

really giving her much to go on, and honestly, that defiance is a

small win for me.

Her brother doesn't seem too interested in our confrontation;

he's busy whispering to the leggy redhead to his left. I guess if I were

smart I would have told Gretchen that Rella didn't mean any harm,

she didn't even like Charles like that. But a part of me was proud

that my new friend had put Gretchen Waverley in her place without

even knowing it.

"Tell her to back off of him," Gretchen says. “Or next time, I'll tell

her myself." Gretchen smirks at me and my pulse quickens. This is it.

I'm going to hit her. I can't stop myself as my blood screams in my

ears. But just as my fists twitch, something flies in between us.

Something red. Gretchen takes a quick step back as a girl taller than

my uncle steps in front of me.

It’s the girl with the dark hair.

"Leave her alone," she says, her voice deep and silky. There’s

something dangerous in her tone that lurks beneath the surface.

Something that kills the smirk on Gretchen's face instantly.

But only for an instant.

"Get out of my way, Dropout," Gretchen spits.

But the girl doesn't flinch. Instead, the girl squares her jaw and

flexes her neck, as if she’s sizing up Gretchen. Something in her gaze

tells me it wouldn't be a hard fight.

"No," the girl says in an even tone, "I think you’re the one that

should move."

"Why should she listen to you?" Harry says from behind

Gretchen’s shoulder. "You make our drinks for a living."

Even though I can tell he's trying to sound strong, his voice

shakes the tiniest bit. They know this girl, and she's not on their shit

list. I almost smile, because finally their words can’t touch someone.

Suddenly the dark-haired girl's hand is on my arm, and I look

up. She's pretty, but not in the conventional way Gretchen is. She’s

attractive but intimidating, with olive skin and jet black, curly hair,

her brown eyes searching mine. The name-tag on her Waverley

uniform says Ms. Ryan Red.

"Leave her alone," she says again, ignoring Harry.

I hesitate. It’s two against one, but I don't think no is an answer.

"Fine," Gretchen mutters as she examines her nails, bored with

us. "Just remember our parents can have your job like that." She

snaps her fingers, and Harry laughs.

"There are plenty of bartenders out there," he spits. "You're easy

to replace."

Gretchen turns on her heels, leaving Harry and his girlfriends to

follow her pleated pink skirt as it whips in the wind. I know it's a bit

odd, but I can't help but laugh. She's mean, and powerful, and I love

it when she doesn't get what she wants.

"Don't listen to them," the girl says slowly, staring off ahead of

us into the crowd. "Bitch can't even hold her liquor."

Then, she turns to me.

“I don’t think I’ve ever properly introduced myself,” she says.

“I’m Ryan Red.”

“Dora,” I say, then, “you put those pictures in my pocket the

other day.”

She nods.

“Talk to me about that later.”

We wait by the popcorn stand and I shove kernels into my

mouth until Rella and Charles get off the Ferris wheel. When they

reach us, Charles raises his eyebrows at Ryan, who instantly narrows

her eyes at him.

“What’re you looking at pretty boy?” she demands.

His cheeks turn red. I chuckle nervously as Ryan crosses her

arms, plucking a handful of popcorn from my bucket and shoving it

into her mouth.

“Who’s your friend?” Rella asks, extending a hand to Ryan.

“I’m Ryan,” she says.

“And she’s not…” I say as Ryan glances over at me. “I mean I

guess we’re sort of friends.”

And just like that I’ve made another friend this week.

Fantastic.

Apple in hand, Rella drags us to whatever catches her eye next:

The Hall of Mirrors. After a few moments some of our classmates

exit the exhibit’s tent, giggling and hitting each other on the arm. As

we step through the velvet fabric flap my stomach flutters. We're

surrounded by warped carnival glass.

"Whoa," Rella breathes next to me, and steps forward to the

closest mirror.

She examines her beach ball-shaped reflection, hopping up and

down. Charles stands next to her, his mirror stretching him out like a

handsome eggplant. I almost laugh, but something about the mirrors

freaks me out. Like a chilling form of entertainment, the kind where

something is off but you can’t quite place what it is. I walk over to

one of the tall mirrors and look in. My blonde hair and green dress

are twisted into a sort of helix, my arms and legs poking out in all

the wrong directions.

And then I see the hand.

Five distinct fingers appear on the glass, not mangled like my

reflection, but perfectly resembling a hand. A hand that’s not mine. I

stifle a scream, my palm flying to my mouth as the fingers move and

spread out on their own. My heart pounds and I try to rationalize

what’s going on. Are the mirrors two-way? Someone on the other side?

I jump to the side, peering around the mirror, but no one’s there.

Closing my eyes, I tell myself the hand will be gone when I open

them again. My breath catches,

It’s floating next to my reflection. Like it’s reaching for me.

As I touch the glass the other hand spreads its palm out flat. I

jerk my hand away immediately and watch as the other one

disappears as well.

I'm left alone with my reflection.

I sprint from the tent, leaving Rella and Charles behind. I

imagine Wilhelm Grimm reaching out to grab me as I run, taking me

and hiding me away wherever Rachelle is trapped. Once I make it

outside the tent I try to breathe slowly and fan my face. I don't want

others to see me scared, freaked out.

A woman furrows her brow at me and I try to find a location

with less people. The lake. There, I sit, leaving behind the sounds

and sights of the festival.

"Not going to enjoy much from out here," a male voice says

behind me, and I turn, peering into the looming shadows of carnival

rides. There’s a silhouette there, standing tall and dark. I bite my lip.

"Something wrong, love?"

I shake my head, hoping that will be enough to make the

stranger leave, not liking the way his hands are shoved into his

pockets, how the lights play with my eyes as the Ferris wheel goes

around and around behind us. He strides toward me, pauses at the

water’s edge.

"Mind if I sit?" he asks, as he steps from the shadows into plain

sight. My throat tightens. He’s dressed in a pressed suit and tie, like

he just got out of a business meeting. I’ve seen that suit before. And

that hat.

It’s Wilhelm Grimm.

"I love the water," he says, staring out at the sparkling black

expanse. "Reminds me of another sky."

Before I can protest he sits down only feet from me. My skin

crawls as he crosses one leg over the other and chuckles to himself.

This is the man that Jakob warned me not to trust. That probably

took Rachelle.

My throat goes dry.

"I wonder what could be found at the bottom of the lake," he

says, skimming the toe of his dress shoe over the water, "if someone

drained it."

His head rolls back and he studies the sky, the brightness of the moon

reflecting in his eyes. I stand to leave before he starts talking again.

“Going so soon, Dora?” he says.

My back to him, I freeze, my body feeling numb.

“How do you know my name?”

“Some things are better left a mystery,” he says.

His dress pants rustle. I picture him standing. I turn around, too

afraid to have my back to him, just as he takes off his hat. I force my

voice to stay even, even if the words come out stuttered.

“Wh…what is your name, then?”

I already know the answer.

“My dear, I am Wilhelm Grimm.”

We’re silent for a moment and the chaos of the carnival becomes

background noise. All I can focus on is the man in front of me with the

piercing blue eyes that look like they belong to a much older person.

“I know what you’re up to,” he says lowly, his voice melting

across the space separating us. “And I will permit it, for now. But

one step too far and it will be over.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, digging my heels into the

dirt. I want to run so bad, but I can’t. I’m still and breathless, held in

place by my own fear.

“Don’t play dumb, Dora. It’s not a good look for you.”

He cocks his head and looks me up and down, then returns his

gaze to the water.

“I wouldn’t go knocking on closed doors,” he says as he turns back

toward the carnival lights. “You never know what lies behind them.”

And then he’s gone, enveloped by the screaming crowds and

whirring machines.

Holy shit. I walk quickly away from the lake, Wilhelm’s words

ringing in my ears. When I reenter the festival I don’t see a sign of

the eldest Grimm anywhere. It’s like he disappeared, just like Jakob

did. I shudder as I think about the look on his face as he glanced out

over the water.

What frightens me the most isn’t what he said, but how he said it.

Like his words can kill.

***

When I reach the Hall of Mirrors Rella’s head twists every which

way outside the tent, probably looking for me. Ryan is standing over

her shoulder, glaring directly my way.

"Where were you?" Rella asks. "We left the tent and you were gone."

I shrug my shoulders.

“Had a weird run in with some dude by the lake,” I say. “He

kept talking, wouldn’t shut up.”

Ryan shoots me a curious glance.

“Who was by the lake?” she asks, but suddenly our conversation

is interrupted by a string of pop, pop, popping sounds to our left.

It stops.

Then, an ear-splitting scream issues from behind us in the Hall

of Mirrors. Shards of glass rip through the tent, slicing and flying

across the fairgrounds. People run in every direction and drop to the

ground, covering their heads. It’s like the mirrors are imploding in

on themselves, every piece of glass busting in unison.

Without thinking I grab Rella's hand and pull her away from the flying

glass. People are everywhere, mothers scooping up screaming children and

Grimsby students scrambling over each other to get to the exit.

There’s a crack followed by a massive swoosh from behind me,

and I whip my head back. The Hall of Mirrors is gone, nothing but a

crackled mass of glass and shredded tent.

"What's going on?!" Charles shouts.

I don't answer him. I don't know. The purple and magenta

striped fabric of the Hall of Mirrors is shuddering as glass continues

to spit out of it.

"I hope no one's in there," Rella says beside me.

The throng of fair-goers sweeps us up. We let the crowd carry us

through the fair and to the street. There, we stand, no longer being pushed

along, catching our breath, at the front gates of the Waverley subdivision.

"Should we go home?" Rella asks, and Charles nods.

"You walk Rella home, Charles," I say out of the corner of my

mouth, unable to take my eyes off of the teeming crowd. My mind

spins like a pointer, landing on the same question over and over:

Could Wilhelm Grimm be doing this somehow? “I want to stick

around to see if anyone knows what happened.”

Surprisingly, Rella lets Charles lead her up the street and toward

The Wood. She only glances back at me once, and offers me a timid

little wave. I signal her on, giving her a thumbs-up sign to let her

know I’m okay, my foot tapping the entire time.

Then I turn back and reenter the chaos.