Page 72 of Dark Ugly Places

“Don’t be crazy,” Em protests. “It’s just getting good.”

The next murder is the one I don’t want to see. The daughter. She dies, leaving the mother all alone in that terrible house. “Turn it off, Em.”

She gives me a look, angry at first, and then disturbed. “Are you serious? Why?”

“Because this is too much. I don’t want to watch this.”

“It’s always about you. Everything is literally about you!”

The scene is coming. It’s there now, the scratchy sounds of the evil entity taking the daughter. The mother screaming and screaming and screaming …

I grab the remote and shut it off. My heart is thudding in my chest. Emmy stares at me, a subtle recognition coming over her.

We both know.

I push Martha away with a dig into the soft wound at the base of my neck. But it’s too late.

Like a foghorn blaring, blaring, the sound of her coming nearer echoes in waves inside my skull, her voice rattling against me, screeching along my vertebrae. Our living room, Emmy—all of it—is spiraling into darkness. I’m losing control, even as I say the words, “I’m so sorry, Em.”

29

Martha

The house is quiet. I head upstairs to find Emmy curled up under the thick covers of her twin bed, watching YouTube. She presses pause and jumps up to sitting when I open the door.

“I’m sorry about all that,” I tell her and go to sit at her bedside. My voice is strained, hoarse now. I wonder if she’ll notice. I try to smile, the way Nicola might, but it feels tight and unnatural.

“I just don’t like those movies anymore. You understand, right?”

Emmy looks down. She nods and stares blankly out the window. Her hand trembles a little as she reaches for the covers on her bed and pulls them up slowly to her belly. “You know something?”

An exasperated sigh escapes me. “What?”

“You sound different.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your voice. You sound different.” The covers quiver ever so slightly, an imperceptible jitter that makes everything else seem impossibly still in the half-light of the room. Emmy’s eyes are large, her scar bright and glistening, facing me. I want so badly to lock her up somewhere where she isn’t a burden, isn’t asking questions. Whatever she’s after, I can’t give it to her. The shaking slows. Her hand reaches out, creating a long shadow on the wall beside her. It touches mine, clammy, smooth like a little eel.

“I know it’s you again,” she says quietly. “You came back, didn’t you?”

I yank my hand from under hers. She may be flesh and blood, but she isn’t my flesh and blood. She’s Nicola’s. She’s Ben’s. If there were a way to just put her somewhere or make her behave for a little while, just while I get things done …

“Yes, it’s me. Don’t make a big deal out of this. You stay out of my way, and everything will be fine, okay?”

Her hand reaches out again and strokes the side of my face. I flinch from her, and she stares at me, wide-eyed. “It’s so weird,” she gawks. “You’re her, but you’re not her at all, are you?”

“That’s right. I’m not.”

“You’re Martha,” she breathes, a sigh of recognition.

“I am.”

Emmy closes her gaping mouth and swallows for the first time in what seems like a century. “So, where’s my mom now?”

“She’s safe.”

“From what?”