Veronica Sawyer had a crashing headache, and could really use some black coffee about now. She tried to remember what she'd learned last night, J.D. spilling on ghosts. He ought to know. She could get herself her own seer-textbook to read, hide it under her tampons, and try and find the right intel to defeat Heather Chandler. Feeder, poltergeist, wraith, Ariel. None of them were supposed to be particularly intelligent or coherent, like Heather Chandler was.
She knelt down by J.D.'s suitcase, laying aside books, sometimes with a quick flick through one or two. He owned a copy of The Anarchist Cookbook, very interesting. Her dress was crucially dirty from the woods; she could do the whole girlfriend thing and borrow a big clean men's shirt. Assuming J.D. had any that fit that description. She chose a blue plaid that was only threadbare in one spot.
After she was dressed to her satisfaction, she drew the curtains open and looked down at the familiar elm and the front yard. There was noise coming from there; something going on. J.D. was stripped down to a men's tank top and jeans, and the older man with him the same. The other man was tall and grey-haired. The unknown Mr. Big Bud Dean, she presumed. The seer counterpart to J.D.'s hunter. They were fighting.
It was intense and pretty brutal, but it looked more like a bizarre habit than a sudden emergency. Bud Dean threw a punch at his son's head. J.D. moved in close to block it with a quick jabbing blow, then tried to knock his father over. Bud Dean hit him quick and hard in the solar plexus, a low blow. Then out came the flash of a switchblade. It looked like the two of them practiced disarming as viciously as possible, wrenching wrists and throwing fast, close-range blows like they wanted to harm each other for real.
No way this is normal, even for removalists. Veronica's memories of the seer and hunter pair at the hospice were just regular middle-aged adults. They didn't do this Rambo shit. She headed downstairs. Her eye was caught by something she hadn't noticed before, a gun lying on one of the tables, under a bunch of papers. She picked it up, took note of the weight of it, and put it back quickly. Is that thing loaded? Don't want to know. Among all the gym equipment on the far side of the room, there was a machete hanging on the wall like an ornament. They were a weapon-fancying little family here. She looked into the last room down the hall, the way to the basement, and saw several locked, thick red cabinets with lethal-looking labels. She closed the door behind her, and slipped out the back door to head home.
A productive day. Veronica flicked her wet hair behind her back and sat down in the hot steam in her bathroom, wrapped in a soft blue towel. She'd shown up for two of her classes, went second-hand book shopping, and forced herself to study what she'd been seeing lately, no matter how much it repulsed her. Her luck had held, and she hadn't yet heard a peep from Heather Chandler. That stone-hearted bitch. Maybe Chandler would really take her time on the revenge plot (the Count of Monte Cristo waited twenty-three years, Heather, do you think you could take him as a role model?), and by then Veronica might have an idea to defeat her.
She painstakingly drew the razorblade up her leg, over the Clairol lotion. Her feet were still an aching, bruised mess, soaking in a bucket of hot soapy water in front of her. Ghosts and seers were on the same wavelength, made of similar stuff. She and Heather were the same as each other now. Murderer and victim, playing out the deadly dance between them, keeping secrets and lies and edged tools hidden in their chests. The steam was thick and heavy; Veronica could barely see to shave. And yet the bathroom temperature was running much colder, instead of hot and humid. She set the razor down to one side and waited patiently.
"You're a quick learner." Heather looked like she was about to enjoy a spa session, her shape in a pink robe with her hair loose around her. She manifested up high, toward the ceiling. The steam dissolved and withdrew as her shape reformed itself. "Don't let go of that. You never know, you might need it soon."
The ghost wasn't supposed to be the real Heather Chandler. Just an echo of the rage and aggression and negativity at the point of her death, turned into an endless raving hunger. Yet her mannerisms and memories seemed so similar. Veronica killed her best friend, and her worst enemy was the part that haunted her.
"You tried to set me up for gang rape. You knew what would happen at that kegger." Veronica glared at her former friend. She would have said no to Duke, if the ghost hadn't been there - no and safety and the quiet night in she'd wanted.
"Tried being the most important part. If you hadn't changed the venue at the last minute, it would have gone down so much worse for you." A part of Heather's silk gown changed shape, forming into a tendril in the air, and reached down and picked up the soap. She managed to spin bubbles off it, floating them idly the air. The pink and gold colouring between the rainbow bubbles made her look like a knockoff of Glinda the Good Witch. "I spent all night in the woods waiting for you and the others to show. It was so boring."
"If we're playing a game, then it sounds like I won that round." Veronica smirked. Try to provoke her; but don't take it too far. "Excuse me if I don't cry for your drop-dead-dull date night."
"Did you know there are at least four other seers in town right now? I can't make them believe me, but I could make some lovely suggestions about fingerprinting that suicide note you wrote for me." Heather twirled a lock of ghostly blonde hair around her fingers. "Let's make another deal."
"What kind of deal?" Veronica kept her voice level.
"Pick up that razor. Don't worry, I won't make you slit your wrists. You've noticed I'm all into blood now, but it's so much more satisfying when it's freshly spilled. Bleed for me, Veronica, and you get to stay alive a little longer."
"That's really not a good deal for me. Answer a question first," Veronica said.
"That's why I used to like you, Veronica - you've got moxie," Heather said lightly. She moved like she was sitting on the bench next to Veronica, a parody of a girls' spa day. "Ask away, but I might not give you an answer."
"Today's lunchtime push poll topic, Heather. Would you rather go to heaven, or hang around here as a ghost?"
Heather's eyes darkened. She leaned her head close to Veronica, and whispered in her ear. The horrible blue liquid spilled out of her mouth as she spoke. "There is no such thing as heaven. Hell is empty, and all the devils are here. Now start cutting."
Veronica hesitated. Hadn't done anything like this before. Her parents would think she was going goth, if they noticed. Don't want to do it anywhere someone will see. And that covers a lot of places, especially if I'm scheduling another midnight croquet session in the near future. She reached a decision. Her feet were already pretty mangled.
"Fine - you can have your takeaway meal of blood sacrifice, Heather."
It was difficult and painful, trying to force your own hand to pierce your skin. It took her three attempts before blood broke the surface of her big toe.
"Feet, really?" Heather sighed. "Do you think I have some sort of fetish, Veronica? Is this what your boyfriend's into?"
"You didn't specify where," Veronica said, and stood up. "So if you feel like it, baby, lick it up."
—
Veronica chose her blue folder, English, and politics books out of her locker at school. She avoided looking at herself in the mirror on the door, closing it quickly. She saw J.D.'s dark figure approaching behind her, and slowed down to walk with him.
"You cleared out of the old Dean place fast the other day," J.D. said. "What's your hidden fear - breakfast in general or my kitchen skills in particular?"
"I saw bits of the Oedipal death battle in the front yard. Is that even normal for removalists?" Veronica said. "Do you like your father?" Her own dad, the actuary, would never whale on his own child with a switchblade - the thought was hilarious. And the implications a little disturbing.
"I've never given the matter much thought." J.D. was looking in the direction of a group of jocks crossing the hallway in letter jackets, his expression detached and abstract. "What do they call that creature? When you cut off one head, and two more take its place?" Veronica shrugged, the word not coming to mind.
The bell clanged. "Don't wait up for me," Veronica said. "I might actually go to class today." She planted a quick kiss on J.D.'s cheek, overhearing someone's giggle as she did so, and set off on her way.
Veronica could hear the grist for the school rumor mill grinding overtime today. For some reason, people's pronunciation of her name seemed to be associated with absolute hilarity. She'd get to the bottom of it, eventually, and in the meantime pretend not to care about any of this crap.
"Heather Chandler spread," Dennis Edelmann was carrying on in the yearbook room, "suicide note top left, flowers to the right, open casket photo if we've got a good one, artwork and poetry. Hey, Veronica, have you got stuff for us?"
In the corner, a brunette and two blondes chatted, their backs turned to Veronica. It looked like the perfect scene of three giggling friends, three ordinary living girls. Except that one of the girls wore her perfect blonde curls tied up with a red scrunchie, above a killer red jacket, and no one else in the room could see her as she stood there with Jennifer Forbes and Grace Bailwick. Heather didn't even turn around to look at Veronica.
Veronica focused on Dennis' atrocious work. "God, no. This is a suicidal Hallmark card, Dennis. Have we all gone mad along with the world?"
"It's really not as tacky as it sounds," Dennis said. "Try looking at it from a different angle?"
"Look, I wrote a coffee-shop review piece and some 'Most Interesting' voting lists. Let's calm people down and do normal teenage bullshit," Veronica said.
"No can do, Veronica. This Heather Chandler story is huge. As a responsible newsman, I'm here to serve my readers."
Grace laughed loudly, and Jennifer quipped: "Someone here knows all about service."
Veronica turned on her. This was too annoying. "Jenny, I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about and why it's funny, but if you can explain the joke I'm sure we'll all find it hilarious."
She only got a few giggles, Jenny and Grace shaking their heads, no matter how she glared at them.
"I would really like it if someone could explain what I did," Veronica said.
"I've got to talk to you about the coffee-shop reviews. Come into my office." Dennis took her aside and shut the door.
"Out with it," Veronica said.
"Look, normally I don't put any credence into what neanderthals like Kurt Kelly and Ram Sweeney say," Dennis said, "but there's a highly specific rumor floating around about you at the kegger party."
"Kurt and Ram got drunk and passed out in a paddock. It's not exactly abnormal for them."
"Actually, they got drunk and wandered into a ghost around the hospice, but the seer found them the next morning," Dennis said. "If I have the story straight. Anyway, those details don't matter. What the rumor says is that before that, you. Um. Fellatio. On both of them. At the same time. What did they say, a swordfight in your mouth?"
"Eww! Sons of bitches." Veronica felt herself shaking, almost too furious to speak. They had no right. They should not have dared.
"See, I thought it was just a nasty rumor too," Dennis said. "Heather and Heather must have taken something they saw way too far ..."
After I helped them, too. "Those ungrateful, two-faced, weaselly, cringing, lying, bitches!"
"Isn't that what I've been saying to you all along?" The face she least wanted to see of all floated up behind Veronica and gave her a little wave. "Have fun with this, Veronica. Let's make you the school skank," Heather said.
—
Veronica twirled the phone cord in her hand, relaxing on her pillow. "Hi, Kurt. It's Veronica. You don't actually remember much about the other night, do you? You and Ram were drunk, then everything got all cold. It was ... boring. Remember when we studied Macbeth, that whole alcohol-increases-desire-but-takes-away-performance thing?" J.D., lying at the foot of her bed, snickered loudly. She threw the pillow at his face. "Never mind. I think fantasies are much more fun when you're sober. I hope you agree. I'd like to try two guys at once." She paused and sighed longingly. "If you want your idea to come true, meet me in the woods behind the school at dawn. Don't forget Ram. And yes, you can write to Penthouse."
She hung up, and met J.D.'s triumphant beam with her own. He handed her a small pistol. Veronica frowned, uncertain about the weapon. Revenge was one thing, but she had limits.
"It's a Beretta 21 Bobcat. Seven rounds, easy to fire, easy to conceal," he said.
"Loaded with blanks?" she asked.
"Something better." He opened a wooden case. They looked real.
"Oh, no - " Veronica said.
"Wait. My granddad scored these in World War 2. They're called Ich Lüge rounds, loaded with tranquilisers. The Nazis used them to fake their own suicides when the Russians invaded Berlin."
"You're so smart. We knock Kurt and Ram out long enough for everyone to think it was a gay suicide pact, and they'll be the laughing stock of the school." She knelt up on the bed, balanced her arms against his chest, and kissed him.
"Have you got the suicide note?" he said.
"Tell me the similarity is not incredible. Ram and I died because we could no longer hide our gay forbidden love in an uncaring and un-understanding world. Although we were forced to live the lives of beer guzzling sexist pig date rapist assholes, the love we shared for each other was stronger than the joy we felt at every touchdown."
"It's incredible similarity." J.D thrust a flowered shopping bag at her. "And here are the homosexual artefacts, exhibit A. Stud Puppy magazine, Judy Garland photo, Marilyn Monroe Halloween mask ... and nothing but the best in quality mineral water bottles for our fake star-crossed lovers." He cocked her a brilliant, heartwarming grin.
"Perfect."
"Our love is god, baby. Let's go get a slushie."
—
She wasn't alone in the woods this time, and Veronica could feel the weight of the Beretta behind her back. It made her feel in control of the situation. Let any jocks approach at their own peril. She and J.D. had all the power. These two lumbering primitive assholes were dinosaurs stuck in the past, little knowing they were about to go extinct by fiery asteroid crashing down from the heavens. She steeled herself to smile and look pretty while Kurt Kelly and Ram Sweeney walked up. It was absolutely the last time she would have to simper to them. Their names would be mud and ashes in everyone's mouth.
"Uh ... hey, Veronica," Kurt started. He actually seemed nervous and uncertain this time. It was a great look for him.
"So do we just whip it out or what?" Ram asked.
"Take it slow, Ram. Strip for me," Veronica said. No, strip for each other, Kurt and Ram - and better make it a good show. "You, on the left. Kurt, on the right of the clearing."
"Um, okay." Kurt flung off his letter jacket on the ground. "What about you?"
"You can rip my clothes off for me, sport." Veronica smiled and waited. They looked ridiculous without their football pads, Ram wearing only socks and Kurt in his birthday suit entirely, vulnerable and sloppy and untidy. "On the count of three, boys. One. Two."
"Three." She'd positioned the jocks perfectly. Ram was straight in front of the bush where J.D. waited in ambush, and Kurt was in Veronica's sights. J.D. emerged from hiding and fired, and Ram went down in a cloud of dust. Kurt was still on his feet, staring pop-eyed at Veronica. She must've missed him with the Ich Lüge bullets, fired above his head or something. Aiming the Beretta pistol was a lot more powerful than she'd expected, hitting the recoil and feeling the burning hot metal in her hand for the first time. She felt alive. Kurt screamed wildly and ran. She laughed, loving the feeling. How did Kurt like it now the shoe was on the other foot, and he was running scared and alone through the woods?
J.D. swore. "Stay there. I'll get him." He looked strange; he'd covered his face with the Marilyn mask. That would probably terrify Kurt even more as he chased him down.
Veronica looked down at Ram's body, at the hole and the blood on his neck. He was just unconscious. His eyes stared blankly upward, and his chest looked still. Veronica kicked his floppy foot. He didn't grunt or anything. Even heavily tranquilised people should react a little bit, shouldn't they? Then there was a sign of motion, a sort of ripple across Ram's chest, and Veronica felt relieved of a nameless fear for a moment. But then she started to see colours forming there, red and white and gold. Something shimmered within Ram's body, pushing itself up and outward like a butterfly coming out of a chrysalis, iridescent colours flicking and forming themselves into a smeared blot in the air.
She froze in place, her mouth suddenly dry. No, it couldn't be happening. A third person's laughter filled the clearing, pure and high and sweet-toned, echoing far and wide like the chime of church bells. The girl in the red dress floated above Ram - no, above the corpse. Heather reached inside Ram, over his newly shed blood, searching for something rich and strange. She seemed to mould the formless shape, sculpting it, altering it, colouring it brightly and binding it into something that looked almost human. Ram Sweeney's eyes were a frozen, dead blue. His neck was a red, bloody ruin. He wore his letter jacket and uniform, bold red colours coordinating with Heather's clothes. He floated above his own body, looking into the face of one of his killers, wearing the same stupid expression of arrogance and lust he'd had in life.
"Thanks for the gift, Veronica," Heather said.
It wasn't me, it was J.D. He killed Ram. Veronica dropped to one knee, her legs not enough to support her. Ich Lüge bullets. I'm an idiot. I've done ...
Feet were pounding near her, a human noise. Kurt was running, herded back to the clearing by J.D. He knew what had happened, he knew what she had done. Kurt screamed, and the scream would bring people. Veronica had him in her sights, perfect dead on center, and the Beretta barked a second time.
Kurt looked shocked, standing still, then reeled, a red bloom forming in the middle of his chest, and then he fell down inches from Ram. He didn't move after that.
J.D. flung down the suicide note, tore off the mask, and stuffed it in the bag. He ran a handkerchief along his weapon, then put it in Ram's right hand. "Remember, Kurt's left handed," he called. Veronica dropped the Beretta down. J.D. roughly grabbed her arm. Someone was coming. He dragged her down the rough dirt path, unyielding, racing to her car. They threw themselves inside and took off their clothes as if their lives depended on it. Just two teenagers making out in a car, nothing that looked suspicious, half-naked and totally occupied with each other. Veronica had seen the cop approach the car in the corner of her eye, but didn't let on. The cop backed off after a while, but they kept the illusion going. Give it a good half hour before they went to school. She was desperate and hungry for pain, atonement, body heat, feeling something.
The car was at a dead stop, parked in the school lot. Two normal teenagers waiting for school to start. Never mind what they'd done.
J.D. was drowsy, satisfied, resting against the side door, and not giving her any goddamn cigarettes. Veronica snatched at the lining of his coat. He woke up, trapped her in the process of pickpocketing, and handed one out for both of them. Veronica started the car lighter, a powerful flame. She dropped the cigarette out of her mouth. She applied the lighter to her hand. Did the bullet feel like that when it went through Kurt Kelly's heart? She screamed, clutching her burned palm. J.D. reached over and grabbed the lighter from her. He thrust his cigarette into the burn, since it was still hot enough to light the end for him. He studied her hand and let her go.
"They'll rise again and tell," Veronica sobbed. "You lied to me. You killed them."
"Don't lie to yourself. You believed me because you wanted to." J.D. blew a puff of smoke. "You wanted them dead."
"Did not!" she screamed.
"Did too."
"Did not, did not, did not! Not listening! Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb ..." She ignored him. "And, anyway, they were murders, not suicides, they hated dying." Ghosts were more likely formed when the person was angry about death; suicides hardly ever created ghosts. "They'll talk to seers, they'll talk to your father."
"Hence the mask. It was neato, wasn't it?" J.D. smiled and talked faster. "Ghosts aren't smart. They'll say Marilyn killed them, if they can say anything at all. Or if they should say Veronica killed them, I've got you covered."
"Go back there and hunt them," Veronica said. "They'll come back, I know it."
"No, not yet," J.D. said. "We don't even know they're dead yet. Give it time. Then I'll call in a favor with the dumbest seer in the crew, promise. We'll wait and watch and end it if anything happens."
"You really planned this out," Veronica said bitterly. "I should've known. You fucking psycho."
"They were assholes. They had nothing to offer the school but date rape and AIDS jokes. This is our mission, baby - we're making the world a better place for people who act decent, one asshole at a time." J.D. rolled the cigarette around in his mouth.
"For the last time, I did not want them dead!"
"I wouldn't shout that if I were you, dear ..." He gestured outside the car. Heather Duke and Heather McNamara were walking through the parking lot together.
"I hate you, I hate you."
Duke sauntered up to them and tapped on the window. Veronica took her sweet time rolling it down to let her in. "Did you two losers know? Kurt and Ram just killed themselves because of a forbidden homosexual love pact. School's cancelled for the day."
—
She was going to too many funerals lately, and in the wrong company, too. J.D. held her hand in the pew. Ram's father finished his tearful eulogy. "I love my dead gay son!"
"What's this I smell in the air, love and tolerance in good old Westerburg?" J.D. whispered to Veronica, acting as if he had every right to smirk like that. "I wonder how he'd feel about a live son with a limp wrist."
Veronica laughed hysterically. She turned her noise into a strangled sob. A young blonde girl in the front row turned around and stared at her, with a tear stained face. She probably missed her brother. Her brother probably thought she wasn't good for anything but baking cookies and making babies, so maybe she'd done the kid a favor. No, that excuse was wrong to make when you were the one who murdered that kid's big brother. Who knew what was wrong, anyway? Veronica could only be certain that her moral compass was spinning every direction except for due north. And certain that Heather Chandler would be waiting for her in the dark, as soon as she stepped away from J.D.'s protection.
That awful song, Big Fun's 'Teenage Suicide Don't Do It', blared over the radio in the Deans' lounge. J.D. fiddled with the dials. Veronica scribbled out some more of her French homework. Ich Lüge, I lie to you, why the hell didn't I take German. She tried to parse the next quote from the Little Prince. She was ignoring J.D., ignoring him and the giant murder elephant in the room. Less talk, more homework.
A loud noise at the door made her throw down her pen in frustration. An ink blot spattered on her page. "Oh, great, the beaver's home."
"Jeez, you kids are making too much damn noise!" J.D. called out to his father.
"How was work today, pop? Oh, it was miserable." Bud Dean pushed through the door. He was a tall man, lean and muscular and wearing Adidas, with dark eyes and an empty white smile like a row of coffin lids. "Steve leads us halfway around the world and not a hint of a new poltergeist do we see. Hey, pop, I forgot to introduce you to my girlfriend, the one who made a man of me."
Veronica was uncomfortable with the way Bud Dean's eyes travelled over her, too cold and lingering. She stood up awkwardly and folded her arms.
"Pop, Veronica, Veronica, pop," J.D. said, with no warmth in his voice. "Son, why don't you ask your friend to stay for dinner?"
Oh, why not. "I'll just go powder my nose. Be right back."
She delayed as long as she could, then sat in the corner of the den and did her homework. Bud Dean mostly ignored her, pumping sets of weights on a machine over and over again. Maybe he wasn't such a bad sort, Veronica tried to tell herself. I mean, I have no reason to assume he's a psychotic killer. Just a man who raised one. She finally finished her verb conjugations to her satisfaction. And he's a seer, who didn't recognize me on the spot. Myth absolutely exploded.
"Hey, son, come and eat your greens!" J.D. called out.
Veronica poked at her plate. It was only collard greens, a bit overdone, paired with bleached-white rice. She could tell that at least J.D. wasn't a terrible cook, and if she was being fair she'd have to admit he was probably better than she was. She didn't like to cook, and liked to think it was out of general feminist principles. She twirled together a forkful of the stuff. "You're a vegetarian?" she asked.
"Yeah. It's a weird subcultural thing," J.D. said, glancing at his father. "Son, we're a rare breed. We don't need red meat if we're invulnerable to spirits."
He's a psycho murderer who never ever eats cute little bunny rabbits or doe-eyed cows with big fluttering eyelashes or tiny baby lambikins, Veronica thought. How hilarious. She stifled a freakish laugh.
"Gosh, you're right, pop, we don't need to be like everybody else," Bud Dean chimed in. Veronica looked quickly from Dean man to Dean man again. There was a weird dynamic between these two, with their bizarre roleplaying, and perhaps several basements' worth of stuff going on under the surface that she had no understanding of and didn't want to achieve.
"Say, son, I forgot to send the hand-engraved invitations to the massive hotel blowup. You and your girlfriend doing anything then?" J.D. said.
"Yes," Veronica said. "Sorry, sweetie, big meeting for the yearbook committee. No can watch you blow stuff up." J.D. had said dynamite didn't work to kill ghosts, just the building the poltergeist was using to hide in, but she'd ask how it went afterwards. It might be worthwhile to help herself to certain supplies from the Dean basement.
J.D. looked slightly taken aback by her epithet. She didn't normally get sentimental on him. It was almost like daring PDA in front of parental figures.
"So, what did you say your background was, Veronica?" Bud Dean asked, stabbing into the collard greens like Kurt and Ram used to attack their steak.
I didn't. "We're just ordinary," Veronica said. "My dad's an actuary and my mom's a housewife, chair of the flower arranging committee and the Sherwood ladies' bowling team. It's pretty boring."
"Any removalist relatives in the background?" Bud Dean said. The question took her aback - did he guess? - but he looked and sounded casual. She hoped that nothing out of the ordinary showed on her expression.
"I don't think so. We only see people like you when you're passing through," Veronica said.
J.D. rolled his eyes. "The Dean side has a long and proud hunting history, son," he mocked his father. "Gramps, Great-Gramps, and upward. All hunters, except for me. That's why I married a hunting girl. That's where you came from."
Bud Dean barked out a single laugh. "The thing I miss most about her is the home-made dinners, pop. The cooking and bottlewashing standards have really gone downhill lately."
"At least I'll always have my dynamite experiments to remind me, son," J.D. said. "Even if they never work because hunter powers can't be given away like that."
"Pass the salt," Veronica asked. "Gosh, is that really the time."
—
She was alone in her room in the middle of the night, and cold. Too cold. Veronica reached out to pull her blankets back up, but found nothing there. She gradually became conscious, pulling her knees up to her chest under her nightgown. She opened her eyes, and saw her blue blanket floating in the air, lit by the diptych of glowing figures on either side of it.
Kurt and Ram wore their uniforms again, pristine, red jackets and white pants like they were cleaned up for the start of a pep rally. They were as evenly matched as an honor guard, one with a bloodstain through his neck and the other through his chest. They hung motionlessly in the air, with blank blue eyes staring into space, holding the blanket between them. Heather Chandler flew above them, her golden hair brushing the ceiling.
Veronica looked from one jock to the other. "Kurt? Ram? Do you ... know who I am?" she asked.
Kurt's spectral head slowly turned in her direction, his eyes wide and staring. "Hot ..." he mumbled.
"Hungry," Ram chimed in from the other side. His mouth slipped open and stayed open, drooling. It looked like Heather held him back, kept him on a leash to stop him feeding.
"She only murdered you," Heather said. "Remember her, boys?"
They only looked more confused, staring at Veronica and through her, jaws open and faces empty.
So this was what J.D. was talking about. These echoes of Kurt and Ram weren't people any more, nothing more than hungry tigers with vacant, mindless eyes. She wasn't sorry they were dead, but she was sorry she killed them.
"You two are never going to touch me," Veronica said. She reached for her dressing gown and picked up her slippers. "Hey, Kurt, hey, Ram. Did you know that your dads moved to Newark to start a leather bar together? Burying you opened their eyes up and made them realize the homophobic lies they were living. It's fabulous for them. Kind of sucked for your moms and the eleventy-billion siblings you two had between you."
They showed no response, standing and swaying in the air.
"Great gossip about the 'rents, girlfriend," Heather chimed in. "But let's get crucial, is Heather McNamara really moving on to that Brylcreem-for-a-brain idiot Rod Swirsky?"
Veronica ignored her. She picked up the razor from the nightstand and headed downstairs. The ghosts dropped her blanket to the ground and followed her.
It was some sort of rule that every American family needed to have piled-deep loads of archaeological-era crap in the basement. Veronica got on her knees and dug down for what she was looking for. Years ago, her parents stupidly decided to babysit a terrier for a friend of her mom's. The dog smelt awful, ate messily, was barely toilet trained, and flew at anyone and everyone begging to wipe dog hair on them and get a pat. Veronica hated the dog stench, which filled her room even though she never let the animal in there, and hated picking endless hairs off her clothing. When she was left alone with the dog she'd kicked the little beast.
She finally found the old dog bowl under a bunch of other stuff. She set it down on the floor in front of her.
Veronica took up the razor and positioned it on her left wrist, just above her vein. She drew the sharp edge heavy and down, not too far. It was easier this time. She let the blood fall into the dog bowl, drip drip drip, until the bottom of it was mostly covered with a thin red film. Then she covered the wound, wrapped her sleeve tightly around it, and stood back.
"Eat up, doggies."
Heather let Kurt and Ram off their leash. They dipped their heads down to the dog bowl at the same time, slurping up the blood, sticking their ghostly tongues into it. They looked awful, like animals rather than people, degraded and pathetic. Their heads overlapped with each other as they dedicated what attention they still had left to sucking up dregs of blood from the sides and corners of the dog dish. Behind them, Heather seemed to draw strength not by debasing herself but rather through Kurt and Ram. Her form moved and rippled as if she breathed in deeply, taking energy from the other two ghosts. The red and gold colours that ran through her became brighter and deeper, as if she grew more solid.
"I'm going to die, Heather," Veronica said. The ghost smiled. "I mean, as in the general human condition. What are you going to do when I'm dead?"
Heather's perfect face didn't twitch. "Take over the world, I guess. Being dead is so boring when so few people know you exist. But I have power, you keep giving me new followers to play with, and I'm going to enjoy this."
Veronica shook her head. "You're really different to them, to other ghosts." Kurt and Ram were still slurping. "What gives, Heather?"
"More things in heaven and earth, Horatio," Heather said. Her features were sharper and smoother than ever. When she was alive, she'd had skin pores, furrows, tiny childhood scars from pimples unmourned and unmissed. Ghostly, she was as perfect as she was inhuman. "God made me an eagle. I deserve to soar."
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