Living Dead Girl

Trey's candy apple red Mustang rolled to a stop next to the aluminum structure and he knew in an instant that Lark Fontaine wasn't quite herself. She'd tied her t-shirt up above her navel, her denim jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder. Her chestnut brown hair was piled into a wild bundle atop her head. He put the car in park and stepped out.

If Trey had any doubt in his mind that it wasn't really Lark standing there, they all went out the window when she spoke.

After whistling dramatically, she said, "What a beauty she is. I never thought this the type of vehicle you would captain, but it does suit you."

"Hi, Gisele."

"Hello, love." She strode toward him with intention, her eyes locked on his, darker and deeper than the eyes he remembered. He felt small, though he was a good six inches taller than her. When she stood in front of him, she smiled and slid her arms around his waist.

I thought you agreed not to hit on him, Gisele.

He draped his arms lazily over her shoulders, frowning, and quickly pulled out of her grip.

She blinked up at him and moved closer, rubbing her chest against his. "What's wrong, sweetheart? Didn't you miss us?"

You're humiliating yourself. Do you realize that?

He took a step backward and asked, "Why is it you? Why couldn't I see Lark first?"

Tell him I'm sorry.

Gisele smirked at him. Trey hated the way Lark's face seemed to change when Gisele was in control. Her expressions were different, her mannerisms, the way that she moved, and the way that she spoke. It was painful to look at her, to see the tired remnants of his oldest and closest friend tainted with the strange darkness that lived inside of her.

"Terribly sorry, love," she said. "But I haven't smelled fresh air in over twelve months and I think I deserve a bit of freedom, too."

"Please, stop calling me love."

"Oh, don't flatter yourself," she laughed. "I say it to everyone."

Once they were on their way home, Trey turned the music up loud so he wouldn't feel obligated to talk to Gisele. They made it almost halfway to Sugarfield before she turned the radio down and lifted the armrest between them.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

She unbuckled her seatbelt and slid closer to him across the bench seat.

"Gisele." Trey was annoyed.

"I'm lonely," she said. Her face crumpled as she pouted dramatically. "You don't understand what it's like. The way I exist. It's miserable, darling, it's lonesome and dark and incredibly unfulfilling."

Gosh, thanks, I like hanging out with you, too.

"Well," said Trey, "you're a fucking Demon, so, I guess joy and happiness aren't really going to be in your wheelhouse, are they?"

Gisele huffed. "That's fair." She drew spirals on the shoulder of his jacket with her finger. "You could be a hero today. You could save this poor creature's soul with just the tiniest shred of affection."

You are such an asshole.

"What are you talking about?" Trey chuckled.

"I just want human contact for Christ's sake, is that so much to ask for? By Satan's beard, I swear I thought Humans were supposed to be affectionate."

Trey shook his head and put his arm around her.

She shrunk a little, then, and curled into him like a cat. The sun beat through the windows and made her lashes glisten. For a moment, she looked like Lark again.

Her antique ring sparkled from her finger, her hand draped over his lap, and Trey remembered when they had found the infernal thing.

There had been a Flea Market in Sugarfield and Lark was browsing an enormous display of costume jewelry when a certain piece caught her eye; the one she wore on her finger now. It was old and brass and the stone was black and shiny. Trey had thought it was pretty ugly, but he bought it for her anyway.

She had blamed it all on that ugly ring. She wore it every day and, shortly after that Flea Market left town, she had begun to spiral. She became distant, she started having mood swings, she went through severe bouts of depression followed by instances of mania, and she started talking to herself. Her father was concerned, too. But no one had said anything until it was too late.

Trey guessed that no one really knew how bad it was until the day she burned her house down with her own father inside.

* * *

We woke up just as the car parked, our head resting in Trey's lap. Gisele had retreated and I was back behind the wheel of our body. We sat up, untied our t-shirt, and rubbed our face.

"Hey, you," said Trey.

We turned to him and smiled sheepishly. "I'm sorry. I'm so tired and I have so much to talk to you about, but I just want to go back to sleep."

"It's okay," he said. "I understand."

We moved to open the car door, but Trey stopped us.

"Wait. It's just... I've really missed you"

"W—I missed you, too." It was true. We'd missed him every day we were gone.

"Will you come over tomorrow morning?" he asked. "I'll make the coffee, you get the donuts? Like the old days?"

"Sure." We smiled.

I don't understand why you haven't slept with him yet.

"See you tomorrow," we said.

"Goodnight."

Trey watched us walk up the crooked and craggy steps toward the Fontaine family estate, which was burnt to a crisp on one side. Once we'd disappeared into the shadows, the car's engine started up and we headed behind the house.

The place looks wonderful, Lark, I just love what you've done with it.

"Fuck off, Gisele."

The entire manor was condemned now, having been uninhabited since the fire. But, behind the manor and safe from the flames of the past, there was a guest house that housed all of Lark Fontaine's things. There, we took a long, hot shower by ourselves for the first time in months.

After the hot water ran out, we dried off and pulled on a well-worn pair of jeans and a black t-shirt. We slipped our shoes back on and ran a brush through our hair before shoving some clothes into a duffel bag.

Do you own anything that is not ...denim?

We laughed. "Shut up." We filled the bag with clean underwear and socks, then moved to the small kitchen to throw in a few snacks, but the cupboards were empty.

We opened the freezer and reached into the back to pull out a small plastic tube. Inside the tube was a roll of cash. We stashed it there so long ago, but it was still there waiting for us. Now, there was only one more thing to do. As long as the other item was still where it was supposed to be, we were good to go.

Outside, we lugged our bulging bag around the main house, avoiding looking up at the shattered, soot-covered windows, toward the pole barn on the other side. We found the key to the barn door under a nearby rock and opened it, flipping on the lights that flickered and buzzed as we entered. We smiled as our eyes landed on the gray car-shaped cover before us. When we lifted the cover, our whole boy tingled with euphoria.

"My car," we sighed. She was a gorgeous powder blue 1965 Mustang convertible, and she'd been sitting here waiting for us to drive her for a year.

I can't believe Trey has the same car as you.

"He doesn't, his is a '66, and it's not a convertible."

Our mind flooded with pleasant memories of Trey, of working on cars together and going to Flea Markets. We shook away the sad, almost homesick feeling that trickled through us, threw our bag into the back seat, and hopped in the car, running our hands over the familiar steering wheel, fiddling with the stereo buttons, and adjusting the mirrors. Then, we reached over to open up the glovebox and, sure enough, that last important item was right where we'd left it.

We reached in and pulled out a sleek black knife with a heavy handle and a long, lethal blade that hooked backward at the end. After admiring it, we placed it carefully back into the glovebox. Then, we started the car and hit the button to open up the garage door.

This is it, Lark. We can finally get this over with. You can finally get rid of me.

"Mhm. We're going straight to Smyrna, finding that book, and getting you your very own body. Then I can have mine all to myself again."

Will you miss me?

We pondered. "Yeah, I think I will."

The grinding and squeaking of the door halted and it stood wide open. We eased out of the barn and toward the street, but we were stopped short by Trey, who had parked his shiny red car across the end of the driveway.

He stood leaning against the hood, smirking. "I knew you'd run."