Paper Tigers (21 page)

He sneered. “And stay inside, locked away from the world, little Monstergirl?”

“You can't keep me here anymore.”

He grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into her flesh. “You think not?”

“Let me go!”

He laughed. “Never.”

Hush
, a quiet, still voice whispered inside her head.
It's another trick. A game. He isn't real and he can't keep you here. Not anymore.

“You're a dead man in a false house, that's all. Nothing more than that.”

His grip on her arm intensified. “No one ever dies here. No one.”

She yanked away from his grip and pulled out half the photo. He lunged as she tore it again. The floor quivered, the air wavered, and he greyed out.

“Goodbye, George,” she said, her voice overpowered by the sound of the clock.

She stepped forward into a column of cold, into George. She held her breath. Moved in and through, the air thick and heavy. His hands were ice against her, but his touch was a wisp of smoke, and she had no cause for worry because there's nothing here my dear, nothing but fear and fear had no face, no hands, fear would keep you prisoner if you let it and she was going home, back to the real world, back to her life. Hickory dickory dock, a Monstergirl for the clock.

The house held only broken dreams, shattered screams, and secret little dirty things. It was a liar's playground, a dead man's last stand.

And with a smile, she left the paper world behind.

PART VII

GO AWAY, MONSTERGIRL

Sparks fly into the air and she runs, but there's nowhere to go because the fire, the smoke, is everywhere. She falls and flames dance against her skin, tiny mouths that want to bite, to eat her away with their sharp little teeth. She screams, but the smoke turns it into a choke, a cough, there's no air, no air, and the flames hit her skin, tearing it away. Heat and pain and she tries to crawl away, but it's everywhere and she can't get free, can't get away from the smell of burnt hair and roasting meat.

Then everything goes fuzzy and grey and she can't crawl or roll or move anymore. And all around her, the fire roars.

Like a tiger.

CHAPTER 20

Home.

Alison staggered into her living room on mermaid feet of pain. Dizziness swirled in her vision but she didn't care because she was home and real.

Her clothes were coated (her real clothes, because the house kept her party dress and good riddance to bad rubbish) with a scum of grey, and her fleece pants were torn at both knees, revealing the bloodied skin below. The socket of her right eye burned. She dropped the torn picture in her hand, rolled her fingertip along the lower lid, and out popped the glass eye. Not her eye. The tiger's eye. She let out a cry and yanked her hand back. The eye landed on the floor and rolled with a tiny skittering sound until it bounced off the baseboard and came to a stop next to the remains of Meredith's camera. It glared at her with its false pupil, a black spot of come back, come back.

“I don't think so,” she said.

Inside me. It was
inside
me.

She pressed a hand to her belly and fought the urge to wash out her empty socket with bleach. With pain raging through every muscle, she hobbled into the kitchen, removed a trash bag from under the sink, and donned a pair of rubber gloves.

The pages of the album rustled as she approached the coffee table, and a quick snick of music crept out. The inscription had changed again, all the words filled in for her to see. It didn't need to hide its—
his
—true intent from her anymore.

Twelve times the clock will chime

Stay and leave your freedom behind

House of promises, house of lies

Claiming those locked forever inside

Trapped like a butterfly under glass

Pain and torment as years drift past

Paper men bring forth real tears

And screams no one will ever hear

House of sorrow, house of sin

Welcomes only pain within

Flee before this house unfolds –

A paper tiger to swallow you whole

A warning. Always a warning.

“But you can't have me,” she said. “Not now. Not ever.”

Using the edge of one gloved finger, she pushed the album over to the edge of the table, then over and down into the bag. Leaving the gloves on (because the tiger was tricky), she tied the carry handles into a double knot and held the bag away from her body as she carried it outside.

The album hit the bottom of the trash can with a heavy thump. She slammed the lid, ignoring the shake in her hands, and stood with the clang echoing in her ears. Although it had been early afternoon when she went into the paper world, the sky overhead was turning to dark. She'd lost several hours instead of minutes. A trill of piano notes took flight into the air, and a pull, a need, tugged deep inside. A long-lost lover calling

one more time

with promised sweetness.

“The scars will come back,” the music said. “You know they will. Come back inside, we'll make you whole.”

Lies, all of it.

Alison spun on her heel and stormed back inside, away from the tiger. She picked up the photo pieces and tore them into tiny shreds. Dropped them on the floor next to the eye, the pieces falling like confetti, and made her way upstairs, holding onto the railing and the wall. A shower would be good, to wash off the stink of paper and plaster—and George. But everything hurt, and spots flashed in her eye, so she stumbled into her bedroom and climbed under the covers to sleep.

To forget.

Two hours later, sleep still wore the face of a stranger. Everything ached from her skinned knees to the muscles in her side and lower back. Darkening marks, the promise of bruises to come, ringed a half-circle around her upper arm.

Her fingers trembled. Chills raced in a frantic line up and down her spine, beads of sweat dotted her forehead, and a headache pounded behind her temples. She held as still as possible, but the steady beat played on. Under her skin, the scars waited, biding their time.

And the album whispered. A soft voice carried by a breeze. It pulled, as though a connection ran between them, a tether from paper to real. And did she want to climb out of bed, hobble outside, and take the album from its plastic bag? Yes, she did. If she kept it on the shelf, as a reminder, it couldn't hurt her.

Don't be a fool
, Red said.
You'll keep it on the shelf, yes, but you won't be able to leave it there. Not forever. Not when you look at your hands, your missing fingers, and touch your face.

Sleep hovered close, yet a music note sounded far in the distance, bringing her back awake with a jolt.

“Come back,” the album said. “I'll make you whole.”

And from deep inside:
Needwantmusthavenow.

Alison covered her head with the sheet. The itch under her skin intensified, a creeping, crawling threat. She scratched at her arm, lightly at first, then dug in with her nails, hard and deep.
Go away, go away.
She dug and gouged at the perfect skin and left marks, then scrapes, then bleeding, stinging cuts, but the itch didn't leave. Maybe if she went outside and got the album, kept it close until she slept and then, when the scars came back, she could throw it away again. She pushed off the covers and sat, ignoring the blood underneath her fingernails.

“Come back.”

The tether tugged hard.

And inside her head, the steady beat of
NEEDwantmusthavenow
.

Lies, all lies.

With a groan, she covered her ears with her hands. A car door slammed outside, heavy footsteps tapped on the sidewalk. She could walk, walk away from her house and the album, walk until the itch went away,

NEEDWANTmusthavenow

walk until sleep was a heartbeat away, and then come back. If she walked, she wouldn't hear it calling, but everything hurt, from toes to nose and back again, it hurt too much, and her skin crawled and rolled with

NEEDWANTMUSThavenow

the sensation of a thousand insect feet, and Red didn't know a damn thing. The voice was the fool because one small touch of the album would make it all go away. Just one touch. Just one.

NEEDWANTMUSTHAVEnow

But it won't be enough and you know it.

And Red was smiling; Alison felt it in her bones, deep in the marrow. Smug as a bug in a rug. But oh that voice was right, because one touch would lead to

NEEDWANTMUSTHAVENOW

another, then another, and then she'd open it, just to look, just to check and the paper world would take her back and make her whole, but it would eat her away,

NEED

because it needed her, he needed her to make him

WANT

real, but what was real? The itch, the pull,

MUST

the scars and the looks from the strangers, and everyone would point because she was a Monstergirl,

HAVE

and the pain in her head was a dark cloud.

“I can't do this,” she said. “Make it go away.”

NOW

“Yes,” the album said, sending the words along the tether, each syllable a drop of poisonous oil on a narrow thread. “Come back and it will all go away.”

Yes, it will all go away—and so will you.

Too many voices in her head. She pushed her face into the pillow—hating, hurting, wanting. The time ticked by until darkness wrapped her in its arms and pulled her down into sleep, into forgetting, into the void.

But when the sun rose and the drone of the garbage truck's engine made its way down the street, Alison woke with panic flooding her mouth. There was still time. She could run outside and get the album. The trash men might shake their heads, but it wouldn't matter. The album would be safe and sound, back in the house, back in her hands, and it would let her back in and give her what had been taken away, what had been stolen—everything.

No. Let it go. Remember, it lies. It doesn't give anything back, not without a price. All shall be well.

“Come!” the album shouted.

And the rope between them yanked her up and out of bed. She crawled on the floor, toward the door because she needed, she wanted, she—

“No,” she said, her voice a sandpaper rasp.

She sobbed into her hands. Heard the shouts of the trash men, the heavy clunk of the cans being emptied and tossed back into the yards, the hiss of the hydraulics pressing the trash down, each sound a warning cry of tragedy, doom, and woe.

The album called and sang and begged and pleaded, but Alison kept still, and when the sounds faded, taking the album (and her chance for something close to normal, no, her chance for something worse than death) with them, she gave a heavy, hurtful sigh. The voice of the album slipped away, and hating, hurting, she let it go.

The next day, she did not get out of bed, not once, not even when her phone rang over and over again. She covered her head with the pillow and, sometimes, she slept.

In the middle of the night, Alison crept out of bed, wrapped herself in a robe, and began the long, halting trek down to the first floor. Each step drove pain from heel to hip. She wanted to climb back in bed, but her stomach was growling too much to ignore.

Hunched over, she made her way into the kitchen. And if her hands were shaking the entire time, it was okay. The shake reminded her she was real.

The following night, after the sun set, she donned her scarf and gloves even though they felt like a straightjacket, and walked the familiar streets with her chin down.

Old habits. Old haunts.

A low-grade headache throbbed in time with her passage, and she shoved her hands into her pockets to help control, and conceal, the shaking. Chills pebbled her skin with gooseflesh, chills that had little to do with the night air, but she kept walking until exhaustion forced her to turn around and head home.

The next night, she did the same.

And the next.

The headache vanished on the following day, the shake in her hands lessened a few days later, and the chills left a few more days after that. With her skin safe inside rubber gloves, she picked up the torn photo, the glass eye, and the broken camera, and tossed them all into the trash can, but even through the glove, a tiny voice said, “Come back.”