Lady in Red (continued) |
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The front door was locked; we were forced to give up. That is, until Emily ran around to the far side of the portable, her floral skirt flowing behind her in the wind she created as she ran, and discovered the emergency fire door unlocked. The classroom was relatively dark. The mini blinds were closed, and the only light was the dull, eerie orange of a few sunrays struggling in through the cracks of the blinds. David tried the light switch, but there was no electricity. The air was stuffy and hot and uncomfortable, and I longed for the soothing shadows of coolness under the oak tree. Even more so, I longed for Mrs. Snell to blow her whistle, signaling the end of recess. Then we would be forced to give up our demonic feat and return to the safety of the classroom. But it was another ten minutes before Mrs. Snell sounded her whistle. We continued as planned. The portable was rectangular with two classrooms, one at each end. In between the two classrooms was a small room that enclosed two smaller restrooms -- 0ne for "Gentlemen," one for "Ladies." In each restroom were a toilet, a sink, a soap dispenser, a paper towel dispenser, and a 21 by 21 mirror hung on the wall above the sink. Emily led us to the ladies' restroom for our experiment. The two shortest, Ben and Emily, stood side by side in front of the sink. David and I stood side by side behind them. This was the only position that would allow all four of us to look in the mirror at the same time. If the classroom was relatively dark, the restroom was a cave. No electricity
in there, either. We were barely able to see our reflections in the mirror.
The only source of light in there was what the classrooms were gracious
enough to pass on, which wasn't much. I didn't want to do this; it was stupid and childish, and I could think
of a hundred reasons to leave. Just walk out. But something convinced
me not to go. A voice -- not my own, although heard solely by me in my
own head -- pleaded for me to Stay. Just do it. They'll laugh at you
if you leave. They'll call you names. Besides, it's stupid anyway, right?
It's not real. So just do it. "On three, three times," Emily whispered through the darkness. That was all she needed to say. We knew what she meant. "One, two, three," she counted. My heart slowed and every part of my body tightened as the four of us began to chant, staring deep into our own faces. "Bloody Mary. Bloody Mary. Bloody Mary."
We waited. Nothing happened. No one appeared to carry us down to the depths of hell. Ben, Emily, and I let out a collective sigh of relief. David said smartly, "Told ya she wasn't real. You guys are stupid." Whatever awful thing Ben, Emily and I were expecting did not appear in the ladies' restroom of the West Plain Elementary portable building. It appeared in the classroom of the West Plain Elementary portable
building. David led the way back into the classroom, and I, Emily, and Ben followed in that order. Once we were all in the classroom and headed toward the door, David stopped. He just stopped as if he was in gym class playing Simon Says and Simon had just said to stop. I nearly ran into him and opened my mouth to apologize, but the words never left my mouth. I looked up to find, standing in front of the chalkboard, what had caused him to freeze so abruptly. Apparently, Emily and Ben saw it, too, in that instant, because they also stopped. At first glance I thought she was wearing a red silk or satin gown; long-sleeved,
V-neck, simple design, floor length. My eyes deceived me. The gown was
not red, but white. Well, it had been white. It was drenched in
-- well, it was drenched in blood. Deep, scarlet blood. Some places were
almost black-dried blood, I guess. Others were brighter red, fresher blood.
Only a two or three lighter pink splotches lent the secret that red was
not the dress's original color. The accumulation of blood gave her a stench
-- warm, oppressive, offensive, bad. Her hands were thin and bony, and
her fingers were unnaturally long. Her red fingernails dripped crimson
droplets of -- you know. Pale is not the word to describe her skin. It
was pale, yes, but mostly it was dead. Dead and white. It was not her
real skin, I thought, but only a dead mask that hid her true hideousness.
Her black eyes chilled me. Her hair was as dead as her skin and as black
as her eyes, and its bottom tips grazed her petite waistline. When she
opened her ruby lips and spoke with her rough, scratchy voice I wanted
to scream. I wanted to run. I wanted to be far, far away from her in all
her hideous red. But we had called the lady in red, and now she was here.
"You doubted, David. You shouldn't have done that. You really shouldn't have. Do you believe now?" David was too paralyzed to do anything but stare at her, and I knew that he wanted to scream, too. I knew he wanted to run. I knew he wanted to be far, far away from her in all her hideous red. But he did not move. He could not move. "That sounds like a 'no.' Well, I will have to convince you, then,
won't I?!" At this she grinned. Not a pleasant grin like the kind
two strangers exchange when they pass in a park. An appalling, wretched
grin. That was the moment I realized that Emily Goodrum, Ben Adams, and
I would be the last people to see David Stevenson alive. He's dead,
I thought. She lifted a hand, a hand whose fingertips were sopping with blood, and
motioned for David to go to her. He walked to that devilish lady in a
dazed kind of stupor. She put a spell on him, I thought, and I
began to wonder if she would motion for me when she was finished with
him. When he arrived, she seized his neck with her left hand and with the knifelike nails of her right hand she ripped at his throat. Then she swung him around so that we could see the bleeding, murderous hole, like a warning to never doubt her existence as David had so wrongly done. She proceeded to tear holes all over that child's body; by the time she was finished with him he looked a bit like one of those huge water fountains in shopping malls that shoots up water in lovely designs. However, he was squirting blood, not water. And there was nothing lovely about it. I remember that there was no blood left on the floor or the walls or anywhere. How? This sounds crazy (as if the rest of this doesn't), but I think she absorbed it. Just soaked it up like a sponge. Blood sprayed from him up, down, left, right, anywhere, everywhere. But no matter where it landed, it flowed right back to her. It went to her like it had a mind of its own. I even noticed a drop land on my shoe. They were canvas tennis shoes and should've been stained forever, but the thick red liquid slid right off and slithered to its new mistress. When she was finished and David was clearly alive no longer, she picked him up in her arms and looked directly at me with her black, black eyes. She looked at me. She spoke to me. "You be careful, Helen. This could have been you." Then she disappeared, vanished, faded away just like the ghosts and demons
always do in horror movies. Where she went I do not know, but wherever
it was, she took David with her.
We ran out of that building. There is no doubt in my mind that no one ever has or ever will run as fast as we did that afternoon. That sounds like an exaggeration; I know. But you weren't there. You didn't see what we had just seen. We found Mrs. Snell. Shaking with fear, Emily told her that we had been playing tag by the portable and a lady in a red dress had come, snatched up David, and carried him away. The rest of us added small details when and where appropriate. I don't know when exactly we decided to lie. I don't think we intended to lie when we found Mrs. Snell. Even as fourth-graders, we knew enough to know no adult would ever believe us if we didn't lie. What would you have told her? The truth? I doubt it. Lies can be much easier to handle at the end of the day when the lights go out. Later that day the three of us were questioned by the police. We told
them the same story we told Mrs. Snell. They believed us -- why not? It
was a believable story. The police and adults in our community spent months
searching for David. Their efforts were in vain, of course. But neither
Emily nor Ben nor I told them this.
I moved from Smiley nine years later and have not gone back. I now occupy a small but cozy house on the Northeast coast with my husband, Charlie. Thirty years ago David was taken, and I still remember that lady in red perfectly. I thank God sometimes that I have no children; I don't know what I'd say if my son ever asked me if ghosts are real or if my daughter ever told me there was a monster in her closet. I can tell you one thing, though. I'd have a hard time looking into my child's eyes and answering, mostly because I know I would tell the truth. I'd have to. I've seen what comes from skepticism. And what would they do to a mother who tells her children to be afraid of that darkness creeping out of the closet? Sometimes, at night in the dark, when I get up for a drink of water and notice that Charlie has carelessly left the closet door open (or at least I like to think it is Charlie who has opened the door), I think I see her lingering inside my closet. I would love to tell myself that it's only my imagination playing tricks on me, that the lady in red does not exist. I would love to, but I don't dare. I think of David and of the blood and of the way she just absorbed it all, but mostly I think of her words to me. She spoke to me. I think of her words and I know that what I see shrouded in the darkness of my closet is not my imagination. You be careful, Helen. This could have been you.
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