Page 37 of Horror and Chill

I don’t stop him. Let him have his craft. We all leave something behind when we make our offerings.

Evander disappears for a while. When he returns, he has an envelope. He slides it across the table without a word. I open it.

Inside is a button. A cream colored one, faded and worn. From the old navy cardigan she used to wear. There’s a piece of red thread still looped through the hole.

Below it, a Polaroid. Her at fourteen. Standing near the schoolyard fence, head tilted toward the sun. Not smiling. Not posing. Just existing. The last thing in the envelope is a note. Small. Folded twice.

You may not remember us. But we remember you.

I run my thumb over the button. The red thread trails against my palm. This is the kind of thing that would scare someone normal. But she isn’t normal. Not anymore.

“She’s one of us,” I say.

Corwin doesn’t look up. “She will be.”

Evander’s eyes are dark when they meet mine. “If she survives what’s coming.”

I nod once. Because that’s the test, isn’t it?

Not whether she can run.

Not whether she screams.

But whether she can stay.

We’ve broken things before. Girls who couldn’t hold the weight of us. Girls who thought they wanted this until we showed them what it really meant.

But Agatha is different.

She hasn’t run.

Not yet.

And if she passes the next test, maybe she never will.

14

Agatha

The envelope is pale yellow.No return address. No markings except my name and the school’s address, written in small, careful block letters. Not my cam name. Not a title. Just Agatha. That’s what makes my stomach twist. That, and the weight of it in my hand, too light for a letter, too firm for anything good.

I slide a thumb under the flap as I walk toward my classroom, trying to make it look casual. Like I’m checking mail, not unraveling.

Inside is a button. Warm cream, smooth with age, with two white lilies painted across the face. Three dark leaves curl beneath them, and my initials sit near the stems in tiny, perfect script. With it is a polaroid picture of a girl but it’s taken from the side and she’s unaware.

It’s me.

Fourteen years old. Ponytail, a conservative outfit, and my profile turned just enough to catch the side of my smile. I know that cardigan. I know that day. I don’t remember anyone taking this photo.

My fingers go numb.

Beneath the photo is a scrap of paper with nine words written in tiny, almost surgical handwriting:

You may not remember us. But we remember you.

I don’t have time to panic. The door flies open, and the noon-aid barrels in without knocking. Her sneakers squeak like an alarm.

“Sorry to interrupt, Miss,” she says, winded, holding the hands of two very guilty-looking kindergartners. “We’ve got a situation.”