Page 5

Chapter 5

The Haunted Flea Market

T he following Friday, I drop my head into my hands as I finish writing my last midterm. Sighs and rustling pages fill the lecture hall, and the prof comes around to gather our exam papers.

Well, that sucked. Cold regret pulses through me as reality hits. I wasn’t as prepared as I should have been for any of the exams. But aside from trying to study for four tests at once, it’s impossible to concentrate on topics like neural structures when there are mysteries to solve. Namely, who is Natalie Zacharias and why is she so infuriating?

Between studying, I phoned a bunch of veterinarians and asked if they knew of her. Turns out, she’s on call for specific symptoms at every vet’s office from here to Abbotsford, which is far enough from Vancouver to have its own international airport. When I asked which symptoms she’s on call for, they all said they couldn’t share that information. They also wouldn’t provide me with her contact info.

Frustration burns a hole in my abdomen. No matter how deep I dig, I’m no closer to the truth—and no closer to finding the real Lucy .

A loose plan is slowly taking form. If Natalie does this sort of thing, whatever this is, then I should track down another kitten with the same condition and bring it to a vet so they call her in.

The problem: how am I supposed to find another Lucy? Do I volunteer at the shelter and watch if any kittens start triggering strange occurrences?

I shuffle out of the lecture hall and into the chilly outdoors, swallowed by a sea of students. The quiet, somber mood tells me everybody was just as defeated by that test. Few things are as humbling as being told you’re gifted in high school only to become painfully average in university.

Footsteps thump on the concrete, and Clayton catches up, his breath misting in the autumn air. “How’d you do?”

“Terribly. You?”

“Same. At least if we all did, the prof will have to move the bell curve, right?”

“There’s always that.”

We have two classes together and have been sitting beside each other in both. I don’t mind. It’s comforting to know someone. I’m just going to have to get creative with ways to turn down dorm parties.

He zips up his hoodie, hunching against the wind. “A few of us are going to Granville Island later to celebrate finishing midterms. Want to come?”

My default answer is on my tongue, but wouldn’t it be nice to meet more people? Also, I have yet to see Vancouver’s famous sights.

“There’s a haunted flea market happening,” he adds, his blue eyes hopeful. “Halloween-themed. Sounds like it’s worth checking out, yeah?”

Hazel’s voice whispers in the back of my mind. “Say yes. Make friends. ”

After these terrible couple of weeks, it would be good for me to do something social and take my focus off Natalie and Lucy. I’m getting obsessive about it.

I smile, pushing past my reluctance. “Cool. Sounds fun.”

Clayton’s expression is like the sun breaking through the clouds. And I can’t help smiling back.

As a demonic clown and a convincingly grotesque zombie lumber by, I’m no longer sure if a haunted flea market is my idea of fun. The crowd is shoulder-to-shoulder, invading my space, and there must be a theater troupe here because the creepy costumes are way too detailed. Screams punctuate the buzz of conversations.

We weave through the disorienting maze of tables, which fills a huge building and continues outside under white tents. Clayton’s friends, Johnny, Mo, and Andrea, live on campus in Totem Park as well. Andrea is wearing devil horns and all red, and Clayton has one of those headbands that looks like he’s been stabbed in the brain with a dagger. Johnny and Mo are in jeans and coats, same as me. The only thing on my head is a giant clip. I’m not opposed to dressing up—Hazel and I were ketchup and mustard last year—but I didn’t have time to buy anything today.

“…oh, and the beer gardens,” Clayton says, still talking about parties. “We should check out both…”

“Look at this nineties stuff! I love the nineties,” Andrea cries, pulling me to a cluttered table. She’s been clinging to me since we got here, towing behind me by the strap of my backpack. “Oh my gosh, I love Furbies. Look how cute. ”

She picks up the fuzzy white toy. Its beak is open and it stares at me with glassy, dead eyes. Maybe the setting is getting to me, but I wouldn’t use the word ‘cute’ to describe it.

She’s still clamped onto my backpack with the weight of an anchor, making the straps dig into my shoulders. The way she’s clinging to me to stop me from leaving her behind, doing everything to make sure I don’t forget she’s there, I get the sense she’s struggled with holding onto friendships.

Fighting the sense of being smothered, I repeat my mantra— I want to be here, I want to make friends . But lying in bed with a book and a kitten curled up beside me sounds more fun. Am I doomed to not fit in at university?

“Yo, we should buy this for our floor,” Mo says from the next table, inspecting some kind of plastic fountain.

“What is it?” Clayton asks.

“Fondue maker! For parties, you know?”

A girl with scary-good demon makeup brushes past, and I turn away. Maybe this isn’t the best place to come after getting attacked by a possessed cat.

While the guys bicker over whether a fondue maker is a good idea, I walk on to check out more booths, and Andrea drags along behind me.

What would happen if I grabbed her backpack strap in return? Would we keep walking in a circle like a snake eating its own tail, stuck in an infinite loop until someone comes and pries one of our hands away?

The next table is full of vintage dolls—Cabbage Patch Kids, Trolls, Barbies, Care Bears, and a bunch more that I recognize but don’t know the names of. They all stare at me with vacant eyes.

“Cuuute!” Andrea cries.

The elderly woman behind the table smiles at us. “Let me know if you have questions. ”

“Thanks.” I’m about to keep walking when a weird, icy sensation travels down my back and into my legs, freezing me in place.

My gaze pulls to a porcelain doll. I step closer. It’s like she’s cast a fishing line and sunk a hook into me. She’s a foot high with cream skin, rosy cheeks, periwinkle eyes, golden ringlets, and a frilly purple dress.

I furrow my brow. This doll means nothing to me, so why is my face going numb? Why do I feel like something is urging me to lean in, pick it up, and ask questions?

I point to it. “What’s the story with this one?”

The woman stands up from her chair to peer over the mound of dolls. “Oh, that’s Rebecca. I collected her in Boston about… ah, I’d say thirty years ago.”

“It’s creepy,” Andrea says in a pouty tone.

I can’t disagree. But that inner tug hasn’t gone away. My legs are rooted, my heart slamming into my ribs like I’m sprinting. “From an antique shop or…?”

“Toy store. Walked past with my husband and had to have her for the collection!”

I nod. Natalie’s words simmer in the back of my mind, asking me what attracted me to Lucy. I liked her because she was cute and playful, but wasn’t it more than that? Wasn’t there something I couldn’t explain? It was a feeling in my core, a tug like the way you have to keep watching a thriller to find out what happens. My pulse quickened, my skin tingled, and I couldn’t turn away.

That feeling is back as I look at the porcelain doll. My chest skips like I’ve set eyes on something historians have been searching for. This dead-eyed, creeptastic toy named Rebecca is important.

I need it. For the same inexplicable reason I had to adopt Lucy, I have to buy this doll.

This is how I get a hold of Natalie Zacharias .

“Nice, you getting something?” Clayton asks, stepping up beside me. He sees the doll and flinches. “Jesus Christ.”

“It reminds me of… one my grandma had,” I lie.

Andrea says nothing, watching in horror as I exchange payment with the woman and accept my purchase.

The feel of her is as creepy as her appearance. The frilly dress loses volume as my fingers close around her formless body. She’s a couple of pounds. Whatever I expected her to feel like, this isn’t it.

I can’t look at her. Maybe it’s the way her head is tilted or the way age has put little chips and smudges all over her face.

“I’ll get you a bag to protect her from the rain,” the woman says.

“Yes. Thank you,” I say with a sigh of relief.

She puts Rebecca in a paper bag with handles, and it immediately rips. “Oops. That’s weird,” she says and gets me a new one.

I chew my lip. Coincidence?

Her second attempt at bagging the doll is successful. I let out a breath and roll my shoulders, shaking off my anxiety.

We continue through the flea market, me with the porcelain doll swinging from my arm in a paper bag, Andrea with her hand glued to my backpack, and the guys getting excited about random items like old video games. Mo buys a lava lamp and a neon beer sign for his dorm room.

We head to the outdoor portion of the market, and I zip up my jacket. It’s dark, but there are enough lights to see the water and the Granville Bridge passing over it. The wind has picked up, making the tents groan and the string lights sway. Vendors scramble to secure loose papers and tablecloths.

“What do you think of Granville Island?” Clayton asks, falling into step beside me.

“I like it,” I say truthfully. “Not sure about the creepy costumes, but the place itself is nice. I’d like to come here by day.”

A grim reaper lumbers past, the person in the costume on stilts .

Clayton grins at me. “We should go to the improv theater one night. It’s a lot of fun.”

His words dangle in the air. I can’t tell if he means ‘we’ as in the two of us.

“I’m starving,” Andrea says. “Can we get dinner?”

“Same,” I say quickly, grateful for her interruption.

“Let’s head to the Mexican restaurant over there,” Mo says, pointing.

Suddenly, a buzz ripples overhead, snapping the market’s vibrant colors into darkness. People cry out, their voices rising over each other. I stop walking, blinking to try and adjust my eyes.

“Power’s out,” someone beside us murmurs, the echo of those words carrying on the wind as everyone comes to the same conclusion. Shouts, screams, and ghostly “ wooo ” noises erupt as some people decide this is a good opportunity to scare their friends.

My heart beats faster. Another coincidence?

I don’t like this one bit. I need to get back to my basement suite so I can call Helping Paws, and fast.

Andrea’s hand on my bag gets heavier, like she’s tightened her grip. “The restaurants will have to close,” she says. “Let’s head back to fourth.”

People take out their phones, and we join a throng of silhouettes shuffling toward the road. Even the traffic lights are out, the power outage far-reaching.

By the time we get to 4th Avenue, we’re all quiet. I’m hungry, socially drained, and the doll weighs more on my arm with each passing minute.

“I’m going to head back to my place,” I say. The others will catch a bus heading back to UBC, so I point across to my stop. “I’ll see you—”

“Whoa!” Andrea yells and pulls me back by the strap she’s holding. My backpack jolts against my shoulders, tipping me off-balance.

Clayton swears and jumps back .

I regain my footing and follow their wide gazes down to the road. A black snake slithers past, right where I was about to step. It’s got to be as long as a car.

“What the hell?” Johnny exclaims.

“It must have escaped from somewhere.” Mo looks around as if to find the owner running after it with an empty cage.

I stare after it, a chill settling deep inside me. Oh no, no, no… Get home. Get home now. My mouth is dry, my voice shaky. “I—I have to go. Thanks for inviting me—”

“Look out!” someone shouts, and before I can turn my head, they slam into my shoulder, knocking the wind out of my lungs.

In my periphery, a cyclist wobbles, skids, and regains his balance—and I land hard on my butt, the unforgiving concrete sending a stab of pain up my back.

“You okay?” someone asks.

I blink, disoriented, and catch my breath. Did I just fall over ?

My hands sting where I caught myself on the sidewalk. Gravel is embedded in my palms, and I’m definitely bleeding.

Heat rushes into my face as Clayton and Johnny haul me back to my feet.

“Thanks,” I mumble, too mortified to meet anyone’s eye.

“Asshole didn’t even look back,” Clayton says, glaring after the cyclist.

“Some luck we’re having tonight, huh?” Andrea says bitterly, crossing her arms.

“No kidding,” Mo says.

My embarrassment gives way to cold terror as I dust myself off, my palms stinging and my breaths coming faster.

I clutch the bag with the doll inside. Rebecca.

What have I done?

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. My pulse quickens. These aren’t coincidences—they’re connected. I don’t understand why, but I know this is a chain of consequences. And I’m about to find out just how far the chain goes.

Certainty slams into my gut like a second bicycle: I might have just made a huge mistake.