The Book of Bad Things (5 page)

“W
HOA!
” said a high-pitched, unfamiliar voice.

Cassidy jumped and spun, flinging her arms out. The girl who’d been standing behind her retreated several feet, covering her face with her hands, fingers splayed.

“Sorry!” Cassidy shouted. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to hit you. I’m just … a little jumpy.”

The girl stood frozen for a moment. She was Cassidy’s height, but thinner, her arms like bare bones, her elbows protruding like knobs. Her skin was so pale it was almost translucent. At the sides of her head, blue veins branched, disappearing into her long, straight, pitch-black hair. She was dressed in black cargo shorts and a black T-shirt decorated with a small pink skull decal on the chest. Her worn-out All Star sneakers were also black, as were her socks, which she had pulled up over her knees. “I should know better than to sneak up on people. Especially back here.
I’m
sorry.”

Back here?
What was that supposed to mean?

“My name is Ping,” said the girl. “I live on that side of the Tremonts.” She nodded in the opposite direction of the Chambers house. “My family moved in last year, just before school started. You’re the girl who’s staying with them this summer, right? We must have missed each other by a couple weeks back then.”

“I’m Cassidy.” Dropping her tensed shoulders, she waved, a flip of several fingers.

Ping smiled and then chuckled and waved back the same way.

She watched Cassidy observe her outfit and seemed to read her mind. “My nickname at school is
Spooky
,” she said and shrugged. “I’m not
really
spooky though, I don’t think; not most of the time. It’s just that I’m not interested in the same things as a lot of other girls. You know: kittens or sports or being BFFs and writing notes back and forth all day long. I don’t really care what people say, and as long as I have a book with me, I’m okay.”

“Huh,” said Cassidy. “Me too.”
Sort of.
She tightened the straps of her backpack, feeling the weight of her notebook shift against her spine. “What are you reading now?” Cassidy asked.

Ping’s hand moved to a cargo pocket that seemed especially full. “It’s a book about ancient Egypt. Actually, this one is about what they believed happens to you after you die, you know, the rituals they did to prepare you for the afterlife.” Her face lit up. “Did you know that, back then, the Egyptians took out all of the dead person’s organs and kept them in jars? They even had these long hooks that they stuck up a person’s nose to pull out his brains! So cool.”

“Yeah, I think I read about that somewhere too,” said Cassidy, clutching her arms. “Very … cool.” Strange that this girl didn’t think of herself as
actually
spooky. She seemed to be the very definition of the word.

“And they mummified cats! I saw one in a museum in New York once. Isn’t that
so
weird?”

Cassidy glanced over her shoulder behind the oak tree. She remembered why she’d come to the backyard in the first place — the large creature she’d seen moving through the shadows. All this talk about the dead, and now dead animals, was making her lightheaded. Lucky was buried somewhere back there.

Ping gasped, looking where Cassidy had focused her attention. “You were here when it happened, weren’t you?”

“When what happened?”

“The accident with the Tremonts’ dog.”

Cassidy held her breath for a moment. “Lucky. Yeah. I was here. Joey never believed it was an accident.”

Ping smiled sadly. “Trust me, I’ve heard him tell the story at school plenty of times. Kids are starting to call him
spooky
too. And worse things.”

“Worse things? Like what?”

“Like
crazy
.”

The previous summer, on the day that Cassidy suggested they make contact with Ursula Chambers, she and Joey had left the dog outside when they’d gone in for dinner. Later, when Joey opened the back door to bring Lucky in, the dog didn’t stir from his spot near the oak. Not even when Joey approached. Mr. Tremont rushed the dog to the local animal hospital, but it was too late. Cassidy had held Joey’s hand as the doctor delivered the horrible news. She’d been too much in shock even to cry. The strange part, though, was what the vet had pulled out of Lucky’s mouth: A scrap of cloth had been lodged in there. The poor thing had choked on it. Only when the family got home did Cassidy realize where the scrap had come from. It was the same piece of blanket that Lucky had torn away from the broken basement window at Ursula’s house.

Later that night, Mr. Tremont dug a deep hole back beyond the oak and placed Lucky’s body at the bottom. In the morning, the family gathered to pay their respects. When it was Joey’s turn to speak, he said something that shocked everyone, especially Cassidy. His face red and his voice shaking, he claimed that Ursula Chambers had done this. The old Hermit of Chase Estates had left her house for just long enough to cross her yard and kill his dog. Joey begged his father to go to the police, to file charges, to do
something
, but Dennis only answered by hugging his son close and whispering,
It was an accident, son. It’s over
.

“Crazy,” echoed Cassidy. “Why
crazy
?”

Ping squinted at her. “Haven’t you two spoken since last fall?”

Cassidy tensed. “Not really. I guess we’ve both been busy this year.” She shrugged, trying to hide her blush by stepping into the shade of the oak.

“So he never told you that someone stole his dog?”

Cassidy’s mouth snapped open. “
What?
How?”

“Dug up the body and took it away. Joey flipped out. He insisted Ursula did it. He couldn’t prove it, but he said he knew it was her. The police were involved and everything, but they didn’t have any evidence to get a search warrant for the farmhouse. Not that they would have found Lucky in there anyway, what with all the crud they’ve been pulling out for the past few days.”

“What kind of person would do such a thing?” Cassidy asked, making a mental note for a
Book of Bad Things
entry:
grave robbing
.

“It doesn’t stop there. Last December, Joey started telling stories about seeing Lucky.”

“
Seeing
the dead dog?”

Ping nodded. “Joey said that he saw him out here by this tree, wandering through the woods.” Cassidy’s arms erupted with gooseflesh. Ping went on, “He said he sometimes heard the click-clack of the dog’s claws following him through the hallways at school.”

“That’s awful,” Cassidy whispered, thinking of Joey alone in his room, flipping through his sketches.

“Supposedly, his parents got tired of all his stories…. Well, tired or scared. My mom says Joey’s seeing some sort of doctor now. He’s been pretty quiet lately.” Cassidy wiped at her eyes. Ping went even paler than she’d been before. She reached out to touch Cassidy’s shoulder. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to —”

Voices drifted from the Tremonts’ open kitchen window. “I don’t care!” It was Joey. “You can’t make me! Why don’t
you
go outside and look for her? You’re the one who brought her back again.”

Ping grabbed Cassidy’s arm and led her behind the oak. “Don’t listen,” she whispered.

“Is he talking about me?” Cassidy asked.

“I don’t know,” said Ping, though her expression said the opposite. “He’s never been very nice to me, though, not since I moved in. He keeps to himself. Pretends I don’t exist. The funny thing is, I’m like the one person who
wants
to hear his ghost-dog stories.”

Cassidy frowned.
You’re the one who brought her back again….
Who else could he have been talking about? It was like a kickball to the stomach. “When I knew him,” she said, “he was always really fun…. He was like my first best guy friend.”

It suddenly all made sense. The delay in hearing from her social worker about being placed with the Tremonts this year; Joey actually
was
mad at her for what happened the previous summer. So mad that he hadn’t wanted to see her again. If it hadn’t been for Rose, Cassidy would have remained in Brooklyn, ignored by her mother. Now, she’d be ignored by Joey instead.

“I have to get out of here,” said Cassidy, turning and walking toward the street.

“Okay,” said Ping, following. “Where should we go?”

We?

Cassidy paused, feeling a momentary sense of relief. She turned and stared at the pale skinny girl standing behind her. Ping tucked a long strand of hair behind her left ear and then pressed her lips in a sad smile. So Cassidy wouldn’t have to be alone after all. Not this afternoon, anyway. Still, she answered with a huff. “I wanna see what’s happening over by the Hermit’s house.”

I’ve heard a lot of people saying lately that death is a natural occurrence. That it’s a good thing. That even though it’s sad when it happens, it does happen to everyone. That it’ll happen to me one day, a long time from now. But how can anyone be sure about that last part? About when?

This girl in my class named Jackie Spencer died last week. A livery cab hit her when she was walking home from school with her mom. An accident.

There’s nothing natural about what happened to Jackie. She was my age. And she had so much life left, just like me. I hope.

I saw my friends crying. And their parents too. I got this horrible headache and a pain in my stomach that made me not want to eat. They say that these feelings will go away. It just takes time. But it hurts so much, I can’t believe that.

So I don’t think that death is a good thing. I think it’s a bad thing. It’s one of the most horrible, bad, and unfair things I can think of in this whole stupid world. And I’m putting it in this notebook because I want Death to know I understand. People can say what they want, but I know the truth. I can feel it.

S
TANDING AT THE END
of the cul-de-sac, the two girls watched in awe as the cleaning crew filled the two overflowing Dumpsters. Most of what they brought out was already bagged and tied, but there were a few items — furniture, open cardboard boxes, pieces of framed artwork — that were simply tossed on top of the pile. Some of it had spilled onto the gravel driveway.

Cassidy recognized several of the Tremonts’ neighbors who’d gathered in groups around the asphalt circle. Rumors swirled too quickly to catch all of them. Supposedly, another large bin was on its way. The crew hoped to be finished by evening but there was so much junk inside that old farmhouse, no one was sure how long the clean-up would take.

As the sun beat down on the girls, sweat beaded on their foreheads, and they told each other their own stories, where they’d come from, where they wanted to go. Ping had grown up in a city too, though hers had been on the West Coast and not nearly as large or intimidating as New York. Her twin brothers were a few years younger than she. Her parents were both professors at different universities in the area. Ping liked the change here, especially since New Jersey had its own particular brand of
peculiar
— and a whole magazine dedicated to that fact. In the pages of
Strange State
, Ping had read about rinky-dink roadside attractions (Insect World! Haunted Mini-Golf!), abandoned highways, even a few ghost towns. She promised Cassidy that she’d share a few copies with her soon. And though Cassidy was happy for the distraction, she couldn’t stop thinking of what she’d overheard Joey say inside the Tremonts’ kitchen.

Was Lucky’s death last summer really her fault? Should she apologize? Beg Joey’s forgiveness? If Joey believed Lucky’s ghost was haunting him, maybe he wasn’t thinking properly. Maybe he just needed space. Then she thought of what she’d seen in the woods. The thing moving between the trees. And the sound of barking.

She glanced at Ping, who seemed intrigued by the heap in the driveway. “You don’t believe Joey, do you?”

“About what?” Ping asked.

“That his dog is a ghost now.”

“Of course I do,” Ping answered. “Why would he have made up a story like that? It only seems to upset his parents. Unless he
wants
to upset his parents.”

Cassidy watched Ping’s eyes for a sign that she was kidding around — a squint, a glimmer of a hidden laugh — but Ping’s face was open and friendly. “Say the dog really
is
a ghost,” Cassidy whispered. “What if the ghost blames someone for what happened to it? What if Lucky has been waiting for that
someone
to return to Whitechapel, so he can get his revenge?”

Ping chuckled. “And you’re that someone?” she said, not believing, not understanding.

Cassidy burned with embarrassment. “I saw something out by that tree. An animal. It was big.”

“You’re serious,” said Ping, dropping her smile. “How could you have been responsible for what happened to Joey’s dog?”

Cassidy sighed. The girls sat on the nearby curb. Then she told Ping the story, her version of it.

When Cassidy had finished, Ping said simply, “You were only trying to do something good.”

“Yeah, but something bad happened because of it.”

“Doesn’t matter. Ghost dogs don’t seek revenge on people who don’t deserve it.” Ping smiled, as if her statement were a well-known fact. “And
you
don’t deserve it.”

“Joey thinks I do.”

“Then Joey’s an idiot. And you can hang out with me this summer instead.”

Cassidy smiled in spite of herself.

A commotion arose from the crowd. The girls stood and backed away from the gravel driveway. They watched as a large man barreled toward the street from the Dumpster. His belly bounced over the hem of his green plaid pants. Rivulets of sweat dripped down his bald head. Under his arm, he clutched what looked like a fuzzy red fox. The animal’s face was serene, frozen, but it looked like it might turn and bite him. If the man dropped the fox and if it ran, it might attack. Cassidy stumbled. Ping caught her. As the man came closer, the fox remained still — its feet were attached to a wooden plank.

“It’s dead,” Ping whispered. “Stuffed.”

“Stuffed with what?” Cassidy asked.

“Sawdust. Haven’t you ever seen taxidermy before?”

Cassidy had not. “That man’s taking Ursula’s things?”

“Mr. Chase. Yeah. That’s why everyone’s standing out here, I guess, hoping to catch a glimpse of some treasure.” Ping held out her hands to indicate the crowd. “It’s all going to the dump anyhow.”

“But he’s taking it home?” said Cassidy. “I wouldn’t want any of that old stuff in my house.”

“That’s what her family thought too. Supposedly, they’re all overseas. Ireland, I think. They’re the ones who hired the cleaning crew. They also sold the house back to Mr. Chase, the man who built this whole neighborhood. He’s the
Chase
in Chase Estates.” Ping whispered this next part. “My mom says he’s super rich. Thinks he owns this town. I heard he wants to fix up the farmhouse. Turn it into an ultra-modern mini-mansion or something. So I guess we’ll be getting new neighbors sometime soon. Wonder if anyone will tell them who lived here before they moved in.”

The man in the plaid pants, Mr. Chase himself, nearly ran the girls over as he crossed into the cul-de-sac. “Watch it,” he said, wheezing in the heat with the weight of the fox under his arm. Then he called out, Cassidy assumed, to someone he knew standing amongst the crowd. “Found another one! These will pull in a pretty penny at the Hudson Auction next month. This Ursula lady was one weird old miser. Lucky for us, eh?” As he said the words, a cold gust of wind blew through the trees, shaking loose some high, dead branches that were stretched out over the street. One of them crashed to the ground, hitting the asphalt where Mr. Chase had just passed. The branch seemed to explode into several dozen brittle pieces and the crowd collectively gasped. Mr. Chase jumped and turned around. After a moment, he laughed, holding the fox above his head, as if showing it to Ursula’s old house. “Mine now, sweetheart!” he bellowed. “You snooze, you lose!”

Cassidy and Ping glanced uneasily at each other. That was no way to speak to the dead.