Unhinged by A. G. Howard
Jeb’s mine. Mine mine mine.
A snarl tugs at my lips, but I suppress it. What’s wrong with me?
The stuffed clown flops to the floor with a metallic twang, and Jeb and I both jump.
“Huh,” Jeb says as he picks the toy up and rearranges it on the windowsill. He tugs at the oddly shaped hat. “There’s something metal under there. Must be top-heavy.”
“Who’s that from?” I ask.
“The guy who helped on Friday after I pulled you out. I was trying to get you to breathe, and he appeared out of nowhere … said he saw an ambulance going down the street and waved it down for us. My cell phone was lost in the flood. He got the help I couldn’t give you.”
There’s something about the clown. Apart from it looking distantly familiar … apart from it being bigger than the other toys. It almost appears alive. I keep waiting for it to move.
As it stares back at me, the shadows seem to change its expression—from a smile to an evil sneer. Even the cello in its hand can’t soften the image.
A cello.
My wariness kicks up another notch. That’s the one instrument that I know how to play. The one instrument I haven’t touched since last summer. How would a stranger know that about me?
Jeb said the guy appeared out of nowhere …
Trepidation knots in my throat. “What’s this person’s name?” I ask.
“I didn’t get it,” Jeb answers. “The card on the clown said, ‘Hope you’re feeling up to your old self soon.’ No signature. But we checked with everyone else and no one we know sent it. So it must’ve been him.”
The toy’s beady black eyes zero in on me like eager cockroaches.
“Up to my old self,” I mumble. “That’s a weird thing for a stranger to say, don’t you think?”
Jeb shrugs. “Well, maybe that’s how they talk in England.”
My pulse jumps. “England?”
“Yeah. After the ambulance left, the guy helped me drag my bike from the water. He’s a foreign exchange student, enrolling at Pleasance High. Seems pointless to enroll during the last week of school. But his parents insisted.”
My arms feel limp. “He told you he was from England?”
“He didn’t have to. He has the accent.”
Morpheus’s threat rings loud in my memory: By the time they find your body, I’ll already be there.
Heart pounding, I kick off my blankets. “We have to get out of here!”
“Al!” Jeb tries to keep me from sitting up.
Instead, I use his arms for leverage to stand. “Please, Jeb, take me home!”
“What? No, c’mon, you’re going to hurt yourself. Just lie down.”
When he attempts to guide me back into bed, my pleas escalate to shouts. I rip the IV from my skin before he can stop me. Blood drizzles out the back of my hand, getting on the blankets and sheets, slicking up Jeb’s fingers as he tries to stop the flow while pushing the nurse’s call button.
Mom and Dad return. Mom’s face pales to the color of my sheets as she takes over for Jeb.
“I think you need to leave,” she tells him.
I cry out, “No!”
What I really want to say is that my panic has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the netherling guy who played a pivotal role in her commitment to the asylum twelve years ago.
“Nobody needs to leave,” Dad interjects, the voice of reason amid the chaos.
Nurse Terri comes in, and her sad gray eyes coax me to behave.
She and Dad ease me back into bed. She mentions something about a delayed reaction from being in shock and comatose for three days. Then she reinserts the IV and sticks a sedative-filled syringe into it.
As I watch the needle appear on the other side of the clear tubing, I move my lips to ask her not to do that. Not to leave me vulnerable to my dreams. To please at least take the sinister clown away. But my tongue is frozen and my mind is racing.
I’m groggy within five minutes. Jeb kisses my hand, says he loves me and to get some sleep. Dad hugs me good night, and they both walk out together. Mom strokes my hair, folds down her cot, and goes into the bathroom. Then, despite all my efforts to hold them open, my eyelids droop shut.
I’m not sure what time it is when I wake up. I’m just glad to be awake at all.
The scent of disinfectant reminds me where I am. It’s dark. There’s no light coming through the blinds or seeping under my door from the hallway. I assume Mom shoved some rolled-up towels there. Sometimes she sleeps better if she seals herself in, a habit she formed while living at the asylum. Each night she’d check every crevice of her room—from the walls to the floors—for insects. Once convinced that none were there, she’d stuff the bottom of the door with her pillowcase.
It’s hot, like I’m being smothered by heavy air. I should move the towel away from the door for better ventilation. I kick off my blankets and inch my ankles toward the edge of the bed but freeze in place before sitting up.
The wind shakes the panes … louder than earlier. An eerie, vibrating hum that almost sounds like a song. Even the plants and flowers on the windowsill stay silent, as if listening to it. A sudden flash of light blinks across me. It takes a few moments for me to realize that it’s lightning. I don’t hear any rain. It must be an electrical storm.
The next flash illuminates my surroundings. Thick cobwebs stretch from my bed frame to the windowsill to the ceiling—a morbid canopy, as if a giant spider has laid a trap.
I sit up, and a sticky film suctions to my mouth. Next blink of light and it’s even thicker, suffocating me. I scrape webs from my face and scream for my mom, but I can’t see her; there are too many strands between us. I yank out my IV and leap off the bed.
Blood flows from my hand, different somehow. It floats upward, a solid strip, forming a glowing red sword. I take it instinctively, slashing at the filaments, cutting my way through the sticky fibers to reach Mom’s cot. A thick sheet of spider silk has engulfed her body.
The red glow from my sword reveals stuffed animals and dolls hanging in effigy on the glistening radials all around me, more toys than I remember seeing on my windowsill. They grab my hair and bite my skin as I hack my way and weave toward Mom’s cocooned form. An instant before I’m there, the clown drops down from a swinging thread. It plays the cello and laughs, taunting me. What I heard earlier wasn’t the wind at all … it was the instrument.
I lash out with my dagger of blood, and the toy drops to my feet, its song silenced, though its arm continues to move the bow across the muted cello strings.
Finally, I reach the cocoon. I slice open the white shell, afraid to look. As the sides fold back, it’s not Mom’s corpse staring dead-eyed at me.
It’s Jeb’s.
Jeb’s face, gray and lacerated. Jeb’s mouth that opens and screams. I scream in unison, our combined wails so shrill I have to cover my ears.
In the resulting silence, a voiceless whisper slides into my mind.
“It will end like this, unless you fight back. Rise to your place. Wake up and fight. Fight!”
I wake up, gasping for air. Hair tangles around my face. I comb back the strands so I can see. Moonlight filters through the blinds. There’s not a web in sight.
My heartbeat settles as I see Mom sleeping peacefully in her cot. The stuffed animals sit in their places on the windowsill, all but one. The clown hunkers on my nightstand, staring up at me, its hand slowly moving the bow along the cello strings in time with the wind howling outside.
I stifle a horrified moan and shove the heavy toy to the floor. It lands with a strange jangling noise and slumps there, unmoving, yet the message of its muted song still resonates: Morpheus is here in the human realm, and everyone I love is in danger unless I find him, reclaim my throne, and stand up for Wonderland against Queen Red’s wrath.
The clown didn’t haunt me again after the nightmare. I stuffed it in the trash under some paper towels and magazines while Mom slept. The toy was more solid than I t
Stranger. The perfect descriptor for Morpheus. He’s stranger than any person or creature I’ve ever met. And, boy, do I have a long line of comparison subjects.
On Wednesday morning Dad drops me at school twenty minutes early.
I’m exhausted. After being discharged from the hospital on Tuesday, I refused to take any of the sedatives prescribed by the hospital’s attending physician. Between the pain of my injuries and thinking about Jeb’s heiress client and Morpheus’s crash-landing into my everyday life, I didn’t get much sleep.
“You look pale, even with the makeup.” Dad hands me my backpack across the seat as I slide out of the truck onto the asphalt parking lot. “I hope you’re not overdoing it.”
There’s no way to tell him the real reason for my blood-drained face. And his concern is nothing compared to what Mom’s been feeling since I’ve been home from the hospital. She wouldn’t let me have any visitors, insisting I needed to rest, so I didn’t get to see Jeb or Jenara. Since my new cell phone wasn’t charged and programmed, I settled for a short and unsatisfying landline call divided between both of them. Jeb was evasive about his visit with the heiress, insisting we talk about it in person. That did nothing to calm my nerves.
Mom’s final words as I left this morning were, “I’m not sure school’s a good idea so soon. Maybe take a day off from classes while your car is getting its tire fixed.”
Somehow I managed to talk Dad into driving me anyway, and I’m not leaving now. “Dad, please stop enabling Mom’s paranoia. Persephone’s given me the entire week off from work. I’ll get bored sitting at home. I have exams to make up, and there’s no way I’m going to summer school. I want to graduate with my class.”
I plant my feet in a determined stance. I have to win this argument. If I don’t find Morpheus today, he’ll come looking for me at home. That’s the last thing Mom needs.
Dad’s hands tighten on his steering wheel. Sunlight slants through the windshield, glaring off his wedding ring and the silver logo on his work shirt. “Cut your mom some slack. You gave us a real scare. She’s having trouble finding her footing.”
I bite my inner cheek. “I get that. But her hovering is out of control. The danger’s behind me now.” Not true. It’s lying in wait just around the corner. “I’m stronger than you two think, okay?”
His expression relaxes. “I’m sorry, Butterfly. I forget sometimes how much you’ve grown up over the past year.” He gives me a real smile then. “Have a good day. And show those tests who’s boss.”
“Thanks.” I reach in to squeeze his hand before shutting the door. Smiling, I wave as he drives off, though my confidence is forced. I can’t stop worrying about what Morpheus has up his lace-cuffed sleeve.
There are rules for netherlings when they breach the human realm. Unless they want to be seen as they are, in all their fairy weirdness, they have to borrow a human’s face and body for camouflage—trade places with them. The human has to stay in Wonderland, so there won’t be two of the same person running around in the mortal realm, and can’t return until their netherling doppelganger no longer requires their image. Only then can they resume their life and identity again.
Which means Morpheus has coerced someone into taking a leap down the rabbit hole. It also means Morpheus may not be recognizable to me, and this gives him a distinct advantage.
As if he needs any more than he already has.
The skies are clear and the sun warms my back. I won the wardrobe argument with my mom, and armed in a dusty-rose tulle miniskirt and scarf, gray corset jacket, paisley tights, and black lace-up knee boots, I head toward the breezeway’s door, convincing myself I’m ready to face him.
As I weave through cars—some occupied and blaring loud music, others empty—Corbin’s rusted orange 1950 Chevy, Sidestep, comes into view. He and Jenara have their heads together, sharing a few steamy kisses before the bell rings.
Any other time, I’d walk by and give them their privacy, but today I need info on our new exchange student. Jen always has the low-down on everyone and everything at Pleasance High.
A country-and-western ballad drifts from the cracked-open passenger’s-side window. I clear my throat and slap the glass with my palm, my fingerless gloves muffling the sound.
Corbin’s eyes pop open, and he pushes Jen back, gesturing to me. Jen squeals, opens the door, and drags me into the seat beside her for a hug, shoving Corbin over to make room. He fumbles to salvage the thirty-two-ounce to-go cup that was sandwiched between his hip and the door.
“Sorry,” I mouth to him from over Jen’s shoulder.
Corbin tips his chin in acknowledgment and offers a shy, expectant smile. He’s no doubt waiting for me to greet him like I usually do, to tease him about the bromance between him and Jeb. They share a love for cars and have been discussing restorations for Corbin’s Chevy. It’s too bad Jeb can’t seem to find time to work on it with him. Welcome to my world, Corb.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Jenara says, holding me close. The scent of her shampoo enfolds me. “Seeing you at the hospital … the wires and tubes and machines all around you.” She breaks us apart to study me, the sympathy on her face visceral. “It was like your worst nightmares had come true.”
Even though she’s referring to my past fears of being bound and helpless in an asylum, I think about the destruction Morpheus showed me in Wonderland while I was unconscious, and the spider-webs winding through my sedative-enhanced dreams. She has no idea how spot-on she is about nightmares coming true.
“I’m okay now.” I pat her wrist.
She brushes a strand of hair off my forehead. “Just don’t do anything like that again, yeah?”
“Yeah, yeah.” I grin. “You sound just like your brother. By the way, did he say anything about his appointment with that heiress chick yet? He was so quiet last night on the phone.”
Jen’s black-lined eyes narrow, seeing right through me. “Stop worrying. You’re his world … his muse. Right, Corbin?”
“Huh?” Corbin lifts his mouth off the straw sticking out of his Coke’s lid. “Oh, sure,” he says in his deep southern drawl. “He’s only got eyes for you.” He smirks encouragingly, and the freckles around his nose line up like a pigmented constellation.
The ten-minute warning bell rings, and we pile out of the truck. Jen twists a tendril of pink hair around her finger and secures it over her ear with a pearl barrette that matches the ivory netted skirt layered over her skinny jeans. She hands off her backpack to Corbin. We follow a crowd of students, the three of us locked in our own private conversation.
“So, did Jeb tell you two about the guy who helped him get the ambulance?” I ask. “He said he was enrolling here …”
“Yep,” Corbin responds after another sip of Coke. “He registered yesterday. A senior from Cheshire, England.”
From Cheshire.
“Of course,” I say under my breath. Time to find out whose life and identity he borrowed to pull off this charade. “What’s his name?” I press.
“M,” Jenara answers.
“What? Like Em, short for Emmett?”
“Nope. Like the letter in the alphabet.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or gag.
We step into the breezeway, the tiles slick under our feet compared to the asphalt outside. Our small trio gets hemmed in by other students, and I’m bombarded with questions: What was it like, almost dying? Did you see any ghosts when you were in the coma? Is heaven like the movies say it is?
It’s weird, but for once, being the center of attention isn’t so bad. Being noticed for something other than the way I dress or who I’m descended from makes me feel almost normal … accepted.
After our curious classmates get
I frown, feeling out the word in my mind. Rethen. It uses the same letters as nether. It’s an anagram. There’s nothing subtle about Morpheus.
“You should see his amazing sports car,” Corbin adds. “Lets anyone drive it who wants to. I drove us to lunch in it yesterday.”
I clench my teeth. The jerk isn’t even trying to lie low. He’s flaunting how close he can get to everyone I care about, how easy it is for him to blend into my world, as a warning to me.
I want to tell them both to stay away from him, but how do I justify the request, since technically I haven’t met him yet?
“And Al”—Jen practically beams—“you’ll love his style. Dead-bug chic.”
“Here we go.” Corbin rolls his eyes.
Jen elbows him. “Shut up. Al will totally get this.” She loops an arm through my elbow. “He wants to be a lepidopterist or entomologist or something. He’s inspired a whole new line for me. Faded jeans, rattlesnake boots, and a cowboy hat with a string of—”
“Moths around the brim,” I finish for her, my heart skipping a beat or two.
Jen and Corbin both stare at me in awe.
“How’d you know that?” Corbin asks.
“Jeb mentioned it,” I lie, and clear my throat for effect.
“Ah.” Jenara’s eyes—the same green hue of her brother’s—sparkle under their veil of gray eye shadow. “Well, I designed some dead-bug fashions during sixth period yesterday. You’re hitching a ride with us after school, right?”
I nod.
“I’ll show you the sketches later. I used M for the model. He’s got this whole hot-androgynous thing going on.”
“That’s my cue.” Corbin taps Jen’s butt with her backpack before handing it off. With a practiced arm, he tosses his empty Coke cup into a trash can a few feet away. It lands neatly inside. “Like to see your limey unisex cowboy do that. It’s all in the hands.” He wiggles his fingers in Jen’s direction. “I got man skills, babe. That’s why I’m starting quarterback.”