Sequel: Summer Shadows

Winter Wakes

Twenty Three.

“On the upside, if the campus police show up and shut the party down we can make a quick get away,” the nonchalance in Katie’s voice made me wish I had actually found a way out of this, perhaps thrown myself down another set of stairs to actually break my arm and keep me out of commission for another few days.

We were parked two lots down from the Delta boys’ house in the yard of one of the sororities that had been trying to get Katie to rush from the year and a half she had been at Brown. Katie had told me she didn’t mind the girls, but she preferred her own freedom as opposed to being tied to the commitments of a house full of PMSing blondes. They hadn’t really taken too much offense to her refusal though; otherwise I doubt they would have allowed her the choice of parking here.

“I’ll take it you’ve had to do that once before?” I swallowed, picking the loose silver material of my shirt.

“All but one of their parties got shut down last semester,” Simon drawled from the backseat of the Camry.

Katie shrugged, undoing her seatbelt, “Yeah, maybe once. No biggie though. It’s not like they get called for every party they’ve had. Dammit, Maggie, why is it always so cold in my car when you’re here?”

“She changes the subject when she knows she’s lying,” The ghost, who in fact was the cause of the chill in the car, sang monotonously.

I copied Katie, and with a click the seatbelt was off, “Um, I don’t really know. But are you absolutely positive that these parties don’t get shut down too often? I’ve heard otherwise from… people.”

“Oh, smooth,” Simon scoffed.

He had always had an attitude, there was no denying that. But tonight he seemed more than a little off. I know I didn’t want to be anywhere near this place, not just because it was host to a faction of boys whose egos were as big as their parents wallets, but because of Simon, and possibly for the exact same reason as his strange behavior. How odd of a situation is it for the dead to visit the place of their untimely demise? A heavy heart felt like a dead-weight in my chest; there was no way I could even possibly understand what was going through his head. But I did know one thing; there was no way this was easy for him, at all.

“Hey, ya comin’ or not?” The cool rush of air from Katie’s open door quickly overtook where I sat, diminishing any traces of heat her car had previously offered.

“You go on, I’ll be right there, I need to check my makeup right quick. I’ll lock the car when I’m done.”

She shrugged, rolling her eyes, “Suit yourself. You just better lock it. If my GPS is missing by the time this party’s over, I’m holding you financially responsible.”

“Deal,” I muttered, digging through my purse for the Burt’s Bees that had sunken to the very bottom. The door closed only a moment later, I watched from around the corner of the small, fold-down mirror as she walked steadily in her dangerous red stilettos towards the party. “Hey, Simon?”

“I hope you don’t think you’re sitting in the car all night. You’re going to be sorely mistaken, and extremely regretful,” He hissed in response.

My teeth ground together as I slowly inhaled, shaking my freshly cut bangs to the side and out of my line of sight, “Politeness is wasted on you, you know that?”

Simon didn’t respond as I forcefully shoved my lip balm into the chaos of my purse. I heaved a sigh, dropping my head back against the leather headrest. The unruly strands of my bangs once again made their way in front of my eyes. I pulled my eyelids closed instead of moving them that time.

“Are you going to be okay in there?”

“Define, ‘okay,’” He muttered dismally from behind me. “Even if I’m not, we have to do this. I have to deal, Maggie, and so do you.”

“Fuck,” A groan gurgled up from my throat. I had to keep it together in there, he was right. I had been on edge ever since our discussion of the party, a tiny part of my subconscious had gnawed away at me over the past few days, a slight bite of anticipation and fear ebbing at my thoughts constantly. Now that the night was here, those feelings were at the front and center of my anxious mind. It was a strange feeling that tingled in my throat, one that vaguely resembled the excitement of a first date, or perhaps induced by an over-dosage of caffeine. But this had a much darker tint to it; someone here could potentially be a murderer; that added a flipping stomach, ripe with a vomitous feel.

“I am going to barf without even drinking anything.”

“Puking now would be detrimental to what I hope to accomplish, and therefore detrimental to your health,” Simon threatened. “If you do feel the urge, you better fucking swallow.”

“Okay, okay, look, Captain Asshole,” I whipped around to face him. “We both need to chill the fuck out, okay? You need to stop with the threats, and I just need to breathe.”

His shoulders slumped, head dropping slightly. His pale curls succumbed to the gravity, dropping down to fall in his face.

“I’m pretty mind-fucked here,” He mumbled quietly.

“No shit, Sherlock, how do you think I feel?” My lips tugged down at the corners. “Look, I know this is difficult, but you are the one who wanted to go through with this, and you being freaked out right now is kind of freaking me out, so, quit. Please? Besides, you’re not the one who’s going to be dealing hands-on with your potential murderers. I’m going to need you to keep me sane and stable in there.”

“I am not the most secure pillar for emotional or mental support if it’s not obvious, Maggie.”

“You’re going to have to be. You’re the only one I’ve got right now.”

“What about Katie?”

I gave him a look that simply read ‘you’ve got to be kidding me.’

He glanced up at me from below his eyelashes, “You’re right. She’s going to be shit-faced before you even get in there. You’ve seen ‘Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist,’ right?”

I nodded slowly.

“Well, she’s Caroline, and you’re her new Norah.”

I withered, “Oh god, no. You’re telling me not only am I going to have to look for hints as to who killed you, but I’ve got to babysit her, too?”

“Um,” His head swayed back and forth slightly, pretending to think. “Yep. Keeps things interesting, doesn’t it?”

“We have very different definitions of interesting, Simon,” I hissed angrily. I had no idea how he expected me to not only try to seek the truth about his untimely demise while watching a potential Lindsay Lohan worthy train-wreck in the making. “There is absolutely no way in hell I can do both of those in there! I’ve seen girls like her at parties, they need 24/7 surveillance, and I can’t do that if I’m playing Sherlock Holmes!”

“Not much of a multitasker, are you?” He raised his head, giving me a pointed look.

“Fuck you, oh Dead One,” I retorted quickly. “If I’m going to chat up the drunks about your death, you’re going to keep an eye on Katie for me. Don’t you dare try to argue with me on this, you’re going to make yourself useful. This is for you after all, isn’t it? I’m sure watching her isn’t going to be too difficult for you.”

The raging, hastily turning gears in my mind began to whir to a slow from their panicked state, the outburst they had produced sinking in. They always came when I was in tense emotional states, this clearly no exception. And usually, they yielded unfavorable results. But for a change, Simon merely watched me for a few moments, before giving a short nod.

I blinked, “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Are you okay, you know, in the head?”

“Do you want me to say no or something?”

“No.”

“Okay then, shut up.”

**

“I wanna hold em like they do in Texas Plays, Fold em let em hit me raise it baby stay with me…”

As expected, the latest hit by Lady Gaga blared too loud to almost hear one’s self think, bodies of already-wasted college students crammed tightly together on the couch that was much too small to hold all of them. I cringed, the faint odor of pot drifting from the far corner of the couch where a huddle of frat brothers stood tightly packed together. Near a window a very small girl with lavishly long black hair was pressed against another gelled brunette frat brother.

Now I remembered why I hated parties.

I sat the half-empty beer bottle some guy had shoved in my hands upon entrance onto an end-table, next to an ashtray that emitted a constant flow of smoke from unfinished cigarettes.

“I died in that chair,” Simon’s words were barely audible over the music as he stood cross-armed beside me. I followed his gaze to a lone seat against the wall of the room that harbored the flat-screen TV. It was almost shoved in the corner, unoccupied, a faded deep red with a large set back and near the very bottom, four dark-wood legs held it up.

“It gives off a…” My words cut themselves short, eyes fixated on the chair. There was a significant amount of space between the nearest party guest and it, undoubtedly it was avoided. Perhaps that added to the feel that seemed to surround it.

“Ominous, chilling, disturbing, vibe?” He offered.

“Bingo.”

The upside to being here, surrounded by drunk and stoned college students was that I could talk to Simon without drawing too much attention to myself. At least I wasn’t the kid standing by the door, talking to the lamp. Now that guy had issues.

He gave a small sigh, “I’m personally shocked they haven’t tossed it out.”

Through the archway that led to the kitchen next to us, a collective shout was heard; I didn’t bother to glance over. I knew the favorite drinking game of college students everywhere was taking place in there. Beer Pong, what a drinking game. It involves accuracy and depth perception, both of which alcohol fucks with. But somehow, the more drunk the college bastards get, the better they are at it. I’ve never quite been able to fathom just how that works.

“By the way, I know where Katie is.”

“She’s not following some pant-less altar boy around?” I queried, referencing the drunken character Simon had earlier compared her to.

“She’s always big on the Beer Pong; actually she’s surprisingly good at it. And if there are that many guys in the kitchen right now I have no doubt she’s playing.”

Great, she’d certainly be wasted by the time we tried to leave. Looks like I was driving. I tried to push that thought to the back of my mind; there were bigger things I needed to pay attention to right now. Like how the hell I was going to find out who knew what about Simon’s death.

The referenced chair seemed to hold my gaze; places where people died, chairs, beds, they were always left with a haunted feel. Most of the time the families of the deceased couldn’t bear to go near them, and they were disposed of at the first chance possible. Other times they were kept, hidden away in an attic or a basement, while they couldn’t stand to look at the object, they couldn’t stomach the idea of getting rid of it either. It didn’t always have to be related to where they died, either. It could have been the clothes they died in just as easily. The longer I looked at the chair, the clearer an idea became. My father’s serious face, and a speech he had given me more than once also seemed to ring clear with my idea; what it boiled down to was don’t intentionally fuck with the objects family members of the deceased seem to treasure, or fear. Why, exactly? Dad never wanted to stir up their emotions, or drag forth unnecessary painful memories. But in this case, it seemed like exactly what I needed to do.

“If something goes badly, I hope you plan to get me the hell out of here,” I stated, an antsy feeling pulling at my gut while my eyes remained glued to the chair.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Well please think of something, this may end very badly.”

The black ankle-boots I had opted to wear instead of my typical knee-highs clacked against the floor a little louder, the crimson-shaded chair growing slightly as I approached it. I refused to allow myself to pause before it, even if the image of a limp, lifeless Simon slumped in it like a rag doll did briefly cross my mind. I swallowed, pushing the grimace that dared over-take my features below the surface, plopping myself down into the previously death-bearing seat. My legs slung over one of the cushioned arms, back resting against the other with my gaze settling on the flat screen above. Faked nonchalance was certainly needed.

At first, there seemed to be no response, the room’s chatter and irritatingly loud music held a constant pace. I barely glanced back, only to see Simon’s form heading in the direction of-- what from my understanding was-- the kitchen. I refocused my attention back to the large TV hung above me. It was only after a few minutes of suffering through some god-awful American Pie sequel I could begin to feel their eyes settling on me, the hushed whispers were not audible over the pounding music but the stifled chatter was a sure sign it was there. They may view what I was doing as naiveté, or provocation, depending on who they were, what they knew, what they thought I knew. I tried to hold down the increasing anxiety that seemed to be festering and growing in my chest as their voices dimmed; it wasn’t an easy task. People changed when you touched or messed with something that belonged to the deceased. More often than not it wasn’t a pleasant change; kind little old ladies had turned into raging, psychotic beings before my very eyes on many an occasion when I had gone with my father to retrieve the dead. I swallowed, still attempting to silence the screaming warnings my mind and body offered.

“Balls.”

If it weren’t for the current situation, perhaps I would have tried to stifle a laugh, or suppress an insulting look as I turned after hearing that one oddly presented word. Instead my head turned, eyebrows pulling together beneath my heavy, side-swept bangs. An uncomfortable iciness enveloped my stomach as I saw the source of the voice.

“Excuse me?” I queried as innocently as I could.

Above me, George the ginger-haired, jackass frat-boy smiled coolly. The button up polo he wore was a vibrant shade of lime green, collar miraculously not popped although the sleeves were rolled to his elbows in an attempt to exploit his healthy, muscular arms. One of said arms lowered to my level, a drink held out in his bear-paw hands.

“Balls, you’ve certainly got them, eh, Funeral Girl?” He shook the drink lightly. “Here.”

I really didn’t like this kid; I frowned, “Erm, I’m the D.D. tonight. Thanks though. And um, what exactly do you mean by that?”

Ginger boy rolled his eyes, “Come on, Walton. One drink isn’t gonna get you wasted. You’re tiny, but this shit doesn’t even fuck up girls smaller than you with just one bottle. It’s the last Smirnoff anyways.”

I’d met guys like George too many times to know that ‘no’ didn’t quite process in their dulled, jock brains. I reached out, the cold bottle damp with perspiration as my hand grasped it. I swirled its contents lightly without taking a sip.

“And I meant the way you just plopped your ass down in that particular chair,” He took a swig from the dark brown bottle he had kept for himself.

“So there’s something about taking the only empty seat in the room that makes me hardcore now?” I replied sardonically.

“I haven’t had that much to drink, Walton,” George took another gulp above me and I wished he seemed somewhat more wasted. “What a coi-kee-deenk you just so happen to know of the late and great Simon Dreyton, get into his college, and find yourself seated in the very chair he drank himself to death in. Seems kinda strange to me, of course it’s not like anyone else here knows enough details of your arrival to Brown’s enough to care just who you are.”

There was a vague sickening sensation in my gut as I sat there, momentarily mute after he finished his speech. My body seemed to work on its own as the cold Smirnoff rose to meet my lips, releasing some of its alcoholic contents into my dry mouth. It was an overly sweet taste, barely any traces of alcohol lent to it, except at the very end, nearly like an aftertaste. I took another sip, remembering why I had referred to this drink as liquid-Jolly Rancher in the past. It was a highly comparable taste.

“So?” That was the only response I could even come up with.

“So?” He replied incredulously. “So, I wanna know why you’re doing it.”

“Hey, George, you were his best friend, right?”

The ginger stiffened, pulling his drink away from his lips while I continued to nurse mine. I didn’t like his cinnamon eyes that sat fixedly on me, filled with some unwavering disdain.

“I never said that,” His voice came out almost defensively.

I tried to remain blank faced as I replied, “I never said you did. But you were, weren’t you?”

“Who told you that?”

My eyes dropped to my drink; in a very short period of time I had cut the amount of liquid the bottle contained in half. If anything that was a sure sign I wasn’t handling this situation so well. But George’s reaction seemed to confirm the same for him. It seemed as though I may have been on to something.

“Does it matter?” I smiled.

“I just wanna know where you find out this shit, and what the hell someone like you plans to gain from it,” His voice had morphed into a deep growl laced with agitation.

“What? Are you worried I’m trying to use your friend’s death for my own gain?”

“That fucker was not my friend, you goddamn weirdo. Simon was a cocky bastard, no one liked him, don’t you get that? People pretended to like him; everyone wanted to use him, him and that faggot brother of his. Just like you’re doing right now. I just don’t see what benefit you’re trying to get, what the hell you’re aiming at. At least our reasons were fucking obvious,” George’s outburst had been on a personal level, not drawing the attention of the surrounding room because he managed to control his voice, keeping signs of anger to a minimum where only I could notice them.

I paused to grace him with a stoic look, “So I was right about you.”

“What the hell does that mean, Walton?”

There was a slight buzz beginning to touch the corners of my mind; drinking too quickly proved for a rapid jump into tipsiness. I knew that and I still did it, downing a gulp and knocking the bottle’s contents down to nearly none. The flavor of alcohol had been increasing towards the end of the bottle, not to my surprise. I maintained a blank look as my left foot swayed with the rhythm of the new beat that overtook the room.

“You were using him, so that’s one for two I guess. I think he actually liked you as a friend, you know, George. No wonder you seem dead convinced he drank himself to death. If you really cared at all you’d know him a little better than that, but you don’t, right? You don’t even give a damn what really happened to him. You are certainly the type of asshole I’d prefer not to associate myself with.”

Whereas George’s knuckles were turning white, clutching his beer with nearly enough strength to crush it, his face had become the same shade as his hair. I smiled up at him, masking the uneasiness that was settling awkwardly in my chest when mixed with the odd wave of vague disorientation that I could only blame on the Smirnoff. Bad shit happened when I drank too fast, I should have known better. Some slight commotion sounded from the kitchen area as George and I locked each other in agitated glares.

“Who the fuck have you been talking to about this?” His voice dropped a few octaves to a startlingly low level. My smile faltered, the ominous feeling I had been trying to suppress burst forth with the rush of disorientation.

“I don’t feel so good,” My mumbling was accompanied by a slight awkward shift in the room as I attempted to reposition myself into a normal sitting position. I felt as though I was moving out of sync with my surroundings; it seemed to be moving with lethargy while my movements came far too rapidly. The cold bottle in my hand seemed to be slipping, my eyes managed to focus on it a second before it dropped, bouncing once on the faded brown carpet before falling on its side.

Oh god, something was not right.

“Walton?” George’s voice echoed.

I lowered my head into my lap, resting my forehead in the palms of my hands; my elbows resting on my thighs. Even then the world seemed to spin. It was enough to make me nearly nauseous, everything felt unstable.

A large hand fell on my shoulder, “Let’s get you some fresh air.”

Gently would be an inappropriate description for the way I was assisted from the chair. It was a swift tug that sent my already spinning world into a much faster turn cycle; I stumbled over my own feet unable for once to walk steadily in a pair of heels. The faces of those still collapsed on the couch were blurred as I was drug past them, the room rolling and turning chaotically around me.

My body came to an abrupt stop as I collided with the large back of the Ginger-boy, his hand latched tightly to my wrist.

“Who do you have here, Georgie?” Whoever spoke was not George; whoever spoke was not male. The voice was far too high, shriller than usual perhaps thanks to the strange effects of the alcohol on my body. Glancing up I managed to find the source of the new voice.

“Not now, Felicia,” George growled. He attempted to walk around the platinum-haired girl to no avail as she shift with him, putting a tanned hand against his chest. I could barely focus enough on her to realize her eyes had settled on me.

“Her—George, what is she doing here?” The girl hissed.

He grabbed her hand, shoving her roughly to the side, “Felicia, not fucking now. I’m dealing with something here.”

My arm jerked forward as we began moving again. An echoic click met my ears before a blast of cold as I stumbled from the house. My body prepared to stop there, legs trying to slow now that our destination had been reached. Behind us in the house the music seemed to pound harder than it had when I was inside. George didn’t stop just outside though; as the world rocked around us we continued forth into the dark yard that was in the front of the frat boy’s house. The panic that hit me then was exponentially harder with my already disoriented state of mind. I tried to stall our walk, tripping more as he seemed intent on continuing. I could see my breath coming out in puffs in front of me, almost in slow motion.

“Who told you he didn’t kill himself?”

“I—I wanna go back,” My words felt like syrup as I spoke, they were difficult to put together into a strand that would come out coherent.

George Max turned quickly, still gripping my wrist tightly. I cringed back; he looked livid, psychotic almost, “Tell me, now.”

“I… Don’t know,” I whimpered.

Everything seemed surreal; George’s eyes seemed bright even in the dark of the night, the cold seemed barely there, my breath appeared to be the only tell-tale sign. The world around me wasn’t processing correctly, that much I knew. But this seemed extreme even for one drink; I had never felt that messed up. There was a small part of me that still managed to maintain some logic, spouting out that Simon was the one who told me he hadn’t killed himself seemed horribly unbelievable.

“Goddammit, Walton! Who the fuck spilled it to you it wasn’t really a suicide, huh? Do you wanna end up like he did? Just fucking tell me already!”

There was a brief moment of dangling between two pinnacles of emotion, the first being undiluted, and undisputed fear as George relentlessly tore into me with his words; the second was shock. A fist collided with the left side of his face from nowhere. I watched, horrified, and nearly awed as the ginger fell in slow motion to impact the ground.

“Maggie?” A cold hand grasped my upper arm, turning me to the direction the punch had been thrown from. An out-of-breath boy stood there, someone I had never seen before. His short, spiked hair was a medium shade of brown, almost indiscernible in the dull light of the moon. His face was directed at the ground, making it impossible to see his features.

“Who?” I tried to pull back as the panic set in again; a stranger who knew my name, and punched out George was still a stranger. It was still unsettling to my already raised emotional level. He didn’t let go though as I struggled to move away from him, his other hand shot out, taking hold of my other arm.

“Maggie, calm down, it’s me, Maggie,” The boy looked up, an unsettlingly familiar pair of light blue eyes connected with my own. “It’s me, Simon. Fuck, Maggie, are you okay?”

I felt my body shaking, felt the world around me swaying, “You… Simon?”

“Oh, god, you drank the drink he gave you, didn’t you? Fuck, we’ve got to get you out of here, now,” Simon’s eyes glistened brightly in the face of another boy. “I’ve already got Katie out of there; she’s waiting in her car right now. I told her someone called the cops on the party and we needed to get the hell out of here, ASAP. Fuck, Maggie.”

He had managed to drag me a few steps through the yard, in the direction of where we had left Katie’s Camry. He stopped then though, and without a word pulled me off my feet.

“I’m going to kill that bastard,” He hissed in a voice that wasn’t his own. My eyes felt heavy, slowly falling closed as my head drooped against his chest. I felt the jostling my body as he continued to walk.

“How did you…” My voice was barely an audible mumble.

“Mags? Hey, Maggie, don’t sleep on me here. He drugged you, Mags. What did he say to you? Can you tell me that?” The voice of the boy Simon now controlled was quick, rising in volume as he spoke. I felt him shake me, but it wasn’t enough, not near enough to keep my consciousness intact.

I managed one last statement though, mustering all of the energy that remained in me, “He slipped up… Simon… Someone did kill you… He… Just… Didn’t say… Who…”
♠ ♠ ♠
"You left your blood stain on the floor
You set your sights on him
You left a hand print on the door,
Like all the boys before, like all the boys before..."

-Under the Sheets: Ellie Goulding (These lyrics may fit, they may not. I'm tired. And I'm in love with this song. It actually got me to write this chapter.)

Late late LATE update, I know. Forgive me, please. Comments would be appreciated. :)