Like, Follow, Kill

Chapter 3

I slept with my door closed and the ceiling fan on high, the spinning wood paddles lulling me to sleep … but now those paddles are the blades of a helicopter.

A spotlight beams from overhead and the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of the heavy blades signals that help is coming …

“Don’t worry. Help is on the way, Kid,” Chris says, reading my mind.

Painfully, I twist my neck to the right, but then I remember … Chris is dead. I killed him … oh, Chris … it’s all my fault, isn’t it?

I don’t want to look … don’t want to see Chris that way again … but he’s talking.

He’s talking! I just heard his voice!

I must have dreamed that he was dead … he’s still here … he must be because he’s talking, dammit!

But when I look at my husband, the parts of him that I love so much—his lips, his eyes, the dimple on his right cheek, the scar where his eyebrow piercing used to be—those parts of him are gone. All that remains is a crumpled body in the passenger’s seat. A body without a head. It doesn’t even look real, like some sort of movie-set prop or clothing-store mannequin …

And blood. There’s just so much of it …

“Back here, Kid.”

Moaning, I force myself to lift one floppy arm and reach for the rearview mirror. It’s slow and painful, like it’s somebody else’s arm—I’m commanding the arm to move, willing it with my mind like I’m telekinetic.

When the mirror is lowered, I can see the entirety of the backseat.

But where is his voice coming from …?

Then everything comes into focus. In the rearview mirror, I come eye to eye with Chris.

Chris’s head is in the backseat.

Chris’s head is talking to me.

Chris: The Talking Head, is frowning.

“You promised. You promised me you’d stop drinking,” his lips are moving.

“I know. I—I’m sorry … I fucked up so bad …”

“You lied. You’re a liar … you made me bleed …”

A new voice breaks in.

“Ma’am, don’t look back there. Look at me. Listen, you’re in shock, but we’re going to cut you out of there. There’s a helicopter waiting to transport you to university hospital, okay? Keep your eyes on me and breathe.”

The man is squatting down, looking in at me from outside the shattered driver’s window. His face smudgy and dark, my vision blurred … but his voice is soothing and kind. I allow my eyes to lock onto his, sucking in huge gulps of air.

“Don’t look at either of them. Look at me,” comes a bell-like voice from my past. Slowly, painfully, I twist my neck to the right. Past the broken glass in the console, past the body that used to be Chris’s in the passenger’s seat … there’s a familiar face peering in at me through broken glass.

“Look at me, look at me … focus only on me,” says the girl with the bell-like voice.

The man is talking, Chris is talking, and somewhere inside my head I can hear them both pleading … begging me not to look.

But it’s not Chris’s body in the passenger’s seat that I’m looking at. It’s the girl in the window. My gaze follows her wherever she goes …

I can’t peel my eyes away from her shining, beacon-shaped face. That smile, so contagious …

Valerie.

***

I gave up on sleep hours ago.

This probably happened because I took my meds later than usual.

The dreams were always disruptive, but usually I slept at least six or seven hours before they caused me to shoot up out of bed, drenched in sweat and shaking.

My skin was still red with heat from the dream, a cool breeze shifting through the slope of trees that lined the back of my rental property. A cold chill rushed through my hair and blew it around my face.

I inhaled, closing my eyes as I tasted the wind.

I exhaled, tried to push the dream out of my mind. Tried to rid my body of memories and horrors that ran too deep …

My iPhone sat on the flimsy lawn table beside me. I picked it up and held it to my chest.

You don’t need it. It’s a crutch. Promise me you’ll stop drinking … you don’t act like yourself when you do, Chris’s words whispered between the trees.

But I did need it—a crutch. Even before the accident, I’d struggled with anxiety my whole life. The alcohol dulled my nerves and created a sense of euphoria in a world where there was none for me. Even when I was happy, that pessimistic inner voice liked to spoil all my fun. Crutches helped. They allowed me to focus on something other than the deep dark voice inside me.

I never used to drink during the daytime—I had to work my food-prep job at The Pink Buffet. And after work, I’d either work extra hours, waiting tables, or I’d come home and write or edit until Chris came home. But in the evenings, after all the work was laid to rest … I drank.

I drank until I promised Chris that I would stop.

Only, I didn’t, not really … I just got better at hiding it. I’d wait until he went to sleep at night, then I’d sneak sips into my soda water and fill my mouth with Listerine strips in between … sometimes, drinking so late at night, that I was still half-drunk when I showed up for my early morning shift at the buffet.

My eyes still closed, I imagined sitting out on the back deck with Chris when we lived in our townhome. I could almost feel the squeeze of his hand on mine, his promise ring digging sharply into my palm … I’m proud of you for not drinking, Camilla. You’re working hard to stay sober; I can tell.

But it was all a farce … I was working hard to stay drunk, more like it.

Liar … his words from the dream rushed back at me.

Lies … I told so many of them. Even now, I can taste them—like vinegar on my tongue. They tasted bad, but they flowed like honey from my mouth …

Chris’s hands—so tender and sweet—are squeezing harder and harder, choking the breath from my chest …

Opening my eyes, I poked a finger at my phone, causing it to light up. I was surprised to find several unread texts from Hannah. She messaged me daily, but evening calls and texts were a rarity. Evenings were reserved for her and Mike.

Mike: the perfect husband. Mike: who was alive and still had a head. Mike: who went to bed early and woke up early. Who took my sister to dinner shows and vacations.

Things I never had a chance to do with Chris.

Hannah had sent several messages between 11pm and 12am, while I was dead asleep and dreaming.

Reluctantly, I opened them:

Hannah: I miss you, Milly.

Milly … Hannah hadn’t called me that in ages. Not since we were kids.

The endearing nickname made my throat and chest constrict, like peanut butter in my gullet.

Hannah: I’m sorry for the way I acted today. I just don’t know what to say to you anymore. I don’t know how to fix things the way I could when we were kids. You were young then, and you listened to me. Now … now, I don’t know how to help you. But I want to … I want to help you, Milly.

Hannah: I’m sorry about what happened to you. I know you miss Chris. I miss him, too.

Hannah: But he’s gone … and now that Dad’s gone too, all we have is each other.

Hannah: What I’m saying is … I can’t lose you.

Hannah: I love you, Milly. I miss you so much I can’t breathe. Please come back to me.

When I closed my eyes this time, I was falling … floating back to our farm house on Credence Drive. Hannah and I hiding in our bedroom closet …

Don’t move, she had whispered. He’s in the bedroom now. I opened my mouth in horror, and like a little bird, a frightened chirp slipped out. Suddenly, her hands were wrapped around my face, covering my mouth and nose … tight, so tight … I can’t breathe! The harder I fought, the firmer her clamp became. I tried to scream but couldn’t. Shhh … just a few more minutes, she had promised.

My mother died of cancer before I was old enough to know her. My father coped with her loss by drinking. And he wasn’t a funny drunk or a clumsy drunk … he was mean. Hannah and I would hide in the closet, or wherever we could, until he finished one of his rampages.

There’s not a horror movie in the world that could make my heart race the way Dad could …

I shook that memory away and opened my eyes. My phone chimed again. A notification this time: Valerie had made a new post!

I lit another cigarette, pushing aside thoughts of my sister, ignoring the sharp burn in my chest, and opened my Instagram app.

I was disappointed to find that she hadn’t posted a new video or picture of herself. It was simply a faded blue image with a quote, like the bored-as-fuck ones I saw on my Facebook feed daily.

My eyes scanned the words … they were familiar, but where had I seen them before—a book, or a movie, maybe? I typed the first sentence of the quote into Google and instantly, results for that old Beatles song, Eleanor Rigby, popped up.

It was a song about lonely people, like me. A woman who died in a church, all alone. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember the rest of the song, beyond the first verse.

Pulling up YouTube, I found the song within seconds and clicked play.

Before I could change my mind, I was typing out another message to Valerie.

Me: I haven’t heard this song in years. It’s so haunting, so beautiful … hope you’re feeling better today.

Usually, it took Valerie hours—sometimes, days—to respond. But she immediately wrote back, sending a slither of pleasure right through me.

Valerie: Me too. It always helps me sleep.

Eyes closed, I leaned my head back in the lawn chair, letting that haunting old song consume me, all the while imagining Valerie, sick and alone in her hotel room a few hundred miles away, doing the exact same thing.

Paul McCartney’s timeless voice … was it Paul or John, John or Paul …? No matter—their words lulled me back to sleep like a pill …

***

The next day, my face was sporting a sun burn—I’d made the mistake of falling asleep out on the back porch, and I’d slept through the early morning sunrise and into the afternoon.

The red, raw shine to my cheeks made me feel almost normal—it had been a long time since I’d felt the sun, since my face had a sheen of color to it. Hannah and I had used to go to the beach every summer with our dad … oh, how we blistered in the sun while he got hammered at the beach bar all day. For some reason, we enjoyed the habit of peeling burnt skin off each other’s shoulders and noses.

I finished a bowl of Fruity Pebbles and drank a glass of orange juice, thoughts funneling back to my sister’s late-night texts …

I need to call her today. Set things straight with her once and for all.

Because she was right—she was all I had left in this world. I needed to focus on her, and getting my life back in order, not chasing old ghosts from high school … not reliving that horrendous night with Chris. It was lonely here—and like that girl in the church all alone, I didn’t want to die in this apartment. If I did, how long would it take for someone to find me … days, weeks, months? Hannah probably won’t be back for a while, after how I treated her yesterday …

But some habits die hard—by one o’clock, I found myself back in my usual computer chair, eagerly scoping out Valerie’s page for updates. I wanted to send more messages, but I refrained. I couldn’t make myself look too desperate.

I’d missed a video she’d posted at 4am. While I was sleeping to the tune of Eleanor Rigby, Valerie had made another update. I clicked on her video, trying to force myself not to care …

Like me, Valerie was sitting at a desk. Albeit, a clean one. It looked generic with nothing on its surface; she was obviously still in her hotel room. Behind her, I could see the silhouette of a queen-sized bed in the dark. Blankets and sheets crumpled up like blobby white ghosts.

Billowy white curtains blew behind her, too … the room was dark, shadows dancing across the walls … Valerie’s face, pale and ghoulish, stared back at me through the screen.

She must still be feeling sick.

Her expression was grim, a tightness to her cheeks and eyes I’d never seen before. I’d never seen her look so … unfiltered.

“I don’t know if it’s this stomach bug, or what … I could be losing my mind. I went out for dinner and a movie by myself tonight, and once again, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being followed. I don’t talk much about my personal life here, but mental illness does run in my family … anyways, pray for me, will ya? I mean, if that’s your thing … okay? I have a flight to catch in the morning and I need to get my head on straight before I head out.”

A shadow shifted in the room behind her, giving my stomach a jolt. There was something moving behind the curtains in the background!

What the hell is that?

Valerie kept on talking, oblivious, but I could no longer hear the words … my eyes were glued to the spot where the shadow had been.

She’d left the window open …

“I’ll check in tomorrow once I land in Louisiana. Good night, world.”

And just like that, the shadow moved. For a brief second, I caught a clear glimpse of a man’s face peeking out from between the curtains. My heart fluttered in my chest. He was looking through her hotel window!

“Behind you …” I breathed, a chill running from the top of my scalp down to my toes. But then the video came to an end. I stared at the blank, dark screen, a rattle of fear in my bones.

The video wasn’t live. She posted this eight hours ago, I realized in horror.

And a quick scan through her pages revealed that she hadn’t posted anything else since.

Did I really see what I thought I saw, or am I losing my mind just like Valerie thought she was losing hers?

I re-played the video again and again, slowing it down as much as I possibly could. There was no doubt in my mind—a man was looking in at Valerie while she had her back turned to the window. It was too clear not to be real. Not a trick of the shadows … or my mind, for that matter.

And although his face was dark and a little fuzzy, there was something familiar about it too …

The man in the window looks like Chris.

A knock of fear jerked me out of my seat. I stood up, pacing back and forth in front of the computer. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen the Chris-lookalike either. It’s impossible—I know it’s not Chris. But damn, he does look a whole lot like him. It’s unsettling.

I’d noticed him in another one of Valerie’s posts … but which one?

The reason the man stood out to me the first time was because he did sort of look like Chris, although, rationally, I knew it wasn’t him.

I sat back down, clicking through her old photos and posts … thousands and thousands of photos! Too many …

But then, a few minutes later, I found exactly what I’d been looking for …

There!

It was an old post, from before I’d started following her every move … but I’d scrolled through these old photos so many times …

There.

He was standing two rows behind her at an outdoor concert in Ohio. Valerie was smiling, extending the camera with one hand and holding up the other to show a bracelet—a backstage VIP band circling her wrist. It was a hodge-podge of alternative bands, but she’d specifically referenced a Marilyn Manson song in her caption: #RockisDead.

The reason the man had caught my attention the first time, besides the fact that he kind of looked like Chris, was because he was staring so intensely into the camera from several rows back, almost like he’d accidentally looked at the wrong moment and gotten captured in Valerie’s photo forever … a classic photo-bomb. Annoying, but not uncommon. All the smudgy little faces in the background of her videos and pictures … unassuming strangers, or are they?

I just assumed it was an accident, an odd guy looking in the background, his serious spot-on gaze captured by the lens …

And there! Another pic in Florida—he looked like any other guy you’d see … just a man having a drink at a tiki bar, enjoying his vacation while some girl—Valerie—snapped a selfie of her bikini-clad self, holding a sugary-rimmed margarita. It was a sideview of his face at the bar … it might not be him.

But it sure as hell looked like him. And I couldn’t shake the eerie realization that he looked so similar to Chris … the slope of his jaw, that slightly off-center nose … even the blue-black, closely cropped hair was the same.