Mostly Dead Girls

we live in a dark place now

Dorita lay in the weedy grass of the back yard and looked at the stars.

They used to be comforting, but now they made her restless. Reminded her of the night she died. She rolled over, pillowing her chin on her arms. A soldier-line of ants marched past her nose.

"Your time is up," she hissed at them. She sounded exactly like the dead girls in movies and YouTube clips, and that both depressed her and cheered her up. Part of her was enjoying being scary.

She didn't need Faye. She was a dead girl, damn it, or at least a mostly dead one. Dead girls were scary loners, and if Dorita was stuck like this she should probably embrace that.

Would she die for good if she did what she most wanted to—killed the man who killed her? There were a fair few accounts of dead girls just vanishing after knocking someone off, if she recalled right. Most of the more permanent dead-girl cases came from girls or women whose targets had died before they could kill them, or moved so far away they couldn't be found. Which meant, Dorita thought, tensing in alarm, if her killer just stayed away from the house she might be stuck like this forever. Unable to truly die.

But you don't really want to die, do you? A memory from the back of her mind whispered. You don't want to die at all, but you'd rather stick around half-alive than take your chances with an uncertain Heaven or Hell. That's why I chose you.

She sat up, shaking her head to try and get her killer's voice out.

Why the hell would he want to make a dead girl? She drew her knees up to her chest, checking to ensure the blueberry bushes and grass kept her out of sight of the kitchen windows. Tried to think of a reason. Whatever it was, she began to realize he'd gone to a lot of trouble for it. The stories all said dead girls—that particular subtype of female ghost—were likely born from women who died in a state of terror and rage. The creepy feelings of being watched she'd had for weeks before... the other dead girl showing up at her window... the threats to her little brother... and finally, the time he'd taken about killing her. He'd wanted to make sure she died filled with fear and anger.

Dorita lay back down in the grass and picked up the earpiece. It had been silent since she'd taken it, but occasionally there'd be a little static; she didn't think it was completely dead. He had been on it, she knew. Somehow, he was able to give the other girl orders.

A rush of pity and empathy overwhelmed her. She'd been focused on herself, before—her dilemma, her feelings of disgust and fear. The other girl had just been another thing that scared her. But after seeing her up close, her bruised face and sad, flat eyes, Dorita began thinking about what she must have gone through. Her death had been far more violent than Dorita's. Was she cowed into obeying the killer, or did he have some other hold over her?

The back door creaked, and Dorita scooted closer to the buried cistern. She'd been practicing, and could sink into the ground in seconds if the occasion arose.

It was Faye. Although Dorita had been planning to avoid her just a few minutes ago, she found herself sitting up and waiting for her arrival. She needed someone to talk to, badly, and those were scarce these days. Plus, Faye looked troubled. She got to where Dorita sat and crouched down. Dorita folded her hands on her lap and squinted at her through the curtain of hair.

"I'm sorry," Faye said. She sounded uneasy, but sincere. The evening was chilly after an afternoon rain, and she was wearing a hoodie that cast her eyes into shadow. "I was freaked out."

Dorita held out for a minute before nodding. "All right."

Faye sat on the damp grass, legs stuck straight out in front of her like a little kid. "I spent most of the day adding new coats of paint to the kitchen table. Julia bought my story about being bored and wanting to explore home renovation, so now I've got a list of other furniture and rooms to paint."