Dr. What’s-Her-Face is so pushy, always on my case to write it down. The thing. What happened when I was fourteen. At drama camp. Wow, six years ago. My shrink is always hassling me to put the thing on paper. Even though I’ve already told her about it. Many times. But this isn’t enough for Dr. Smarty Pants. The only way to put it behind me for good is to write about it. “Okay,” I always promise in our weekly sessions. “I’ll give it a shot.”
But I never do.
No more procrastinating. In my stuffy attic bedroom, I turn off the TV and sit at my desk. DON’T DO IT, bleats Brainbug, OR YOUR PARENTS WILL DIE.
“Shut up,” I say aloud. (Doctor’s orders, talking back to my OCD.)
I reach for my notebook, Brainbug screaming in my skull. TURN THE TV BACK ON. Taking a deep breath, I recite the words scripted by Dr. Bossy Boots: “Shut your stupid mouth, Brainbug. You’re just a broken record.” YOUR PARENTS WILL DIE AND IT WILL BE YOUR FAULT. ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS TURN ON AND OFF THE TV. JUST ONCE.
It’s never just once though. I can’t turn off Brainbug’s voice but I can refuse to do what he says. Hand shaking, I write my name and today’s date at the top of the page: Renata Claxton, August 5th, 1990. And begin.
*
Summer of 1985. The first day of Cranbrook Theatre Camp, in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan. I noticed her right away. Everyone did—she was the only Black girl. Tall and pretty with long curls and a dangly feather earring like the girl from Purple Rain. Wearing a cropped MTV T-shirt and tiger-print shorts.
Stupid me in my babyish tube socks and sun visor. But I’m the one she picked for her best camp friend.
When we were given our scripts, she plopped on the grass beside me. Her name was Danielle, she said. From New Orleans. She was staying with her grandma this summer. “Six weeks of this place,” she groaned.
“Well, I kinda have to go to this camp. My parents both work at Cranbrook. My dad’s a teacher and my mom works in the museum. I go here for free.” STOP BRAGGING, scolded Brainbug. “I’m Renata.”
“What kind of name is that?”
“Means reborn in Latin or something. My parents picked it.”
“No duh.”
“Your name is pretty. Danielle.”
“Everyone calls me Danni.”
Then along came Mr. Stone, the dweeby head drama teacher, handing out highlighters for us to color our lines. Mr. Stone had been the camp director for years, as long as I’d been going there. Though he always looked the same—a fiftyish blimp with eyes so piercingly blue they seemed to bore holes through his bifocals, shaggy mustard hair and stubble—this year he’d acquired an English accent.
I haven’t dared return to Cranbrook, but I bet it’s still the same: endless acres of woods, gardens and pools, secluded cocoons of sculptures and benches, fountains and waterfalls oozing rusty water. The nucleus: the Greek theater—all carved pillars and canopied by evergreens—where we’d perform our scenes, and behind which glimmered a rectangular reflecting pool.
After our classes, it was lunch and swim time, when we campers trekked lethargically to Jonah pool, the whale-shaped concrete basin brimming with algae-filmed water. No one knew how deep it got, not even the lifeguards, so swimmers never lingered in the murky center.
“Are you really into this theater stuff?” Danni asked, as we slogged along in the baking July heat. “Is that what you want to be someday, an actress?”
“Maybe. Don’t you?”
“Cracks me up how everyone thinks this place is gonna make them famous. Like they’re in that performing arts school in Fame. I’m gonna live forever!” she belted. “I’m gonna learn how to fly high! I feel it coming together. People will see me and cry—”
“Fame!” chimed someone behind us. “I’m gonna make it to heaven!”
And then more voices: “Light up the sky like a flame!”
All thirty of us campers chorusing: “Baby remember my name! Fame!”
#
The next morning, we lay splayed like corpses on the panel of grass behind the reflecting pool. Mr. Stone’s beloved relaxation exercises. “Close your eyes and focus on the sound of my voice,” he said. “Take a deep breath in. And exhale.” His phony British monotone wove around us. “Now tense every muscle for the count of three.” His voice retreating. “One. Two. Three. And release.” Silence. Probably sneaking off for a cigarette.
Hopping up, Danni strode over to the bronze statue poised over the reflecting pool. The water was shallow, greenish, carpeted with rocks. “What’s your name, hot stuff,” she said, squeezing the statue’s bare breasts. “Come here often?”
Sniggers all around.
“That’s Persephone,” I said.
Danni raised her eyebrows. “Persepho-say-what?”
“Persephone. Goddess of Spring. I get all this stuff from my parents. My dad teaches history and Greek mythology.” KNOW IT ALL, mocked Brainbug.
“You should ask your parents about the girl who’s buried in one of these pools. I wonder if it’s this one?”
That killed the laughter.
“Yeah,” Danni nodded. “My Grammy told me about it, but she isn’t sure which pool it happened in.”
I gaped at her. “My parents never said anything about that.”
“It happened in the way olden days when Gram was a girl. Plus there was this big cover-up at the time.”
“How come your grandma knows about it?” asked Bridgette, a permed blonde always in Izod polo shirts.
“She was best friends,” said Danni, pokerfaced, “with the girl who died.”
We were all struck silent.
“Well, what happened?” Bridgette finally asked.
Danni gave a breezy shrug. “No one ever found out. Her and my Gram were just playing with a group of kids in these woods when the girl—Iris, I think her name was—disappeared. Drowned, everyone assumed. But who knows? They never found her body. But some people, like my Grammy, believe she was secretly buried around here. Maybe right under these rocks.”
Bridgette crouched beside the pool. “Yeah, right. Like there’s really someone buried under here.”
“I wouldn’t get so close if I were you,” deadpanned Danni. “Her ghost might reach out and pull you in.”
Bridgette jerked back and everyone cracked up. “Gimme a break,” she said, flopping back down on the grass.
“Don’t worry,” said Danni. “Ghosts only come out at night.”
“Danielle!” barked Mr. Stone from across the pool. “How do you expect to become an actress if you can’t master the art of concentration?”
Though I pushed it from my mind at the time, it came back to bite me that night: the feel of a cold hand shooting out from the pool, pulling me into darkness.
#
One day before lunch I found Danni alone, heading towards the Greek theater. “Danni, wait up! What are you doing?”
A skeleton key dangled from her fingers. “His highness wants me to go get some crap for him. What a lazy ass, huh?”
“What crap?”
“Costumes for our final show. Camelot, I think?”
“Mr. Stone sent you by yourself?”
“He said you guys had already left for lunch at Jonah. But yeah, I could use a hand.”
I followed her past the reflecting pool. “Where are we going?” I asked, as she stepped into the woods.
“Mr. Stone said to take this path for awhile. To some storage building.”
Soon we reached the small clearing with a life-sized statue: triple-bodied Hecate, Goddess of the Underworld and Crossroads. As a little kid, I’d been mesmerized by each chiseled detail: the folds of her crinkly robe, jeweled bracelets, two greyhounds leaping from behind her robe. Each Goddess facing one of the three paths that joined the clearing.
“Whoa,” said Danni. “Don’t mess with that chick.”
Then I was startled when she, instead of heading down one of the paths, hopped behind the statue and disappeared into the greenery. “Danni?” Plowing through the curtain of dense branches, I found myself behind her on a narrow path. “Are you sure this is right?”
“He said to take the trail behind the tree right behind the statue.”
“Weird,” I said, falling in step behind her—it was too narrow to walk side by side. “I’ve never noticed this path before.” The wood and undergrowth had grown so jungly, we were stooping under branches, tripping over vines, as the path kept changing direction.
Suddenly, Danni stopped in her tracks.
“What?” I said, squeezing beside her. “Whoa.” A large shed completely camouflaged with moss and ivy. “Let’s go back, Danni.”
But she set off through the knee-high grass. “Where the hell’s the door?”
“Hey, wait up.”
Here was the door, on the other side of the building. Danni pulled the key from her jean shorts pocket and stuck it into the keyhole. The door banged open inward, like it had been blown open by a strong wind. Or pulled by someone on the other side.
Ducking, we ventured in, down a few steps into a below-ground space. We were hit by the stench: something foul, dank, ancient. The place was much bigger than it appeared from the outside, with a high arched ceiling at the far end. For light, we propped the door open with a cinderblock.
As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I could make out the heaps of theatrical props and costumes. I picked my way through the clutter, into a little wraparound alcove. A flicker of light. Danni had found a switch with a bulb that worked. I joined her by a clothing rack draped with musty costumes. Mostly fancy royalty get-ups. And piled on a shelf was a jumble of jeweled crowns.
“Bingo,” she sang.
“How are we supposed to lug all this stuff?”
Shrugging, Danni removed something from the shelf. A hooded masklike thing. A Balaclava. Black leather with metal studs circling the eye holes. “Kink-y,” she said. Wedging it back on the shelf, she spied a magnificent purple gown. “Would I look hot in this or what?”
“For sure.” I pointed to an empty box. “Let’s use that to carry this stuff.”
“Good idea.” So we started stuffing costumes into the box. Until Danni noticed a small square table with a crystal ball capped with a sorcerer’s hat. Popping it on her head, she waved her hands over the crystal ball. When I gave a weak laugh, Danni took off the hat, but kept one hand on the crystal ball. “Can I tell you something? You can’t tell anyone else though.”
“What?”
“There’s this thing that’s been in my family forever. Table tapping, we call it. It got passed down between the women from the way olden days. Gram says the women on plantations used to do it as a parlor game to pass the time.”
“Geez. What is it?”
So Danni told me about how a few women would sit around a table and set their fingertips lightly on the tabletop. Then someone would start talking and when the table was ready, one of its legs would actually lift up and down. You could ask it questions, Danni explained, by reciting the alphabet—the table would tap its leg once on a letter to spell out words.
“Did you ever actually see it happen?
“Oh sure. My Gram used to do it all the time. Some say it’s spirits. Others think it’s some sort of energy between people. Mama says it’s playing with the devil. She doesn’t let Gram do it anymore around me.”
ASK. NOW. Go away, Brainbug. ASK. OR DANNI WILL DIE. “Do you think you could do it without your grandma?”
“Dunno. We can try.”
We removed the crystal—plastic—ball to the floor, pulled up two folding chairs and sat facing one another, fingertips resting lightly on the tabletop.
Danni closed her eyes. “Are you here? Make yourself known, if you’re here.” Nothing. “Take your time. We’ll wait for you.”
Still nothing. This was silly.
“Don’t be shy,” uttered Danni. “There’s no need to hide.”
All of a sudden, a sharp prickling in my hands—like fingers in a light socket. And then, swear to God, one end of the table completely lifted off the floor and knocked up and down. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. Not moving my hands, I looked down to see the table leg nearest me rise an inch off the floor. Up and down. The tabletop itself was a good six inches above our laps; no way was Danni lifting it with her knee.
Danni opened her eyes. “Hello. Thanks for coming.”
The table was rocking back and forth so violently, I had to let go. It instantly stilled. “Oh my God!” I cried, shaking my tingling hands.
“You’re not supposed to take your hands off.”
And then: the crackle of footsteps. We scrambled around the corner. Mr. Stone in the doorway. His Husky dog eyes stabbing us through the darkness.“Oh, there you are Danni. And Renata? What are you doing here?” He’d lost his English accent.
“I was just helping Danni.”
“Well, step on it, girls. Everyone’s at lunch.”
“What’s with the dirty look,” I whispered to Danni, “he just gave me?”
“Totally. If looks could kill.”
#
“I know where he keeps the key,” Danni told me the next day.
“What?”
“Mr. Stone. I saw where he got the key from. To the shed.”
No! YES. “Really? When?”
“When we were putting away all that stuff in the theater. I saw where he put it.”
“Where?”
“In a shoebox in the back of the closet of the dressing room.”
“What if he notices it’s missing?”
But she was already headed for the theater.
#
Later in the shed: this time the table knocking started right away. Again—that prickly surge through my hands.
“Thanks for coming,” said Danni. “What’s your name?” She gave me a look and we recited the alphabet, stopping when the table tapped once on the letter I. We started again, “A..B…C…” And so on until it had spelled I-R-I-S.
“This is Iris?” nodded Danni. “Who disappeared?”
Y-E-S, the table spelled out.
“When did you disappear?”
This time we chanted numbers. The table leg raised and knocked on one, then nine, then three, then seven. 1937.
“How old were…how old are you?”
One. And another one. Eleven.
“Did you know my Gram?”
J-U-N-E
Danni nodded again.
“What happened in June?” I whispered.
“That’s Grammy’s name. June.” Then she asked gently, “Where did you drown?”
D-I-D-N-O-T
The meaning hit me right away. “You mean you did not, you didn’t drown?” I asked.
N-O
ASK. “Well, then how did you…what happened?”
H-I-D-I-N-G
At the sound of scratching, I looked up at the high smudged window. Scritch-scratch. A tree branch against the glass.
Danni stood up abruptly. “Let’s cruise before it rains.”
#
During scene study the next day, she reached into her pocket and flashed me the key. Later, when everyone headed to lunch, she and I hurried straight to the shed.
ASK, Brainbug needled, when Iris had made herself known that day. DON’T BE RUDE. “How are you?” I said.
S-C-A-R-E-D
“Where are you?” asked Danni.
H-E-R-E
“Where here?” we both said together.
C-H-I-M
Then it stopped and the energy drained from our hands. As we stood, Danni’s eyes widened at something behind me.
I spun around. “What?” And then I saw it: a brick fireplace built into the wall. With a large chimney. All the stacked boxes had blocked it.
“Chim,” I breathed. “Chimney.”
She crouched beside the fireplace and peered up inside.
“Careful, Danni—”
She glanced back at me and shook her head. “There’s like a wooden board blocking it.” Reaching up with both hands, she pushed. “Won’t budge.” She knocked on the wood.
We both held our breath. Then exhaled. Nothing had knocked back.
#
After dance class the next day, Danni steered me into a corner. “Hide-and-seek.”
“Huh?
“I asked my Gram a few questions last night. She didn’t want to talk about it, but she did say that a bunch of them were playing hide-and-seek. When that girl—Iris—disappeared.”
“And?” AND. Then I got it. “Oh my God.”
“Gram said they didn’t worry at first, since Iris was always climbing things. They figured she was in a tree somewhere. Iris had been hiding with another kid, some younger boy. They were supposed to stick together, but the boy said later that she’d ditched him.”
“All those trees around the shed.” I snatched her wrist. “It would be a cinch to get on the roof.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“What if she climbed the roof…and tried to hide in the chimney and got…got trapped? We have to help her!”
“Renata.” She shook me off. “This happened back in what? 1937?”
It didn’t matter how long ago it happened. I could feel it, Iris trapped and terrified. Suffocation? Starvation? I wanted to reach back into 1937 and save her.
“Anyway,” said Danni. “I’ve been thinking my mom’s right about not messing with this stuff.”
“You started this whole thing.”
“That was before we found out there might be a dead body in the damn chimney.”
“Just one more time. To say goodbye. Please.”
“Are you seriously crying, Ren? Seriously?”
I deployed the one weapon I knew would work: “Are you seriously more scared than me, Danni? Seriously?”
#
The door was wide open. Cinderblock in place.
“Maybe we forgot to lock it last time?” I said.
She bit her lip. “No. I for sure locked it.”
“Maybe Mr. Stone came here to get something and forgot to close it.” GO IN. OR ELSE. “I wonder what happened to the boy?” I said, as we sat at the table.
“What boy?”
“The one who last saw Iris. When they were playing hide-and-seek.”
“Who cares? Probably some old dude now.”
“He’d be younger than your grandma though, right? Maybe he still lives around here.”
“Can we just get this over with, Renata?”
“Iris,” I said, once my hands were electrified. “Are you in the chimney?”
Y-E-S
“Can you see us?”
Y-E-S
“How are you?”
H-E-L-P-M-E
“How can we help you?”
L-O-N-E-L-Y
“I’m sorry you’re lonely. Isn’t there anyone else where you are?”
S-O-O-N
“Soon? Who? Who’s coming soon?”
F-R-I-E-N-D
“A friend? What friend?”
D-
Across the table, Danni gave a cry.
A-
I tried to yank my hands away but couldn’t. They were stuck to the table.
N-
With a shriek, Danni jumped backwards and ran off. From behind me, a tap-tap. I glanced at the window but no trees stirred. Louder now. Knock-knock. KNOCK-KNOCK. BANG-BANG-BANG. From the chimney.
Booking out the door, I crashed off through the bushes and down the path.
“What’s with you?” asked Danni, when I caught up with her.
“Didn’t you hear that? Something was knocking!”
“My little ghost story really got under your skin, didn’t it?”
#
Trooping to lunch the next day, Danni seized my arm. Across the street, teenage boys streamed from a school bus into one of the dorm buildings. “Stop the press,” said Danni.
I could see why they had caught her attention. Most were Black. All a couple years older than us. “One of the other camps, I guess,” I said.
The boys noticed Danni too. “Excuse me?” called a cute Black guy. “Are you Vanessa Williams?” He looked like he was about to come over, until a white guy with surfer hair dragged him into the dorm.
“Eat your heart out!” shouted Danni. “Finally this place is getting interesting.”
On our way to lunch the next day, Danni squatted to tie her gym shoe.
As our fellow campers rounded a corner ahead of us, a shout from across the street: “Hey, Vanessa Williams…and you too, Goldilocks!” Two boys leaning out their open dorm window—the cute one and the surfer. “You girls like to party?” The surfer guy waved a bottle of something out the window.
“Dude, shut up,” said his friend, moving the bottle out of sight. “But, yeah.” He grinned at Danni before shutting the window. “Feel free to stop by. Room 121.”
“Let’s go,” she gushed at me. “Party time.” When I shook my head, she rolled her eyes. “What’s your problem, Goldilocks?”
I glanced back towards the theater. “Mr. Stone will be along any second.”
“So what? I’m not afraid of the big bad wolf.” When I didn’t reply, she shrugged. “Well, catch up with you at Jonah, I guess. Save me a Twinkie.” Midway across the street, she spun around and sang: “Baby, remember my name! Fame!”
Watching her slim figure disappear into the dorm building, I almost caved. I almost called out for her to wait. I wish I had.
It was the last time I ever saw her.
CALL TO HER NOW OR SHE WILL DIE. I closed my eyes. “Shut up, Brainbug. Shut up.”
For once he did.