#YayYA Critique Party: Entry #11

Name: Amelinda Berube (@metuiteme on Twitter)

Genre: Horror

Title: Under the Icy Lake

35-word pitch: The poltergeist attacking fifteen-year-old Marianne is bent on reclaiming the life it says she stole. If she won’t let it possess her, it will turn on her family and the girl she’s coming to love.

First 500:

The silence still clings to me.

If I close my eyes it's there waiting for me, ready to swallow me again. Heavy as water, it fills my mouth, smothers even the sound of my breath in my ears. I step onto the sand, out of the shadow of the trees. The crescent of the beach stretches out to rocky points just visible against the lights of the city. Before me I feel more than see the river, a coolness on my face, an extension of the starless sky.

Out there, where there are no more lights, something is moving. Too far and too deep to bring a ripple to the featureless surface, but I know it like I know my heart is beating. I can't look away. Something is groping its way towards me through the silence and the dark, something I could never run from.

I rest my forehead against the window, willing the ordinary sounds around me to wash the memory away. I listen to the windshield wipers, the spatter of the rain. Mom breathes in little hitches beside me, trying not to let me hear her crying. Was it a dream? I don't remember waking from it, but it's been lurking in the corners of my thoughts, stealing back over me at every unguarded moment, darkening the whole day.

I risk a glance at my mom. She's wiping her eyes. Her hair - like mine, a curtain of black, but shot through with silver threads - is usually tied up in a neat sweep, but today she's just yanked it through an elastic, pieces of it straggling around her face. Before I can look away again her gaze meets mine and she attempts a half-smile.

It hurts to see it. I study the flowers in my lap. They're for Aunt Marjorie. Lilies, big splashy orange ones. The smell is giving me a headache. Mom slams on the brakes and I have to clutch the bouquet to stop it from sliding out of my lap; she grates out a few choice swear words at the car ahead of us.

"I left your father a message." She says the words like she's throwing rocks. "I sure hope he calls you."

I take the rocks in like water - like a lake, an icy lake, swallowing their impact without a splash, letting them sink. I turn back to the window, watch my reflection slide over the river and the heavy sky. My face is thin and pale in the glass, my eyes dark hollows. I look like a ghost. Mom heaves a sigh, yanks a Kleenex from the box sitting between us.

When I woke up this morning in the faint gray light she was sitting on the edge of my bed, hunched over, hands clasped between her knees, not looking at me. 

"You should stay in your room for now, sweetie," she said hoarsely.

Name: Amelinda Berube (@metuiteme on Twitter)

Genre: Horror

Title: Under the Icy Lake

35-word pitch: Under attack by a poltergeist, bookish fifteen-year-old Marianne risks confiding in long-admired goth-girl Rhiannon. Rhiannon may be more than a friend to Marianne – but she’s also another weapon for the ghost to use against her.

First 500:

The silence still clings to me.

If I close my eyes it's there waiting for me, filling my mouth, heavy as water. Ready to swallow me again.

I rest my forehead against the window, willing the ordinary sounds around me to wash the memory away. I listen to the windshield wipers, the spatter of the rain, the rattle in the wheel-well that Mom has been leaving Dad notes about for weeks. She's breathing in little hitches beside me, trying not to let me hear her crying.

I risk a glance at her; she's wiping her eyes. Her hair is usually tied up in a neat sweep of gleaming black,  silver threads glinting through it. Today she's just yanked it through an elastic, pieces straggling dull and stringy around her face. Before I can look away again her gaze meets mine and she attempts a half-smile.

It hurts to see it. I study the flowers in my lap. They're for Aunt Marjorie. Lilies, big splashy orange ones. The smell is giving me a headache. Mom slams on the brakes and I have to clutch the bouquet to stop it from sliding to the floor; she grates out a few choice swear words at the car ahead of us.

"I left your father a message." She says the words like she's throwing rocks. "I sure hope he calls you."

I take the rocks in like water - like a lake, an icy lake, swallowing their impact without a splash, letting them sink. I turn back to the window, watch my reflection slide over the river and the low-slung clouds.  Mom heaves a sigh, yanks a Kleenex from the box sitting between us.

My face is thin and pale, my eyes dark hollows. I look like a ghost.

The chill of the glass seeps through the air towards me, the faintest breath against my skin. I pull away from it, from what it reminds me of, but the images are already uncoiling through my thoughts: stepping onto the sand, out of the shadow of the trees, the silence smothering even the sound of my breath in my ears. The surface stretching out before me was a coolness on my face, an extension of the starless sky.

I think it was a dream.

I woke up in bed this morning, so I know I must have slept. When I opened my eyes in the faint gray light, Mom was sitting on the edge of my bed, hunched over, hands clasped between her knees, not looking at me.

"You should stay in your room for now, sweetie," she said hoarsely.

"Mom?" I pushed myself up on my elbow, blinking, trying to figure out what she was talking about.

"Just - please!" I recoiled from her sudden shout. She put her hands over her face, and then after a moment spoke through them. "Please just listen, Marianne. I need you to stay in your room. Okay? Until I come and get you."