“See you later, Superman,” called Frankie.
And they left him in the dust.
•••
Saylor Academy was a landmark of Greenwich’s quaint downtown, the lofty brick edifice wedged between a glittering wedding boutique and a high-end consignment shop. Inside, the front hallway was adorned with shelf after shelf of gleaming trophies—testaments to the academy’s sterling reputation and competitive spirit.
Once upon a time, when Vivienne was still small and perfectionistic, she’d dreamed of becoming the company’s prima ballerina. She’d assumed if she put in the work—if she pretended she was a normal girl, with normal dreams—she’d eventually claw her way to the coveted role of principal dancer.
But then things took a turn.
She got older. Her body changed, the way bodies did. Only, where her friends were contending with raging hormones and stress acne, she was going through a reckoning. It seemed to happen overnight. One morning, she looked in the mirror and saw a girl staring back. Dark hair. Dark eyes. A small, dark mouth. The next, something unrecognizable stood where she’d been.
Something long dormant, slowly waking.
The nights got hard after that. And then so did the days. When the role of the Sugarplum Fairy was cast inThe Nutcracker, it wasn’t Vivienne. When the company went on tour, she stayed behind. Kept close, the way Philip liked her. Kept collared, so the wretchedness in her bones couldn’t bleed free.
These days, she trained alone.
Usually, the academy was her chapel. Her oasis. There was no wriggling here. Nothing squirmed or itched or scratched. No long, chilly fingers clawed at her insides. It wasn’t accidental—it was discipline. It was years of rigorous drilling, hours of daily training. It was the kill-switch pain of broken toes and taped feet and endless, grueling footwork. It kept her soul in line. It quieted her spirit.
Usually, but not today.
Today her reflection was standing just a touch too still. The Vivienne in the glass didn’t fidget the way she fidgeted. Didn’t blink when she blinked. She didn’t trust it. It made her uneasy when she couldn’t tell whether or not the creature was watching.
She was particularly wary today. She was about to set something monumental in motion. Something that would finally,finallychange her life for the better. She didn’t want the creature to see.
In her hands, she gripped a sleek spiral-bound file. It was one of two copies. The other, she’d sent via bicycle courier, along with a concise list of demands. If her estimation was correct, it would arrive at its destination any minute.
The cover page was crisp and white, the lettering a neat serif font:
A Biomechanical Comparison of Surgical Excision Versus Orthopedic Exorcism
By Jesse C. Grayson
Beneath was the abstract, marked in pencil notations.
Objective: to establish the biochemical similarities between malignant growth and demonic possession.
Method: a qualitative analysis of historical textbooks detailing religious exorcisms performed in a manner analogous to contemporary surgical procedures.
To most, the dissertation looked like the ravings of a madman. To Vivienne, it looked like hope. The first glimmer of possibility in years of near dark. A precipice, off which she was just desperate enough to leap. Her hand holding the paper shook. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the face in the glass lift toward hers. Terror zippered up her spine. Slowly, she set the paper face down upon the floor and lifted her eyes toward the mirror.
It was staring right at her.
The creature in the glass.
The very worst thing about her infernal haunt was that it lookedalmostexactly like her. The resemblance was uncanny. Unsettling—as though some divine hand had drawn therealVivienne Farrow from memory, and had fudged a few of the finer details.
Its lips were just a touch too thin, its smile wider than anything human ought to be. Its eyes sat far apart on its face, polychoric pupils like ink splatters against yellowed sclera. Its fingers were overlong and double-jointed, the tips darkening to a gangrene-colored point.
When it smiled, its teeth were razor sharp.
“What have you got there?” it asked in a voice like gravel. “Written on your little paper?”
“Nothing,” she whispered. At her reticence, its smile grew.
“You know I can’t hear you when you mutter.”
