Page 124 of Lucy Undying

“For bed? Thanks for noticing how drained I am.” I wait a beat. She doesn’t so much as smile. “But seriously, can I rest for a while? Please?” Asking permission to sleep. This is going to be the rest of my life. Part of me wants to ask more about her mother—my grandma died before I was born, and Mom never talks about her—but I don’t actually want to have a conversation with her right now. Or ever.

“No, for the gala.”

“The what?”

“The dress is in your room.” She glides down the echoingly empty halls of home sweet home. It looks like a museum—arched pillars, marble floors, and blisteringly white light. It’s a hollow house, a structure of bleached bones. The only thing that can be said for it is that it’s not cold. I laugh dryly to myself, thinking of my stupid trick. Thinking of my stupid self, imagining I was hastening my mother’s death and my own freedom. As if something as simple as dying could ever stop her. The silver dagger she carelessly left in my bedroom is proof enough of that.

We take the stairs to the second level. I’m so much slower than her right now that by the time I get to my bedroom, she’s already holding my dress.

It’s ghastly. White and shimmering and poofy, complete with a bow over my boobs to wrap me up like the world’s weirdest wedding gift. “Mom,” I say, because honestly.

She rolls her eyes. “I knew you’d reject that one, because it was my favorite. Here.” She sets it down and picks up another from the window seat between the closets. I’ve never once sat in that seat, never gotten closer to that side of the room than the end of my bed.

Shocked at her concession, I take the new dress. It’s still too clingy and feminine for my tastes, but at least it’s cooler. Metallic gold with a structured bustier that can actually contain me. The same metallic material is shredded in strips over a pitch-black underskirt slit to my thigh.

“Can I wear boots?” I ask, daring to hope.

“Absolutely not.”

I wait for her to leave. She doesn’t, so I turn around and change as fast as I can. Credit where credit is due, it fits. “What exactly is the gala? What do I need to do?” If I’m giving a speech or something, I’ll need time to practice without grimacing. Maybe that’s why my mother has such a flat, affected mannerism. It makes it easier to lie.

“It’s to honor my transformation and acknowledge your new role as figurehead.” She pauses, and there’s a flicker of uncertainty on her face, like a cloud passing the sun. Or a bat flickering across the face of the moon, in her case. Then a smile slides into place, the smile that launched millions of memberships, that inspired so many sad, lonely, hopeful people to join her multilevel marketing vampire cult.

“You’re finally ready to go through the Celestial Gate,” she says. “But first, you’ll meet the divine wellspring. And then you can read the story, and understand.”

“We can talk honestly when it’s the two of us, can’t we? Just because I’m going to be in charge of your cult doesn’t mean I have to believe in any of its nonsense.”

“Oh, Iris,” she says, in a tone like a pat on the head. “You’re not in charge. You’ll never be in charge.”

“Right. Because you still are.” I’m the puppet.

My mother’s eye twitches, but her smile stays in place. “I was never in charge, either.” She turns away from me and walks to the closet alcove. My chest tightens. I can’t get enough air. Not those doors. Never those doors.

“Mom, what are you doing? What are you doing? Don’t open those. Don’t—”

But she doesn’t open them. She does something far worse. She knocks on one.

The door swings outward. A scent of rich, newly turned earth floods my bedroom. The scent of my nightmares, the scent of my deepest childhood fears. A figure in white crawls free, then stands, pristine and radiant, framed by the red window. A window designed to make a perfect halo for a head at that exact height. No no no, I think or moan or pray, but I’m frozen in place. I can’t move. I’m a little girl again, trying to sleep in this room, knowing without knowing that those doors hid absolute evil. I was right. I was always right, about so many things.

The figure moves across the room with dizzying grace and speed, stopping before me.

“I know you,” I whisper. Then I stagger back and collapse, falling onto the nightstand before slumping to the floor.

104

Salt Lake City, January 27, 2025

Dear Lucy,

They said they’ll give this to you. I hope they do.

Run. Run and never look back. Promise me. If any part of you loved me, if any part of you still cares, run and never, ever come back here. Be free for both of us. Please.

I’m sorry for everything. I was right from the start, I shouldn’t have brought you into my life.

Stay away.

Iris

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