The American Girl: A disturbing and twisty psychological thriller. Kate Horsley

decorated with a photo of twenties Paris and a map of the stars; inside, a guitar, a basketball hoop, and thick textbooks. Save the French titles of the books, it could have been the room of any American college-age boy. Next was a young girl’s innocent bedroom: a world map dotted with photos of pen pals decorated one baby-pink wall and the shelves were crowded with pony figurines and books about ballerinas.

      The guest room was bigger but had less character, its floral walls and drapes echoing the master. It smelled of lavender and cigarettes. Weirdly, the wardrobe and desk were clean; where had Quinn’s clothes and things gone? I snapped a few pictures but found nothing more useful than some old book about the history of the local caves and a half-written postcard addressed to someone called Kennedy. “Hey, dude!” it began. “Missing your face. So awesome …” My heart sank a little at the way it tailed off mid-awesome, as if something had interrupted the writer. On impulse, I stuffed both the book and the card in my bag.

      At the end of the hallway was another door I hadn’t tried yet. I twisted the handle. It moved, but the door didn’t open. I had just knelt down to look through the lock when there was a noise downstairs, like the scrape of a chair. My hand fumbled my keys from my pocket. I pushed my sharp little front door key between my forefinger and middle finger, straining my ears towards the stairs. As I tiptoed down them, I heard a noise from outside, a sharp bark, like a fox. Maybe it was that I’d heard. In a place like this, it wasn’t surprising my mind was playing tricks on me.

      I was just creeping back into the front room when I heard tires gobbling up gravel and saw the lights of a car. It pulled to a halt. The thrum of an engine stopped and the headlights went out. A door slammed. I stopped in the hallway, just listening. A ring tone sounded outside, then stopped and a man’s voice began speaking rapid and low in French.

      I turned around in a slow circle, thinking about the house, the windows, the doors, the ways out. The only option was that back door. I tiptoed to it, trying to keep my steps light, my breathing calm. Outside, the voice stopped talking and the man cleared his throat. I glanced behind me to see the front door handle beginning to turn.

       Quinn Perkins

      JULY 13, 2015

       Blog Entry

      Back home in Boston, this blog is all about coming up with creative ways to make my boring life seem interesting. I:

       tell weird stories that are semibased on my antics

       post bloodthirsty stories about zombies and hell beasts

       quote lines from classic horror movies of the ’80s

       write trashy tabloid headlines to caption my most awkward moments

      I guess it’s how I met you all, horror fan friends, who always write bloodthirsty comments on my Monsters of New England posts: My Rockport Devil Sighting, What Mothman? and my most popular post ever, Lizzie Borden and the Fall River Witches! Earlier in the year, I had so many great chats with talented writer friends like PoeBoy13 and dreamswithghosts that I got up the nerve to send some of my horror stories out to zines and even got “Lila on the Ceiling” published in Splatterpunk! (It’s that one you all said reminded you of early Stephen King—oh, how I would love to be Stephen King one day!) I thought my travels in France would give me the perfect chance to develop my skills with some travel writing, and find some new spooky places to do a little urban exploring, dig into the local legends.

      Turns out I didn’t need to leave this house to find the darkness. It found me. It’s weird to think that this blog used to be all about a wannabe writer with no life experience to write about. Now that life in France has taken a dark turn and real stuff has happened, I should be unblocked, but I’m not. Now for once I find myself wishing my life was more ordinary.

      It’s almost dawn and I’ve given up on trying to sleep. I’ve taken my meds early—clonazepam, Wellbutrin, Depakote, lorazepam—hoping to calm down, but they didn’t make me any less anxious or depressed, so now I feel drowsy and stressed.

      In the cold light of day, it will seem less scary, I guess, but I still have that papery feeling. Like something’s about to go wrong. I’ve turned around and around and around in the starched sheets all night and haven’t actually slept. That video thing freaked me out way too much.

      Any suggestions, people? Maybe y’all are asleep.

      At least Noémie’s home now. I heard the noises of her door creaking open, the whisper of her clothes falling to the floor, the rusty metal groan of her climbing into bed. I felt such relief to hear those familiar sounds, so much that I almost went in to tell her about what happened … but I didn’t know what to say. The video is gone. I put the text message into Google Translate. It said, This is real. That’s all. Pretty weird, huh? And I don’t know her well enough to guess how she would react.

      Though after three months here, I should, right? I came here just after Easter, hoping to complete my very last quarter of high school speaking fluent French. Since then, I’ve walked with Noémie each day to the shiny new lycée for fast-talking French lessons and head-spinning economics lessons (not sure if the latter is useful preparation for being an English major at Bryn Mawr in a couple of months, but Noé’s studying it for her baccalaureate so I’m tagging along). Each weekend—as stipulated by my study abroad program—we’ve gone on an odyssey of cultural discovery in Charente-Maritime: exploring the Vieux Port, the amphitheater and the big old church in La Rochelle, the museums of commerce and automata and the son et lumière at the castle (that place about a hundred times!). The Sacred Heart Travel Scholarship promised a chance to “soak in the French way of life through full cultural immersion, expanding academic horizons as much as comprehension.”

      If anything, I have less comprehension. Noé is more of a mystery to me than when I arrived. Back in April she seemed excited to have an American friend, giving me friendship bracelets and mixtapes, throwing me parties. Since the holiday started, she’s been quieter, staying in her bedroom a lot … sang-froid, maybe, or plain old-fashioned dislike. We were hurled together by the freak weather conditions of cultural exchange, matched by an educational eHarmony through a database of hobbies that couldn’t possibly tell if we had much in common. Secretly, though, I think we have too much in common—living in our heads, not being, as the French say, bien dans sa peau. It makes for a lot of awkward silences at dinner, that’s for sure.

      It makes for being lonely. I even tried to phone my dad, but I think he’s too busy getting ready for the trip to Tahiti with Meghan. They’re superbusy, anyway, preparing for the new baby, the tiny half sister or brother who’s arriving just in time to fill in for me when I go off to college. Pity that kid! I mean, Meghan’s nice enough. I’m sure she’ll make a good mom. She turns twenty-five in a few weeks, so she’ll be exactly half Dad’s age by the time she goes into labor. He was supervising her PhD when they started sneaking around, and I think she thought he was a catch.

      She came to dinner once before they knew I knew and after a bottle of wine she told me “your dad is such a good listener, even when I talk about my feelings.” Then I really knew. Though I still didn’t know whether to hug her or warn her to get out while she could. So I just topped up her glass and later, in my room, I looked at some old photos Mom took of me and Dad for some photography project or other and tried to see if he listened to me back then, if we were close. But how can you tell? Just because people smile for photos doesn’t mean they’re happy.

      Poor Meghan’s learning the hard way now. Postmarriage, prebaby Dad is an absent presence, working late, drinking hard, teaching summer school so he doesn’t have to spend time with anyone who’s not an adoring student. I remember feeling bitter when they got engaged and thinking, One day he’ll blame you for everything like he blames me. Like he blames me for Mom dying and for losing it after she did. Now that it’s come true, though, I just feel sad for her.

      Anyhow