By Kelleigh Cram
Every time I read it, it changed. Subtle shifts that would go unnoticed to the untrained eye, like the sugar packets. When I first followed Alice to her favorite brunch spot, she took her coffee with two sugars and a splash of cream. The next time she used four, then cream only. By the end she drank it black, but people don’t change their coffee habits. They are ingrained in you, set in stone by the time you reach adulthood.
I found the book at a neighborhood yard sale, cast aside with the other dollar-bin items rescued from junk drawer purgatory. It called to me, its yellow pages faded but untouched, the cover chipped from careless storage. No design, no pictures, just a single word serving as the title. I ran my fingers down its spine, knowing I had to have it.
Five times I read it without reaching the end. I started the last chapter for the first time when Tammy called to say Dad was in hospice. Three days and nights of sitting in that hospital, comforting him, holding his hand, the right words spoken and gestures performed, but all I could think about was Alice. I don’t remember grieving, just coming straight home from the funeral to finish the book.
My bookmark laid face down on the floor, discarded like one of the tissues they passed out at the viewing. I turned to where I left off and began to read. Right away, I knew something was wrong. It was like jumping into a movie halfway through. I backed up a few pages, restarted. No matter where I read, it wasn’t the same book.
I blamed grief and started from the beginning. That’s when I first noticed the changes. Alice met her friend at a different restaurant. Her golden retriever became a labrador. Instead of a light sweater, she grabbed a raincoat. I read on, glossing over these details. I was invested in Alice and needed to know what would happen to her.
A car wreck brought my second attempt to a crashing halt. I woke early to finish the book, ignoring the clock as it neared eight thirty. My gut told me to stay home, but I couldn’t afford to be late for work again. I passed a truck at the same time it merged into my lane, forcing me off the road. The nurses say I woke up screaming for Alice.
Tammy visited me. As soon as she stepped into my room I begged her to get the book. She came back armed with clothes and toiletries, everything I needed except for the one thing I wanted. She claimed she couldn’t find it, but I doubt she even looked. By the time they released me it was too late. I skimmed through the pages, new words printed over the ones I’d already read.
There would be no more distractions. I refused to set the thing down. I read during meals. I read in the bathroom. I didn’t shower or go to work. After two days of reading nonstop I dozed off, waking to find the book sprawled across my pillow. My frantic attempts to pick back up made no difference. That version of the book was gone, lost into the void of Alice’s world.
I took a break for damage control. The more I insisted I was fine, the more convinced Tammy became I wasn’t. She asked to stay with me for a few days and I suggested she stop acting so much like Mom. We compromised with dinner at the local diner.
“You just don’t seem like yourself,” she said once we settled in a corner booth.
I stirred my coffee, staring into the glossy hue swirling at the top of the cup. I reached for the sugar container, pausing to run my finger over the different colored packets.
“How do I take my coffee?” I asked.
“What?” Tammy looked up, pushing her plate aside.
“I can’t remember how many sugar packets I use. Or is it Splenda? Or cream?”
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
I glared at her, waiting for an answer. “Well?”
“Put whatever you want in your coffee,” she said.
I jumped up, slapping a twenty on the table. “How do you not know? You’re my sister.”
I went to work the next morning, blaming the accident for my absence. I left the book at home, knowing if I had it with me I’d be too tempted to read it, but Alice still found ways to speak to me. Words in an email morphed into excepts from the text, just long enough to leave an imprint when I closed my eyes. The phone rang, my hello landing on dead air.
“Alice?” I asked.
The silence on the other line hung thick with her presence. It was time to go home, and this time I had to succeed. I armed myself with coffee, Red Bull, and dollar store snacks before locking myself in my room.
Something was wrong with Alice. The once carefree woman had grown cold. Did I leave her alone for too long? Was she punishing me? Her friends turned into enemies. Kind words developed a sarcastic tilt. I began to doubt myself. Maybe Alice had always been this way. She wasn’t changing, only my interpretation of her.
The phone rang. I turned it off. I knew in the back of my mind I no longer had a job and Tammy was worried. Dehydration, hunger, and exhaustion played tug of war with my body, but I couldn’t stop. Alice wouldn’t survive another read through.
Someone knocked on the front door. I almost dropped the book but managed to squeeze the pages under my thumb before it slipped through my hands. The knocking grew louder, the sound coming from underwater. I ignored it. We were getting so close, Alice and I. Once I reached the end Alice would be redeemed, her true nature revealed by a final heroic act. The last two pages fanned out over my hand, rocking up and down as though summoning me forward. Before I could turn the page a window popped open, the light bursting into the room searing the ink off the pages.
I felt no fear, only agitation. I tore my eyes from the book to face my intruder. Tammy stared back.
Her words were hallow, annoyance masquerading as concern. I tried talking her down, but she wouldn’t have it. I got up to make the guest bed, knowing once again we would have to start over.
The next morning, I told Tammy I was going to work before driving to the local walking trail. I parked in the back, a secluded spot where Alice and I could be alone. As soon as I read the first word I knew.
This was a horror story.
I forced myself to keep going. Once I finished, everything would be okay. There could still be a happy ending.
Alice frightened me. She transformed into something violent, hateful. Her thoughts read like venom. I no longer rooted for her, willing the fiction gods to smite her. A sense of loss rose from deep within me, tears threatening to blur the words into oblivion. Alice, my Alice, was gone, but I couldn’t give up.
When it got dark I clicked on the overhead lights, keeping my eyes locked onto the book. This was the closest I had ever gotten to the end, but the more I read the less I wanted to know. My hands trembled as I flipped to the last page. A single paragraph hovered over a sea of blank gray space, Alice’s fate summed up in four simple sentences. Don’t do it, I thought, don’t do it Alice. I willed myself to slam the book shut, but my eyes got dragged across the page, Alice whispering the words in my ear.
As I read the last sentence, the kind that makes THE END not only unnecessary but inevitable, a chill washed over me. I knew who Alice was, what she was, who she had become. I had to stop her.
Someone tapped on the driver side window. Through the glass, Tammy looked miles away, from another dimension, one where Alice didn’t exist. Her voice rose up from a deep tunnel.
“Alisson? Are you alright?”
“It’s Alice,” I said, knowing it was too late. Alice’s story was written and would never be undone.
* * *
Kelleigh Cram resides in a small town near Savannah, Georgia. Her work has been featured in Ponder Review, Bacopa Literary Review, and The Hoolet’s Nook.
