Chameleon
by Zoe Kalo
Genre: YA Paranormal Psychological Suspense
FIVE GIRLS. AN ISOLATED CONVENT. A SUPERNATURAL PRESENCE. A DARK SECRET.
SHORTLISTED for the 2017 Dante Rossetti Awards for Young Adult Fiction!
I can't believe it has come to this. The way things have blown out of proportion. I only wanted to contact my dead father. Ask his forgiveness.
Seven months.
Seven months isn't that long, is it?
I'll go through the motions, no need to make friends that I’ll never see again. When you get close to people, you end up getting hurt.
Puerto Rico, 1973
17-year-old Paloma only wanted to hold a séance to contact her dead father. She never thought she would be kicked out of school and end up in an isolated convent. Now, all she wants is to be left alone. But slowly, she develops a bond with a group of girls: kind-hearted Maria, insolent Silvy, pathological liar Adelita, and their charismatic leader Rubia.
At night, the waterfall’s dark music haunts her dreams of drowning…
When Paloma holds another séance, she accidentally awakens an entity that has been dormant for years. The body count begins. Someone doesn’t want the secret out…
Are the ghost and Paloma’s suspicions real—or only part of her growing paranoia and delusions?
If you love the vibes in "The Orphanage," "The Craft" and "Pretty Little Liars," you'll enjoy this mess-with-your-head, YA supernatural/psychological thriller!
Excerpt 1:
I cannot clearly say how I had entered
the wood; I was so full of sleep just at
the point where I abandoned the true path.
--Dante
Alighieri, Inferno 1. 11-12
Chapter 1
Puerto Rico, 1973
Oak trees dripping
with Spanish moss embraced us from both sides, but not enough to shield us from
the prison that would be my home for the next seven months. The high stone
walls and neo-Gothic bell tower loomed over us as my stepfather drove his
Mercedes through the spiked iron gates and into the sloping, curving driveway.
A spider of dread
crawled up my back. Prison indeed.
I couldn’t believe
it had come to this. The way things had blown out of proportion. I’d only
wanted to contact my dead father. Ask his forgiveness.
My
mother reached for my hand from the front seat without turning around to look
at me. I stared at her perfectly polished red nails and the glittery square cut
emerald on her ring finger. Her fingers flicked, silently pleading for my
attention, but I was frozen inside. Her hand retreated.
I stared at the
convent, my eyes studying the dark arched windows, the worn, age-blackened
stones. The place looked haunted. Perfect for my state of mind. What was my
mother thinking?
Something moved
behind one of the windows. A face. For an instant my pulse raced at the sheer
paleness of it, at the two dark holes that made up its eyes.
“What are you
looking at?” Sara, my six-year-old half sister, asked.
I pointed. “A
girl.”
She followed my
line of vision. “Where?”
“There. High up. In
the window.”
She
dipped her head so she could have a better look. “I don’t see anything.”
I felt a shiver, but not from
the cold. It’s white. It’s watching us.
Then
the car moved too close to the building, and the face vanished from view.
“Is
this your new school, Paloma?” Sara asked.
I
nodded. Sara was the child, female version of my stepfather. Her bottomless
dark eyes, framed by velvety lashes, stared at me with misery. “I don’t like
it,” she whispered, grabbing my hand.
“It’ll
be okay,” I whispered back, and gave her hand a little squeeze.
“You
promise?”
“I
promise.”
“Well,
here we are,” Domenico said in his strong Castilian accent, stopping the car in
front of the entrance. He climbed out and opened the door for my mother. Then
he proceeded to take out my suitcases from the trunk.
My
mother was silent. She stepped out like a wooden mannequin, her eyes shimmery
with unshed tears.
I
climbed out, followed by Sara, the gravel crunching under our shoes. The early
morning air was cool and a blanket of mist still lingered—not surprising, since
the convent was on the outskirts of El Yunque, the island’s rain forest. More
Spanish moss hung from the oak trees and rippled in the breeze like long,
shivering memories. I could smell the dew on the leaves and the rich perfume of
moist earth, redolent of open graves.
I
glanced at the ominous clouds. “Beautiful morning.”
An ongoing distant
hum resonated all around us. One, two beats passed, before it struck me: Waterfall.
Something within me
shut down—or exploded, I couldn’t be sure.
I shut my eyes for
a second, wiping out memories of chilled water searing my lungs.
I
repeated the eighth multiplication table in my head.
“After you,”
Domenico said, interrupting my thoughts.
I wanted to loathe
him. Tried to, anyway. I could see what my mother saw in him: a powerfully
charismatic, handsome man with the infinite skill to make people do his
bidding. My mother, with her small delicate features and petite frame, looked
invisible beside him. A mere spectre. But that was just a façade. I knew
better.
The
big oak door opened and a nun clad in black habit and a wimple came down the
steps to greet us.
Sara
wrapped her arms around my waist. Her gesture both comforted me and heightened
my anxiety. Nuns in habit made me think of great black birds.
“Bienvenidos,”
the nun said. Like my stepfather, she also had a Castilian accent. “I’m Madre
Estela and I’m second in charge to Madre Superiora. You must be Señor and
Señora de Aznar.”
They
exchanged small talk. Madre Estela sounded polite enough, but she didn’t offer
to shake hands with my parents, which I found strange. Maybe nuns weren’t
allowed to shake hands. I wouldn’t be surprised. I noticed the wedding band on
her ring finger. Married to God. Absurd.
“You
must be Paloma,” she said tonelessly.
“Yes,”
I said. Wasn’t it obvious? I didn’t know what else to say.
The
cross on her chest caught my attention. It had a crucified Christ on it and I
noticed the thorns cutting Christ’s forehead, the little drops of blood
glistening on His fragile body.
“Welcome
to our school, Paloma.” Her critical gaze scrutinized my makeup, my tight
jeans. “I’ve heard much about you.”
I didn’t miss the
hint of cold disapproval in her voice. I wasn’t sure how much my parents had
complained about my behavior, but considering I had been kicked out—well,
actually, kindly asked to leave—my previous school in the middle of October, it
couldn’t be good.
“Are
you ready to resume your senior year of high school?” Stress on resume.
“I
can’t wait,” I said. There was no point in being nice—or pretending to be. That
just wasn’t me. I felt miserable and couldn’t hide it. Besides, I could tell
from our short exchange that she’d made up her mind not to like me long before
meeting me, and I had the sinking feeling that no matter what I said or did,
her opinion wouldn’t change. I had already been stamped in her Inquisition
book, tagged a criminal.
Madre
Estela’s stony eyes moved to Sara. My little sister’s arms clutched my waist
even tighter. From the nun’s expression, I could tell she was wondering if I
had infected Sara with whatever plague ailed me. She dismissed us and turned
back to my mother and stepfather. “Madre Superiora is expecting you in her
office. Let’s not keep her waiting,
shall we not? Don’t concern yourselves with the suitcases. Someone will come
for them shortly.”
They
thanked her and followed her up the steps.
“I
don’t want to go in,” Sara said.
“It’ll be okay,” I
said. I glanced at the window. I wanted to see the pale face again. But there
was nothing.
A
drop of rain hit my cheek and I wiped it off. Then I held Sara’s hand and
together we walked up the steps and through the arched doorway.
I felt my throat
closing up.
Seven months.
Seven months wasn’t
that long, was it? Besides, Thanksgiving break was just around the corner. Six
weeks, to be exact. I had already marked my calendar. I couldn’t wait. I would
go through the motions, no need to make friends that I’d never see again. When
you get close to people, you end up getting hurt.
Excerpt 2 (from
Chapter 9):
Madre Estela remained standing by the
door. “Get a bucket and fill it with water.”
Her hypercritical eyes sliced through my self-worth
as I grabbed one of the metal buckets, lifted it into the sink, and turned on
the faucet. I watched, transfixed, as the water gushed like a torrent spurting
from an open artery. The cold spray raised goosebumps on my arms.
Madre Estela snapped her fingers. “Move.”
As I hauled the
bucket to the door, some of the water slushed over the edge and splattered to
the floor.
“Add the
detergent,” she said stiffly, irritated by my clumsiness.
I chose a green
bottle, twisted the cap, and poured. The acrid pine smell stung my
nostrils.
“Get a sponge and a brush from there. Get
going. We don't have all evening—unless you want to work in the dark.”
I gritted my teeth, but pretended not to
be bothered. I suspected that the one thing that this nun couldn’t stand was
indifference.
Outside, it was almost dusk. In spite of
the intense screeching of the coquíes, the drum of the waterfall hit my ears.
It was louder now than the last time I’d been here. How was that possible?
I felt a drop of rain. Great.
Madre Estela put one hand out, palm up.
“My, my. What’s this?” She looked chagrined, and I suddenly realized why. If it
rained, I would have to go inside, ruining her plans. “What are you standing
there for? Start scrubbing.”
I was tempted to throw the bucket of
greenish water at her face. Instead, I prayed for rain as I walked across the
rose garden. Once at the gate, I glanced back at her.
“You’ll work until I come for you,
understood?” she said, hands on hips in her usual stance. She pointed to one of
the second-floor windows. “I’ll be watching from there.”
And that was it. She was gone.
For a moment I just stood there. If only
my friends could see me now. They would never believe it.
I opened the gate and walked into the
graveyard. The statue of Gabriel greeted me, its face fiercer in the dusk. The
temperature must have been in the low seventies. I was glad I had my cardigan.
Suddenly, the garden lamp post lit up. I
turned, startled. I wasn’t sure if it had automatically switched on or if
someone, maybe Madre Estela, had done it from indoors. I glanced up at the
second-floor window, expecting to find her face. I had the chilling sensation
of being watched. There was nothing. The windows glowed with yellow light, a
multitude of feral eyes keeping guard.
However, behind one of the ground-floor
windows on the right, a figure appeared. Tall, blurred. Madre Superiora? I was
sure that was her office. Yet, something about the shape of the head and the
shoulders made me think of…Rubia. What was she doing in Madre Superiora’s
office?
Just as abruptly
as it’d appeared, the figure vanished from view.
The incident left me strangely unsettled.
Focus.
I splashed some of the water on one of the
tombstones and got to work. The sound of hard bristles against stone blocked
the hum of the waterfall. Almost.
Go away, damn
it.
As I crouched to work on a second
tombstone, doing my best not to get wet in the process, something shifted at
the edge of my vision. I jumped to my feet, my heart thudding. Gabriel. Its
wings had rippled with movement.
Dear God…what’s
happening to me?
I rubbed my forehead and grimaced, my
fingers shaking.
I felt another drop of rain. If it was
going to rain, why didn’t it? The sky was playing with me, too. Mocking me.
I cursed the clouds and started scrubbing
again.
I had another sensation of being watched
and this time, yes, it was Madre Estela behind the window. I pretended I hadn't
seen her and tried to keep focused on the task at hand. The water had turned blackish with grime.
I don’t know how long I scrubbed. I lost
track of time. But it was dark. My back and shoulders were sore and my hands
stung from the harsh detergent.
Madre Estela was long gone from the
window.
Half panting, I sat down on the edge of
the tombstone and tossed the brush aside in disgust. I looked at the statue
again, but it was motionless. I turned to the windows again, my eyes slowly
moving from one to the other.
From one to the other.
Expecting to see the face. Wanting to see it.
Nothing.
Yet, that weird sensation of being
watched, again.
My gaze shifted to the woods, to the exact
place where the cemetery ended and the forest started. There was a path there.
Narrow, obscured by the trees. For a long moment I sat, mesmerized. Then I
stood up and began to approach it. The breeze picked up as I got closer,
carrying with it the cool, slightly pungent smell of the waterfall.
I stopped at the very edge, the darkness
enveloping me, the dampness seeping through my clothes.
The wind sighed, rustling the leaves and fluttering
my hair.
Icy breath, on the back of my neck.
I’m in here… a voice whispered from the
shadows.
I spun around in
terror.
Then I hit
something hard.
Excerpt 3 (from Chapter 11):
The foliage swallowed me. Sodden leaves
gave under my shoes. Twisted limbs and giant ferns reached out to scratch my
arms, my legs.
“Adelita!” I called, hastening my pace.
Flash of white ahead.
“Adelita!” No response. “Damn it. It’s
getting freaking dark!”
Voices? I halted, panting.
Then broke into a run again. The mist,
carried by the waterfall, clung to my lashes, my cheeks, my lips. I tasted its
bitterness on my tongue.
Giggling.
“I’m here!” Adelita called.
I slowed my pace.
Toward the end of the path, fibrous vines hung from branches like a curtain of
snakes. I pushed them aside and staggered forward. Slowly, I looked up.
Against the
blackening sky, the monster roared, cradled by twisted, stunted trunks and
wisps of fog, looming over me in all its brutal magnificence. Its crystalline
waters gushed ferociously, cascading into a murky, swirling pool that spiraled
into a descending rock-studded stream gurgling with white iridescent foam.
A cloud of spray enveloped me, cold and
impersonal like the wings of some giant bat. Had it not been for one of the
vines, I would have fallen to my knees.
Cold water, sucking me down, searing my
throat, my eyes. Can’t see, can’t breathe; his hands grab me; blackness, like
tar, steals its way down my lungs, spreading its web and filling every corner,
every crevice; utter agony before oblivion settles—
The
sight of Adelita, standing at the edge of the pool, shook me out of my trance.
She was very still, her skirt puffing from the thundering falls.
“Step
back!” I shouted.
Slowly,
Adelita lifted her arm and pointed to the center of the waterfall. “She’s in
there.”
“Who?”
When she didn’t answer, I answered for her. “The ghost? Your invisible friend?”
Adelita
lowered her arm. She seemed to have fallen into one of her sudden spells.
“Is
that who you were speaking to?” I said urgently.
She
was silent.
“Adelita,” I coaxed. She was about ten yards
from me. I took one step toward her, my toes curling. “Please… step back.”
“She
wants to speak to us,” Adelita said, moving closer to the edge.
“What’s
wrong with you? Stop!”
She
turned her head to look at me. When she smiled, her teeth looked unnaturally
white, as if the iridescence of the foamy water reflected on them.
I
edged a little closer and extended my hand. “Please.” I clenched my teeth. “I
can’t come any closer,” I said, stressing each word. I squeezed my eyes shut,
willing reality to go away, willing it all to be a nightmare. But when I opened
my eyes, Adelita’s toes stood just over the edge. For an instant, as if
suspended, she seemed to sway, before she opened her wings like an angel about
to take flight.
“No!”
I sprang forward and seized her arm. She twisted, lost her balance and clutched
at my gold chain—“No!”—The gold snapped. I grabbed her shirt and jerked her
toward me. We staggered in a drunken embrace before stumbling to the ground. My
hand groped wildly around my neck, but my pendant, the most precious object I
possessed, was gone. I searched for it on my hands and knees, my flesh sinking
into the cold, wet earth.
Then
I stood and stared hard at her.
Smudged
with dirt, she sagged against a moss-covered boulder. “It’s in there,” she
said, her gaze lowered, pointing to the water.
“How
do you know?”
“I
saw it fall,” she said.
A
jolt of nausea hit me and I held my stomach. “That can’t be.”
I
stared at the swirling pool and thought I saw it twinkling in the depths. I
squeezed my eyes shut—for an eternity, it seemed—before I spun and grabbed
Adelita and shook her violently. “You’re lying! That’s what you do. You lie.” I
kept shaking her. I wanted to hurt her, hurt her. That was the only way to ease
my pain.
She
started whimpering, in a manner not unlike my sister Sara. “I’m sorry, I’m
sorry,” she kept saying.
I
shoved her away and reeled backwards. I felt breathless, delirious.
I
glanced one more time at the swirling pool, before I grasped her muddy hand and
we headed back. She didn’t resist, an obedient, repentant little child.
By
the time we got back to the graveyard, it was already dark. The lamp post cast
an iridescent glow on the white roses and tombstones.
To
my dismay, Madre Estela had just stepped out of the garden gate and was
marching in our direction. With the light behind her, her face was a black
mask. But her chin was high and her stride purposeful.
As
if out of habit, she went for Adelita first. “What are you doing here? You
haven’t done any of your chores.”
I
stepped forward and shielded Adelita with my arm. “This isn’t her fault,” I
said quickly. “I told her to come and help me.”
She
bared her teeth. “Help do what?” she said, her eyes sweeping over our
dirt-covered hair and clothes.
“We
heard voices coming from there,” I said, gesturing. “We thought one of the
girls had gotten lost, so we decided to take a look.”
This
made her pause, but only for an instant—before her hand came down, hard and
brutal. I staggered backwards, more from shock than pain. No one had ever
slapped me before. I touched my burning cheek and just stared at her.
“Voices
here, voices there,” she said, disgusted, as if she couldn’t stand to hear more
of it. “There are no voices, do you understand? No voices,” she repeated, as if she were trying to convince herself
of the fact. “You should know better than listen to Adelita’s lies.”
Adelita
didn’t even flinch when Madre Estela twisted her ear. I thought she was going
to wrench it off her head right in front of my eyes.
“Pick
up the things and go change immediately, both of you,” she ordered, “before you
catch pneumonia.”
Before
we went inside, I glanced back at Madre Estela. The vegetation rose up behind
her, dark and menacing. Her eyes seemed strangely unfocused. She was clutching
her wooden cross and murmuring a prayer. A gust of wind rattled the branches.
A certified bookworm, Zoe Kalo has always been obsessed with books and reading. Reading led to writing—compulsively. No surprise that at 16, she wrote her first novel, which her classmates read and passed around secretly. The pleasure of writing and sharing her fantasy worlds has stayed with her, so now she wants to pass her stories to you with no secrecy—but with lots of mystery…
She’s had the good fortune of living on 3 continents, learning 4 languages, and experiencing a multicultural life. She holds a BA in Creative Writing and an MA in Comparative Literature. She lives in Belgium with her husband and two evil cats.
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