FEVERCHAIN 20

Lesbian werewolves, et cetera. FEVERCHAIN is a contemporary horror-romance serial set in the fictional Pinetown, New Jersey.

Voiceover by Emily S Hurricane, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Once again, she fucking nailed it. 🔨🌪️

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Pulling into the Dyer’s driveway after sundown again is moderately traumatic, but I try to clear my head. There are other cars parked here too, a Buick that must belong to Gwen’s grandparents—both alive on Marie’s side.

I get out and approach the front steps, a shudder nearly unspooling my bowels.

“You are being recorded.”

I flinch at the doorbell camera’s monotone. My hand hovers over the button as I breathe in the pines, trying to calm myself. Before I can press it the door swings open and Gwen ushers me inside.

“Good timing.”

“Y-yeah?”

“My grandma is asleep in the guest bedroom, my grandpa is asleep by the fireplace, and my aunt is drunk watching reality TV.”

I run my hands over my hair. “Guess I’ll meet them tomorrow.” The floorboards creak under my feet and I wonder if anyone has seen the basement. Gwen’s coverup story? Her parents were remodeling it. That won’t explain the dog smell, though.

We creep upstairs, careful not to make a ruckus.

“Wait,” I whisper. “They know I’m here right? Or that I was coming?”

“Um.” When we reach the top of the steps, Gwen points left. Long hallway, lots of pictures I don’t want to focus on. We enter what must be her parents’ bedroom. A chill cuts me as I cross the threshold. Their belongings are in the process of being boxed and packed. There is a pile of books stacked by the foot of the bed. Werewolves in Western Culture, crammed between Notes on Shapeshifting, and Practical Tips: Fighting Inflammation.

Gwen leads me through a bathroom and into a walk-in closet. Flicks on the lights.

There are rows of tracksuits in various jewel tones but that’s not why we’re here. Gwen stands in the middle of the too-big room of mirrors, looking grim.

I move towards the dress section. “Here’s a start.” It’s organized by color. The outfit must be black, of course, for the occasion. My hands skim silk, feathers, furs. I seek out something modest and simple, which wouldn’t be the first words you think of when describing Marie Dyer’s style.

A sleeveless, ruffled high-low with frayed edges. It was pretty chic, actually. Tommy Hilfiger.

I take the hanger, wow that’s a nice, sturdy wooden hanger, and show it to Gwen. She immediately starts throwing her clothes off. “You like it?”

“I don’t care. I just want to get this all over with.” She slips it on. In the black dress, with her short hair, she looks kinda like a flapper from the 1920s. An extremely tense and unhappy flapper.

“You look beautiful.”

She crosses her arms over her chest. The oval scar on her collarbone shines.“Thanks.”

“Would you be more comfortable in a suit?”

Gwen grinds her teeth. “I’m never comfortable, so it doesn’t matter.”

Bite my lip. “Does your mom have a jumpsuit?”

“I don’t want to play dress-up!”

Have to wipe her spittle off my face. Rude. I’m here because she asked for my help. Some of us have work in the morning, and no one else knows I’m in this house except maybe the Dyer family ghosts. My skin feels like cold spaghetti noodles in here. “Okay… so you’re good? Should I leave?”

“Please don’t.” She turns from me to clutch the island containing shelves of shoes. The fake orchid on top trembles. “Grandma asked if my speech was ready today, and I said yeah.”

“Speech?” My jaw drops. “Do you have a speech—”

“NO!” She whisper-shouts on the verge of tears. “I just didn’t know what to say!”

I sigh. Wonder if she feels guilty or if she’s just frustrated at the inconvenience. It’s a joint funeral for the family; the entire town is coming and then some. At least it’s closed casket. “Keep it short ‘n sweet.”

“Bianca.” She tilts her head to plead. “Can you write it for me?”

“Oh god, Gwen.” I wipe the tears from her burning cheeks with my thumbs. “Really?”

“I have nothing to say.”

Pinch my brow. “Then maybe, you should just say that. But in, like, a mournful way.”

“I lost my family, there’s nothing to say.”

“Nice. And?”

“They’re nothing to me.”

“No. Say you love and miss them, look sad, and step away.” I doubt she’ll struggle to start crying. “No one’s gonna expect a song and dance from you.”

“Gam Gam is…”

“Too bad!” I lower my voice; hopefully Gam Gam isn’t wearing hearing aids. “A speech is a lot to ask of someone who lost her family last weekend.”

“That was the only good thing to come out of last weekend,” Gwen mumbles. Looks at herself in the mirror again and grimaces. Wiggles free of the dress and regards it like it’s diseased.

“Only a little bit more of this and we’re out of here,” I comfort thoughtlessly. I shouldn’t be making such promises about what “we” are gonna do. My heart prunes up; I do my best not to let it show.

“You’re right.” Gwen exhales. Glances back at me with exuberant eyes. “The lawyer said the life insurance should pay out after they look at my claim, in thirty days, maybe. The trust stuff, I don’t get that until later. It’s a bunch of phased payments but—” She takes my hand and beams. “The life insurance is a lump sum.”

I swallow. Can’t resist. “Did he tell you how much?”

“Should be ten million.”

My legs go Jell-O. I sink to my knees. I stare into the cruel heavens—the off-white ceiling and tit light of Marie Dyer’s walk-in closet. FUCK. FUCK RAINY. FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK. FUCK!

Gwen kneels beside me.

I try to collect myself. Grit my teeth so I don’t sob. I wish I didn’t know that. Oh god, I wish I didn’t know that.

“Bianca?”

“Mhm?”

“You okay?”

I nod. “That’s just—that’s just a lot of money.”

She laughs. “We could get a nice camper van and hit the road. What do you think?”

↟↟↟

The Bridgeton Chapel is a long building built in stone. Nondenominational, abandoned then revitalized, it’s said that the Jersey Devil refused baptism here. Maybe that’s another chapel. Whatever. Anyway, now they charge a boatload if you wanna get married here because it’s pretty during fall.

The sign outside the chapel reads: HOPE TO THE PINELANDS above ALL ARE WELCOME. Double wood doors are wide open as townsfolk clad in black stream inside. Derek Gugger and the Guggers, Cam LaBorde and the LaBordes, and Thornton shamble in after the owners of Pineworld Adventures, the Twitchells, who might be richer than the Dyers, but who knows. Reverend Kerrigan’s silver head is bobbing in solemn greeting as people pass inside.

It’s a cloudy afternoon. Mom and I left the diner early to get ready. I’m wearing a long-sleeved black sweater dress, high neck to cover-up my unmournful breasts. Mom’s wearing a black shawl over her maxi dress, her skin deep olive from hours under the Bahamian sun. Clyde doesn’t own anything black besides t-shirts and socks. He’s wearing a navy sweater Mom panic purchased from Walmart, which I guess is good enough.

We walk inside, Mom holding my hand and already teary.

Everyone is here. Emilio in his green cast with his parents and three-year-old baby sister. The receptionist from Molly’s hotel. Robby Bob and Billy Bob from the bar. Ms. Pileggi, who’s been wearing black ever since her Chihuahua, Peanut, was eaten by coyotes anyway. People I know from high school who have stuck around, and people I know from high school who are visiting from afar. It’s like looking at my whole life. Yikes.

Mr. Nowack waves—he thinks he saved me and I don’t think he’ll ever let me forget it.

The air is thick, dense with hushed voices, and the cool breeze is too weak to cut. By the modest altar are the three shiny caskets of amber hue, each with a portrait on an easel in the front so you know who’s who. There’s another portrait of the family all together that includes Gwen, even though she isn’t dead. Each casket is topped with a wreath of white lilies and white roses.

I look to the front, righthand side of the chapel as we make our way to our seats. The back of Gwen’s head is beside two aged ones: a white beehive and an age-spotted scalp with a few strands of white combed overtop.

“No, no, no!” The Reverend’s petulant holler turns heads back to the doors. He’s blocking the entrance from a small crowd of cameramen and reporters.

A man with a ginger beard and a wrinkled button down gestures to the sign outside. “Your church sign says ‘all are welcome’?”

“Very funny. Yes, that’s for tomorrow morning. You’re all welcome then, but this is a private funeral service!” Reverend’s chicken neck is turning pink. “Please, leave! Or I’ll call the police!”

I scan the audience for Sheriff and I find him seated, uniformed, facing forward and rolling his eyes.

“Fine, that’s fine.” The cameraman retreats. “No need to shout.”

“God bless you!” Reverend spits. “Now clear the path for the mourners…”

I study the back of Gwen’s head as people trickle in, happy I can watch her from my seat. It’s very still, only nodding when the beehive turns to whisper, black jewel-drop earring swinging. I want so badly to see Gwen’s face. My heart is thrumming into my throat. Mom must notice something is up because she squeezes my sweaty hand.

The chapel doors slam with an echo. The room falls silent except for one or two coughs. Reverend Kerrigan struts stiffly down the middle of the aisle and perches behind the altar. He closes his eyes and exhales before surveying the crowd.

“I believe most of Pinetown is here.” His voice is calm, resonant as it bounces from stone to stone and ear to ear. “That doesn’t surprise me at all, no, not at all. There are over 150 people in here, and we’ve had to set up extra seating in the back.” His lips stretch into a smile. “And I know that even more still are thinking of the Dyer family. All people across the Pine Barrens are thinking of this great family, and will remember them as fierce protectors of the forest, leaders of our community, and liaisons to the outside world, boosting our economy and increasing tourism and awareness about our lands and way of life here. We Pineys are a resilient people. I remember when Pierce and Marie moved here with little Wade. He was a toddler, and Marie was still carrying Gwen. They were coming from Cherry Hill, so I said to ‘em, that’s a nice place, why would you come here?” He pauses for the scattered laughter. “And I’ll never forget what Pierce said. He said: the people. The people, and the lives they’ve built among nature, negotiating with nature.”

I’ve never ‘negotiated’ with nature. Is he talking about weed whacking?

The reverend takes a solemn breath. “We know Pierce was a man of passion, only to be outdone by his wife. They raised two beautiful children here. They passed ordinances to protect our environment and restore historic buildings, such as this very chapel. Marie worked with scholars to create the placards out front. And they raised money for the fire department! Remember the parades? Wade and Gwen would sell tickets to the firetruck parade—the kids just loved it! People would come from out of town for that, and you know, the other towns copied us.” He chuckles, shakes his head. “We owe so much to this family. They made Pinetown into what it is today, the capital of the Pine Barrens!”

I watch the Twitchells twitch to glance at one another, furious, I’m sure, that the Dyers are getting all the credit.

“Of course, they weren’t superpeople. They were good people. Good people that had to face real world complications, but let me tell you, they relished a challenge. When Pierce was in a pickle, he’d call me up. That man, I can say, always put his family first. Always. He fought for his family like he fought for his town.” Reverend Kerrigan’s face squeezes, pinkening as he sniffles and suppresses emotion. “We must honor their memory.”

Must we?

He clasps his hands together. “We must vow, as a community, to be there for Gwen, and for each other, during this incredibly difficult time. This time when the world seeks to exploit our tragedies. This time when nature seems full of danger. Lord, we need you! And we need one another to heal. Let us pray.”

The prayer is equally drawn out. It’s kinda funny that Reverend Kerrigan has nothing of substance to say about Wade. I don’t blame him. Besides working on some summer camp stuff, he didn’t really do anything. “When Wade wasn’t too busy getting drunk or high, he was a great help to his parents and their murder plots.”

Then a random violinist comes out. She really came out of nowhere, and there’s a musical interlude.

The reverend returns to the altar and drawls out a poem: “...I come into the peace of wild things, who do not tax their lives with a forethought…”

Et cetera. I’m glad we only go to church for Christmas. Mom likes the music.

“Before I read each eulogy,” holy shit I thought he already did that, “I will step back to allow for family and friends to recite brief, informal tributes.”

Gwen rises from the pews. She’s wearing her mom’s Hilfiger dress and black flats. She’s even got on tights—perfect. Almost giggle despite myself. Her sandy hair is tamed tight to her skull. I wonder whether she’s wearing makeup but I think it’s just her fever-flush—lips, cheeks, and chest deepening to crimson. That’s mildly very concerning, but her expression is calm and appropriately solemn.

Reverend Kerrigan pats her shoulder as she steps in front of him, stuttering her stride. When she’s behind the altar she death-grips it. Have to stop myself from whispering, “Oh no.”

But her shoulders relax and she begins, no notes or anything: “It’s hard to find the words.”

I’ll bet. Her voice is much smaller than the reverend’s. No way people can hear her in the back, but that’s fine.

“Mom was my biggest cheerleader. Dad was my favorite coach. Wade was—Wade gave me a lot of older brother advice I didn’t want to hear at the time. I know they had my best interest at heart, and they did what they could so that I could succeed. All the memories we have, I don’t know what to do with them—they don’t even feel like mine.”

The death-grip returns. She’s staring at the lip of the altar, not at the people. I think she’s found a good stopping point. I stare at her, trying to will her attention to me so I can smile and nod. Just step away…

“I have all these memories, and they just get to be done.” Gwen starts panting. “It was—it doesn’t feel finished. It doesn’t feel finished, not with me. And it’s mine, I don’t care how you feel. I don’t care if you put a fucking bow on it.”

The reverend’s brows knit together. He must feel it too, a shift in the air. Bad electricity. Gwen grimaces. The altar creaks and shakes. Most are silent. Some burst out crying. I don’t breathe.

“I have to live and remember how they… smelled.”

Oh god. Is she gonna talk about how they tasted next?

She laughs a little. Looks drunk, hopefully people think she’s drunk. Lowers her voice, but I can still make it out: “You try to cover it up, but you can’t—you sweat oil. Why do you all sweat like….”

The reverend approaches from behind to pat her shoulder, orienting his body towards her empty spot in the pews. That’s enough. It’s getting harder to dismiss, but if she stops now, there’s a chance.

She resists him. Bares her teeth to the audience. Says something I can’t hear. I scoot forward in my seat. The altar groans as Gwen’s fingers dig into it with nonexistent claws.

“Step away,” I beg under my breath. Mom side-eyes me. “Step—”

When Reverend Kerrigan touches her shoulder again, Gwen snaps around, seizes his neck, and bites into it like it’s a yellow apple. Blood bubbles from the hole like boiling stew, soaking his white shirt collar, overflowing onto the altar. She drops his dying body; it smacks the stones. Her eyes finally find mine, stained lips trembling.

The town gasps.

Gwen’s waiting, I realize, for direction. There’s really only one thing she can do. After that, I can’t help her anymore.

“Run.”

She does. Good thing she isn’t wearing heels. People start to scream as she nears the exit. Sheriff lunges to grab her, but she shoves him to the floor. When the doors open, cameras flash, but the crowd of reporters parts enough for her to sprint into the pines. Through the arched chapel windows, I watch her disappear. A mob follows.

I stand with my mouth open, unable to hear my mom until sirens blare.