Bea Woolf

By Eve Butler

A modern-day retelling of Beowulf set in the haunted Coastal Empire city of Savannah, Georgia.

High school senior Hannah Roth starts dating charismatic art student Greg, but when she discovers his dark secret, she wants out. Greg won't take no for an answer, and Hannah needs her friend Bea to step in when things take a dangerous turn.

The trouble doesn't end there. Bea's girlfriend Maria starts taking a new street drug called Ghost, and the dealer is Greg's brother...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eve Butler
• Release date: Jul 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466096141

Eve Butler

Eve Butler is a writer and actor from Savannah, Georgia. She has a BFA in Acting from NYU and currently lives in North Carolina.

Book preview

Bea Woolf

By Eve Butler

Copyright 2011 Eve Butler

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Prologue

Scenes from a Senior Year

At five in the morning, the Walnut Street Bridge was devoid of pedestrians. Bea had chased Sophie here after trailing her for hours. It was just above freezing, but Bea barely felt the cold. She could just see Sophie running along the path yards ahead. Her injury had slowed her down and Bea was starting to catch up.

Sophie! she called. Sophie, stop!

Sophie looked back at her, just for a second, and then kept running. Bea's lungs were on fire. There was a coppery taste on the back of her tongue. She wanted to give up, to call a cab and go home to a hot bath. But this had gone far enough already. It had to stop, tonight. Bea pushed herself into one last sprint and tackled Sophie as they both reached the foot of the bridge.

That's enough, Sophie, Bea said. Sophie tried to bite, but Bea had her in an effective headlock. Her shoulder was bleeding from where the sheriff's bullet had grazed her. Bea held her tightly, and the struggling eventually died down. You can't keep doing this, said Bea. You have to turn yourself in. A little kid is dead, Sophie. I know it was you. And Mrs. Tanner the month before that. I won't let you keep hurting people.

Sophie whimpered. There was a look of genuine remorse in her eyes.

I know you understand me, said Bea. And I still love you. But you're going to go away, and that's the truth. You killed people. You killed a child. You're going to prison.

At that, Sophie recovered her strength. She kicked Bea in the stomach. Bea let her go involuntarily, and Sophie ran.

Harold woke up, stiff from sleeping on a bench and a little surprised to find that he hadn't frozen to death yet. The Salvation Army parka had done some good, at least. He had no idea what time it was, but it was still dark. He heard a commotion on the bridge and squinted-- his eyes were bad, but he could make out a spot of white and a blob of gray. From the relative sizes, he guessed that he was looking at a very blond person and a dog. It looked like the dog was attacking the person. Harold felt a little guilty for just standing by and watching, but what could he do? It would take him at least two minutes to walk to the bridge, and the dog might be rabid. Everything turned out OK, though. The dog fell over the side of the bridge and went sprawling into the water, and the person walked away, apparently unhurt. Harold just hoped the dog hadn't been somebody's pet.

The story in the Chattanooga Bugle was sensationalist: the nude body of a local high school senior had washed up on the banks of the Tennessee River. The girl was Sophie Holland, aged seventeen. While the element of nudity might suggest a homicide, Holland had been known to have a history of mental illness. That, along with recent diary entries, led police and Holland's own family to believe it was a suicide.

The Bugle would have given its collective left nut to get its collective grubby paws on that diary, but all they had was a single adjective from the sheriff's office: disturbing. Apparently the girl had been operating under some severe delusions, which could explain her nakedness at the time of her death. The one detail that had been left unexplained was the wound in her left shoulder. The ME thought it was probably a gunshot wound, but no one had any clue who could have shot her.

Bea clipped the story from the paper.

Bea, I really don't think it's healthy for you to hang on to that, said her mom. You shouldn't even be reading that stuff. It's so gruesome.

I need it, she said. Bea took the clip from her room. She was never planning on reading it again, but it felt important to keep it. She took the small, framed photo of Sophie out of her desk drawer and slipped the article into the backing. She was putting the picture frame back under the pile of school papers in the drawer when the doorbell rang.

Beatrice, said the younger of the two men, we just wanted to ask you a few questions.

Bea's mom had left her alone in the living room with the two sheriff's deputies. She sat in the rocker and tried to look innocuous.

Sophie mentioned you in her diary, said the older deputy. Said that you knew what she'd done. Do you have any idea what she was talking about?

No, said Bea.

The deputies exchanged a look.

Are you sure? said the younger one. Think about it.

Bea pretended to think about it. She closed her eyes and counted to seven, then shook her head. No, I'm sorry. I really don't know. Sophie had gotten pretty strange the last few months. I think she might have been hearing voices.

That night, when sleep finally came to Bea four hours after she'd gone to bed, she dreamed about Sophie. In the dream, they were back on the bridge. Sophie was herself, and wearing the dress she'd gotten for prom, white with a full skirt and dotted with little pink roses.

You going to go without me, Bea? she said, leaning over the railing. The wind from the water blew her hair back. She looked like a model.

No, Sophie, said Bea. I don't think I will.

That was a bitch move you pulled, said Sophie. Telling those cops I was hearing voices. You know I'm not crazy.

Actually, Bea didn't know that. She still wasn't sure what had been going on inside Sophie's head.

I'm sorry.

Sophie smirked. It was an ugly look. No, you're not. You don't care at all.

That stung. Bea tried to move closer to Sophie, but she couldn't. There was some invisible force keeping them at a distance.

I do care, Sophie, she said. I miss you. This hurts so much.

But Sophie wouldn't even look at her. You haven't suffered at all, she said. And neither of us will get any peace until you suffer.

Bea woke up gasping. The air felt too thick to breathe. It was five AM. The sheets were clinging to Bea like a sloppy drunk. She kicked them off and staggered to the bathroom. The dream had been so vivid. It stuck with her, as clear as a waking memory. She remembered what Sophie had said: she had to suffer. Bea's suffering would bring peace to both of them.

The steps came naturally to her. Bea felt as though she were repeating an action she'd taken many times before. She plugged in the curling iron, sat on the edge of the tub, and waited. While she waited, she repeated to herself: Suffering will bring peace. When the iron was hot, she took off her shirt and touched it to her side. The first time, Bea flinched away. She couldn't help it; seventeen years of reflex didn't let go easily. The second time, she took the curling iron handle in both hands and forced herself to leave it on her skin for an entire second. When she took it away, her skin was a deep pink where it had been burned. It still hurt, but it was bearable.

There, Bea thought. That wasn't so bad. She felt accomplished. Then it struck her: she was missing the point. It was supposed to be bad. It was supposed to be unbearable. With unsteady hands, she tried again.

The thing that Bea hadn't expected was being tired all the time. That and the constant sore throat. She had thought it would just hurt on the surface. But each place she had burned or cut herself, the pain and infection went deep, all the way to the bone. It hurt to walk. It hurt to speak. She dozed through school, went home and crawled into bed. Homework was a distant memory.

On an afternoon, two weeks after Sophie's death, Bea had another dream.

Am I suffering enough yet? Bea said. They were in Sophie's room. She was sitting on the bed. Sophie stood at the window with her back to Bea.

Not even close, she said. You got some boo-boos? You feel icky so you come home and take a nap? Give me a break. I can't believe you would think, for even a second, that could possibly make up for what you did to me.

Bea woke up just before sunset. Every fiber of her wanted to stay in bed and lie there for a week. Instead, she forced herself to her feet. She wobbled, but stayed upright. Bea was about to get her running shoes, when she changed her mind. Leave her feet bare. It was better that way.

Her mother was out. In just her T-shirt and pajama pants, Bea stepped out into the January evening. She took a deep breath, and started to run.

What the hell were you thinking?

Bea's mother was pacing back and forth, smoking. She hadn't smoked in months, and hadn't smoked inside ever. And she didn't even know about the burns; she had just found Bea running barefoot a half-mile from the house. Bea was too worn down to be deceptive.

I had to suffer, she said. Punishment. Sophie said so.

Liz Woolf stopped in her tracks. Sophie?

In my dreams.

Liz put the cigarette out in her coffee cup and rubbed her eyes. Then she pulled a chair out at the kitchen table and sat across from her daughter.

Bea, are you on drugs?

No.

She chewed her lip. I know you're having a hard time right now. But you need to understand, that's not Sophie in your dreams.

It's not? Bea, in her beaten-down state, felt as though she were being handed a great revelation.

No, said her mom. Look. Next time you have a dream about Sophie, ask it who it really is.

So who are you?

Dream-Sophie opened her mouth and screamed. When Bea woke up, she couldn't remember what happened next. She had the distinct feeling that it was a good thing she couldn't.

Bea, am I right in thinking you need a break?

Liz stood in the doorway to Bea's room. Bea had healed physically, but she still hadn't gotten out of bed all weekend. She'd skipped school on Friday. She hadn't done a photography project since November, and hadn't touched her camera since Christmas. It was time for a change.

Yeah, said Bea.

Good, said Liz. Because I think it might be the best idea for you to not be in school for a while.

Bea snorted. Because I've already completely fucked this semester, you mean?

It was true. She hadn't applied to college, her grades were in the toilet, and her attendance record at this point qualified her as truant. Liz stepped into the room.

Yes, actually. She pulled the blanket from over Bea's head. It might be a better idea if you got a fresh start next fall.

Bea rolled over and opened one eye. Fresh start? How am I supposed to do that? Bop everybody on the head so they get amnesia?

Or, said Liz, we move. I got a job offer in Savannah.

At that, Bea opened both eyes. Really? When can we leave?

In answer, Liz drew the shades on Bea's window. There was a U-Haul parked out front.

Bea liked Savannah. There were a lot of good places to shoot: the cemeteries, the old houses and gardens, stately tree-lined Forsyth Park. Then there were the squares. There were twenty-two of these miniature parks in the city's historic district. Apart from the newly-rebuilt Ellis Square, which looked like something had puked up a mall food court onto a flat golf course, they were all gorgeous confections of live oak, Spanish moss and oyster-shell pavement. It was called tabby, as Bea learned from eavesdropping on a walking tour.

During the first week, while Liz settled into her job at the art museum, Bea explored the city. Everything was ripe for the picking, visually speaking. Especially the people. Bea put an ad for models on Craigslist and got responses from twelve attractive art school students within the week.

By the time summer rolled around, Bea was feeling powerful again. In order to celebrate her regained strength, Bea dyed her hair the color of a fire engine. For her eighteenth birthday, she commissioned a pair of tattoos for her arms: one of a protective serpent, and one of her favorite Mucha print. She had moved on.

Chapter One

Good working with you this summer, Hannah!

Sandra, the leader of Troop 341, waved from the window of her purple minivan. Hannah waved back and jogged up the walkway to her parents’ home. Her parents were waiting on the porch.

Hannah had come back from Camp Daisy sunburned, greasy, exhausted, and in the best shape she’d ever been in from spending all day running around, swimming, kayaking, and wrangling rowdy Girl Scouts.

Welcome home, kid, said her dad from his chair. He was smoking his long-stem pipe, what he called his Hobbit pipe. The fragrant scent of tobacco greeted Hannah as she hugged her father. you need a haircut, he said.