The Girl

By Victory Witherkeigh

The parents knew it had been a mistake to have a girl. At birth, the girl's long, elegant fingers wriggled and grasped forward, motioning to strangle the very air from her mother's lungs. As she grew older, she grew more like her father, whose ancestors would dream of those soon to die. She walked and talked in her sleep, and her parents warded

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victory Witherkeigh
• Release date: Aug 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798218252816

Victory Witherkeigh

Victory Witherkeigh is an award-winning female Filipino/PI author from Los Angeles, CA. Her debut novel, The Girl, was published in December 2022 with Cinnabar Moth Publishing. The Girl has been a finalist for Killer Nashville's 2020 Claymore Award and was long-listed in the 2022 CIBA OZMA Fantasy Book Awards. The Girl won Third Place for YA Thriller in the 2023 Spring The Bookfest Awards. Her creative content creation for her Author TikTok also won First Place in the 2023 Spring The Bookfest Awards for Creative Content. She has short story print publications in horror anthologies such as Supernatural Drabbles of Dread through Macabre Ladies Publishing, Bodies Full of Burning through Sliced Up Press, In Filth It Shall Be Found through OutCast Press, and Nightmare Fuel's 2022 Edition: Objects of Horror, etc.

Book preview

Chapter One

London 2001

The fear in the air tickled the girl’s nose with a touch of frost as she stepped off the plane. It had been only a few months ago that she watched the World Trade Center towers in New York fall from terrorist attacks. She and her family boarded the train from Heathrow Airport in London and traveled to the hotel. There was a mumbled agreement among them that anything warm sounded good for dinner after such a lengthy trip. It was the day after Christmas; tinsel and holly wreaths decorated the hotel lobby, and the scent of oranges and cloves wafted through her nose. Once they received their room keys, father and son took one set, leaving mother and daughter to the other room. The parents did not trust the girl to be alone with her brother. It was supposed to be a quick change of clothes and a freshening up before heading out the door for fish and chips. But the girl had made a mistake. She had lost the key to her red plastic suitcase.

When the girl first received the suitcase, it had been one of the few presents she’d gotten in her life. It was a belated-birthday gift from her grandmother for her first trip to Asia as a child. It was shiny red-patent-leather-looking plastic, a sign of luck for the girl. She took as much pride in that case as another person might in purchasing their first Ferrari. It was one of her few personal possessions that hadn’t come from threats or fear or the pretense of looking normal to the neighbors.

You did this on purpose, didn’t you? her mother asked, her cheeks tightening as her lips flattened. You couldn’t just listen when I asked if you had everything at baggage claim?

It was an accident! The girl’s voice wavered. I thought I had it in my pocket.

You’re already ruining the first night here. You knew how hungry your father and brother were. What do you think he will do if I have to call him to fix your mess?

The girl’s face paled as she tried to control her rapid breathing. She knew her father would be worse to have around for this, so she started digging her nails around the plastic locks to see if she could pry it apart herself.

The mother picked up the crystal paperweight from the hotel’s desk, shifting the heavy, pointed star back and forth between her hands as the click from the silver buckle on her black leather Chanel boots echoed in the hotel room.

There has to be another way than breaking it. It’s my case! I don’t want it broken!

The girl flinched, backing away from her mother until her legs hit the cold metal radiator. The mother’s eyes appeared black, nostrils flaring. She looked down on the girl, who sank to the faded blue carpet, avoiding her mother’s gaze.

The mother’s voice came out cold, the veins in her neck straining against her skin.

You’re an idiot. It’s never an accident with you. You don’t think I wanted something other than you? Haven’t you noticed that people keep you at a distance? That your relationships with your classmates, friends, even those boyfriends who claim to ‘like’ you… they’ve all left, haven’t they?

The girl barely had time to blink as the flash of the crystal soared toward her. She raised her forearms reflexively, feeling the air shift as the object missed her, before hearing it crash against the wall. Her hands trembled as goose bumps rose on the back of her neck.

"Things like you… you use people… chew them up and spit them out until they have nothing left. You appreciate nothing you have because you can’t. You’re evil. You create chaos and despair. Did you never notice the violence and death that follows you? The earthquakes, the riots, the shootings? You feed off it. People can sense it, and God help them so they learn what you are and leave before it’s too late."

Her mother walked across the hotel room and grabbed her black Dior purse before turning back to narrow her eyes at the sixteen-year-old girl on the floor. She smoothed the wrinkles down on her black Hermès slacks and shirt before turning the crystal hotel doorknob.

You bring nothing good into this world, her mother said, baring her teeth. You just corrupt and destroy everything. You’re a catalyst, a demonic catalyst. You’re only fit to annihilate. One day you’ll understand the destructive nature of your power. You’ll see the damage you’ll bring to those around you when it’s too late. All those people who tell us you’re amazing, they’ll figure it out. You’ve fooled them for now, but they’ll learn.

The mother slammed the door as she walked out with that last statement. The tears flowed from the girl’s face as she looked at the door. Her breathing sped up as her stomach roiled, sending her sprinting to the toilet. Her hands were shaking, clammy, as she collapsed to the floor, chills running through her body as she looked up at the ceiling. The orange and bergamot scents of the soaps mixed with the stark, white porcelain tile floor were the only anchors she could focus on to stop herself from throwing up again. Deep in her gut, at the core of her being, there was only one thought she could grasp: she’s right.

I don’t want to be evil, she said, whimpering to herself. I don’t want to be alone.

But you aren’t alone, pretty girl, a voice said with a throaty laugh.

Foundations

Chapter Two

For as long as she could remember, the girl had been told the story of her family’s history, which ended at her birth. The girl’s parents could trace their ancestry back to the Philippine island of Mactan and its famous chief, Lapulapu. The mother’s family rose to wealth through shipping and trade, coupled with a long-held belief in superstition and luck. The father’s bloodline had an extensive history of seers. The men often found their dreams were of people who would soon die. The father’s family would discuss the people in these dreams at the dinner table to prepare the news of that person’s death. They never acted excited, aggrieved, or angry at this power and treated the ability as if they were commenting on the weather or basketball scores.

The mother would comment that the first time she held the girl in 1985, the girl’s abnormally long, elegant fingers had wriggled and grasped forward as if to strangle the very air from her lungs. The girl’s father stated that she appeared smaller than expected and was ugly when she cried. Both agreed that they knew their prayers had failed. The mother told the father from the beginning of their courtship that she wanted no girls. Her dream was to birth five boys—enough to form a basketball team. She wanted to be the only female in their household due to her fear of what a female child might mean for their family. When the mother’s water broke in the early hours of April 26th, terror struck her to the core.

As much as the mother prayed to prolong labor, the girl was born on the prophesied day. The mother took solace because she did not have to cradle the baby immediately. The doctors told the mother her placenta remained, and they would need to scrape it out manually. They placed the girl in the hospital carrier for the entire day, alone, as the father stayed with the mother rather than see the curse he had helped bring into the world. The child was not lonely, though. A man, impeccably dressed in a tailored navy-blue suit and golden tie, looked in on the girl. He watched over her as if he were her knight in shining armor, smiling at her with glowing red eyes and waving at her when she opened hers. The baby girl was the only one who could see him and the other creatures as they gathered around to witness her arrival, proudly smiling to one another in glee. This man’s kindness would be part of the little girl’s dreams for years to come.

The baby girl was observant, watching the parents’ faces regularly. They only had to shoot her a look in anger or displeasure, and she would hold back her cries in the car. Her large brown eyes would stare openly as if trying to absorb as much as possible wherever they went. She had soft dark-brown hair that was already starting to curl. The baby’s skin had a beautiful luminescence, smoother and paler than most children from their native island. The grandparents would later tell the girl that all the foundations were there for her to be an exotic beauty when she grew up, like the island girls on postcards that would entice you to drink from coconuts and sleep in hammocks.

The family’s tradition required the girl to go back to their native land on her second birthday for a consecration ceremony. They flew for a two-week visit from their home in Los Angeles. The service involved the baby’s introduction to her relatives and various traditional blessings, including a full natal chart reading by a fortune teller. Even though both parents and their families professed to be Roman Catholic, they did not give up some older magical practices from their ancestors. It was these magical practices that the girl attributed to some of her dreams of the man at the hospital and the vision of what happened at the natal reading, which her parents never discussed. They chose the altar room for the services, with its massive, opulent mahogany dining table to entertain the visiting bishops and cardinals and to display the vast collection of Catholic memorabilia the family purchased over the years. Gold-and-jade crucifixes lined the walls with various carved statues of the Virgin Mary and supposed holy relics. The night of the natal reading, the fortune teller arrived at the house, asking the baby be laid on a pillow placed on the dark wooden table. The woman lit eight black candles around the baby, who lay swaddled and sleeping, without a care in the world.

I need to know what city and country she was born in and what time she was born, began the woman. She shrouded her face in a black shawl so they could barely make out the weathered wrinkles on her leathery skin.

She was born in Los Angeles, California, in the United States, the mother said, rhythmically tapping her fingernails against the dark mahogany, at 8:57 AM.

You must unwrap her from the swaddle. I must take some blood and hair for the scrying to be as accurate as possible, the woman said, licking her lips and smiling.

The older woman took out a cracked, decrepit-looking turtle shell and a knife. The blade of the dagger appeared to be pure gold as it glowed in the candlelight. The older woman began chanting in a language that sounded like their native tongue but was far more ancient than anyone had heard in centuries. The mother had unwrapped the baby, who was still asleep, while she waited and watched as the candles flickered with the woman’s voice. Soon, the air in the room grew warm and thick, despite the efforts of the rattling window air conditioner unit across the room. The woman signaled to the mother to hold the baby still as she used the knife to cut a little of the girl’s curly hair and drew blood from her palm. The woman directed the blood onto the turtle shell with the baby’s hair as her chanting grew louder and rhythmic. Shadows and shapes swirled in the room from the candles’ red glow. The older woman’s eyes rolled back as she lifted her chin and began speaking in an unfamiliar voice.

Her sun is in Earth; physically stronger than most men she will be. The moon rules her inner world. She will be beautiful, and this beauty will draw those around her. She will come across as safe, familiar, and comforting. A way with words, she will mesmerize and influence people. Jupiter is in Aquarius—the eighth house, sex and death will be her forte. Psychic abilities, intense dreams, feeling the world’s suffering. Her love will be the greatest gift, but—

The older woman’s words cut off as her voice seemed to strangle itself. The whites of her eyes became a heinous black, and the smell of putrid blood filled the room. The parents’ eyes darted around as the sound of pounding and screaming along the walls began, shaking the crucifixes. Blood oozed from the ceiling, dripping as the pounding sounds increased under the floorboards.

Stop it! Stop it now! the father said, stumbling back a step, but the old woman’s body only contorted in the most unnatural ways as the sound of her choking filled the room.

The mother picked the baby up from the table and screamed, If you don’t leave us alone, I’ll kill her myself!

Put the baby down, deary, the old woman said, clearing her throat.

In the blink of an eye, the room looked as it had before the ceremony began. The older woman seemed fine, with apparently no memory of what had happened. The mother stepped away with the baby, walking out of the room with the father. That night, they paced the room, going between sitting and standing by the bed, with the baby sound asleep in a bassinet.

We should get rid of her, the mother said, frowning at the infant.

The father glared at her. I don’t expect we can do that without consequences, ones I’m not willing to take. I want nothing more than to make her someone else’s problem, but we cannot risk our family’s wealth and social standing. He looked back at his wife, eyes seeming to flash in anger. We’ll uphold our end— ensure she survives till she’s eighteen.

Chapter Three

After the consecration and natal-reading ceremony, the girl began spending more and more time with her grandparents. Only the parents’ immediate family emigrated to Los Angeles when the girl was born. The Philippine island nation had been under martial law and a strict dictatorship since the country’s previous president had died. The girl was instructed that two things mattered above all else: money and influence. The parents instilled early upon the girl that she give her grandparents and elders the utmost respect. As in other colonized societies, their native language had developed to include many Spanish words, the most common being how the girl would address her grandparents from her mother’s and father’s side of the family. There was always a distinction between the two parties: the mother’s side was Lolo/Lola, while the father’s side was Grandpa/Grandma. The girl’s lolo passed just after her failed scrying. Shortly after the family flew back to Los Angeles in 1987, he had announced he had lung cancer and passed away in agony a few months later. The mother blamed the girl for the onset of his illness, demanding to fly back to bury her father alone without the burden of the baby.

Without the lolo, the girl’s lola found her visits to the United States drastically reduced to just once every few years. The father’s side of the family had to step up in the girl’s care and training every weekend. Grandpa appeared to be the stereotypical Asian man to her. He came from a smaller island province with a heavy accent that he often tried to hide. When he read to the girl, the parents often spent time after their sessions to correct his many mispronunciations from taking hold in her vocabulary.

Can I have an eeg mom? the girl asked, jumping up and down.

A what? Say that again? the mother said, grimacing.

An eeg… that’s what Grandpa says… she answered, letting her curly hair hide her eyes.

The girl wasn’t sure what to make of him. While she sensed a kindred spirit with her grandma, she was never sure how grandma married a man as quiet as her grandpa. Grandma was resilient and commanding. Grandpa seemed content just to play tennis, nap, or eat.

It wasn’t until the girl was four that Grandpa shared stories with her while Grandma was busy. His first story came about when Grandma was out for the entire day. Grandpa made the girl Top Ramen by breaking up the noodles over the pot on the stove as the water boiled. The girl wasn’t sure what to say, but the awkward silence seeped through the kitchen.

What else does she make that you like? he asked, voice flat.

Hmmm… I like hot dogs, the girl said, cheeks blushing.

Grandpa moved to the fridge, took out the hot dog package from the meat drawer, and pulled another pot out of the cabinet. As he walked to the sink to fill the second pot with water, he asked the girl what she wanted to do after lunch. Unsure how to respond, she sat silently, looking down at the floor.

I asked you a question, Grandpa said, leaning back.

I… uh… I like watching movies in your room, the girl said, fidgeting with her green t-shirt.

We’ll watch one of my movies, then, Grandpa said, turning away as steam from the bubbling water rose through the kitchen.

The girl set the table while he came out of the kitchen and poured the Top Ramen in a small bowl and put the hot dogs on the plate. The girl ate as Grandpa poured himself a glass of orange juice, all in uncomfortable silence. The girl was utterly unsure of what to look at or say to the man, choosing instead to focus on the various paintings of Philippine life they had hung up around the dining room.

Has your godfather started teaching you how to spar yet? he asked, clearing his throat.

No… well, when he comes over, he always tries to catch me off guard and wrestle me to the ground and get me to wriggle out of it.

Hrmp… He grunted as he sipped the juice. Always keep in mind that just because he’s teaching you one way does not mean that’s the only way to win. He may teach you Kali, but I served in our navy.

Really? She noticed that Grandpa didn’t talk about his past often, if ever. He often spoke as if he emerged a fully grown man with no history at all.

Yes. I was serving when I met your grandma. I met her when I was dating someone else, he replied with a smirk.

"What?! the girl said, jaw dropping. Grandma was the other woman?!"

Hush! How did you learn what that is? Grandpa asked, crossing his arms.

I’m not stupid. The girl raised her eyebrow, staring at her grandfather glassily.

A slight smile rose to the side of his mouth. At first he tried to stifle it, but eventually he let out a roaring belly laugh.

My son has not noticed yet that you are more observant than you let on. He chuckled while drying the tears streaming down his face. You may be more than I’ve given you credit for. To answer your question: no, she was not ‘the other woman.’ She refused to see me until I broke it off with my other girl. And somehow just before I married my other girl, I called it all off, because of your grandma and the fact I couldn’t forget her.

The girl smiled at that image. She loved the idea that her grandma was so unforgettable that her grandfather had to change his entire life just to have her. It sounded like one of her fairy tales. After finishing lunch, the girl headed to her grandparents’ bedroom to wait for the movie—their room was the only one in the house with full blackout curtains. The girl found it funny that her grandparents had two queen beds pushed together for their sleeping arrangements, claiming they needed space to sleep. She assumed Grandpa would do what he usually did when she watched movies in their room: fall asleep until Grandma came back. But this day was unique. He put on a James Bond film. The girl hadn’t seen many older movies, but during all the fight sequences, Grandpa pointed out flaws in the fighting style or technique. The girl hung on every word as he pointed out how to throw a punch or put a chokehold on someone. What stuck in her mind most was when a character was choked to death. Grandpa leaned over to her and huffed, saying, That’s not the sound someone makes when you take their life like that. It’s not that dramatic.

The girl felt a chill run down her spine. How does he know that?

A few more weeks passed before the girl found herself with Grandpa again. This time it was at a funeral, her first funeral. The mother had warned her she would need to keep silent and not stare at the open casket. The girl tried to stroll with her parents to put off viewing the body if she could, but her mother grabbed her shoulders and pushed her forward to pay her respects. The body of the older man lay in the coffin for all to see, barely fitting in what appeared to be a black suit taken from his closet. The girl only stared at the hollowness of his cheeks as the skin pulled tight against his face. It looked sallow, yellowish, with a few sunspots barely hidden by makeup. His arms were crossed over his heart, his fingers awkwardly curled as if trying to grab something. Her lips went dry, and the room spun as she saw relatives reaching out to touch the hands of the dead man and pray over him.

I will not touch him.

She edged away from her mother as she stepped forward to pray for the man. Grandpa beckoned her to come closer, to stand next to him as the others took their seats in the pews.

Intriguing, isn’t it? Grandfather asked, nose wrinkling.

Why do you say that? the girl said, not taking her eyes off the body.

You will find, young one, that maybe one day death will not be so strange to you. It is part of life, and it is an enormous part of this family’s history. Other than the strangeness of his body, what do you notice?

The girl assumed the word out of her mouth just a few minutes ago would have been scared, but all she got now was confusion. Confusion because she seemed calmer than everyone else looked. She wasn’t crying or sad. Closing her eyes, she swore she heard water, as if a river were flowing nearby in the middle of downtown Los Angeles. Weird noises, hushed voices, and the sound of something breathing, slowly coming closer. Heat seemed to emanate from somewhere because sweat formed on the back of her neck. Her breath caught in her throat as she opened her eyes and saw a hooded figure with glowing red eyes lingering in the room behind the altar where the priests usually got ready. She swore it looked directly at her.

Look at me, the grandfather said sharply, drawing the girl’s eyes to his face.

As soon as she looked at him, her vision seemed to clear. She looked toward the altar and saw that the door was closed, and nothing looked different.

Did… did you see that? the girl said, glancing at her grandfather.

Did I see what? he said, his eyebrow raised.

The girl looked at him and glanced back at the door. Something had been watching her in that church.

Nothing. Never mind. I’ll sit down. She turned away to head toward the exit.

Once they arrived at the burial site, Grandpa parked the car. The girl took her grandmother’s arm and helped her up the hill to the freshly dug grave on the steep hillside. Grandma squeezed her arm to let her know that she was there, and the girl gave a slight smile.

He’s only trying to help you. I realize it’s harsh, but you appreciate we didn’t get here by being soft, her grandma said with a pensive smile.

Chapter Four

Sometimes the girl would wake up in the middle of the night to pain shooting down her legs, like nails were being scraped down her bones. She tried crying to her mother, but neither parent had an answer for her. They told her to place her feet elevated against the white wall and sleep that way. She lost count of the nights her tears hit the pillow waiting for the pain to subside, but sometimes she’d pick up whispers from her parents about her, about something dark inside her, a demon growing.

The girl’s dreams were vivid, chaotic, and wild. The one theme that carried through all of them was the girl seeing her older self—a woman not living an ordinary life. She saw glimpses of herself with men and women she’d never met, traveling to places she’d never been. Or she’d see glimmers of the past: the handsome man watching her as a baby or the creepy old woman with the cracked turtle shell.

The most telling dream she had was just before her parents announced she’d have a sibling. The girl’s nights had been filled with the sounds of a baby screaming while she cowered in the corner. She