Stay And Watch Me Die

Chapter 1

Goodbye, old life.

This car ride is taking forever. Dad has moved us a million miles away!

“Jodi, look over there,” Dad interrupts my thoughts.

I pause my feeble attempt to entertain myself, scrolling through my phone for interesting TikTok videos, and look up. What? Like I haven’t seen a beach view before. Although it would be quite pretty to paint the reddish-orange glow coating the coastline and reflecting off the water lapping the beach.

“What a view,” says Mum. “It looks just like a postcard.”

“And here is our new home.” Dad parks up in front of a large old cottage overlooking the beach. It looks pretty decent, despite being old. The years of English Channel winds, rains, and sands have worn it like my old history teacher’s face. I always thought I’d outlast him at my old school, but he won. The cottage is pretty, sure, but I still can’t help but hate it.

Dad opens the front door and carries a giggling Mum over the threshold. I roll my eyes, but a smile tugs on my lips––maybe this wouldn’t be that bad after all?

I was gutted at the thought of moving here, but we had to. Dad was promoted to the police. They needed an experienced officer from the London Met and Dad’s super good at his job. He had to pass up a great promotion after my accident, so it’s his turn now.

Breathing in the salty shore breeze gives me goosebumps. The two-story cottage that I was ready to hate is welcoming me in. It feels strange. Like it’s calling to me. Although the sun is barely peeking through the horizon, a glow appears in the attic window. Weird. Maybe the lights are on a timer or something.

“Jodi, what are you waiting for? Come inside and see your new room,” Mum beacons.

The front door opens into a hallway, leading to a large open living room with a fancy tiled floor. I can smell the history of the room. An old grandfather clock stands in the corner, its pendulum swinging in time to the passing seconds. It came with the house. I wonder what exciting things it’s seen. The house looks pretty old. I bet a lot of interesting things have happened here.

Downstairs isn’t too bad, I guess. I follow Mum to check out upstairs.

“This room on the right is our bedroom,” Mum signals with her hand like an airline stewardess, “and then that room to the left is yours.”

I step through the open door. “It’s bigger than my last room.” I walk around the ample space. The smell of fresh paint burns my nose. Opening the curtains, the view of the beach is pretty cool––I might draw it when I get bored. Below the window is the top of the porch roof with a large oak tree just beyond it, its knuckled branches jutting out in every direction.

“I think I like it.” I surprise myself with a slight smile. I planned on saying it anyway to make Mum feel better, but it wasn’t a lie.

“Are you sure? I know this move has been hard on you. If you want to change anything about your room, you’ll let me know, won’t you?”

I nod. I will never let Mum and Dad see how depressed I am about moving.

Not ever. It’s not about me now, not anymore. I took up all their time for too long. Now it’s their time. Their time to be where they want to be, do what they want to do.

Suck it up, Jodi. Besides, the house isn’t that bad.

I look at Mum, “I have a super important question to ask you.”

“What’s that?”

“What’s the WiFi password?”

Mum laughed, “I should have guessed that would be your first question.”

Tires squeal outside. I wince at the sound. It totally gives the impression that our glass collectibles just slid around and shattered.

“Ahh, they’re here. Let’s go unload some boxes,” says Mum.

The moving van is crammed floor to ceiling with boxes and furniture. They must be boss at playing Tetris.

“Do we need to keep all this stuff?” Dad’s moaning again. “Some of these boxes haven’t even been opened since we moved last time, which was almost ten years ago.” He looks into the back of the lorry and leans against it as if to give up before he even starts.

“Oh, you’re not quitting on me that easy.” Mum gives him a prod. “Besides, some of these old boxes are full of sentimental items. There are pictures of your daughter from when she was a baby that we can show her boyfriend––if she ever gets one.”

That grabs his attention. “Hopefully, that won’t be for a while.”

Hopefully, it wouldn’t be a while and there will be a nice boy in this new town. Not that I’d be able to tell Dad without him brandishing his police baton.

We start unpacking, and I begin carrying boxes up to my room. Weirdly my whole life is packed into just a few boxes. Well, that’s depressing …. Almost as depressing as them giving me a black mark on my new white jeans. I should really learn not to wear white.

On the landing, I stop to stare at the ladder hanging from the ceiling hatch above me. I swear that wasn’t there a minute ago. Come on, Jodi. Careful where you’re walking; you could’ve bumped into that thing.

Mum always says I walk around with my head in the clouds, and here’s the proof.

I shrug and go to fetch the last box.

Mum or Dad must have pulled down the ladder. Creeping about like that. They’re still unpacking downstairs. Even though it’s old, this new place in West Bay sure has better soundproofing than our house in London. There, if Dad put his coffee cup down on the living room table, I heard it from my room. Secrets had been impossible in that house. Not that I was keeping any—not yet anyway. Here, soft new carpets hide the noise of sneaky parents creeping up the stairs. But to pull down a folding ladder without a sound—well, that’s impressive.

Move to the seaside and my parents turn into ninjas.

Dad said they put in a whole load-a new stuff as well as the carpets. There’s hardly anything left of how it was, just the old banister, staircase, and grandfather clock. He told me to make the room my own.

And I totally will.

Dad placed all the furniture in my room, but I'll do the rest––otherwise he’ll probably decorate it like a little girl’s room again with unicorns. Besides, I don’t want him rooting through my stuff––a girl’s gotta have her privacy.

Boxes all in, I start to unpack. I get out my collection of pictures I’d drawn and printed photos to stick on the newly painted walls. Dozens of pics, ranging from family photos to a load taken with my bestie Stacey. The first one I put up is Sweet Sixteen—my first night out since recovering from my accident at the end of last year. A date I almost didn’t get to see. Stacey was my rock after the accident. Now, we’ve moved hundreds of miles away from her.

It’s definitely the worst part of this whole thing.

Tears well in my eyes, but I stop myself. No crying. I swore I wouldn’t. I bite my lip and blink the droplets away.

Stacey can come visit soon. She damn well better.

I stare out the window to cheer myself up. The window glass still has its sticker on, so this must also be new.

I totally have to take some pics of this view. Once my phone’s out of my pocket, the other unpacked boxes become history.

I snap the beach outside my window, then a pouting selfie with the sea and sky as the backdrop. It’s easier to like the place than I thought it would be.

After scanning the new images, I click send. Stacey’s going to be well jel.

Stacey immediately replies with a series of emojis. A shocked face. A bright, sunny beach with a vibrant umbrella. A huge smiley.

And finally, a thumbs-up on one line—with a boy and a question mark on the next. Typical Stacey.

I smile. I might find a nice boy to be my first boyfriend and steal my first kiss. The stupid accident ruined my social life for what seemed like forever, plus there were no hot guys in London. Hopefully there will be here.

High-pitched tones interrupt my thoughts. It’s Stacey FaceTiming. Her beaming face and bouncing blonde curls invade my screen. I’ve always envied her curls with my long, straight brown hair.

“So, is it the hell-hole you thought it’d be?”

“I guess it’s not awful.” I have to admit. “You’re not here though. And there are like no McDonalds or anything.”

“Obvs me not being there is the worst of those. Well show me ‘round then.”

Switching my phone camera around, I pad barefoot out of my new bedroom.

The ladder to the attic is no longer there.

Dad, you are as stealthy as a mouse!

“Oh God! It’s so cool. So big,” Stacey’s jaw drops. “Thought you said it was just a cottage? What. A. Lie. We should totes have a housewarming party. This room’s big enough for twenty of us! I could invite—”

“Stacey! There’ll be no teenagers coming for a party here, thank you very much,” says Mum leaning out the kitchen doorway. “Not twenty. Not even four.”

She says it with a smile, but I can tell she’s serious. I guess teens, alcohol, and new carpets do not mix. Our party plans are dead in the water.

“Sorry, Mum. No parties,” I say before turning back to my smiling friend and giving her a death stare. “Are you trying to get me into trouble?”

Stacey lowers her voice, “No, but you’re thinking about it too, aren’t you?”

I smile. I’m totally thinking about it – can you blame me?

“Anyways, Imma be showing my mum these photos,” says Stacey. “She says Bridport isn’t a long way away from London?”

“No, it’s not too far. It only took, like, three hours to drive here.”

“Only three hours… You’re sure only three?” Stacey laughs. “Oh yeah, that’s well close. Guess I’ll have to spend the whole of the end of the summer holidays at yours since it’ll be too far to go there and back.”

“Please do. She can, can’t she, Mum?” I turn to Mum and give her the rarely unsuccessful pleading eyes look.

“Yes, she can. But just leave those nineteen boys back home.” She waves a finger at me, and we all laugh.

“Jodi!” Dad’s voice. He’s somewhere outside the house.

“I have to go now. Dad needs me. That’s bare annoying.”

“Okay, just let me know when you’re done.”

I sling on my Converse and find Dad in the garage at the back of the house, fumbling with the automatic sliding door. “Get over here, and when I say so, press the button.”

I do as I’m told, watching while he adjusts the door. He gives the signal; I press the button and it comes down seamlessly. The metal rattles as it lowers, louder than I was expecting. We share a high-five.

“How’s your unpacking going?” he asks.

“Getting there.” My gaze catches my bike, leaning against the back wall. It’s repaired now, just a few scuffs remain from where the driver hit me, and I skidded across the road. The thought makes my stomach twist into knots.

“Maybe one day you’ll ride it again,” Dad interrupts the quiet pause.

Wanting to change the subject, I bring up the ladder mystery. “Have you been up to the attic today at all, Dad?”

“No, I’ve been sorting out in here all day.”

A slight shiver climbs up my spine.

* * *

After lunch, Dad sets out to the station to meet the Superintendent. As the new Detective Inspector of Bridport, he has to show his face. He bought a new suit that makes him look all tight and squeaky with his shiny shoes and his dark hair looks weird all slicked back, but I tell him he looks great.

“Let’s head out for a walk, Jodi,” Mum says once he has gone, putting on her boots over her jeans. “We need to see what this town has to offer us.”

“I’ll pass, Mum. I’m really sleepy.” I lie. It sounds boring and I have no urge to leave the house unless I’m going to that beach. Bikini time. And maybe shell collecting too, but only if no one else is around. They’re lovely, but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s a bit childish.

“Suit yourself. But don’t go out on your own. Not yet.” She kisses my forehead.

“No, I won’t.” I roll my eyes when her back is turned. I’m sixteen, not six. I know Mum looked after me after my accident, but she must realise I’m better and practically an adult now.

We’re slowly settling in. Despite moving all our furniture into the new place, it still feels empty. There are boxes left to unpack, but being bigger than our last house, even those won’t fill it. Dad said this was a cottage, but it must be as big as it is old.

Stacey was right.

I head back up the stairs. The ladder is back down again. Dad must be messing with me.

I should check it out.

But I don’t budge.

Come on legs.

I stare at it, summoning up courage, wipe sweaty palms on my jeans and ball my fists.

I am the only one here. I’m not scared. You got this Jodi!

I slowly rest my hand on a rung. It’s cold and creepy, reminding me of a horror movie.

I peer into the blackness and call, “Hello?”

No answer, not even from the sea, the sound didn’t stop earlier. Now, the sea decides not to speak. A frightening silence has taken over. My rubber-soled shoes squeak as I walk around the ladder. No other sounds. Just an occasional release of my swift, pent-up breath.

“Is anyone there?”

The foldable ladder’s bottom rung hovers a foot above the ground. I nudge it slightly, to see how sturdy it is. Seems pretty secure.

“Is anyone there?” I hear back.

I put my hand on my chest and laugh. Just an echo. Nothing but darkness in the hole above.

You’ve come this far. Go up it. There’s no bogeyman.

I grit my teeth, hold my breath, and reach out with one hand, taking the rung. Then the other does the same.

Right foot on the rung.

Left foot.

The ladder is sturdy. My left leg climbs, and I’m off the ground.

Stuffy, warm air reaches out of the attic, air that’s gritty and musty––that’s been trapped for a long time, filled with dirt and dust. The attic certainly received no makeover pre-sale. I fumble for a light switch.

The single bulb illuminates scattered pieces of stored furniture. Nothing special. Dad-style stuff.

I laugh, then cough as the dust gets caught in my airway. Sealed-up grime––the filth and nastiness of a century.

I edge into the space, its wigwam-like roof giving just enough space to stand.

Something behind a grotty old cloth catches my attention.

Wow.

Just wow!

A perfect, miniaturised version of our new home. A dolls’ house, in all its glory. A masterpiece beneath my fingertips. Much nicer than any I ever had, and it’s of my actual house. How cool!

A smile spreads over my face. I crouch, peering in. The dolls’ house has been set on an old wooden coffee table. Sure, its wooden exterior is unfinished and needs paint, but it’s beautiful. I take a picture with my phone.

Looking through the replica windows I see tiny little beds, minuscule furniture, and even dinky light fittings hanging from the ceilings. The detail work on this is insane.

The furniture and décor are different—maybe of how it once had been.

The same tall clock stands in the hall. Same staircase. There’s no doubting the fact that this is my house.

And there, in the small dining room, two small dolls sit opposite each other at the table. A boy and a girl. The male has dark wavy hair and green eyes and is the taller of the two.

The girl has long, straight brown hair and blue eyes. She is painted to be fair-skinned and is wearing a pretty pink top with white jeans and white Converse trainers.

Nothing at all old fashioned about her!

Wait.

What?

I look down. My eyes widen, my heart sets off in a turmoil, out of control.

The outfit. My outfit.

The doll is wearing exactly what I am wearing. The trim of the top, even, is exactly the same—right down to the stitching and the neckline, even down to the black mark on my jeans.

The doll has my features, my colouring, round face shape that I’ve always hated, and dimpled smile.

Stumbling to my feet, I hurry towards the hatch. There’s a lump in my throat the size of a basketball.

Sweaty palms grab the ladder haphazardly, and I slip.

My head hits the floor as I land hard in the hallway after tumbling backwards. A headache instantly springs to life.

The corner of my phone screen is chipped, but I don’t have time to mourn it. I rush into the safety of my bedroom and slam the door.

Small whimpers escape my lips.

It must be one of Dad’s jokes.

Then why does my heart feel like it’s going to burst out of my rib cage?

A thought too horrible to think of.

What if Dad didn’t put the doll there?