Hunter looked once over Grant Jeong before averting his eyes. In the glimpse he caught, a green Vinny’s apron was tied haphazardly around his Nike shirt and tight-fitting athletic pants. He was even more bulky and chiseled than he had been the last time Hunter saw him. Two years and Grant hadn’t changed. He couldn’t have. Not after backstabbing Marcie and him both.

Maybe in another timeline Hunter could have been happy to see him, to see an old friend. But Grant was anything but a friend. And he knew that face. The way his mouth twitched and his brows furrowed. The way his eyes thinned and held this pinch of pain. Hunter knew what he wanted to say but he didn’t want condolences. Not from him. And now that he had Marcie back, he’d wanted nothing more than to be spared more pity.

“I thought you worked at Harvest,” said Hunter before Grant could get a word in. He could barely look at Grant. It was pissing him off. He stayed to help put the chips back anyway.

Grant wasn’t helping. Standing there like an idiot, he just watched as Hunter collected armfuls of chip bags off the floor. What the hell was his deal?

“I actually can’t put those back on the shelf. It’s a quality control thing I guess.” He said, apologetically. Had his voice gotten even lower? And why did he always say everything with some sort of bedroom-talky tone like he was trying to flirt with everybody?

Hunter dropped the bags he had in his hands and started to walk away. Admittedly, it was a dick move. But it was the least of what Grant deserved.

Sighing, Grant bent down and started picking bags up off the floor. “I’m sorry.”

Fuck him. Fuck this. Hunter turned on his feet immediately and stormed back towards Grant.

“You’re sorry?” Hunter spat. Grant may have packed on a ton of “hot guy” muscle but Hunter still had a whole head of height over him. “You’re not allowed to feel remorse now. If you think you can use her death to pull forgiveness out of me then fuck you. If you think I can so easily forget every day you sided with some asshole bullies. Every day you dedicated to tormenting us…We used to be friends, dude. She was your friend.”

Other shoppers stopped to stare at the scene. Hunter hadn’t realized how loud his voice had climbed. He cooled off enough to pull back from cornering Grant.

“I know. I know,” was all the guy said in response. Not dismissively, more like he was trying to gather his thoughts. His mouth opened and closed a couple of times like he was deciding if he should say something.

Hunter started walking away again, he didn’t care what Grant had to say for himself.

“I was there with her,” Grant called out, “The night she…you know.”

“What?” The word left Hunter's lips before careful thought. Okay, maybe he did care. Or this was another one of Grant's cruel ways of fucking with him.

“It was just a kickback with some people from Cove College. I was high. She was high. After she jumped we–she left a note–” Grant’s words caught on something, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me. She didn’t kill herself, asshole. She’d never…” He couldn't finish. All of this made him question everything all over again. She didn’t jump. Marcie said so. So why couldn’t he just fully believe her? Why did he still feel like it was his fault?

“I’m so sorry Hunter.” Grant tried to offer.

“Fuck you.”

Then, Hunter left.. A large part of him had stormed off to keep himself from crying in front of Grant. Another part to stop himself from giving the dude a black eye. And another because if he stayed there any longer, he’d end up laying down on the sticky tile of Vinny's Grocery Market and curling into a ball.

There was no way she'd hang out with those assholes after everything. It was impossible to even imagine her getting high around them. He didn't leave her that desperate for friends. He would have noticed if she was so depressed she'd make herself vulnerable to the exact people who'd take advantage of it. Wouldn't he?

He made his way to the registers. He paid for his basket. He walked out of the store. He promised Marcie he’d help solve her…whatever it was. But not if he had to deal with him.

When he was coming up the drive towards the guest house, he thought about how he was going to tell Marcie about Grant. About what he told him. His whole thought process halted when he saw a figure open and shut the front door.

Fuck, he thought on repeat. Fuck. Fuck.

Getting closer he saw that the figure darting towards the main house was Beth, which wasn’t the worst of his fears, but also wasn’t too much farther down the list. Beth had proven herself to be a snitch. He would handle that later.

He rushed inside to find the guest house quiet. The blankets were still unmade and there was still sand in the carpet. His breakfast plate, now licked clean, sat neatly on his nightstand. But the bed was empty, the television screen had been shut off, and most importantly, Marcie was nowhere to be seen.

Hunter called out in hushed tones, “Marcie. Hey. Are you still here?”

A small muffled voice from the closet called back, “Yeah!”

Flinging the closet door open to find, again, no Marcie, he asked “Uhh, where are you?”

“I’m here,” he heard her voice from the dark corner of the closet. “Help me get out of this thing!”

It dawned on Hunter where she’d decided to hide. And then it took him a couple moments to wrap his head around the impossibility of it.

“Hey ya hear me dingus?” Marcie called from his suitcase.

The sight he was presented with when he unzipped the suitcase was nothing short of horrific. She’d folded herself like origami to fit herself into a space that no one older than a toddler should be physically able to. He recalled how easily her joints hyperextended and bent back on themselves when he carried her on the beach, but this was leagues stranger.

Her neck was arched forward so far her chin was crushed against her sternum. Her spine was bent in three places to make a Z shape with visible breaks in vertebrae. Each leg didn’t fare much better, folded into rectangles to fit the edges of the case. One arm was broken in so many ways and curled so much it almost looked like a scaleless, handy snake had slithered in the case with her. The other arm was straight and about as normally arranged as it could be, which only served to juxtapose the rest of her bones, making it that much harder to look at.

Hunter held a steel grip on the edges of the case’s fabric to stop himself from vomiting.

“I can see the look on your face,” she sneered. “I didn’t really have any other options.”

Marcie took her good arm and wrenched herself out of the suitcase mostly by tipping it over and essentially dumping herself out of it. Looking on in awe, Hunter saw her body begin to right itself. Starting with her arms and legs, her bones cracked and snapped her back together like the world’s fleshiest, boniest, most incomprehensible Transformer.

All the snacks and raw meats were strewn about the floor where Hunter had dropped the bag. He joined her on the carpet where Marcie was practically inhaling food. There was no question whether the meat needed to be cooked to satisfy the spell. More color had returned to her face, and she was already looking more alive, if you could say that about her at all.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

How it all worked was still a mystery. He supposed there wasn't a single living cell in her body and it was a genuine mystery where the food went if it wasn’t being digested. Her organs seemed to be intact, though Hunter didn’t look all that long enough inside the hole in her ribcage to tell if that was true throughout her body. But none of them seemed particularly functional. And after what he’d seen moments ago, that seemed like the tip of the iceberg of her physiology.

“Tell me what happened, babe,” Hunter said.

Marcie held up a hand to indicate she was finishing a large helping of Doritos. “I saw someone poking around, trying to look through the windows. I figured out it was Beth pretty quickly—I mean, who else’s shadow would wear a beanie? The curtains helped, but I think Beth heard me move around. Then she started looking in and, hrmm, I think she saw me. At that point, I kinda panicked so I just, uhh, shoved myself in the suitcase. I’m kinda shocked I was able to.”

She took another huge handful of candy and started popping pieces in quick succession. “And ay! I figured out some other cool things about my body. I think, I don't know, they're like super zombie powers or something! I mean I fit into that suitcase. Maybe, you could wheel me out at night. I'm sure no one would see. Once I’ve tested these powers out, maybe we can start solving my murder–”

“Woah, okay. Slow down.” Hunter nodded his head. Would it really be okay to get her out like that? Allowing her to shove herself into his rinky-dink suitcase, it hardly seemed like the best way to respect the dead. He’d have to deal with Beth, or better yet ignore her till she went back to ignoring him. Officer Portillo was still looking for a grave robber and well, his own zombified daughter would be all the evidence he’d need. He couldn’t be reckless again, not after the close calls he’d already had. And it was nice to be able to rest there and eat together. “I want to see these zombie powers, I really do. But what are we gonna do about your…well your everything? I want to make sure you're safe first. And are we, for real, calling it a murder?”

“Well we won’t know it wasn’t a murder until we figure it out! Anyway, I’ll have an alter ego or something.” She said it like it was obvious. “I could, like, cut and dye my hair and wear different clothes. Maybe wear glasses. The full Clark Kent treatment.”

“I don’t think that would actually work. Superman is super good at pretending not to be Superman. You failed a community college acting course.”

“That's a low blow!” She said partway through chewing a hunk of raw pork. “I'm an amazing actor. Mr. Franklin was just bitter he never made Broadway and couldn’t see real talent.”

“Oh sure.”

Then Marcie swallowed and got very serious. “I mean it! It’s not like I’m gonna be screaming across town. We’ll stay out of sight. But I’m not staying here.”

And Hunter knew he couldn’t say no.

“Okay. It’s gonna be difficult getting you in and out of here. But, I’ll pick up some hair dye and some new clothes. And if we absolutely destroy your hair, you do not get to blame me!” He playfully pushed her shoulder.

“Says who!” She pushed him back, hard enough to send him flying off the bed. They both caught their breath then started giggling, though Hunter’s was a bit strained. She didn't know her own strength. Must be one of her new powers.

A buzz rang in his pocket.

In order of priority:

* Power wash the house

* Cut the back lawn

* Sweep porches

* Clean the webs off porches

You have until Sunday

- Marshall Campbell

Dad’s text was signed with his full name like in one of his business emails. Hunter looked over the text, feeling exhausted just reading it. It was just another set of things he had to add to his to-do list. A list which was starting to grow a little too quickly for his liking. Getting Marcie a disguise was the first on the list, which they got started on right away.

The trip to the cosmetics store proved very successful. Hunter was able to get blonde dye, brunette dye, and a hair trimming kit with the assistance of a helpful employee. She looked familiar, so he thought maybe Beth might know her. They seemed around the same age.

Then, at the Rack, he grabbed the least Marcie clothes he could find. At first he went for the complete opposite. Loud colors, tightly fit, and trendy. The kind of clothes you’d only catch fifteen-year-olds or forty-year-olds who hadn’t matured past age fifteen in. He decided against them. They’d probably attract too much attention, plus Marcie would murder him before they'd ever solve hers.

The shopping spree gave him time to think. He thought he should be more worried about a potential murderer out there who’d killed as recently as a year prior. With her memories gone, there was no telling if Marcie’s death was premeditated. If somehow they spooked the killer or they found out about her magical return, maybe they’d go after him. He had to put aside mounting doubts about letting Marcie out. She was a pile of ash in the can and a spirit trapped in limbo not even 24 hours before. Keeping her locked away in a single room would only expand the size of her prison.

He settled on going for something casual. A more modest aesthetic with softer tones seemed like the best fit. The colors were inconspicuous. She’d blend in immediately with the typical fashion of his area of the town. Even blue jeans instead of black was gonna be enough to differentiate her from the notions people had about Marcie. Sweaters instead of a hoodie. She was going to say it was ‘snooty’, but that was why it was the perfect disguise.

The next day, Hunter cut Marcie’s hair. He wasn’t all that great at it, but he tried his damndest. They watched her long rivers of pitch black hair fall to the ground like heavy tapestries. She, for her part, pretended to be enthusiastic while she stared at discarded years of growth.

Unconfident ‘snip’ sounds echoed off the tile in the guesthouse bathroom.

“I don’t remember the last time I had my hair this short,” Marcie mused. She wore an easygoing expression, but Hunter knew this was the hardest part.

“Middle school?”

“Had to be.”

“You know, I’m surprised you never cut it in highschool. You’re so stubborn.” Hunter thought aloud.

“Those catty bitches could’ve tugged on it all they wanted to. I’d never let them take my luscious locks away from me,” she said proudly, then deflated a little when she heard another snip.

“You’ll be just as pretty with short hair. I promise I won’t fuck it up too bad,” Hunter chuckled nervously.

In life, Marcie had taken so much pride in how long her hair was. Every inch was months of growth and years of regular maintenance trims, daily care, and memories—good and bad alike. Despite all that, it seemed to Hunter that she was quite surprised with how well she pulled off a short cut. It was even her idea, after staring at herself in the mirror, to add brown streaks to the blonde dye job so it better complimented the new look Hunter had picked out for her. He, of course, let her do her own coloring. That would’ve been a disaster if it were in his hands.

She carefully removed her piercings, four in each ear and the one stud on her nose. The clothes fit her perfectly. Hunter had memorized her sizes years ago and some things certainly never changed. She did, in fact, think the changes they were making made her look ‘snooty’, but she agreed with his decision. Spinning herself, confident in her new outfit of dark blue jeans and a brown wool sweatshirt, Marcie ran her fingers through her new short choppy hair.

As a final touch, he fitted an eye patch snuggly over her open socket. At first he figured any old pharmacy might carry one. He was mistaken. In the end, he had to beg the receptionist at the optometrist for one. When she handed him a dusty piece of leather, she said she hoped to see his grandmother soon for a visit and Hunter felt a little sorry he spun one into existence to convince the woman to provide him with the patch. Marcie fidgeted with it for a bit.

“Oh man! I got like a badass pirate vibe goin’ on. Are ya ready to hit the high seas? Maybe find some booty.” She wheeled around and pinched Hunter’s butt.

“Hey!” he exclaimed and pulled her in close so they were wrapped arm in arm, both facing the mirror.

He looked at her, really took her in. She was there. She was real.

Marcie was as beautiful as the day he met her. As beautiful as the day he left. As beautiful as the last FaceTime before she bit the business end of a defunct carousel. As beautiful as when she awoke there again. Now that they’d covered up all her undeadness, she was practically unrecognizable. But she was beautiful. Hunter couldn’t believe he’d ever even considered keeping her caged.

“So,” she said, “You ready to solve a fuckin’ murder?”

And Hunter couldn't say no, even though he wanted to.