Chapter 7: The Yellow Ribbon's Claim
The charge was awkward, lumbering. Mud-thick water fought her every step. Yet the sudden, raw focus of her movement cut through the collective paralysis.
"Evette, no!" Sheryl's yell was swallowed by the dripping trees.
But Evette's lunge towards the rope wasn't an act of attack; it was a feint, a redirection. Clara's black eyes tracked her, a predator's gaze, but her concentration splintered. That was the fracture Evette needed. The phantom woods flickered—one second damp bark under her hand, the next the scratchy fabric of the living room sofa arm as she slammed into it, the rope-turned-rock dissolving into shadow.
It didn’t matter. The outburst was enough.
The wooded hollow shuddered, the trees bleeding back into peeling wallpaper, the pond sinking into the pattern-hiding rug. They were back in the living room, gasping, still dripping with phantom water. The lamp remained dark, but Sheryl's unwavering flashlight beam was a blade cutting the room into stark slices of light and dark. It caught the bundled towel by the cold hearth.
The light, the heaviness, the perverse finality of Clara’s words, “You’re It.” A claim. The ribbon.
It crystallized for Evette in that breathless second. The ribbon wasn't just a marker; it was the method. The rope for Mr. Hadley, the tub for Hilder, the ventilator fan blade tucked away in some cabinet for Hank. Each had their object, the instrument of their end made sacred, a haunted shrine in the attic. Hers was the yellow ribbon, limp and sodden within its terrycloth shroud.
She had to destroy it before the claim settled.
Without a word, Evette dove for the fireplace. Her hands closed around the bundled towel. It was shockingly cold, cold enough to sting her palms. A low, guttural moan seemed to emanate from the fibers, vibrating up her arms.
"What are you doing?" Maya asked, her voice a thin strand of alarm.
"Taking back the tag," Evette hissed.
She threw the bundle into the grate. It landed with a soft thump among the ancient, dry ashes.
Splashing erupted from the center of the room again, furious now, the giggle turning into a wet snarl. A chair toppled over, cracking against the floorboards. The coffee table slid several inches, scraping the wood.
"What’s that doing out?" Sheryl swung the beam towards the hallway closet. The door hung open. Inside, beside Evette’s mom’s yellow raincoat, stood a red plastic can for the lawnmower.
Chloe didn’t hesitate. She was across the room in two strides, grabbed the can, and shook it. A satisfying slosh answered. "Still half full!" she yelled, unscrewing the cap as she ran back to the hearth.
The air pressure dropped again. A sound like a thousand marbles hitting the ceiling rained above them, rolling, gathering.
"Evette, get back!" Tanya shouted, pointing.
At the edge of the flashlight beam, Clara stood by the archway. She wasn't flickering anymore. She was solid, saturated, water pouring from her form in a steady stream that began to pool on the floorboards. Her face was a mask of cold, stillborn rage. She took a step forward.
Chloe tipped the can. Gasoline, sharp and toxic, drenched the towel in the grate. The smell cut through the mold and ozone, acrid and promising.
A high, thin scream tore through the room, coming from everywhere and Clara’s closed mouth at once. The family photos on the wall rattled violently, then began to spin on their hooks, whirling like bizarre carnival rides. The playing cards on the table launched into the air, a flurry of kings and jacks dancing in the crazed beam of Sheryl’s light.
"Now!" Evette fumbled in her pocket for the lighter she used for birthday candles, her fingers numb.
Something grabbed her ankle. She looked down. The inky pool Clara had created on the floor had grown tendrils, cold, wet filaments that wrapped around her skin like kelp, tugging her backwards.
Nancy lunged, not at the ghost, but at Evette’s leg. She scraped at the watery bindings with her bare hands, her face a mask of terrified determination. "Get off her!" she shrieked, and the tendrils loosened, retreating with a hiss.
Evette flicked the lighter. The tiny flame bobbed in the chaos.
The room shook. The tv, dark for so long, blared to life with a shriek of static, the volume maxed out. Glasses in the kitchen cabinet shattered in unison. Wind tore through the room from no open window, howling, tugging at their clothes, threatening the tiny flame.
Clara was within arm's reach now. Her small hand stretched out, not to grab Evette, but to plunge into the hearth, to snatch her prized claim from the fire. Her eyes were empty pits, but in their depths, Evette saw the reflection of the old stone well in the backyard, dark and deep.
"Tag," Clara gurgled, inches from her face. The word smelled of decay.
Evette dropped the lighter into the fireplace.
The whoosh was immediate, a violent, orange eruption that threw light and heat back against the oppressive dark. Flames, tinged blue from the chemical accelerant, gobbled the towel, the heat washing over Evette's face.
Clara’s scream was not one of pain, but of profound, cosmic loss. It was the sound of a door being slammed forever, of a favorite doll ripped apart. She recoiled, her form distorting, elongating, as if being sucked backwards into a narrow tunnel. The flames in the grate roared higher, and for a split second, Clara’s ghostly silhouette was visible within them, writhing, her black eyes wide with a shock that transcended her death, fixed solely on Evette with a silent, endless vow of vengeance.
Then, she was gone.Silence.
Not the absence of sound, but a new kind. The storm outside still raged, but its roar was muffled, sealed behind thick glass. The wind inside died. The tv blinked off.
The only sounds were the crackle of the burning towel, the ragged, gasping breaths of six terrified girls, and the soft, steady drip of water from their own clothes onto the floor.
The flashlight beam, still in Sheryl’s trembling hand, drifted to the fireplace. The fabric was ash now, the yellow ribbon a black, withered curl at its heart. As they watched, the last of it crumbled into nothing.
Nancy started laughing. It was a high, brittle sound, teetering on the edge of a sob. "We… we torched a little girl's hair ribbon." She hiccupped. "That's gotta be, like, a felony against the spirit world."
Chloe slid down the wall until she was sitting, her head in her hands. "My ears are bleeding. I think my ears are actually bleeding." She checked her fingers. They were clean.
Tanya walked stiffly to the window and pulled back the heavy curtain. The world outside was still there—rain-lashed, dark, real. "She's gone. For now."
"But not for good," Maya said softly from her spot on the floor. She was staring at the space where Clara had vanished. "You don't destroy a collection without the collector noticing. We just made it personal."
Evette looked at her hands. They were smudged with soot and smelled of gasoline. The icy chill on her neck was gone. The claim was broken. But Maya was right. The vengeance in that final look wasn't an ending. It was an escalation.
Sheryl finally lowered the flashlight, clicking it off. The room wasn't plunged into darkness; the fire in the hearth provided a low, flickering, normal light. It danced over their exhausted, pale faces.
"Okay," Sheryl said, her voice practical, anchoring them back to the immediate. "Okay. We have a fire.We have light. We have…" She looked at the wreckage—the overturned chair, the scattered cards, the spilled gasoline can. "A mess. But we're here."
Evette turned her back to the comforting heat, facing the dark room, the hallway, the stairs leading up to where the footsteps had been. The silence felt watchful. Not empty. Just patient.
"Clara collected people who were alone," Evette said, thinking aloud. "Hadley in his shed. Hank in his workshop. Hilder by herself in this house. We're not alone."
"That's the rule," Chloe said, pushing herself to her feet, finding a shred of her old defiance. "Stick together. No one gets tagged."
Outside, a fresh peal of thunder rolled, but it sounded distant now, moving away. The eye of the storm, the true, dangerous calm, was settling over the house. The fight for the ribbon was over.
The longer, slower game had just begun. They all felt it, huddled around a fire fueled by a ghost's toy, waiting for the collector's next move.
A tiny giggle from Clara echoes throughout the house, "That was my favorite ribbon, now we play by my rules."
Each looks at one another and then all six cell phones ring at once.