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  Mass Hysteria

  PANIC

  Dawn Brazil

  Copyright, 2019 Dawn Brazil

  Mass Hysteria: Panic by Dawn Brazil is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non Commercial-No Derivatives 4.0 International License.

  Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

  Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

  No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

  Inquiries about additional permissions should be directed to: [email protected]

  Cover Design by Yosbe Designs

  Edited by Sandra Nguyen

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  Also by Dawn Brazil

  Finding Me (Book 1 in the Finding Me trilogy) - Nothings better than regaining lost memories…except being alive to make new ones.

  Enlighten Me (Book 2 in the Finding Me trilogy). Sometimes carefully constructed lies can become the truth.

  Becoming Me (Book 3 in the Finding Me trilogy). Identity is essential to an immortal. Choose wisely, who you become.

  Finding Her (companion novella). Their love stretched across five universes. In the sixth and final universe, he lost her. Without her, his entire world could collapse.

  About the Book

  Mass Hysteria is a trilogy of young adult romantic/science-fiction serial novels that tell a continuous story. The books must be read in order, to fully understand the unfolding story.

  Book 1 - Panic

  High-School senior, Elizabeth calculates the likelihood of finding love to the probability of starring in a slasher film with her best friend, until she meets Brian Thompson. Love isn’t the only thing that eludes Elizabeth, however. Several threatening notes that promise her demise make a long life also questionable.

  When Elizabeth’s best friend shares an article about the death of a girl in Italy, she dismisses it. As more girls are murdered, and cryptic messages are tucked in her locker, she realizes something sinister might be at play. Why? Each of the slain girls looks like her.

  Dedication

  To my grandparents – James and Gertha Stephens and Henry and Bernice Brazil. You will never be forgotten because you are always in my heart.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Mass Hysteria – Frenzy – Chapter 1

  Chapter 1

  The single slip of manila paper says only two words: “your next.”

  Right away, a few things are apparent: this person’s command of the English language is severely lacking; the scrawl is most likely that of a teenage boy or a toddler of any gender; and thirdly, this note is different from the others. I glance around the brick pillar at the front of our house. The street is silent; not one person is outside from where I stand.

  I ball the paper up and toss it in my purse.

  I slide into the car beside Stacey and we head to the restaurant—in absolute silence. Silence has many forms. The form we exhibit is awkward—at least for best friends.

  We both know why we’re going today. Stacey doesn’t agree with my sentiment for the day, though. I’ve read that if you toss a being outside their natural habitat, one of two things will happen—they will rise to the occasion, or die.

  I’m a fighter. I should be able to master the social landscape of female teenagerdom, but it seems I can’t. I flounder—a lot. I cannot explain my high intellect and my innate ability to elicit cringes or gasps of shock when I speak.

  Today, that changes.

  Once we’re at the restaurant, Stacey says only four words: “This is ridiculous, hon.”

  I disagree and we head inside to meet the other girls.

  We arrive mid-joke. So, I time my laugh to spill from my lips at the perfect moment.

  Except, the sensation rises from my abdomen like gravel tumbling through my mouth. Stacey turns, her lips pursed tight. The other girls stop giggling. Their purrs of laughter are in deep contrast to my piercing cackle.

  They frown in unison—everyone but Stacey. She has an ‘I’m sorry I got you into this mess, hon’ look on her face. Though lacking in most social skills, I’m able to read their expressions: ‘What the hell was Stacey thinking, bringing the schizoid?’

  I’m painfully aware something is off with me. On a scale of weirdness, I’m not Pinhead. I’m more Carrie, without the powers. I’d change this perception of oddness I convey, but I don’t know where to begin to work on myself. That’s why I’m here today.

  Glancing around the table, I attempt a quick recovery. Dogs. Girls like dogs. “I have a dog. He’s the cutest little Pomeranian.”

  My words are met with oohs and awws, but Stacey shakes her head once, slightly. I don’t know why she does it. I’ve hit a chord with these girls. I block her shaking head and the bombardment of senseless information streaming through my mind, and continue talking. “He’s a handsome little fur ball.”

  “I love dogs,” one of Stacey’s friends says. “My Jax is too freaking cute.”

  “My FeFe is too adorbs. What’s your dog’s name, Elizabeth?” Melissa, the closest girl to me asks.

  “Norman Bates. He’s a—”

  “You named your dog Norman Bates?” Melissa asks.

  “Yes. He—”

  “Like, isn’t that the crazy dude from that movie? The one who cross-dressed like his mom and like killed everyone?” someone else asks.

  “Yes, it’s—”

  “It’s kinda weird… well, a lot weird that you named your dog after a homicidal maniac,” Melissa says. No one speaks after her comment. They all stare in opposite directions.

  I almost laugh at their reaction, but stop myself. A rush of thoughts hurry through my head: Melissa’s eyes are the color of her heart—black. She’s a modern Cruella DeVille. She’ll trample over her own mother to get what she wants, which is always materialistic and selfish. She’s also beautiful, and she hates me but loves my best friend Stacey.

  I shake my head discreetly. They act like I told them I’m naming my firstborn Freddie Krueger. Which I would do, if I could have kids.

  I strum my fingers over my jean shorts and count in my head. Counting reminds me not to speak and further add to the awkwardness of the moment.

  “Norman Bates is the best dog name, ever,” Stacey says. She gives me a wink. “More importantly, has anyone seen that new movie? You know… the new romance?” Stacey snaps her fingers like she can’t remember. “Oh, I forget the name. But I heard it’s hot—full of steamy love scenes…” Everyone starts talking, each girl stumbling over the other to get a word in. Like if they don’t articulate what they have to say straightaway, their lives might be in peril.

  I don’t understand girls, even though I’ve been part of the gender my entire life.

>   The only girl I do understand is Stacey. She’s been my best friend since we fell into each other in kindergarten. It doesn’t hurt that we both adore wickedly horrible scary movies, too.

  Stacey orders a shrimp salad and had already instructed me to order the same. Her explanation was something about girls that eat a lot – apparently, she’s referring to me – get the side eye from certain other girls. Wow. Girls can be super judgmental of each other.

  The blame for how horrible this lunch is lies solely with me. I begged Stacey to gather some friends from school she thought I’d like, and I was going to charm them—have them all vying to become my best friend this year. She protested. Of course, she’s going to say I’m perfect now. Perfection is subjective… I just want to be normal. Normal, I suppose, is subjective, too, but I measure it by how many people give me the side eye when I cross their path. Right now, that number is too high for anyone to consider me normal.

  The truth is hard, I’ve been told.

  “I’ll go pay my bill, Stacey,” I say once I’ve finished my salad.

  “Okay, hon.”

  As I walk away, the booming conversation turns to hush tones. I have a gift for quieting rooms. Once, upon my entry, I silenced an entire gym full of sweating guys.

  It’s not a gift I’m proud to claim.

  I walk toward the counter, where a freckle-faced girl waits to take the receipt and cash for my food. Just beyond her, a woman stands observing me. She wears an enormous charcoal hat and sunglasses that obscure most of her face. Clearly, she’s trying to conceal her identity, but not too inconspicuously. Though her glasses have a dark tint, I can tell she’s staring at me.

  Weird. I meet her gaze head-on; embarrassment doesn’t draw her glare away. Most people I’ve observed will feign humiliation at being caught staring. I shift my head to the side to get a better view of her.

  She does the same, like she’s mirroring my movement.

  Freckle-face makes a noise with the back of her throat in front of me.

  I push my hand into my oversized bag, pull out my MasterCard, and hand it to her. When I look back up, the lurker is gone. I glance around the restaurant, trying to spy her large hat.

  I don’t. I shrug.

  Once Freckle-face hands me the receipt, I weigh going back to the table or scrambling out the back door. One of Stacey’s friends says something and everyone dissolves into fits of laughter. They grab each other’s hands, gaze meaningfully into each other’s eyes, and toss their hair over their shoulders. All I see is a chore. I don’t want to pretend anymore today.

  I throw my arm up and wave good-bye. Stacey’s head pops up… no one else pays attention. I escape out the side entrance of the restaurant.

  “Whoa.” I breathe deeply, taking in the aroma of the evergreens and the smell of the delicious burgers the restaurant serves that I wasn’t allowed to eat.

  A sharp pain lances through me—like someone ran a searing fire poker up my leg and embedded it in my spine. I stumble into the brick on the side of the restaurant, scraping my hand on the unyielding wall. My eyes slip closed and I grit my teeth until the pain ebbs. The severity of the pain is getting worse. It doesn’t take long for it to dissipate this time, though.

  Once it abates, I straighten my blouse, push off the wall, and venture into the parking lot.

  Chapter 2

  My thick hair curls from the early August humidity as soon as I stepped out the door. The fog Bakersfield is famous for hasn’t quite rolled in yet, but the humidity still stops you in your tracks. My hair has paid the price, on many occasions, for my refusal to stay indoors. I’ll have to make it presentable before Momma sees me.

  Stacey emerges from the side exit with her shades on. “I’m not going to say you were right,” I say, once she reaches my side.

  She pulls her shades down and wears her seldom-seen serious face. Once inside her candy-apple BMW, she turns to me. Her emerald eyes search mine. “I have to show you something that’s freaking me out more than one of Jigsaw’s torture contraptions right now,” she says.

  It doesn’t take much to freak her out. She’d be the first victim in a horror movie because the killer would hear her cries of fear. “Okay.”

  She pulls her phone up for me. “This article is about a girl murdered in Italy.”

  I glance over at her. “And I should be concerned because…?”

  “Because of this.” She scrolls down to a photo of a girl. Leaning over and pushing the phone in my hand, she takes a deep breath and sits back like she’s found reprieve from a meat-cleaver toting maniac.

  I pull the phone up so I can get a better view of the dead girl. For half a second, I’m certain it’s a joke. One glance at Stacey’s pale face, straight mouth, and large eyes lets me know this is real.

  This girl is my twin.

  People say it all the time, ‘Oh, you look like so and so.’ Except, this girl looks identical to me with blonde hair and cobalt blue eyes. I continue scrolling through the other pictures on the site.

  Then I see it. She is me.

  Her hair was raven-black like mine. Her eyes were dark chocolate like mine. Her skin is the color of honey like mine. Her smile is forced and awkward, like mine. A shudder runs through me. Calm down, Elizabeth, people look alike all the time.

  “Yeah, exactly,” Stacey says. “It’s like Invasion of the Body Snatchers, or Doppelganger.”

  “Those are inaccurate movies for this situation—”

  “You’re missing the point. Look at this girl,” Stacey says.

  I glance over at Stacey and give my best impersonation of a smile. “This is creepy… X-Files creepy. But everyone’s got a twin, huh? I mean this happened all the way in Italy. I’m certain I’m safe in California.”

  “I don’t know. It’s too weird. You should tell your mom.”

  I sigh. “No, definitely not doing that. You know how she overreacts to everything. Don’t make too much out of this. Trust me. Nothing even remotely dangerous ever happens in Bakersfield. You know that.”

  “It’s just weird. But… yeah, maybe I’m overreacting.”

  “You tend to do that sometimes.”

  “Right, nothing big here.” She shrugs, but her eyes and mouth still carry her nervous expression.

  “Yeah… and back in there,” I say, to distract her from her overthinking, “I tried. You were right. I can’t force this, and I’m exhausted at faking it. I’d like to have more than one friend, but whatever.”

  “For the record, not every girl acts like them. I don’t want to say I told you so… but… no worries, you’re perfect. Those chicks’ll be fat and pregnant in a few years. We’ll be taking over the world because my best friend’s a freakin’ genius. So be as weird as you want. I hear the weird ones make the most moolah when they grow up, anyway.”

  “Yeah, I get all that. Still, I want to belong. I want a clique—a squad. It’s our senior year,” I say. “I like that you think I’m awesome. I want everyone else to know how awesome I am, too. I want things to be different.”

  “I understand, but you can’t force relationships,” she says.

  I’m fed up with being the socially awkward girl. And sometimes, I’m not her—when I’m with my parents or Stacey. Other times, it’s like something switches in my brain, and I do or say something contrary to what I feel. I can’t begin to describe it, so; I keep it to myself.

  “I know. I’d just like to meet a guy, make a couple friends so I don’t have to always tag along with you and Michael. But I also want it to be okay for me to be me. Like I don’t have to put up a façade.” I hunch my shoulders.

  “Oh, honey. It’s more than okay for you to be who you are. I love you, weirdness and all. And one day you will change. One day. When the right person comes along, you’ll do it without even thinking.”

  Chapter 3

  Tucked in bed, I soak up the last few minutes before I have to face the world. The solitude of my bedroom i
s my haven, with its mulberry-and-charcoal color palette. My mother chose it because her design books label it as serene.

  I stretch and yawn. This time, nestled in bed still, is the only reprieve I get from the constant data filtering in my head. I don’t know why I do it. I decided it must be a form of OCD, but I’ve not been properly diagnosed. I don’t need to be, I guess. I deal with it.

  I stretch once more and glance at the door. Mom should be coming soon to perform her cheerleading act. Her footfalls are soft, but the whining floorboards at the stair landing announce her arrival.

  Norman Bates pops his head up and glances at me. “I know. It’s alive.” He yawns, then lays back in the same spot. I trudge out of bed.

  On cue, she barges in my room. “Buongiorno! Get up, get up, get up,” she shouts. Her ear-to-ear grin could fool someone into believing her kindergartener is preparing for their first day—not her seventeen-year-old senior.

  Her words bite into the serenity I’m seeking to soak into my bones. You live with a person for seventeen years, by now she should notice subtle differences between the two of us. She hasn’t, and I’m always trying to compensate—always trying to be the version of me she wants the most.

  I nod and pretend to listen while I scour my closet for an outfit. “It’s the first day of school,” she exclaims. And here we go. “What’s with the grumpy face? You should be more excited.”

  “I am excited.” In my flat voice, I might not sound convincing. Norman turns on the bed and looks from me to Mama as we talk… like he understands our conversation. I shake my head at him.

  “When I was your age, I couldn’t wait to get to school…” Without her noticing, I steal glimpses of her. Most people say I resemble my dad more than my Mom. My Pops is black, and I inherited his peanut-butter-brown skin tone. Aside from that, my mother owns my appearance. I’ve inherited her high cheekbones, tall stature, and full lips. She’s beautiful.