Monster of the Week

by F. T. Lukens

  Pavel reached back and offered his hand. Bridger took it. Pavel’s long spindly fingers wrapped around Bridger’s palm. They stepped through.

  Though Bridger had used the portal several times, he never thought it’d become normal for him to be squeezed on all sides, disappear into the ether, then pop out somewhere miles away. This time, they appeared on a sidewalk in front of a fence proclaiming Findlay Cemetery in black wrought iron.

  “Where are we?”

  “Ada, Michigan,” Pavel said. He walked to the entrance and waved at a groundskeeper. She waved back as if a tall, thin, fine-boned intermediary was a common sight at the cemetery. He probably was, knowing Pavel.

  Shoulder to shoulder, Bridger walked beside Pavel as they leisurely traversed the walking paths of the cemetery. Tall trees, swaying gently in the late afternoon breeze, offered shaded patches and solemnity to the ground, which was dappled with grave markers and tombstones. The spring air was crisp, and Bridger was glad for the sleeves on his hoodie. He kicked a pebble, and it rolled down the ribbon of path which cut through the rolling green lawn.

  “What are we doing here?”

  Pavel strolled, one hand in his pocket, the other clutching the bouquet. “Fascinating, isn’t it? All these people, generations of families buried together, their lives marked by a slab of stone with two dates and a dash, their stories unknown, save by the people who loved them.”

  Bridger bit his lip. He’d have a stone one day. That was part of being human. He hoped it was later rather than sooner, but no one could know. “What about you?” He glanced at Pavel, who had his face tipped toward the sun. His eyes were closed, expression peaceful as he ambled in the sunlight.

  “Not for a while. Magic prolongs life. All who knew my story, my real story, are gone, turned to dust decades ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t bring you here to wax maudlin. I wanted to give you a day to relax. I wanted you to see that my work, our work, isn’t always one crisis after another. Some days, it’s a stroll in a cemetery to see a friend.”

  “I hate to say this, but I don’t have time for friendly visits. Seriously. I have a paper to finish, a boyfriend I hope doesn’t break up with me after we go to prom, a best friend who wants to make sure we’re color-coded, a dad who has decided to reappear out of nowhere and, oh, a lady who wants to expose us to the world.”

  Sighing, Pavel turned off the path. “Bridger, our lives consist of a sequence of decisions. Sometimes we make good decisions and sometimes we make bad ones. Sometimes what we think is right is wrong and sometimes our decisions have outcomes we’d never expect. Everyone makes mistakes, Bridger. I’ve made plenty in my life.”

  “Is this a lecture? Because I really don’t want one. I know I screwed up, Pavel. I should’ve stayed in my lane. I should’ve stayed away when you told me too. I shouldn’t have antagonized her. I should’ve kept my head down and my mouth shut.”

  Pavel shook his head. “No. You did what you thought was right. I’d rather you act when you see a wrong than sit on the sidelines. You thought she was going to hurt your friend, and I’m proud that you intervened. I only wish you’d done it less conspicuously.”

  Bridger shook his head. “Okay, then why are we here?”

  “To pay our respects. To correct a mistake.” Pavel paused in front of a tombstone. The grave was overgrown, and bare of any decorations or flowers, but the stone was new, not weathered like the others around it, though witch had been sprayed across it in red paint. “Have you heard of the Ada Witch?”

  Bridger blinked. “I read about her in the field book.” He twiddled his thumbs. “She cheated on her husband with another man. The husband found them and killed her. Then the other man and the husband fought and inflicted enough damage on each other that they ended up both dying. A prime example of toxic masculinity. And now the Ada Witch roams the area where she was murdered and appears as a woman in a blue dress with long, flowing hair. She’s not really a witch. She’s a ghost, like Ginny.”

  Nodding, Pavel kept his gaze firmly on the grave in front of them. “That’s correct. Several individuals have seen her over the years. Around dusk, she sorrowfully walks the length of the road and gives drivers a scare. She’s quite popular, and people flock to Ada from all around to catch a glimpse of her.”

  “Sounds about right. We’re nothing if not nosy.”

  Pavel agreed, grimly. “About twenty years ago, a monster-hunter of sorts supposedly solved the mystery of the identity of the Ada Witch. The individual stated they’d done research and found a woman who died at the correct time in history and in the right area. That researcher gave the Ada Witch a name. They gave her the wrong name.”

  Bridger gulped.

  Pavel knelt at the grave and placed the bouquet. He opened the satchel at his side and removed a pair of clippers, a cloth, and a bottle of what smelled like turpentine. He set to work scrubbing away the paint.

  “Is this her? Is this the Ada Witch?”

  “No,” Pavel said. “This is a woman who happened to perish in this town near the same time that the myth began.” He brushed a pale hand over the name and the cause of death added beneath the dates at the bottom. Died of typhoid fever. “Since then, this poor woman’s grave has been desecrated. Her stone was broken, and pieces were sold on the Internet. She’s believed to be something she’s not, and she cannot defend herself. Thankfully, someone looked further and realized this woman was not the infamous Ada Witch. A new headstone was placed, and the township has worked on correcting the mistake since.”

  “And you come to tend the grave why exactly?”

  Pavel sat back on his heels. “Because I was asked to.”

  He looked up and stared to the left of Bridger’s shoulder. Turning slightly, Bridger caught a glimpse of a woman with long, flowing hair wearing a blue dress. Bridger startled, tripped backward, and fell on his ass. He clutched his heart and clamped down on the curse which almost burst forth.

  The apparition moved slowly, purposefully; her gaze roved over Bridger before settling on Pavel. She floated a few inches above the ground. Her shoes peeked out beneath the fabric of her long dress. “Hello, Intermediary Chudinov,” she said softly. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Hello, Lizzie.” Pavel sat back on his heels and ran his hands down his thighs, wiping dirt on the fabric. “I apologize. I didn’t warn my assistant.”

  She pressed a hand to her throat and touched a necklace which rested in the hollow. “No apologies needed. I enjoy visiting with youth when they aren’t vandalizing.” She turned sorrowful eyes to the grave. “Thank you for fulfilling the task I’ve asked of you. She doesn’t deserve to suffer the consequences of my actions.”

  “You’re not responsible for the actions of others, Lizzie.” Pavel used a cloth to wipe away dirt on the edges of the marker.

  “No. I am not. But it pains me. I am grateful for your assistance.”

  Bridger sat, eyes wide and fixed on the transparent, blue-tinged woman in front of him.

  “I brought my assistant to learn the task you’ve set for me so that he may be able to complete it in the future in my stead if needed.”

  Lizzie, the real Ada Witch, observed Bridger with a blank expression. Her hands were folded across her abdomen; her long hair lay still despite the breeze.

  “As long as he understands the purpose.”

  “I do.” Bridger blurted from his sprawl on the ground. “I do. I promise.”

  “Then it is acceptable.”

  Pavel continued to scrub at the red letters; the turpentine cut through the grime and the paint. “Thank you, Lizzie.”

  “Thank you, Intermediary Chudinov.”

  She gave him a nod, then disappeared, as if she hadn’t been there at all.

  Bridger stayed on the ground, curled his legs beneath him, and sat, staring at the grave. Pa
vel scrubbed the stone until it gleamed, then used the clippers to cut back the tangle of grass. After his task was completed, Pavel joined Bridger at the edge of the grave and folded his long legs beneath him. He rooted around in his bag and pulled out a small pack of cookies and a flask. He nudged Bridger’s arm, and Bridger took a cookie. His stomach rumbled. He’d yet to eat anything since leaving school later than usual.

  “What’s in the flask?”

  Pavel handed it over. “Grandma Alice’s tea and honey. She mirrored me to ensure I made it for you.”

  “I’m certain she enjoyed talking to you. She says you’re handsome.”

  Pavel blushed and fidgeted as Bridger took a sip.

  “What do you think this will do to me?”

  “I think it’s meant to comfort you. Like hot drinks and soup have, anecdotally, for centuries.”

  Bridger nodded toward the grave. “Was this a lesson?” he asked around a bite of the cookie. “A metaphor for what’s going on in my life right now? Because I don’t get it. I mean, I understand the importance of this duty, and I understand that this person…” He gestured toward the headstone. “…got the raw end of a deal. But I don’t know how this applies to me.”

  Pavel shifted beside him, threw the strap of the bag over his shoulder, and shoved his hands into his pockets. “No lesson. I just like coming here sometimes to take a break. It’s peaceful.”

  “Peaceful.” Bridger swiveled his head, peering at the graves that surrounded them. “Even with the ghosts?”

  “Yes, even with the ghosts.” He waited a beat. “I know you’re overwhelmed right now. I wanted to give you a break, since I’m sorry that this job has added stress in an already stressful time in your life.”

  Bridger shook his head. “No. Don’t. I think even if Summer and her show weren’t in Midden right now, there would be something else that would send me over the edge. I’m the master at dedicating energy to a crisis to avoid another crisis.”

  “What crisis are you avoiding now?” Pavel asked. His black hair ruffled in the breeze.

  Bridger plucked a blade of grass. “All of them. Though my paper is almost finished, so one crisis averted. Prom, but Astrid and Leo are helping me. And that leaves graduation looming in front of me. And my dad.”

  “That’s good. You’re doing well. You have help in your friends and in your family.”

  “I know. I forget that sometimes.”

  “What about your father?”

  “Yeah. That one I’m not doing too well with.”

  “I’m sorry.” Pavel fiddled with a button on his jacket. “He made bad decisions, Bridger. And his mistakes affected you. And it’s not fair. To use your words, it sucks. But now you have to decide how you’re going to handle him being back in your life.”

  Bridger ran a hand through his hair. “Can you make that decision for me?”

  “I wish I could. But it’s not my place, and I don’t think your father—”

  “Oh, crap!” Bridger said, perking up. “What time is it?” He yanked his phone out of his pocket. 7:45! He had three missed texts from his dad. Oh, no! “I have to go! I was supposed to meet him at seven for dinner.” Scrambling to his feet, Bridger flailed his hands. “I am so late!”

  “It’s all right. Come on, we’ll take the portal to your house.”

  “He’s going to be so angry. I know it.”

  Pavel’s hand was heavy on Bridger’s shoulder, but it wasn’t a reassurance. Bridger didn’t know how his dad would react. He didn’t know him well enough to gauge his feelings as to tardiness.

  Bridger squeezed out of the portal and landed on the sidewalk around the corner from his house. Pavel appeared right behind him, and together they walked briskly, turning the corner in the fading light.

  His dad sat on the front porch under the lamp, with his elbows propped on his bent knees and his phone dangling from his fingertips. His Audi was parked in front along the curb. He looked up at the slap of Bridger’s shoes on the pavement. Yep, he looked angry.

  “Where have you been?” he demanded as he stood. “You’re almost an hour late. You didn’t answer my texts.”

  Bridger winced. The feelings surrounding his dad were intense in a way that made his insides ache. He didn’t want his dad to be angry, but fuck his dad for being angry. If anyone had a right to be angry, it was Bridger, not his dad. But, ugh, his dad was angry at him and it made him feel ashamed and small.

  “It was my fault,” Pavel said, smoothly, stepping up beside Bridger. “I kept him late for work for an important task, and we lost track of time. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

  Bridger didn’t like the way his dad sized Pavel up. He could see it in the head-to-toe sweep his dad gave Pavel, the change in his body language, and the small smirk of his mouth. They couldn’t be more different people, standing opposite each other on Bridger’s tiny patch of lawn like a study of light and dark. His dad was tall and muscular, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, the epitome of Midwestern, cornfed beefcake. Pavel was tall as well, but willowy, with dark hair and a muddled accent that marked him as foreign as clearly as the odd aura that enveloped him. His dad would blend into a crowd and assimilate with ease, while Pavel would always stand out as strange, not because of his appearance, his propensity for bad fashion, or the way he spoke, but because of the oddness that clung to him, the impression that he was not fully of this world.

  “You’re his boss? What kind of work do you do?”

  “I help people.”

  “Like a therapist?”

  “In a way. Kind of like a therapist. Definitely not a hit man.”

  Bridger barely stopped himself from smacking his forehead. His dad huffed a laugh.

  “Well, you’re an hour late. If your boss wasn’t vouching for you, I’d think you were getting me back for being an hour late to your birthday.”

  Bile churned in Bridger’s stomach. He trembled beneath Pavel’s steadying hand on his arm. “I’m sorry. It really was work.”

  “I know, Bud. I’m glad Mr.— ”

  “Mr. Chudinov. Pavel Chudinov.”

  “Well, I’m glad Mr. Chudinov is teaching you the value of hard work. It’s a good lesson to learn.”

  “Bridger is an excellent assistant. And on that note, I’ve taken up far too much of his time this evening. I’ll see you after school tomorrow.” He released Bridger’s arm and walked down the street, leaving Bridger with his dad.

  “Hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  “Well, we’re too late to go where I wanted, but we can order in. Might be easier to catch up in the kitchen than in a restaurant anyway.”

  Bridger forced a smile. “Yeah.”

  He stepped around the imposing figure of his dad and let them into the house. He pocketed his keys and led his dad to the kitchen. He opened a drawer of menus and plucked them out, dropping them on the table.

  “So that’s your boss, huh? He’s weird.”

  “Yeah. He is. But he’s really nice and he pays me well.”

  His dad’s eyebrows twitched. Hands in his pockets, he sauntered around the small kitchen. His gaze trailed over the walls, the few framed pictures of Bridger and his mom, the stack of reminders on the refrigerator for bills and doctor’s appointments, the unwashed dishes in the sink, the hand towel that had seen better days, the peeling wallpaper near the electrical outlet, the coffee ring on the counter where his mom always set her mug.

  “Not much has changed in here,” he said.

  Bridger tapped the pile of menus and pulled out his phone. “We have some great options. It really depends on what you’re hungry for. And most of the restaurants know us pretty well and will give us discounts. I have all the numbers programmed; just tell me which one to call.”

  “You order out a lot?”

  “Well,” Bridger said, voice unsteady, “Mom
works nights.”

  It was weird to talk about his mom to his dad. Bridger had a sinking feeling that anything he said may be used later in an argument, but it was no secret his mom worked nights at the hospital. He cleared his throat and kept his gaze averted.

  “Are you left alone a lot?”

  “It’s fine.”

  His dad hummed and trailed his fingers over the kitchen table, until they snagged on newsprint. “Look at you on the front page of the school newspaper.” He picked it up, and Bridger went cold. “‘Hot Race for Prom Court,’” he read. “Wow. Popular enough to be considered for prom court. That’s great, Bud.”

  Bridger froze. He should’ve snatched the paper from his dad’s hand, but his limbs locked up as he did his best impression of a deer in headlights.

  Don’t look too closely. Don’t look too closely. Don’t look too closely.

  But his dad squinted, picked up the paper, and held it to his face to get a better view.

  Bridger saw the moment his dad realized who was in the picture with him, and what it meant. There was no other way to interpret him and Leo, their arms around each other, their laughter, their smitten expressions. His dad’s brow creased, then his expression went hard, his jaw set, and his lips pressed into a thin pink line. The paper shook, then his dad dropped it back to the table as if it burned him. Tense silence settled over them, and Bridger gripped his phone, held onto it like a lifeline. He was terrified and hopeful in the same moment, on the verge of tears no matter the outcome.

  “Do you, uh…” His voice came out thick, a choked whisper. “…want Chinese or pizza? We could also order sandwiches. Sal’s delivers. They have great meatballs.”

  His dad didn’t answer. He stared at the paper on the table. His gaze trailed along the headline, as if to memorize the picture and the words for an exam he needed to pass about his estranged son. After a year-long minute, Bridger shakily cleared his throat.

  “Dad?”

  He didn’t know what he was asking. Were they going to talk about food? Was the elephant in the room going to be addressed? Or would it continue to sit on Bridger’s chest, restricting his breathing, until he died from lack of air and attention?