October Darlings

by Wendolyn Baird

  “So, not a whole mess of hidden murderers?”

  “I’d sure hope not. Now what are you doing lingering at the gate like that? Come on in.” She waves me forward.

  I want to mumble and groan, even stomp my feet like a little kid, but one thing I don’t want to do is walk any further. The air is fragrant and crisp from the mint that creeps up the bases of the head markers. Despite the rough heat of the season, the groundcover is lush and green, and would be otherwise inviting if it didn’t blanket the resting places of our dearly departed.

  Plucking a leaf, I roll it around my palm, savoring the scent that reminds me of sleep and late-night stories, while doing my best to avoid Delia’s gaze.

  “Whose idea was it to plant this stuff anyway?” Lifting my camera, I let the crushed leaf fall to the ground, and zoom in on a particularly intricate section of the fence.

  “Now I believe that was my Great Aunt Pearl, although it could have been her younger sister, Margaret.”

  Stifling a laugh, I lower the camera just enough to glance at Delia. "Her name was Pearl?"

  “Yes, and it was a very common name back then, I’ll have you know. You just be happy you weren’t saddled with the middle name Nadine,” she teases.

  “Oh yeah, because Sable is so much better.”

  I step forward, intent on the juxtaposition of curves and sharp spikes in the corner of the gate, and peer through the camera lens once more. Some edges of the metal are covered in the telltale red of oxidation, but the rest is still dark in hue and gleams in the early morning light. As I adjust my view, tiny pincers come into focus, connected to the sleek body and unmistakable whip of a tail that makes up a scorpion.

  Frowning, I move closer, expecting the creature to slink away. But it’s as hard and still as the railings beneath it and so similar in shade, it can’t be anything other than a carving in the fence. Spinning around, I check the other corners, and sure enough, miniature scorpions abound in the four borders, each copy set with shining white eyes.

  “What’s up with all the scorpions? I thought it was only the door knocker that was creepy.”

  Delia raises her eyebrows at me, an amused smirk lifting her laugh lines. “Don’t you remember them from when you were younger? They’ve always had a place here.”

  There’s an air of speculation to the way she assesses me, like she’s waiting for me to suddenly understand some big inside joke. That’s always been her way, to carry herself full of smiles and wrapped in riddles, and now I’ve got the time to figure them out, I’m not sure I want to.

  “Tell you what, you go ahead and sit down, and I’ll run up to the house and see if I can pull out some old photobooks and you can see for yourself.”

  “Okay?” I cross slowly to her vacated seat, treading carefully lest I accidentally step on a relative. Ugh, I hate being back out here! “Any particular reason why?”

  Delia shakes her head, no longer amused, but sad. “I just need you to stop being so stubborn. You know the truth, Adeline. It’s time you remembered it, darling. It’ll make a big difference in how at home you feel here, and with everything going on with your dad... it’s best you feel safe.”

  Again with the half answers and assumptions that I should know what she’s talking about. I’m beginning to expect I’ll never have a straightforward conversation with her. Then again, perched on the edge of a lawn chair in the dead center of a cemetery, a straightforward conversation with her would probably entail more myths than realities.

  Behind me, the screech and clatter of metal stops me just as I’m letting my guard down, sending my shoulders right up to my ears. Delia is already halfway up to the house, climbing the hill with apparent ease. There’s no wind, and the six-foot gate is too heavy to move on its own.

  Despite all these distinct facts, my only exit from the graveyard is now closed.

  If the hallway wasn't so terrible, if my bedroom door hadn’t also slammed shut, and if I wasn’t already reluctant to be out here, it would be easy to sit and wait for Delia to come on back out. But my heart is as jittery as the time I downed three shots of espresso in fifteen minutes, and I’ve got the awful feeling the gate won’t open when I push on it.

  With Delia barely in view up by the back porch, I run with abandon, throwing my hands against the still shuddering bars with as much strength as I possess. There’s no lock in view, and no latching mechanism I can distinguish from my side of the fence, but I’m good and locked in.

  “Aunt Delia!” I call to her, my voice cracking with stress, and my body pressed to the cool iron. Trampled mint clings to my boots and my guilt at stomping over graves (sorry Uncle Robert!) is nothing compared to the sheer panic of being stuck out here by myself.

  Chapter Three

  CELL PHONE SIGNAL, non-existent. Chance of scaling the iron gate, slim. Am I in any actual danger? No, not unless this is the beginning of more strange and possibly more terrifying flukes in architecture.

  So, I’m stuck in the backyard, big deal. So, what if I feel like my throat is so dry even drawing air is difficult? So, what if the yard is filled with dead bodies and a scorpion covered gate? This was my playground as a kid, and I was perfectly fine then. I don’t have to study the graves too closely, and it’s the middle of the day, what’s the worst that can happen? Delia will be back in just a few minutes.

  A rustle at my back stops me dead in my tracks. The breeze is filled with a sudden burst of trodden mint, and the chill wrapping around my neck settles on me with the sensation of being watched. Beyond the fence, the tree line is still, and there’s no sign of another person anywhere in sight. But my breath halts in my throat as the sensation grows worse.

  Well crap, I just had to ask that question, didn’t I?

  Narrowing my eyes, I scan the spaces between the stones and step back until my back is pressed against the iron bars. My gaze passes over the oldest markers easily, acknowledging each sloping edge or weather worn slab with the familiarity of seeing their counterparts hung on the walls. Their names are harder to recall, but I know the two headstones with cherubic angels grinning side by side are the sisters whose portrait was taken with the family terrier. A few feet away from them lies the stern couple who peer down from beside my bedroom door. Their markers are a faint blue and nestled on either side of a tilted flower holder jutting up from the ground.

  Every grave, another face. Another shadow, another Nix leaving their imprint on the everlasting house. I don’t remember their names, but I know my family. I know I belong to them, because I can see it in my jawline, the wide set of my eyes, and even the shape of my hands.

  I shake off the shiver trickling through my veins and keep my focus far away from the front right corner of the cemetery. I belong to her more than anyone else, but that’s one name I'm not ready to face in stone.

  Delia can’t make me.

  Closing my eyes, I breathe in through my nose and try to shake off the panic building in my chest. It was a terrible idea to come out here.

  The quick, shaking noise of keys being swung in someone’s hand tears through the silence of the graveyard. My heart skips and bolts even faster, sending rapid waves of adrenaline into my limbs with the force of a tsunami. Again, I glance around, searching for whoever’s watching me, because someone definitely is. The smell of mint is undeniably sweet now, so close to me I would swear the person was right next to me trampling the leaves, if not for the blank space stretching on as wide as I can see.

  That’s it, I’m out of here, one way or another.

  Slipping my camera through the bars of the gate, I set it safely on the other side before kicking my foot into the rosemary and praying the branches can hold my weight. The scratching of the plant at my shins is a welcome distraction to the block of ice working its way down my spine, as even the sun seems to have lost its warmth. My hand slips, leaving red marks across my palm, but I pull myself up and try again. Of course, the plant is no use!

  As my cheek brushes against the fence the glow
ing, white eyes of the stationary scorpions beside me gleam with fiery colors so familiar, I must have seen them before. My soles slide uselessly against the narrow bars, and I’m stuck peering at a cluster of the carvings while my fingers scramble for a stronghold above my head.

  While I climb, the intermittent jingle of keys continues on, unmistakable as the sound is familiar. My throat tightens as I connect it with the smell of my grandmother’s perfume in the hallway, and the memory of my grandfather twirling his keys as he walked about whistling to himself. I swear, if I start hallucinating whistling, I’m going to scream.

  “For heaven’s sake! I said to stop being so stubborn, not to scale the fence!” Delia is rushing downhill, books in hand and a rare glimpse of surprise on her face. “Get down from there before you break something!”

  At the sound of her voice, I shriek anyway— no whistling necessary. My shoulders lock up, and my right foot is still caught in a tangle of branches. Clinging to the top of the rail, I’m likely to lose my grip and fall before she even reaches the fence.

  “I can’t!”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  “Trust me, I really wish I was!” I whimper more than anything, feeling as pitiful as I look.

  Delia struggles with the gate, yanking on the bars with one hand, then two, leaving her photo albums scattered on the ground. As she works, the vibrations move my section of the fence as well, and I squeeze my eyes tight in terror. If I fall, I don’t want to watch the ground coming at me.

  “Will one of y’all help me out here before I have to explain to Jordan why his daughter has a broken neck?!” Delia yells, with more agitation than worry, but at her words, the entrance creaks open.

  Rushing to my side, she frees my foot just as my palms slip from their places, and we both end up slamming onto our backs, Aunt Delia cushioning my fall.

  Cursing, muttering, and apologizing to one another, it’s another moment before I can spit the hair out of my mouth and look her square in the face.

  “Who were you talking to this time?” I demand. “And don’t you dare shrug it off as ‘The House’ because we’re not even in the house, we’re outside.”

  My shoulder blades ache, my skin is slick and clammy, and my reddened hands are numb from lack of circulation. Despite all this, leftover adrenaline is lending me a hell of a glare, and Delia finally falters beneath my direct questioning.

  “I told you when you first got here.” She shrugs. “Folks stick around after they die. They stay on this property.”

  Her blouse is pulled to the side and covered in leaves, her ash blonde hair is stuck to her forehead, and her lower lip is twitching as she stares at me earnestly. “If you don’t believe me, why were you trying to crawl out of here? Who do you think closed the gate?”

  My stomach drops, and chills slip down every inch of my body. I open my mouth to argue, but my tongue is coated in the taste of metal and remains too clumsy to form words.

  “I know it’s hard to come to terms with, especially with everything you’ve been through, but you loved this place once. You knew without needing the words back then. You just need to remember, darling. We’re family here.”

  She reaches out to touch my cheek, but I jerk back. My hands shake as I struggle to reconcile how easily the pieces fit with her words, but how completely out of sync they are with the rest of my world. Sure, the house is old and strange, and yeah, maybe I have some weird memories about the place, but nothing like this! Right? Could it be I’ve blocked out more of my childhood than I ever intended to?

  Shoving myself back with the heels of my feet, I dart, leaving her kneeling in the mint and surrounded by headstones too familiar to be dismissed.

  The climb to the house leaves me breathless, but my racing thoughts continue. Half of me wants to call Dad, but I can’t do that to him, I can’t worry him like that. What would I even say if I could?

  My boots scatter dirt and gravel as I run down the drive and into the wide road. Hair swinging against my back, and the fragrance of rosemary and mint clinging to my clothes, I push on.

  An elderly man glances up as I trek past, a frown evident as he fails to classify me as a local. Another house over, a flurry of dogs come snapping up to the chain link fence around a yellow house, their frantic paws brushing uselessly against the metal. My side stings with the pinch of overused muscles and a lack of oxygen, and finally, I slow.

  Hands on my knees and gasping in a stretch of grass between two homes, I struggle to stack my experiences into two parts. Normal, not normal. Can ghosts really exist? Where could I even search for an answer to that?

  On one hand, I haven’t seen anything proving they can, and science is pretty unclear on the subject. On the other hand, I have no idea how to explain away the horrible sensation I get every time I walk down the hallway or smelling and hearing things that shouldn’t exist. Not to mention, nobody really knows what happens when we die...

  But if ghosts were real? If people could stick around to watch after their loved one’s... wouldn’t my mother have found me? Wouldn’t she have cared enough to be there?

  So, no. I take another breath and shake my head. No, ghosts can’t be real. It’s too cruel to imagine otherwise.

  “Hey!”

  I reluctantly look up, conflict still tearing a hole in my chest. Jogging my way is the girl from the restaurant last night, her dark complexion flushed with exertion and her attention set on my uninvited presence in what I assume is her yard.

  “You’re the one that was staring at me yesterday. What are you, like some kind of stalker?”

  “No.” I shake my head breathlessly. “I kind of live here now. Just out for a run.” In a way. No need to tell her the details.

  Nodding, she lets her stare fall to my shoes. “Do you always run in boots?”

  “No, I don’t usually run at all. In fact, if you ever see me running again, assume a javelina or a mountain lion’s after me.”

  “Got it, if I see you running, I either run, or I shoot at the wild animal behind you.”

  “You’ve got a gun?”

  “No,” she grins. “And I don’t run either. I’m Sabrina. Who’re you, if you’re not a stalker?”

  “Addie. Addie Nix, I just moved in with my aunt.”

  “You’re joking? You mean the old place down the way? Does it really have a cemetery back there? I’ve always wanted to go inside. It looks like a freaking mansion.”

  “Trust me, it’s not as interesting on the inside.” Flustered, I push my hair back from my face and hope the red in my cheeks can be discounted from my jogging. “And the cemetery is way back by the trees, it’s not even a big deal.”

  My throat sticks in protestation against my bald-faced lie, but really, it isn’t a big deal... depending on how you look at it. To anyone besides me and Delia, it’s just a plot of land, as boring as any other graveyard.

  “Are you kidding me?” Sabrina is gushing now, her bright eyes wide with excitement. “I’ve only done grave rubbings in like, every other cemetery in the county, they’re amazing! Do you know how much history old resting grounds can hold? Like have you ever considered the types of lives those people lived? It’s fascinating.”

  I shift, trying to dislodge the heavy air of discomfort and unwanted attention on the very subject I wanted to avoid. “I don’t know, I guess it just isn’t my thing.”

  “Well it sure is my thing! Do you think I could come over sometime and check it out? I’ve been dying for a chance to tour it since I heard the rumors of it sitting back there.”

  Maybe it’s her choice of words, but another shudder rattles my spine as I consider her request. The idea of someone besides family coming into the property is... unnerving, for reasons I can’t explain. I don’t remember ever having company over when I was little, or Delia ever mentioning friends when she visited us in San Antonio. It’s as if the house was meant to be a bubble apart from the rest of humanity.

  “Maybe,” I stammer. “I’m not
sure how my aunt feels about company. We haven’t really gone over any rules or curfews yet.”

  A stab of guilt hits me in the gut as I think of the way I left Delia without a word. I didn’t even help her pick up the fallen photo albums. Oh! And my camera...

  Groaning, I run my fingers over my scalp, giving up when they run into snarls and bits of leaves. I could run and run and still not be able to leave enough of Nix House behind me.

  “What’s up? You aren’t about to pass out or something, are you?” Sabrina leans forward, her hand outstretched in concern.

  “No, no.” I wave her off. “I just remembered I left my camera in the backyard, and I don’t really want to have to go back for it.”

  “A camera? Meaning you’re a photographer. Are you sure you’re not a stalker?” She’s teasing me, a broad grin playing at her face and amusement dancing in her eyes.

  “Oh my god, shut up!” I roll my eyes, a half-hearted laugh coming up like a cough.

  “Come on, let’s at least get you some water before you go back to your mansion.” She says the word like a joke, raising her eyebrows and walking backwards up her lawn. “It’s already almost ninety degrees out here and my mom would kill me if I let you run back without anything to drink.”

  SEATED AT A STOOL IN Sabrina’s kitchen, a familiar ache rumbles around my heart as I watch her mom bustle back and forth, frying up breakfast. She’s a tall, Black woman, with a stern nose and gentle eyes, and her hands move quickly from one skillet to another.

  “Has your aunt messaged back yet?” Mrs. Thomas spares a glance at me as she slides plates onto the navy-blue placements at the table and scoots a chair in with the side of her thigh.

  “Yeah, she said to be back by lunch.” Swinging my feet back and forth, I pick at the case on my phone, and re-read the text for the fourth time.