Reverie

by Ryan La Sala

  “Kane!”

  He caught Sophia’s wrist just as her leg plunged through a rotted portion of the roof, but their weight was too much. In a plume of dust and decay, the roof tilted beneath them, throwing them down so hard Kane’s teeth snapped together.

  They were…outside? They’d tumbled over the mill’s back edge. Around them shivered desiccated ferns bathed in thick yellow light. Behind them the structure continued to shake ominously. Kane’s hand found Sophia and they ran, crashing through the forest of scorched saplings as a portion of the mill collapsed completely. Splinters showered their backs.

  Kane threw a glance over his shoulder and saw a towering shadow printed upon the rolling cloud of dust and ash, so tall it could have been a tree. But then it turned and, finding them, lunged forward.

  Kane focused only on keeping up with Sophia as they shot into the Cobalt Complex’s sprawling maze of ancient buildings, pitted roads, and equipment overgrown with ivy, to the edges where rotten fences held back the forest. They’d hidden Sophia’s car in the neighborhood that backed up against the mill, behind a wall of mountain laurel.

  “Well, shit,” Sophia said as she flung herself into the driver’s side. She gulped breaths. “That was—”

  The sound of sirens cut into Kane with the finality of a guillotine as a police cruiser rolled out of the shade, stopping before their idling car. Sophia let loose an elaborate string of bad words.

  “Mr. Montgomery, we thought it might be you,” said one. Kane couldn’t even look her in the eye. “Step out of the car, please.”

  Together, they scooted from the car. Sophia shook off her shock first. “You don’t understand. We were just walking along the path when this thing came out of nowhere and chased us. This massive animal…”

  Sophia’s voice fizzled out, leaving Kane to wonder if she’d seen the shadow that chased them. One officer said something into their radio. The other turned to Kane. “The Cobalt Complex is a crime scene, Mr. Montgomery.”

  Kane’s mouth was dry. He nodded.

  “And private property.”

  Nod.

  “That you’ve trespassed on once already.”

  The world went wobbly beneath him. He grabbed the car’s hood to keep from falling. What the hell were those things? There was no way to describe them and no point in doing so. The police wouldn’t believe any of it. They would think Kane had caused the damage to the mill himself. Again.

  Holy shit.

  “It was my idea,” Sophia blurted. “It was, I swear. I asked to come here. I wanted to see…to see it all for myself. The mill. Kane didn’t even want to come. I made him come back. Please don’t get him in more trouble.”

  The officers eyed Sophia incredulously. Her hair, the color of cocoa powder, had come unbraided and floated around her jaw, a few strands caught in glistening spit at the edge of her frown. She had on her Pemberton uniform—the all-girls private school in town, which was an honorable and mysterious institution that gave all the locals a superstitious pause—but it was a mess from their run. Still, the cops paused.

  One nodded toward Kane. “Detective Thistler let us know you’ve got an appointment with him and your parents this afternoon.”

  “Yeah,” Kane said. “We were on our way. We’ll head over right now, I promise.”

  Everyone waited to see if a consequence would happen, and it did. The same officer rounded the cruiser and popped open the back door. “Miss, you head home. Kane, grab your stuff. You’re coming with us.”

  • Two •

  THE WITCHES

  The East Amity Police Station had three interview rooms. Two of them were simple boxes of concrete, containing only steel tables and steel chairs. Interrogation chic. The third, Kane was told as he was led through the halls of the station, was called the Soft Room. It had couches, a basket of plastic geraniums flanked by tissue boxes, and a lamp.

  Kane clung to these details. No one was going to torture him in a room with upholstered couches, right? The blood would soak into the fibers. It’d take a small pond of seltzer to scrub out.

  No one had told Kane what was going to happen to him. They weren’t allowed to talk until his parents arrived, which made him want to throw up. He wondered what would happen as he pulled himself into a knot of shivering limbs on the couch. He wondered if a person could shiver apart. If they could, would it happen slowly, or all at once, like a Jenga tower flying apart after one, singular piece is oh-so-carefully removed?

  Kane became sick of wondering. He held himself tighter and clutched a book—The Witches by Roald Dahl, a favorite he’d stashed in his backpack. He’d grabbed it from Sophia’s car before he was dragged off in the police cruiser. He turned the pages every few minutes, but only pretended to read in case he was being watched.

  Were the police meeting with his parents separately? Should he text Sophia? His phone had been lost in the crash, but he had her old one on loan.

  Kane turned another page, though it wasn’t words he saw but the shadow from the Cobalt Complex. His mind drifted over it, tentative, like approaching the memory of a dream you know will break apart if it sees you coming. Even at the edges, he knew there was something messed up about what he’d seen. Something unreal and unbelievable.

  He shook off the notion. He couldn’t afford unbelievable right now. He needed to figure out a way to explain all of this. A real explanation for what really happened. And he needed to figure it out before Detective Thistler did.

  Kane tensed at the thought of Thistler, who wore a suit with a badge clipped to his belt, who smelled like cigarettes and spearmint. Thistler was always smiling when he questioned Kane, like he thought they were about to share a secret adventure. Kane had a fear of people who smiled too much, and Thistler proved why. In their first meeting at the hospital, Thistler laid out Kane’s circumstances in a cheerful, rushed explanation, like someone enthusiastically describing their odd hobby. He let loose terms like “Third-Degree Arson” and “Permanent Record” with a flourish. When Kane was suitably panicked, Thistler started his strange, meandering questions about Kane’s life. Did Kane have a girlfriend? No. A boyfriend? Not yet. Did he participate in any clubs at school? No. How did he feel about school? Good. And so on.

  Toward the end of their two hours, Thistler began circling in on something much larger than useless details about Kane’s life. He was targeting Kane’s stability. The questions turned pointed. Why do you find yourself lying to avoid people? I…I…don’t. Why would you decide to hurt yourself? I wouldn’t. I didn’t. You seem angry. Does talking about what you did make you angry? Yes, but—Why is that?—but I didn’t do what you think. You seem upset. Why are you upset?

  Kane awoke to the insidious craft of these questions too slowly to work his way out of them. It was as though the lights had come up on a stage he didn’t know he was standing on, revealing a play he didn’t realize he was performing in. The play was a tragedy. He was the lead: a gay boy, lonely, suicidal, brimming with angst. He had played his part beautifully.

  Even now, Kane’s whole body burned in humiliation. His parents had been there. They’d whispered with Thistler after, in the hall, and their whispering continued until the next day when they sat Kane down and told him about the psych evaluation. Kane’s second chance.

  “You’re a Montgomery,” Dad had said. “That means something in this town, you know. Your uncle is on the force.”

  “You’re lucky,” Mom had said. “They’re giving you a chance to prove you’re committed to helping yourself. Not everyone gets that, sweetie.”

  “You’re screwed,” Sophia had said. “They think you’re nuts. You’re gonna have to figure this out for yourself. Prove them all wrong.”

  And that’s how they’d ended up at the mill.

  Fear splintered through Kane’s guts. If he made it through this conversation with Thistler, he promised he’d never go back
to the Cobalt Complex. He’d never even wonder about it.

  The door to the Soft Room opened.

  Kane burst to his feet. “Detective Thistler, I can explain—”

  But it wasn’t Thistler at the door, or even Kane’s parents. Framed in the cold light of the hallway was someone entirely new to Kane’s small, disastrous world.

  “Mr. Montgomery? I hope you weren’t waiting long in this dim, sad place. I left as soon as I got the call.”

  The person said this with humor, in a voice adorned with theatric flourish that warmed the small room. They wore a fitted suit sashed at the waist and sleek pants trimmed in satin, all of their outfit rendered in a rich, golden fabric that revealed an elusive pattern beneath the lamplight. Even their skin glowed with a gold luster, shifting as they sat. Kane sat, too, a bit dazzled by the person’s faultless face, which would not allow him to answer the question as to whether this person was a man, a woman, both, or neither.

  They slipped a pad of paper from their bag and peered at Kane through curled lashes.

  “What, you’ve never seen a man in mascara?” he said, answering the question on Kane’s face.

  “I’m sorry.” Kane’s cheeks burned. How often had this man caught people staring? How many times had he been asked that question? How many more times had he answered it without being asked, just for the sake of people uncomfortable with ambiguity, who ignored what this person had to say while instead wondering viciously at his identity?

  “I’m sorry,” Kane repeated. “I didn’t mean—”

  The person pinched the air, snuffing out Kane’s apology. Kane sat a bit deeper in his shame. This was not a person usually found in suburban Connecticut. This was not a person Kane knew how to hide from. He found instead a need to impress them.

  “You’re not Detective Thistler,” Kane said, even though it couldn’t be more obvious.

  “Ah, how astute. They told me you were a clever one.” The man winked conspiratorially, making Kane grin. “Thistler is occupied with…I don’t know. Whatever occupies the pathologically heterosexual. Perhaps trying to find just one more use for his three-in-one shampoo–conditioner–body wash? Maybe he ought to use it as a mouthwash, too? It might help that dingy rainbow of a smile he keeps showing everyone.”

  Kane outright laughed, surprising himself.

  “Anyhow. It’ll be just you and me today, Mr. Montgomery. You may call me Dr. Poesy.”

  Kane was fascinated by Dr. Poesy, especially by his conspicuous queerness. He was not naïve enough to dismiss this similarity between himself and the doctor as a coincidence, because (and as a rule) Kane didn’t believe in coincidences. Life so far had shown there was something awful and determined about the way the world put itself together for people like him. A seductive sort of unluckiness that repeated in infinitely small and cruel ways. And at first Kane thought Dr. Poesy was part of that wicked design. A further unluckiness, sent to trick him one more time. But how could someone so like him be bad for him? Deep in his distrust, Kane felt something long lost blink to life: hope. This meeting wasn’t a coincidence, but perhaps it wasn’t unlucky, either. Maybe Dr. Poesy was good. Maybe he was here to help Kane break free from the wicked designs of his life. Maybe, just maybe, Dr. Poesy was the brighter edge of fate.

  The thought stung Kane’s eyes. He bit down the emotion, telling himself this new hope was dangerous. He needed to stay on guard. Wiping his face clean of emotion, he asked, “You’re the psychologist, aren’t you? You’re here to do my psych evaluation, right?”

  “I’m one of many people here to help you,” Dr. Poesy said. “And yes, I am here to evaluate, though today we’re only talking. Your parents have been informed and have left the station for the evening.”

  “Do they know what happened?”

  Dr. Poesy’s smiled impishly. “Not quite. I told the officers to let me handle them, and I haven’t yet decided what I’ll say. I suppose I’ll decide during this meeting.”

  Kane drew back a bit. Was that a threat? What did that mean?

  “I see you’ve brought a book. What is it?”

  “Oh.” Kane was still clutching The Witches. “Nothing. A kid’s book.”

  Dr. Poesy gazed at it. His eyes held a color that slid between black, blue, and oblivion.

  “Witches interest me,” Dr. Poesy said. “If you look at most female archetypes—the mother, the virgin, the whore—their power comes from their relation to men. But not the Witch. The Witch derives her power from nature. She calls forth her dreams with spells and incantations. With poetry. And I think that’s why we are frightened of them. What’s scarier to the world of men than a woman limited only by her imagination?”

  Kane sat forward. He sensed he was supposed to respond, but how? Was this part of the evaluation? He hadn’t been careful with Thistler. He would have to be with Dr. Poesy.

  “It’s just a book,” Kane said cautiously.

  Dr. Poesy flipped through a file. A golden pen appeared in his hand, and it waggled haughtily as he wrote something.

  “So, in your own words, Mr. Montgomery, why are we here?”

  “I was in a car accident.”

  “Painting in broad strokes will get you nowhere with me. Try again.”

  “I…” Kane flattened his voice. Steeled himself. He knew what needed saying. “I ran away a week ago today. I stole a car from my parents, and I drove it through the Cobalt Complex after a big storm. I lost control of the car near the river and crashed into a building. The car caught on fire. So did the building. I got out and the police found me in the river. I passed out and went into a brief coma, but I woke up in the hospital later. I’m in a lot of trouble. I don’t remember any of it.”

  Dr. Poesy looked at Kane for a long time. “And, of course, you were back at the mill today. Did you remember anything?”

  “No.” It wasn’t a lie, but should he tell Dr. Poesy about the thing that chased them? How could he even begin to describe what happened without sounding even guiltier?

  But Dr. Poesy moved on. “Why does a runaway return home, just to steal a car?”

  Kane’s mind hiccupped. No one had asked him this yet. “I don’t know. I don’t remember doing it.”

  “How does a mostly brick building catch fire in the rain?”

  “The…the car must have exploded or something.”

  “That’s cinematic, but not usually how cars work. There were, however, traces of gasoline found all over the crash site.”

  Kane frowned. “Cars run on gasoline. Gasoline explodes.”

  Dr. Poesy tapped the gold pen against his temple. “Clever.” Then he wrote something down.

  “What are you writing? I didn’t set that building on fire on purpose.”

  Dr. Poesy continued to write. “I didn’t say you set it on fire at all, but that’s a curious thought.”

  Kane slumped backward, horrified. “I wouldn’t…I mean, I didn’t—”

  Dr. Poesy held up a quieting hand once again. “I’m going to be honest with you, Mr. Montgomery, in a way that no one else will be honest with you, because I understand you, and I understand your misfortune. Know that I want what’s best for you, and so even if my honesty is harsh, it is not cruel.” He waited for Kane to give a consenting nod before continuing. “First, your story of your misadventure is clearly false. None of it quite works, does it? You attempted to vanish, but very poorly. You destroyed your cell phone, yet what little you posted online you didn’t bother to delete. You stole a car from your own family, but not cash or credit cards. You drove this car, miraculously, through several security perimeters in a very direct route to the river, before swerving at the last minute into a building. A crash of this sort would kill a person, normally, but the EMTs found you conscious and mostly unharmed, sitting in the river several yards away, so you couldn’t have been in the car upon impact. Do you know how they described
you in the police report? ‘Polite and detached.’ Those are the exact words. The report says they found you sitting in the shallows, humming to yourself and picking apart flowers. And, only after you were safe, did you suddenly lapse into a coma. That’s odd, too, I think.”

  Kane could feel the deep frown on his face, and he forced it away. It was too hard to look at the doctor, so he focused on his clenched fists instead.

  “None of it works, does it?”

  Kane shrugged. It was all he had.

  Dr. Poesy sat back. “And here is where I will tell you the actual truth, Mr. Montgomery. My colleagues disagree with my decision to do so, but I feel it is important you understand the reality of the situation in which you find yourself. Or, at least, the reality so far.”

  The lighthearted act was gone, replaced by an inscrutable, clinical stare. When Dr. Poesy smiled, it was like he had just learned how; all in the mouth, nothing in the eyes.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that your story takes place within a much larger story, an ongoing case bigger than the scope of your small town’s police department. You’ve managed to attract the attention of some very powerful, very bad people, Mr. Montgomery, who will go to extraordinary lengths to keep you silent about what you witnessed. As fortune would have it, I reached you first. I can protect you.”

  Kane squirmed. “Am I in danger?”

  Dr. Poesy dipped a manicured hand into his bag and placed a small square of paper on the table between them. Absurdly, it was one of the postcards Kane had been thinking of before. The ones that showed the mill painted in wistful watercolor.

  “Let me introduce you to the work of Maxine Osman,” Dr. Poesy said. “She was born in the year nineteen forty-six and has been a fixture of East Amity for seventy-four years. She married, but her husband died eons ago. She has no children. She used to head the East Amity Craft Guild. She is known for the watercolors she completes every year for the East Amity tourism board. In fact, she’s most known for her seasonal series of the Cobalt Complex, completing twelve every year for the official East Amity calendar. Her favorite subject was the old mill, which you blew up.”