Donn's Hill

by Caryn Larrinaga

  The last time I’d been here, I was eight years old. I’d been crying on that swing set, clinging to the cold metal chains and struggling to understand why my mother had died. Exposure, I’d heard them say. The word was meaningless. Our neighbor, Darlene, had come around the corner of the house to let me know my father had been located, and he was on his way to collect me. Then she’d led me out of the yard by my hand and helped me pack my things.

  A lump formed in my throat as I stared at the swing set. I remembered my mother’s hands, soft but strong, pushing me into the air. I imagined I could still hear her laughter, but I’d forgotten the real sound of it a long time ago.

  Someone’s stare burned into the back of my head. I twisted in my seat to see who it was. A woman was walking toward me, her hand raised in greeting. Her outline shimmered in the light like a mirage in the desert, and I couldn’t make out her features. Nevertheless, I knew that silhouette.

  “Mom?”

  The sound of my own voice startled me awake. I sat up and blinked. Where am I?

  Moonlight filtered through the lace curtains of the high turret windows, casting an eerie glow on the room around me. I was lying on the plush cushion in the window seat in my new apartment. Beside me, Striker lay snoozing, curled into a tight ball against my legs.

  My head pounded. The room around me felt less real than the dream had. Everything seemed surreal.

  I shook my head and got up to use the toilet. Trying to shake off the remnants of the dream, I stood at the sink and splashed cold water on my face. The water felt jarring, but it helped. Mostly. I still couldn’t get rid of the feeling that someone was watching me. The back of my head burned as it had in my dream, as if my mother’s eyes were still boring into it. I raised my head to check myself in the mirror.

  A man stood behind me. His long, dark hair clung wetly to his gaunt face. He stared straight at me through the mirror, his gaze fierce and intent.

  I whirled around to face him, but he was gone. I glanced frantically around the bathroom. The door was shut, and the opaque purple shower curtain was pulled closed. I jerked it open, revealing an empty tub.

  The hair on the back of my neck sprung to attention and gooseflesh prickled down my arms. The feeling of unreality, which I’d shaken moments earlier, flooded back into me. Nauseated, I gripped the sink to maintain my balance. First the motel and now here. Was I losing my mind?

  BANG!

  Something slammed against the bathroom door. I whipped around and shrieked. The man was out there, trying to get in!

  BANG!

  The door shuddered. The lock rattled. I backed away from the door with my hands over my mouth, bumping into the cold edge of the tub, which pressed against my legs.

  BANG!

  Something icy and wet touched the side of my face, and I stopped moving. I blinked, and when I opened my eyes, he was standing in front of me, his ashen face inches from mine. His brown eyes were desperate, but I could see other things in them, too. Fear. Sadness.

  Longing.

  His frozen fingers trailed down my cheek and onto my neck. I was terrified, but my arms refused to move from my sides. I couldn’t push him away.

  BANG!

  The bathroom door burst open, and Striker flung herself into the room. Her tail was puffed out like a raccoon’s, and her eyes flashed with violent intentions. She leapt into the air and balanced on my shoulder, her claws digging in for purchase. For an instant, I thought she was going to attack my face, and I closed my eyes to protect them. Instead, I felt her spin around and heard her snarling and hissing. The icy touch on my neck vanished.

  I gasped and opened my eyes. I was lying on the bathroom floor. The tiny green tiles felt cool against my bare skin, and the floor was slick with a thin sheen of water. The tap was still running, and the tiny sink was overflowing. The door stood open, and Striker watched me from the kitchen counter. I stood slowly, my head swimming.

  How did I end up on the floor? And how long was I down there?

  My stomach felt hollow, and I remembered how little I’d eaten the day before. Between the late start and all of the excitement with Striker and the apartment, I hadn’t made any time to sit down and have a decent meal. I must’ve passed out from low blood sugar or something. I’d never fainted before, and I didn’t realize it was possible to dream while blacked out.

  I turned off the tap and rummaged around the apartment for anything to sop up the water. When I came across a ratty old towel in the bottom drawer of the wardrobe, I promised myself I’d buy new linens first thing in the morning. Striker followed me around as I took care of the mess, watching me with her owl-like eyes. Her presence made me feel safe and helped chase away the adrenaline from my nightmare.

  The sounds started when I hung up the towel to dry on the rack beside the tub. They were right above my head. Clang, clang, clink. Clang, clang, clink. It was almost musical, the way the sounds repeated, but it also felt ominous… and sounded intentional.

  I stared at the sloped ceiling, straining to pinpoint the source of the noise. Wasn’t that the roofline? Could there be pipes up there, knocking from the running water? I would have to ask Graham.

  Striker trilled at me, and I picked her up. I walked back over to the window seat and sat down, pulling my legs up beneath me. As I stroked her back, I watched the bathroom door, half terrified that it would close on its own or look different after I blinked.

  What is going on with my brain? First the motel, and now this. Was I imagining the Travelers again, and even dreaming about them, or… I wasn’t sure if I even dared to think of the other possibilities.

  Striker purred so strongly that it vibrated in my body. It was soothing, like resting your head on someone’s chest and hearing their heartbeat. We stayed that way, staring at the bathroom door and listening to the clanging pipes until the first rays of sun peeked over the hill, and then I fell back asleep.

  Chapter Seven

  The sound of an electric coffee maker and the smell of cinnamon rolls greeted me when I walked into the communal kitchen that morning. My stomach loudly declared its need to be filled.

  Graham stood at the granite counter, frosting the rolls with an orange glaze.

  “Good morning.” He offered me a mug. “Coffee?”

  Sharing a kitchen has some perks, I decided. I took the mug and sipped the piping-hot brew.

  “Yikes!” I grimaced. “This is some strong stuff. Did you make it to drink or to peel tar off a road?”

  He laughed and poured himself a cup. “If it’s too strong for you, I won’t be offended if you water it down.”

  A wide refrigerator stood beside the stove. I pulled open the door and checked the contents. There was a lot of food packed into it, and the label of every item was marred by a name or a set of initials. I found a big bottle of French vanilla creamer and pulled it out. “KIT’S—NO TOUCHY” was written on the bottle in black marker. I put the bottle back with a sigh. Water it would be.

  Graham handed me a cinnamon roll, and I took a large bite. It was soft and sweet, the perfect complement to the ogre-strength coffee.

  “Did you make these from scratch?” I asked, my mouth full of gooey goodness.

  He held up a package from the freezer section of the grocery store. “Old family recipe,” he said, grinning and showing off his dimples.

  Frozen or not, the roll was delicious. Especially compared to the protein bars that’d made up most of my meals the day before. It disappeared into my mouth in three bites.

  “How was your first night?” he asked.

  The image of the thin, waterlogged man from my dream flashed in my mind, and goose bumps broke out on my arms all over again. It still felt real. I worried talking about it would give him life and bring him into the waking world.

  “It was okay.” With a fist against my chin, I pushed my head to one side, cracking my neck. I needed to get a better bed, stat. Another night on that curved window seat might do me in. “The clanging pipes kept me up
a bit.”

  “Pipes?”

  “Yeah. In the ceiling in my bathroom.” I imitated the sound. “Clang, clang, clink. I think there’s air in the plumbing or something.”

  Graham furrowed his brow. “That’s odd. In the ceiling? I’ll get up there and take a look.”

  “And I had a little issue with some water in my bathroom, too.”

  “Your pipes aren’t leaking, are they?” His expression shifted from concerned to slightly panicked.

  “Oh, no. Just left my sink running a little too long and had to use the one towel in the cupboard to clean up the mess. I need to get some towels and dishes… Is there a good place in town to pick that stuff up?”

  “There’s a cheap variety store on Main. They sell basically random stuff. You might have better luck in Moyard. They’ve got a few big stores there.”

  Moyard. Great. Maybe I could find that guy with the pickup truck who’d taken me to the motel and see if he’d let me hitch another ride.

  “Oh, I forgot to give this to you yesterday.” Graham handed me a small bronze key. “It goes to your mailbox.”

  I took the key and added it to the one for my apartment on my otherwise empty key ring. I didn’t feel much of a need for a mailbox. But hey, those credit card offers and pizza coupons had to go somewhere.

  In the foyer I found two rows of antique brass mailboxes. I put the key into mine on the off chance any coupons were waiting for me. As I stared into the empty box, my glib thoughts from a moment earlier were devoured and replaced by a sudden, deep loneliness. I had a mailing address to give to no one but my bank, my cell-phone carrier, and anyone else looking for money. There would be no more birthday cards from my father, not ever. I didn’t know anyone who would send me invitations to parties or baby showers or weddings. It really would be just junk mail.

  Don’t be stupid. This is a small town. You’ll probably meet everybody who lives in a ten-mile radius within a month, and then you’ll be complaining about all the wedding presents you have to buy. Besides, how much mail did you really used to get, anyhow?

  The proverbial rose-colored glasses through which I’d been looking at my life in Salt Lake City slipped down my nose a teensy bit. There, the invitations Josh and I had gotten were really for Josh; I was just his “plus one.” Our entire social circle had been his social circle. I’d drifted apart from the friends I’d made in college when I moved to Utah and they started having babies. So at parties and gatherings, I’d sit on couches beside Josh’s friends’ girlfriends. They were nice enough, but we didn’t have much in common. They were into extreme sports and motorcycles. I was into good books and Netflix marathons. Our conversations tended to fizzle out after a few minutes of small talk, and I’d end up listening to them talk about backcountry skiing while I nursed a beer in silence. Invitations to hang out with them never came, and I never made an effort to see them either.

  I shut the mailbox door with a firm snap. This town will be different. The mistake I’d made when I moved to Utah was allowing myself to become a passenger in somebody else’s life, a spectator and not a participant. Nobody was worth that. This was my chance to build a life for me. I had to take full advantage of this fresh start and make some friends.

  On my way back up to my apartment, I saw a young woman coming down the wide staircase. She was short and stocky, with bright-green hair cropped in a pixie cut. Her Ramones t-shirt and torn black jeans gave her a very retro vibe. In the past, I would’ve ducked my head and maybe murmured a “Good morning” as we passed each other, but now I was a woman on a mission.

  “Hi,” I said, looking directly at her. “I like your shirt.”

  “Thanks.” She glanced at my top, which pictured a unicorn vomiting a rainbow, and her eyes lit up. “You’re wearing a pretty wicked one yourself.”

  Off to a good start.

  I smiled, trying not to make it too wide and bare my teeth like a psychopath. “I’m Mac. I just moved in yesterday. Do you live here?”

  She stopped on the stair above me, bringing us eye to eye, and shook my hand. “Yeah, I’m upstairs in number six. Kit Dyedov.”

  Her face had an ageless quality to it, the kind of skin that gets you carded at every bar and concert well into your thirties.

  “I’m in number eight,” I told her.

  “The room with the little tower, right? I’ve always wanted to snoop around that place.”

  “You’ll have to come up for a drink sometime and check it out. The apartment isn’t that impressive, but the turret makes up for a lot.”

  “How about now?”

  Holy crap. Her smile was genuine, and her brown eyes were friendly, but my chest tensed up. I’d wanted to take a baby step toward making a new friend, not commit to socializing right this second. I took an involuntary step backward, down one stair.

  “Well…” I backpedaled. “Before I can do that, I need to get some things for my apartment.”

  “What sorts of things?” She moved forward, following me down the stairs.

  “Oh, you know. Sheets and towels. Mugs. Boring stuff.” I slid to one side, intending to scoot past her and escape up to my apartment as soon as it wouldn’t seem too rude.

  For some reason, her eyes lit up. “So you’ll probably be heading to Moyard, then?”

  “Um, yeah. I mean, maybe.”

  “I’m heading there myself. I’ve got a few errands to run. Want a ride?”

  I stopped inching up the stairs and stared at her for a moment. This girl was either genuinely full of Midwestern friendliness, or she was totally insane and I was about to wind up stabbed to death in a ditch halfway to Moyard. The opportunity to hit up a big box store tempted me into believing she was the former. “Really?”

  “For real. Have you ever been on that drive? It’s duller than my un-dyed roots. I could use the company.”

  My choices were clear: spend the day with a stranger and knock out all my shopping in one shot, or roll the dice at the local dollar store.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Let me run up and grab my stuff.”

  Back in my apartment, I snatched my purse up off the floor while Striker rubbed her face on one of the turret window’s cranks. I turned it, opening the window wide enough that she could slink out and go off into the world if she wanted. The roof outside my apartment—with its gentle slopes and many decorative touches—seemed to have been designed with a cat’s entrance and egress in mind. It was reassuring to know that not only did she now have a collar with my contact information listed, but she also seemed to have considered this place her home even before I did. I had no doubt she’d find her way back to me after frolicking outside and chasing bugs or whatever cats spend their time doing when humans aren’t watching.

  When I came back down, Kit was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, and together we walked to the back of the house. Like many of the converted houses I’d seen along Main, the backyard here had been paved to make room for parking spaces. She led me to a large black van parked under a long metal carport. The side of the van was emblazoned with the image of an indistinct figure standing at a window. Above the design, wavy letters spelled the words SOUL SEARCHERS.

  “What’s with the logo?” I asked, hopping into the van. I craned around to look into the cavernous space behind me. Several video cameras and other high-tech looking equipment were lashed onto a few deep shelves on one side of the cargo area. A long computer desk took up the other side.

  “It’s my dad’s company.” Kit slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine. “We’re paranormal investigators.”

  “Wow.” I’d never met a ghost hunter before. “What’s with the video cameras?”

  “We document hauntings. Our show airs on ScreamTV.” She eased the van out into the street.

  I stifled a laugh, not wanting to offend her. “Is it like where a bunch of people go into a creepy place, and one person thinks they hear something, so everybody gets scared?”

  She cracked a smile. “Those gu
ys are hacks. We’re way better. Everything on our show is totally real. My dad is super into historical research—he’s like the Ken Burns of ghosts. He finds old records and letters and figures out the story behind the haunting. So we focus a lot on the history of the building and the people who lived and died there, and then we try to find evidence of ghosts. We have EMF meters, thermometers, infrared sensors… the works.”

  “Sounds exciting. How did you get into that?”

  “It’s the family business,” she said, her voice suddenly deep and gravely.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, alarmed at the change in her voice.

  Kit stared at me with raised eyebrows. “Don Corleone, man.”

  She’d sounded nothing like Marlon Brando, but I wasn’t eager to insult her by telling her as much. I didn’t know enough about her to be sure she wouldn’t pull over on the side of the road and kick me out of the van, so I decided to just play along.

  “Ah. I wasn’t sure if you were,” I lowered my voice and tried to sound gruff, scratching the side of my chin with the backs of my fingers like Robert De Niro, “Talkin’ to me?”

  Kit shot me a grin. “That was terrible.”

  I burst out laughing. All my worrying about tact, all my attempts to be polite—Kit’s bluntness made me feel stupid about all of it. And it felt good to laugh, sitting next to this woman who dared to say whatever the hell she was thinking.

  I decided I liked her.

  It took me a moment to recover enough to ask, “So… you were saying your family is basically the ghost mafia?”

  She laughed. “I’m stealing that.”

  “Have you ever found proof of a ghost or captured one on camera?”

  “Well, I mean, what do you consider ‘proof’?”

  I thought about it. What would it take for me to believe a photo or video of a ghost was real?

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I feel like I’d have to be there.”

  “You and most people. We’ve gotten tons of evidence. EVPs, video phenomena, you name it. But there are a lot of skeptics out there.” She had a grim smile on her face. “As long as they watch the show, even if it’s to try to prove us wrong, I don’t care. Ratings, man. That’s where the money is.”