by Kim Chance
I stood up and walked toward the door. Part of me was dying to turn around, jump into his lap like I used to do as a kid, and tell him how scared and confused I was. But the other half screamed at me to walk inside and not say anything that might land me in a padded room.
With a huff, I walked inside. The house smelled strongly of burnt sage. Serena, or Madam Serena Morales as her customers call her, was in the living room. A dozen or more candles lined the room, casting shadows against the walls. The light wrapped around her, giving her russet brown skin a soft glow. Her large brown eyes were wide and focused, and she was swaying back and forth, her shiny dark hair swishing around her shoulders in a perfect line. She was clutching a bundle of burning sage and mumbling some kind of incantation under her breath.
If I hadn’t seen it a thousand times before, I would’ve laughed, but Serena and Gareth had been together for as long as I could remember, and these cleansing rituals had become commonplace in our house.
“Hi, Serena,” I called out as I passed through to the kitchen.
She blinked and turned to smile at me. “Lainey! Just in time! I’ve just finished the cleansing ritual. Your house is officially spirit free!” She swept across the floor with that ridiculous flamboyant walk she somehow made look natural and began to blow out the candles. “Don’t you just love the energy of a clean house? It’s absolutely exhilarating. Can you feel it?”
“Yeah, definitely.” I snorted down a laugh. Not that Serena noticed. She continued flouncing around the room, sweeping her long skirt around her legs like a matador does his muleta.
“You know what I think we should do?” Serena skipped back over to me. “I think we should form a serenity circle. We haven’t done one in months!”
“Um . . . that sounds really great, but I’ve got a lot of studying to do. I think I’m gonna grab a few cookies and then head up to bed.”
Serena put a palm against my cheek, her forehead creased as she peered into my face. “You know your aura is looking a little cloudy. Perhaps a good night’s rest is what you need.”
“Or maybe she just needs to stop stressing and stuff her face full of cookies instead,” Gareth’s voice rang out from the entryway. He walked into the living room with his book in his hand and a grin on his face.
Serena scoffed at Gareth and smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yes, cookies and rest. Just what the doctor ordered.” She turned away from me then and shot Gareth a look I didn’t understand before turning her attention back to the candles.
Gareth looked back at her, his own face unreadable. I wondered if this was one of those weird couple moments when they were having a conversation without saying actual words. I watched them for a few seconds before deciding to retreat to the kitchen. A plate of snickerdoodle cookies sat on the counter. I grabbed a handful and headed upstairs for my room.
As soon as I shut the door and sat on the edge of my bed, all the fear and confusion I’d felt outside the comic book shop returned, coiling low in my gut. My heart was thumping, so I shoved a warm cookie into my mouth as a distraction. My eyes roamed around the room as I chewed.
My bedroom wasn’t large, but I loved the sense of home it gave me—something I’d rarely felt at all the other houses we’d lived in. Maybe it was because I knew I’d get to stay in this one longer than a few months. Gareth had always claimed the job market was unstable, but after fourteen moves in the last five years alone, I’d made him swear to stay put long enough for me to finish high school in one place. He’d agreed and had kept his promise for more than two years now, but I wasn’t taking any chances—thus the goal of early graduation.
The bulletin board above my desk was covered in brochures from colleges around the country. The thought of being alone and on my own both terrified and thrilled me, but I was eager to leave Lothbrook behind. There was so much of the world I hadn’t seen yet, and the scientist in me was eager to explore and experiment—and maybe make an important discovery or two! I’d been nothing more than a bookworm and a nomad my entire life; I was ready for a big change.
There has to be something else out there for me, I thought, staring at the brochures. It’s time I found out what.
Swallowing the last of my cookie, I grabbed my dictionary off the desk, the blue one Gareth had given me, and thumbed through it. Just get back to studying, Styles. Everything else will keep for a bit.
“Ambiguous. Adjective,” I said out loud, letting the familiar words soothe me. “Meaning unclear or vague.” I flipped to a new page. “Irrevocable. Adjective. Meaning permanent or unchanging.”
When I turned the next page, a worn photograph fell into my lap. I knew what it was without even looking at it, but my heart still wrenched as I turned it over. It was the last picture ever taken of my parents and me. Gareth had given it to me several years back. My mother and father were standing underneath a tall tree with red and orange leaves. My father was grinning at the camera, holding me, only a bundled infant at the time. My mother wasn’t looking at the camera. She was looking lovingly at my father, her eyes wide and bright.
It was comforting to see their faces, despite the familiar pang in my chest every time I thought about them not being here.
I was just about to shove the photograph back into the dictionary when a tiny detail caught my eye. I moved the photograph closer to my face, blinking to clear away any tears that might affect my vision.
I gasped, dropping the photo as if it were on fire.
“No,” I whispered. “There’s no way.” I stared at the photo lying facedown on the carpet.
I reached down and gingerly picked up the photograph. The faces were the same, radiant and smiling, but that wasn’t what had my heart threatening to beat out of my chest.
Around my mother’s neck was a silver necklace, and hanging from the necklace was an oval-shaped emerald pendant.
I recognized the necklace. I’d seen it only hours before.
It was the very same emerald amulet that had hung from the bloody woman’s throat.
CHAPTER FOUR
The electric guitar riffs coming from my alarm clock were loud enough to wake the dead. I fumbled for the snooze button, muttering curses under my breath.
When the room was silent, I collapsed back against my pillow, pulling the blanket over my head. I groaned, my stomach rolling with the nausea that comes from lack of sleep.
In the last forty-eight hours, I had spent every spare minute searching the Internet for anything that might explain my encounter with the blood-covered woman. I’d also been canvasing my house for clues as to why the necklace in the picture of my mom and the one the woman wore were the same. Yet, the only thing I’d found in my searches was way too many disturbing websites and a hella ton of dust mites.
I’d almost asked Gareth about the photograph, but every time I mentioned my parents, especially my mom, he always looked so sad. I hated seeing the grief—still fresh after all these years—in his eyes, so I usually didn’t bring them up. Besides, I was still convinced there was some kind of logical explanation for it all. I just had to find it.
But what about the handprint on your arm? What does it mean? How is it possible that the woman you saw was wearing the same necklace as your mother?
The voice in my head repeated the same three questions that’d kept me tossing and turning all night long. “I just want to sleep,” I grumbled. “I just want it all to go away.”
Thankfully, the alarm wailed again, pushing away everything except my annoyance. The opening strains of an AC/DC song blasted through the speakers, and I slapped at the clock like I’d been doing for the past half hour. Why the hell is my alarm on anyway? It’s Saturday. I closed my eyes and snuggled deeper under the covers—and immediately jolted upright.
“Shit!” I shouted when the realization dawned on me. There was a reason I had set my alarm for bright and early on a Saturday, why
I had set it to the local classic rock station—something I couldn’t possibly sleep through. Today was the day of the SAT.
The clock beside me read 7:45. The test was scheduled to begin in fifteen minutes! Throwing the covers back, I leapt out of bed, shucked off my pajamas, and grabbed the first pieces of clothing my fingers touched. After throwing my hair into a messy bun, I grabbed my backpack and flew out the front door, slamming it behind me.
I drove as fast as I dared, trying to ignore the roar of anxiety screaming inside my head. The clock on my dashboard read 7:51.
The high school was only few miles away, but there was no way I was going to make it in time. The red light in front of me seemed to be taking its sweet time, and I slammed my fist against the steering wheel. “Turn green already!” The light changed colors, almost as if in response to my demand, and I let out a tiny smile of satisfaction before stomping on the gas pedal.
I managed to make it a few hundred yards before being stopped by another light. I groaned and gripped the steering wheel to keep from beating the crap out of it.
The clock now read 7:55.
“Green!” I yelled through the windshield. The light obligingly changed. I sped down the street, praying I wouldn’t catch any more lights or run into a cop.
I was less than two minutes away from the school when flashing red lights and lowering metal arms indicated an oncoming train. I came to a complete stop, exactly one intersection away from my turn, and burst into tears. The morning freighters were famous for being incredibly slow and miles long.
The clock read 7:58.
I dropped my head to the steering wheel and tried not to choke on my tears. All that studying, all the stress and worry, the months of preparation—all for nothing.
I pounded my fist against the dash. This was entirely my fault. If I hadn’t been so distracted, I wouldn’t be missing the most important test of my life.
The ever-reliable voice of reason inside my head began whispering condolences, but I shook my head to silence the sound. It didn’t matter that the test would be offered again next month. Early acceptance depended on this round of scores. I wanted to punch myself in the face.
Just ten minutes, I agonized. If I had just gotten up ten minutes sooner.
Warmth flooded through my body—probably some rush of endorphins in response to my panic. I sucked in a few ragged breaths. There wasn’t anything else I could do. It might be possible to sweet-talk the officials into letting me enter the testing room late, but I doubted it.
The train was still moving in front of me, but I could see the final car getting closer. This train was much shorter than the ones that usually backed up traffic for miles. Some kind of small miracle. Not that it mattered. Especially since—
I froze, staring at the clock on my dash. The bright green numbers now read 7:48.
What the hell?
I pulled my cell phone from where I had tossed it into the cup holder and tapped the screen. 7:48.
My stomach flip-flopped. Maybe I just read the clock wrong? I thought of that sign hanging in the counselor’s office about stress and its effect on the teenage mind. I imagined my poor little overworked brain collapsing on the sofa with a cold compress pressed against it. “Even brains make mistakes, okay!” it yelled before bursting into tears.
I let out a small chuckle, ignoring the chill inching its way down my spine.
The train was past me now, and the metal arm barricades were beginning to lift. I pressed down on my gas pedal, driving on autopilot as my thoughts whirled around like a tornado. I parked in the student parking lot and sat musing as people walked toward the door. My mind was definitely just playing tricks on me. Yes, that’s it. Just some weird twist of brain matter.
I shook my head and straightened my shoulders. “Focus, Styles,” I said, double-checking my backpack for my calculator and No. 2 pencils.
I began to recite vocabulary in my head like a mantra. Implausible. Adjective. Meaning not realistic or believable. Indiscernible. Adjective. Defined as impossible to see, hear, or know clearly. Consequential. Adjective. Important or significant.
I just needed to focus on one thing at a time. Something inside me wailed in protest, but I ignored it. I had to get through the test. Everything else had to wait.
I crossed the parking lot still murmuring vocabulary words under my breath and walked purposefully through the doors.
When they released us from the testing room, I was relieved. I felt good about the test, but the constant battle between the ability to think critically and the distractions floating around my brain had given me a wicked headache.
I wanted nothing more than to go home, curl up in my bed, and stay there until further notice. The handprint on my arm had been stinging all morning, and if I didn’t already have plans to meet Maggie at the library, I would’ve done just that.
I parked my car at the end of already busy Main Street and headed down the crowded sidewalk toward the town library. Lothbrook wasn’t a big town, but it was well known for its antiques and local cuisine. The quaint row of buildings was colorful and bright, each one with its own unique character and charm. The large window displays were all decorated in the cheerful oranges and yellows of fall, and pockets of tourists meandered down the walkway, window shopping and enjoying the smell of cinnamon and banana that wafted through the open door of Gertrude’s Bakery—one of Lothbrook’s most iconic locations. Main Street hadn’t changed much in the last few decades, and the classic “Leave it to Beaver” feel of the place drew folks from all over Georgia. Weekends on Main Street were always busy affairs.
I dodged around an older couple feeding a parking meter and pulled my phone out of my backpack so I could text Maggie and let her know I was almost there. As the screen lit up, a weird sensation floated over me. All of the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I swallowed and looked up from the screen.
The blood-covered woman from the comic book shop was standing on the opposite sidewalk, her long, dark hair blowing in the breeze. Her sad face locked on mine, and the amulet around her neck pulsed like a heartbeat.
Lainey.
The whispered echo of my name boomed in my ears as black splotches appeared in front of my eyes. I blinked, trying to clear them away, but it didn’t help. In seconds, my entire field of vision was nothing but darkness. Before I could so much as whimper, the darkness shifted, giving way to a cyclone of colors that swirled in front of my eyes and spun into life. The swirl took shape, and small bursts of recognizable matter exploded into the darkness.
A cluster of tall trees. A red-tinted moon. A strange symbol. The acrid tang of smoke stung my nose.
I gasped, but as soon as they had come, the flashes were gone, replaced again by the familiar sights of Main Street. The woman was closer now, standing in the middle of the street with her dark green eyes trained on my face. The look in her eyes made my stomach twist, and I staggered backward, accidentally plowing into the couple at the meter.
“Oh my gosh, I am so sorry,” I said, trying to find my balance. “So sorry.” The man and his wife were both giving me disapproving looks, but they seemed pacified enough with my apology not to scold me. As they pushed past me, I heard the woman mutter something about teenage drug use. Under different circumstances, I would’ve laughed, but my tongue was sticking to the roof of my mouth. I glanced back to the street, expecting to see those intense green eyes staring back at me, but it was empty.
I let out the breath I was holding. You’re just stressed. An aftereffect from the test this morning. A figment of your imagination.
The voice of reason was back, soothing me with exactly what I wanted to hear, but the feeling coiling in my gut was hard to ignore. Just seeing things, the voice whispered.
“Am I?” I grumbled, shaking my head.
Trying to ignore the uneasiness that wrapped around me, I turned my attention back to my p
hone. I had barely swiped my finger across the screen when loud shouting and the clanging of trash bins startled me so much I dropped my phone with a smack on the concrete sidewalk.
Hissing under my breath, I scooped the phone off the pavement, praying to the Goddess of Expensive Cellular Products that the screen wasn’t busted. Thankfully, it wasn’t. The noise was coming from the tiny alleyway in between one of the antique shops and Auntie Marmalade’s House of Fritters.
I turned to see what all the commotion was about and caught a flash of white as a body went flying up against one of the brick walls. I gasped and rushed over for a closer look. I glanced around, but no one else seemed to notice what was happening.
At the end of the alley, there was a group of guys shuffling around, throwing punches and cursing loudly. I watched the majority form a lose circle around a single fighter wearing a leather jacket and dark gray t-shirt. Three against one. They were circling around the boy in gray, taunting and jeering. It reminded me of how a house cat toys with its prey before consuming it.
The boy in gray took off his jacket and tossed it behind him. He stood with his back to me, his body rigid and tense. What’s he doing? Why doesn’t he run?
Before I had time to question it further, the boy launched himself into the fray with a battle-like cry that reverberated off the brick walls. In less than a second, he punched his nearest opponent in the chin, sending him flying backward into the chain-link fence that blocked off the back entrance of the alley. Then he turned and jabbed a second boy in the stomach before delivering a quick blow to the boy’s face. The boy shrieked as blood poured from his nose.
I couldn’t move from my spot on the sidewalk. I was glued to the fight, watching as the boy in gray whirled around, his movements lithe and graceful. He was outnumbered, but far from outmatched. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying the fight. His laughter contrasted jarringly with the shouts of the other boys.
The fight continued, the other boys refusing to back down, though it seemed they were no match for the boy in gray—despite their advantage in number. Suddenly, two of the larger boys grabbed the boy in gray from behind and pinned his arms behind his back. He struggled but was unable to pull free. The last boy, tall with stringy blond hair, the apparent leader of the group, grabbed something off the ground: a piece of silver that glinted slightly in the dim light. It looked like a sharp piece of metal, a fragment from a broken pipe.