by Keary Taylor
I cup my hands together and blow, attempting to get some feeling back into them, but they’re so far gone all I feel is air movement.
“You need some more meat on your bones,” Sully insults as he motions for me to follow him back in through the back door of the church.
I only glare at him as he grabs more firewood from another shed.
We both kick off our muddy boots when we step inside and he immediately sets to stocking the fire once again. I instantly feel my frozen skin cells defrosting, the sensation of warming back up almost painful. When he’s done putting the logs into the fireplace, he motions me over so I can thaw out.
“Don’t you get lonely living here?” I blurt as I hover over the stove, holding my hands up to the heat. “I haven’t seen anyone else around. It’s just you, isn’t it?”
Sully sinks into a wooden rocking chair close to the flames. He stacks his socked feet, one on the other, to warm them up.
“Yes, it’s just me,” he admits, and that’s just what it feels like coming from him: an admission. “And it used to get lonely, when I returned after being gone. I thought it would drive me mad. But I’m not as alone as it seems. Being a Speaker has its benefits as well as curses.”
I swallow once, studying Sully’s face while he stares into the flames. This is so out of my element, so far into the strange. Yet it’s his reality, and it sounds like it has been for a long time.
“They keep you company, don’t they?” I ask, my voice quiet, so they don’t hear me. “The dead. You talk to them when the silence gets to be too much.”
Two seconds of hesitation. Five. Ten. But finally, his lips pressed tightly together, Sully nods.
It makes sense now, what he said about those people getting angry with him if he doesn’t take care of their property. They might have been dead and gone long ago, but Sully still speaks to them on a regular basis.
“Do you have an item of Jack’s here, or do you need to return home and get it?” he suddenly asks, still staring into the flames.
His whiplash changes keep throwing me off. It takes me a second to recover. “I need to go home and get it.”
“You should go soon, then,” he says as he rises to his feet. He peels his jacket off and hangs it on the back of the rocking chair. “You said you only have a few days off. We should get started soon.”
“Now?” I ask, looking around, suddenly off balance. Am I really ready for this? To open the gate to the other side? To hear from Jack again? To speak to him?
“Yes,” Sully says, heading down the hall, back to the door he disappeared behind last night. “I will be ready when you return tomorrow morning, but not before then.”
He walks into the room, and shuts the door with a finality that makes me jump.
I look around me, suddenly hyper-aware of how empty and devoid of life this church is. This town.
Soundlessly, I gather my few things. My clothes from yesterday, balled up on the end of the couch. I slip my boots on. Awkwardly, I head for the back door, looking back toward Sully’s room as I walk out.
Tomorrow morning. But not before then.
The message is clear: don’t come back tonight.
Chapter Twelve
SULLY
I pour the gasoline on the pile of branches as the day grows darker. The rain has picked back up, just a light drizzle, but enough to keep everything contained. Taking the matchbox from my jacket pocket, I light one and toss it into the tangle of twigs, and the pile instantly ignites.
The mound stands as high as my head, having been added to since this morning.
Maybe the fawn made me feel guilty. Compacted with my father’s words, I took the time to clear all the fallen branches and leaves from the graveyard. But not the church. I pay respect to the dead, but not the site from which so much pain has come.
The heat from the flames warm my face, sending goosebumps racing down my entire body. The moisture from the branches sends heavy plumes of smoke up into the air, the leaves crackling and sending sparks into the night.
In any other town, I’d get in a whole lot of trouble setting such a massive pile of debris on fire, so uncontrolled and big. But not here, not in Roselock. There’s no police department to come ticket me, no fire department to come investigate the safety threat it might pose.
Because there’s no one around to threaten. Besides myself.
A narrow two-lane highway leaves the nearest town, running for miles. The turnoff for Roselock is hardly noticeable anymore, at least last time I left. That highway just continues running onward, heading up the mountain, into recreation areas where the hunters and outdoor types enjoy a relaxing weekend away from their normal.
While I sit here, north of that highway, out of sight, far, far out of anyone’s mind. With my own version of reality.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the old and ragged pink hair bow. It’s dirty and faded now, but it was one of the very few items left from the young child that left this world all too soon.
“You don’t look happy, Sully,” her sweet voice sweeps through the night.
I look off to my left, watching as the adult version of my sister walks up. She’s dressed in a long black dress, simple, with no frills or glam. Her auburn hair hangs long, lying still and flat, despite the breeze blowing through town.
“Another sad and lost soul came to ask for my help,” I say, rolling the hair bow between my fingers.
“That’s better than another reporter, right?” she says as she stops at my side, staring into the flames with me.
I grunt, nothing affirmative or negative.
“What about her has you so bothered?” Cheyenne asks, always far too observant. “Normally you gripe, but you talk to their dead and let them move on. Something’s different.”
Her question leaves me feeling unsettled. I guess that’s the problem. “I don’t know,” I say. “Something about this just feels…”
“What?” she encourages.
“Cold,” I breathe, letting a cloud of white billow from my lips. “Dark.”
She looks over at me and without looking back, I can feel her studying me. She’s always been so observant. Maybe that’s why I speak to her most often. She knows me better than I know myself.
“She seems so functional,” my sister moves on. “Some of them are so broken when they come to see you, sobbing, shaking messes. She’s so composed.”
“I think maybe that’s a sign that she’s the most broken of them all.” I bend down and pick up a twig at my feet, tossing it on the flames. It gives a tiny pop. “It’s all hiding under the surface, waiting to manifest in some explosive way.”
“Is that why you’re so scared of her, Sully?”
My head whips in her direction, my brows furrowed, sharp words on my lips. But this is Cheyenne, and I can never be too harsh with her. Not when I can still recall holding her tiny, lifeless body.
“You treat her different,” she says, raising her eyebrows just slightly. “You’re unnecessarily harsh with her, but you’re constantly studying her. And you keep this…distance. It’s…peculiar.”
I reflect back to our encounters, and I didn’t realize I was doing any of that, not consciously. But she’s not wrong.
“It’s getting dark, brother,” she says, looking toward the horizon. “You shouldn’t be out here when the sun goes down. It’s too close to the anniversary.”
I look to the sky, as well. A deep red, laced with gold saturates the cloudy sky to the east. The clouds to the west are too thick to allow any color. It means darkness will fall earlier than normal.
“The fire will be fine,” Cheyenne says, giving me a tiny smile. “You should head in.”
“Walk with me?” I ask, taking one step back from the bonfire.
“Of course.”
Chapter Thirteen
IONA
The words of the article are difficult to read in the pre-dawn light, but my eyes strain to read them nonetheless, one more time.
A little research at the library yielded far more information than I expected.
Roselock, West Virginia: an abandoned mystery
A hopeful new American family, excited about mining prospects, and a new life.
When John Whitmore and his wife Ronella arrived in West Virginia in 1761, they had big dreams. Coming from an old mining family, the young man had every confidence in striking out on his own. Hearing rumors of coal in the mountains, he and his young wife settled and began the process of creating their mine and founding a town.
But only five months after the settlement and work in the mountain began, war struck.
The Shawnee Indians migrated back to the area and found Roselock built upon their burial grounds. John Whitmore and his people had disturbed their ancestors.
It was a bloody battle to an ugly finish that left four newcomers dead, and an entire tribe eliminated.
Most don’t claim to believe in curses, but learn the fate of the family Whitmore, and you’ll be a believer.
On the anniversary of the battle in 1762, the town’s new church was dedicated. But in the same moment the bell tolled, there was an explosion in the mine that was heard throughout the entire town.
Several support structures were later found with saw marks, indicating someone intentionally cut the beams. Thirty-three poor souls were crushed that day, forever trapped in the mountain.
A series of unexplainable events occurred following the mine collapse. Untimely deaths seemed to be a common occurrence. Cases of madness were high within the borders, with residents claiming to hear screams at night and to find pools of blood leaking out from beneath the church.
Few residents remain in the borders of Roselock, and who can blame them, when misfortune seems to be synonymous to the town name?
The article is dated from eleven years ago.
So sometime between then and now is when the last remaining residents left—or died—leaving Sully alone, as sole keeper of a dead town.
And no wonder he’s stayed. It was his family that founded the entire town.
Noise from the apartment below me pulls me back into the present. Gray morning light begins to dance outside the window.
I didn’t sleep last night. After my trip to the library, I spent most of the night pouring over the articles. Reading so many strange and unexplainable things about the town of Roselock. Here and there I found mention of the strange and reclusive man who still inhabited the town, but I got the impression he’d refused to talk to each and every one of them, just like he’d first tried to close the door in my face when he thought I was a reporter.
Placing the last article in the folder, I set it on the kitchen table and continue gathering up the last of my things I plan to take with me.
I walk back into my bedroom for my scarf when a knock sounds from the front door. Scrambling to get back to it, my heart in my throat, I pull it open.
“Viola?” I say in confusion as I step aside for her to walk in. “What are you doing here? It’s still so early.”
“You hadn’t been in to work in two days and your car wasn’t here, and neither were you!” she says, her voice hurried and panicked. “Where have you been?”
I can almost feel all of the color drain out of my face. And my panic must be just as visible from the outside, because Viola’s expression grows very grim and angry.
“Please tell me this has nothing to do with Jack,” she says quietly. I see her fingers roll into fists.
“It’s really none of your business,” I say through clenched teeth as I turn back for the table, throwing all of my things into an oversized bag.
“Where are you going?” she demands as she follows me across the apartment. “Why does it look like you’re packed for a trip away?”
“I’ll be fine, Vi,” I growl, throwing in some snacks, though hunger is the furthest thing from my mind right now. “I just need… I just need some answers.”
“Getting those answers isn’t going to bring him back, Iona,” Viola pleads, grabbing my arm and forcing me to stop and look at her. “Damnit Iona. Just look at yourself. You’re a mess. You’re falling apart. And you have been since long before he died.”
“Don’t,” I hiss, closing my eyes and forcing control into my willpower. “Don’t go there.”
“I can’t stop,” she whispers. “Not until you realize. You stopped being you. You stopped being part of the family. You stopped caring, about everything, except Jack.”
My hand flies up, but she must have been anticipating my retaliation, because she just as quickly snaps her fingers around my wrist, stopping my slap.
“See?” she breathes, her eyes wide and studying me. “This isn’t you.”
“You don’t understand,” I say through quivering control. “None of you ever understood.”
I yank out of her grasp and shoot for the door. I don’t even bother with instructions to lock up before I storm out into the hallway, my youngest sister yelling my name as I walk away.
She never understood. Cressida never understood. None of them ever understood.
Chapter Fourteen
SULLY
I tell myself that I’m only cleaning the Sunday School room out because we need a space, not because I feel guilty for letting the church fall apart. We need a space that is distraction free, not too overwhelming for the dead when he returns temporarily to our world.
I sweep the floor. Hang a curtain over the window. Carry in two chairs. Set out a dozen candles. Even burn a lavender scented one to clear out the musty smell.
I’ve just finished when there’s a soft knock from the back door. I glance at the clock as I go to answer it. 9:22.
Iona stands on the deck, layered in so much clothing she actually looks like a human being with meat on her. In her hands she holds an oversized bag.
“Morning,” she says softly as I take the bag from her.
I grunt something back, not entirely a greeting. I cross the hall, back into the common room, setting her bag on the couch. She follows behind me, looking around the space with fresh eyes.
“You brought something?” I ask unnecessarily.
She nods, swallowing hard. “I brought some pictures, too. I thought it might be helpful.”
I nod, indicating for her to retrieve them. As I watch her dig through the bag, I notice the tension in her shoulders. The angry set to her jaw. The clipped movements.
She’s upset about something.
But then everyone who comes to see me is upset about many things.
“Is something wrong?” I finally ask.
“It’s nothing,” she answers a little too quickly, a hard edge to her words. Forcefully, she digs through her bag, clothing spilling out onto the couch. Apparently, she is planning on staying for some time.
I’m fairly sure it’s not nothing, but I’m about the last person who’s going to press about it.
Finally, she produces a bound book, and something gold and shiny slips down a chain. Iona holds them both up, nodding for me to join her on the couch.
She smells like roses and fall as I sit beside her. She slides closer to me, her thigh resting against mine, her shoulder pressing into my own. Looking at us, side by side, we seem comical opposites. My leg is literally double the thickness of hers. She seems a tiny child next to Goliath.
She pulls the book into her lap and I realize it’s a photo album. And the flash of gold I find is a pocket watch that she tucks into one hand.
Inexplicably, she opens the photo album to the back, not the front. First to greet us is a picture of Iona from behind. In front of her kneels a man, holding open a ring box, a look of pure joy and hopefulness upon his face.
“How long had the two of you been engaged?” I ask, being witness to his proposal.
“Two and a half months,” she answers quietly. Gently, she reaches out and brushes her fingers over his face. I look up at her, and I was right when I spoke to Cheyenne. She’d called Iona so calm and composed. But it’s there, hidden de
ep in her eyes.
This is the most broken woman I’ve met, yet.
She smiles sadly and turns the page. The next image is of the two of them, dressed in costumes, some kind of medieval getup.
“Where is Jack buried?”
Iona’s head jerks up, and she fixes me with a look of shock or offense, I’m not sure which, but she slowly relaxes when she realizes that this is the type of question someone like me will ask.
“Jack was cremated,” she says, looking back down at the photo album. “His will requested that his ashes be scattered in Central Park, his favorite place when he lived in New York.”
Perhaps this is part of the problem. Iona has nowhere to go visit a grave, nowhere to go mourn and visit.
I study the two of them as she continues to flip through pages of pictures.
Jack is how Iona described him. The perfect all-American handsome boy. Dark blond hair, defined features, athletic looking. The two of them look so happy together.
“How old was Jack?” I ask when she turns to a picture of him standing in front of an office door that has his name on it. He’s wearing a button up shirt and khaki slacks, a briefcase held in one hand.
“Thirty-one,” Iona says, smiling at the image of Jack. “He was exactly three years and three months older than me.”
I was right on. That would make Iona twenty-eight.
“And what did he do for a living?”
She taps the picture, where his name is on the door, just above the height of his head. There are words beneath that, but his head is blocking them. “He was a psychologist. A really good one. He had so many clients.”
“People must have really liked him,” I mutter, feeling itchy and impatient. There’s something too tragic, too surface love-sick about Iona and Jack. They make me want to puke.
Iona nods. “He specialized in helping people with self-conscious issues, people who struggled with identity anxiety. I’d say that’s about half our population these days.” She does this little chuckle, but there’s a hitch to it that makes me look at her face, and I see the cracks beginning to show.