by Keary Taylor
Yes.
My eyes still sealed shut, I nod my head.
“Thank you,” I offer.
Three more bubbles rise up around my arm, splattering me with more red.
I pull my arm out. Red, brilliant and bright, runs off of it as I drop it at my side. Instantly, the blood is soaked back into the already saturated ground.
Years ago, my answer was not the same. I reached my hand into the well, and a straight line was drawn across my palm. A clear no.
No, I couldn’t fight it.
I tried anyway.
But the truth was brought to pass, regardless.
My answer received, the wind picks back up. The dead project their muffled screams through it. Men yell and women cry. Shots are fired, bodies fall to the ground. And the wind carries the truth of the battle through the town, never letting it forget what happened here.
The trees moan, and I know it’s time to go.
Shadows stalk through the trees, always just out of view, disappearing when a straight eye tries to pin them down. The animals protest at my presence. The fog grows thicker by the moment, freezing onto my hair, my beard, my eyebrows.
The night does not want me here.
The graveyard welcomes me back, and whispers slither through the cold air. Each of those individuals that I know telling me not to be a fool.
I heed their warnings to move indoors.
My feet can’t move fast enough as I cross the graveyard. I cross the rotting deck in three long strides and, at last, step back inside the church.
Barely visible embers glow in the fireplace and the building is already significantly cooler. And because of past experience, I know to look at the clock hanging above the door.
What felt like only thirty minutes to me has actually been three hours.
Three hours I spent out in the woods, my hand soaked in blood. Three hours walking the living, vengeful dark of Roselock.
Time has a different meaning in this town when the last of the sunlight disappears.
Gently, I step forward, my eyes searching the space. I hear her before my vision can adjust to the darkness.
A soft breath drawn in pulls my attention to the couch. Stepping further into the room, attempting to not let the floorboards squeal, I make out the shape of Iona.
She lies on the couch, curled into a little ball, facing the back of the couch. She wears only a thin nightgown, her shoulders exposed. The blankets have slumped to the floor, and her balled position tells me she must be cold.
The gown does not cover much. The rises and falls of her ribs are visible under it. Bony hips poke out from beneath her panties. Her legs are bird-thin. I could snap them with the flick of my finger. Her knees and anklebones are knobby and protruding.
Iona Faye is incredibly beautiful.
But she is withering away.
My eyes slide to the side, to the folded stack of clothes. Her purse lies beside it. Her big bag also waits, packed.
Just to the side of her bag, rests her engagement ring.
As my eyes slide over to Iona’s sleeping face, my gut tightens.
The well was right.
I know I made the right call.
I lied to her earlier.
Jack didn’t get sucked back into limbo. It didn’t become too difficult for him to stay in our world.
I cut him off.
Shoved him back into that world of isolation and waiting. And slammed the door closed behind me.
Because with every word Jack spoke, the truth in my soul grew clearer.
There’s something not right about Jack Caraway.
And even in death, he’s still got a vice-tight grip on the woman before me.
Chapter Thirty
IONA
My car slips in the mud as I pull out of the neglected parking lot. I grip the steering wheel tighter, adrenaline spiking in my blood.
Finally, I clear the lot, and my tires hit the crumbling road. I press on the gas, picking up a little speed.
My eyes flick to the rearview mirror.
The church still sits there, forlorn and decrepit, housing a man with the ability to reach through the veil and find the dead.
He doesn’t stand on the porch, doesn’t watch me leave.
I only looked at him this morning, watching his face, reading his eyes, interpreting the set of his shoulders and clench of his jaw.
He’d told me three times he would open the gate. There would be no bargaining for a fourth.
So I didn’t say a word.
I dressed. I packed my things.
And I left.
Leaving behind a little sliver of my soul.
The second my tires hit the highway, I step on the gas, throwing myself back into my seat, burning rubber to burn away the hollow cavern in my chest.
I should have gotten home to Ander last night. It’s now Tuesday and I certainly do not have the day off. So, through the pre-dawn light, I drove like a maniac. Around sharp turns, blowing through stop signs. I narrowly missed hitting the tail end of a truck.
Despite my efforts, I’m still forty-five minutes late to work.
My boss heckles me for it. Gives me the stink eye about my disheveled appearance. I’m not properly put together. There are bags under my eyes, I know it. My hair hasn’t had any real attention in days.
But I sit at my desk, pull the stack of papers that await me there, and set to the work.
And it only takes a few minutes, before my mind has drifted off, going back to a much happier day, one from six months ago.
I was digging through my bag, trying to find my lipstick, so I wasn’t watching where I was going, and suddenly, there was a body and mine, falling back to the ground.
“Whoa, whoa!”
Strong hands grabbed my arms, knocking my bag to the ground, but keeping me from landing on my backside.
“Jack,” I laughed in surprise. “What…what are you doing here?”
“What?” he asked in innocence. “I can’t surprise my girl with a date after work?”
A smile curled on my lips and my heart warmed. Jack bent to grab my bag from the ground, sweeping its contents back into it. He held it out, a smile on his face.
“You certainly can,” I said, taking a step toward him. I leaned into his chest, smiling as I brought my face closer to his.
His eyes burned with intensity, a mischievous glint to them. His hands gripped my hips, clinging to them possessively. He ducked his head, bringing his mouth to mine.
Jack kissed like the Devil and he wanted me to be his Queen of Hell. He was fire and power and amazing grace.
I’d never kissed anyone who kissed like Jack did.
“This must be the new man.”
A playful voice from behind dragged me back to reality.
My co-worker and friend, Beverly, stood there watching us with a coy smile. She takes five steps forward, extending her hand.
“Guilty as charged,” Jack said, shaking her hand, flashing her that devilishly charming smile of his. He could get away with murder with that smile. “Jack Caraway.”
“Beverly Buhler,” she said with a charmed look. “My, my. I see why Miss Iona has had her head in the clouds all this time, now.” Beverly raised an eyebrow and actually winked at me.
“Okay, Miss Flirt,” I said, taking Jack’s hand and pulling him away from the front doors. “I better take him away before you steal him right from under my nose.”
Beverly only smiled and winked as we walked away.
“I like her,” Jack teased as he started leading me.
I gasped in mock horror and playfully smacked his shoulder. I shook my head, but really, I couldn’t stop smiling. “So, what’s your big surprise for tonight, womanizer?”
He laughed at my name-calling, but he pulled me a little closer, warming my body against his.
We went to the zoo. Slowly, hand in hand, we walked down the trails. Ooh-ing and ah-ing over all the exotic animals. I squealed in delight at the petting zoo, r
unning my hand over the wiry hair of a four-hundred-pound pig. Jack bought me ice cream.
We kissed in front of the elephants. He whispered he loved me next to the tiger. He wrapped his hands around my waist at the primate exhibit.
It was the best date ever.
As the sun was setting, we headed home. Laughing and joking about our childhoods on the drive. I felt myself sink even deeper in love with Jack that day.
I’d never been so happy.
When we pulled up to my building, I saw Viola’s car parked out front.
She’d found her own apartment three weeks ago, living with four other girls in a three bedroom, fifth floor walk-up.
“Haven’t seen your sister since I helped her move out,” Jack said as he opened my car door for me. He slipped his hand into mine and we walked to the building. Just as we got to the main front door, she walked out, nearly running right into us.
“Iona!” she said excitedly as she wrapped her arms around me. “I thought I was going to miss you.” She takes a momentary studying look and smiles. “You two must have been somewhere fun. You’re both glowing.”
I smiled and looked up into Jack’s face. “He’s always surprising me with fun little adventures.”
Jack smiled back. “It was just the zoo,” he says to Viola with a little shrug, but a proud grin.
“Well, why end the fun now?” Viola said. She wedged herself between the two of us, taking one of each of our hands in hers, tugging us back to Jack’s car. “A bunch of us are going to Chucker’s, and the both of you are coming!”
I glanced over at Jack and shook my head.
Once Viola got something into her head, it didn’t leave easily.
We were going with her and her friends to the bar across town.
The place was crowded and noisy and full of energy. I actually smiled, getting excited as I walked in. I wasn’t much of a drinker, at all, really. But after an amazing day like today, I was ready to let loose.
“You prepared for this?” Viola asked with a little wag of her eyebrows.
And I knew I was in for it. A night of her shenanigans.
Sure enough, after two hours, I’d drank more gin and lime Gimlets than I ever had in my life. I’d sung a duet karaoke with her. Danced like no one was watching. And in general, acted very drunk and inebriated.
“I’m so glad you came tonight!” Viola called over the loud music. She held my hands, bouncing up and down with me. “I miss you!”
“I miss you, too!” I said, feeling instantly sappy.
“You and Jack seem to be doing really good though!” she said, sounding so happy.
I nodded. “It’s amazing, Vi. I’ve never been so happy.”
My younger sister smiled, pulling me into a hug.
“You’ve lost weight lately,” she chuckled. “Forgetting to eat in the midst of all that happiness?” She winked at me suggestively and danced off to join one of her male friends.
A set of hands wrapped around my waist from behind. I turned to see Jack looking down at me, a coy smile curling on his mouth.
“I think I like watching you dance,” he purred in a low voice.
“Oh, yeah?” I said, my vision slightly foggy.
He nodded. “It’s nice to see you liberate yourself from your inhibitions.”
He leaned down, slowly, taking one...two breaths. Before he touched his lips lightly to mine. And he let them slide to my cheek. To my jaw. Down to my neck.
And instantly there were far too many people around.
All I wanted was Jack and I.
“Should we get out of here?” I breathed into the space between his neck and shoulder.
Jack only nodded.
I was more drunk than I thought that night. I didn’t remember leaving the bar. Didn’t remember the short conversation we had outside the tattoo parlor that was on the way from the bar to his car. Certainly didn’t remember the sting of the needle inking my skin permanently.
But the next morning, I woke up naked in bed, Jack beside me, a tender spot between my chest and shoulder, and a new tattoo.
Jack bore a matching one, in the same location.
“You almost done with the report?”
My head snaps up, my heart instantly in my throat. My supervisor, the one who is already annoyed with me, stands in front of my desk.
“It will be ready in about ten minutes,” I quickly explain, swallowing.
He only gives me a stern look, and walks back to his office.
I watch him walk away, my hands trembling.
It’s a cruel thing, being able to recall the details so vividly. Able to relive one of the best days of my life in such detail.
Only to be forced back into reality.
The one where everything is so broken and dark.
The hole in my chest opens back up, and threatens to suck me into the void.
I finish the report, and five minutes later, the workday is over. I clean up my desk and head out the doors.
In my car I sit alone, gripping the steering wheel tightly, forcing breaths in and out.
It’s hard to breathe.
The anxiety claws its way around my stomach, gnawing on my liver, my left lung. Wreaking havoc.
A tear works its way out onto my cheek. But as my hands tighten around the steering wheel, a new emotion surfaces.
Anger.
I was well on my way to the happily-ever-after I wanted. I had it, right there.
And one man took that all away.
I start the engine and put the car into first gear, and then second.
I never got any answers before.
I’m going to get them now.
The drive takes twenty-five minutes. I go through the gate, which takes a few minutes to gain clearance. I park in the lot.
My hands shake as I walk to the doors. But I’m ready. A raging storm. An angry mob. The crimson-beaked eagle.
I give my name, and it takes several more minutes as permissions are granted. Another ten minutes later and they buzz me through a dozen locked doors, a guard leading the way.
Finally, they lead me to a large room. Cinderblock walls cage me in. Four large round tables dominate the space. There’s the door I just came through, and one other.
I wait for two minutes. And then there’s a buzzing sound, and that other door slides open.
A man in a black and white striped jumpsuit shuffles into the room. His hands are cuffed, his feet, too. He’s immediately followed by an armed guard.
Raymond Douglas settles across the table from me, his eyes dark and wary. He sits, his back ramrod-straight, his hands in his lap. But his eyes are searching, studying me, looking me over.
I look up at the prison guard, who watches Raymond with hawk-like eyes, his hand on his gun.
Looking back at Raymond, I catch his eyes.
There’s something like relief in them. Resolve. And there’s absolutely no guilt in them. Or regret.
I lean forward, resting my arms on the cold surface of the table.
“You never said,” I begin. “Never gave any real, legitimate reason.” My stomach tightens. The blast of the gun firing sounds in my ears. The feel of Jack’s blood smearing all over me creeps down my skin. “I need answers. Now.”
Raymond leans forward, his eyes fixed on me.
“Why did you kill Jack Caraway?” I ask.
Raymond doesn’t say anything for a moment. He only studies, looking for something deep in my soul.
“Because he killed my sister,” his answer comes with the surprise strike of a rattlesnake in the bushes. “And he was going to kill you, too.”
Chapter Thirty-One
SULLY
Through the window of my bedroom, I watched Iona leave.
I’d crushed her. Dashed her hope, ripped the rug out from beneath her feet. She’d been right when she said I’d only given her half an opening that last time.
But that gate had to be closed.
She was gone. And I could only ho
pe that she would try to move on with her life now that she’d gotten a chance at closure.
And now I can return to my solitude and wait out my days alone.
I grab the pruning sheers from the table in my room and go to the west side of the church. The roses are in various stages of bloom. Some fully open, soaking up the faint sun’s rays. Others are buds, still a week from opening.
They eternally bloom, warmed and fed by the blood of innocent lives.
An hour later, my hands cut and bleeding from the thorns, I carry an armload of red roses to the graveyard. One by one, I visit the graves. I place their rose on their final resting place. Give a mutter of greeting.
I am the keeper of the dead.
The reacher beyond the veil.
But it remains a mystery as to why.
My father could not speak to the dead.
My grandfather and his father and his father before him could not reach them, either.
But for some reason, I can.
Perhaps it is because every bit of me was bred in Roselock. The eighth generation to be born here. This cursed, wicked town entirely engrained in my skin, my bones, my soul.
My mother claimed it was because I was made extra special.
The reality was that I had to be extra cursed.
When, at four years old, you wander into one of the abandoned houses, find an old, forgotten doll, and become friends with the young girl who I couldn’t touch, that doesn’t make you special. It makes you a creature that terrified your parents.
I talked about my friend Agatha to my family. And soon she was joined by the teenage boy James, and then the old, kind woman, Emma.
My parents assumed they were imaginary friends. Children I dreamed up to combat the loneliness of growing up in a dying town.
It wasn’t until I touched my grandfather’s cufflinks, made his acquaintance, and relayed details about him to my father that their faces grew cold. Their expressions slack.
I’d never been scared of the dead. Not until then. Not until I saw their reaction.
And then my baby sister passed away of disease. Only two years old, and Cheyenne was dead, like so many others.
I’d taken her hair bow. And when she returned to me, she had the face of a child my own age.