by Keary Taylor
My parents were horrified.
For a year they tried to prevent me from touching anything that had belonged to the dead. They were terrified their ghosts would hurt me. Would drag me to an early grave. Would turn my mind mad.
But I missed my friends. They were the only ones I had. So I snuck Cheyenne, Agatha, James, and Emma’s possessions beneath my bed, and visited them every night after I was tucked in.
I came to learn that after months of this, my parents overheard me talking to them. They listened at the door. Peered through the crack in the walls. They watched and observed, and when they knew I wasn’t in any danger, they talked to me about it. They tentatively told me if it made me happy, I could speak to them again.
As I grew older, the desire to gain more friends, more people to talk to, grew.
I went into every abandoned house in town, and that was ninety percent of them, and found belongings. I got to know every deceased resident of this town.
Soon, I had over a hundred friends.
They helped combat the sadness I was consumed with when my father died. I was ten years old. And then my mother realized we could still have a family, in a twisted and supernatural way. I could still speak to my father and my sister. And I could speak for them to my mother.
For a few years, we were happy. We spent every day together, and I relayed day- long conversations between my father and mother. The more I summoned them from beyond, the longer they were able to stay in my world.
I spent hours with my father next to Roselock Pond, discussing the fate that was going to come for me, once I was old enough to understand and accept it.
I was sixteen, then.
And then it was only my mother, who was dying of an incurable disease, and four other residents of Roselock left in town.
I was angry. In denial.
When I turned eighteen, my mother finally succumbed to her illness and then I buried her next to my father.
And I left Roselock.
I look down at my parents’ headstones now. My father’s in a line with all the other Whitmore men, and my mother buried above him, in line with all my grandmothers.
The past is the heaviest weight of all and it pulls me under in my loneliest moments.
And suddenly the lack of life here in Roselock, which has so often been my saving sanctuary in my supernatural cursed life, feels suffocating.
I wasn’t kind to Iona.
But I now realize how her presence was a breath of fresh oxygen, when I’ve been surviving off of stale air for years.
She was so different from the others. Unlike the reporters or thrill seekers who wander through town.
She was broken enough to tug an emotion out of me.
To make me care, even just a little bit.
Mentally, I’m not hungry in the least, but my body tells me it’s time for nourishment. Wrapping up the last of the rose placements for my friends and family, I head inside.
Crusty bread and scrambled eggs tame the hunger and I shove two more logs into the fireplace.
I wonder if I’ll live long enough to feel the weather warm.
The beginning of May is questionable territory. It could reach temperatures in the eighties, or get a cold spell and get a dusting of snow on the ground.
I wipe the bark from my hands against my dirtied pants and turn to go clear out the Sunday School room.
I do a double take at the little glint of light.
There, pushed almost underneath the couch, Iona’s engagement ring catches the faint light that filters in through the dirty windows.
I swear under my breath.
This means she’ll be coming back, probably by tonight, to retrieve it.
I cross the room and squat down, reaching out for the white gold band with three diamonds set into it.
“You have to go warn her.”
“This isn’t over.”
“You have to help her figure out how he did it.”
I fall back, my rear hitting the wood floor before tipping right over onto my back with a startled huff. My eyes go bug wide, my shoulders shrugging up to my ears as I scramble back across the floor.
Away from the three women who just stormed through the gate to the other side.
I clutch the ring into my fist, the diamonds cutting into my palm, not feeling an ounce of the pain through my shock.
“Who are you?” I ask with a slight shake to my voice. “And why are you all tied to Iona’s ring?”
One of the women steps forward. Her darker skin is smooth as butter. Her curly hair frames a perfectly balanced face. “Because that ring once sat on my finger. Placed there by the man who asked me to marry him.”
My eyes slide to the other two women. One short and blonde. One with dark ebony hair that stretches all the way down her back.
“The both of you, as well?” I ask in a quiet breath.
They both nod their heads.
My hands shake, but I push myself to my feet, rising without taking my eyes off them. “And your fiancé’s name?” I ask of the woman closest, the first who spoke.
Her eyes harden. “Jack Caraway.”
I swallow once.
I look to the blonde.
“Jack Caraway,” she echoes, her face pale, a look of horror and disbelief in her expression.
“Jack Caraway,” the raven-haired woman confirms when I look at her.
My fingers curl around the ring. A vice tightens around my throat.
“You have to help her,” the first woman says, stepping forward. “Just because he’s dead doesn’t mean Jack is finished with her.”
My stomach knots. “I opened the gate to him for her. Three times.”
“Then you better hurry,” she says. The other women step forward. “Before it’s too late.”
“Is she really still in danger?” I ask, even though I can feel the answer down to my marrow. “Jack is dead.”
The first woman takes one more step toward me. “He never touched me. But he knows how to get in your head. And destroy you from the inside out.”
“He’s still alive in her mind,” the blonde says. “And he’ll obliterate her.”
I look at the three of them, and then hold the ring out in my hand, palm up.
The well told me I did the right thing by cutting Jack off.
But maybe the mistake had already been made.
Chill sinks under my skin.
I never should have opened up the gate for the fawn.
I turn in the room and stalk to the back door. Across the deck. Across the lawn. And to the shed that waits at the edge of the parking lot.
The locks protest with rust as I tug at them. But they squeal and finally swing open.
The long unused Cadillac Series 62 sits there. Waiting.
I’ve probably only got minutes before the gate will close on these women.
And this car hasn’t been started in two years.
“Start talking,” I say as I push my sleeves up.
Chapter Thirty-Two
IONA
Raymond looks from the prison guard, who stares at a blank wall to the side of us, and then back at me.
There’s a foreign darkness in his eyes, one of utter hatred and anger. But something in my core tells me it isn’t directed at me.
“He’s all you think about, isn’t he?” Raymond finally speaks. His eyes rise back up to mine.
I don’t answer immediately. Because I’ve had this fight before. With my sisters. With my mother. They all accused me of becoming obsessed with Jack. Of letting him take over my life.
“I love him with my whole heart,” I say in response. “Of course he’s what I think about.”
Raymond places his hands on the table, the chains clanking. “But he’s filled every crack in your head. Taken over everything that used to give you joy and replaced it. Like he’s got clawed talons around your heart, isn’t it?”
I swallow, pulling my hands back on the table, slipping them into my lap. My cheeks instant
ly go cold.
I won’t think the thoughts. Confess to myself.
Raymond nods, and the look in my eyes must be confirmation enough.
“I read her journal after,” he continues. “It was so easy to see when it started. His name suddenly popped up. Within days, there wasn’t a single sentence that didn’t have his name in it. Jack was there, in every breath she took.”
Raymond’s hands curl into fists and I lean back just a little.
“It isn’t hard for him,” he says. “Think of what he does for a living. He gets inside people’s heads. He unravels them. Helps them piece their lives together. He knows how the mind works. So, of course he knows how to shape you into something he can control.”
I lace my fingers together and shake my head. I don’t say anything for a moment, because my thoughts are racing but not making any logical connections.
“Jack was a brilliant psychologist, but he only ever helped people,” I whisper, a little anger lacing into the syllables.
“On the surface, yes,” Raymond says, leaning forward onto his forearms, the storm in his eyes darkening. “But he has special pet projects. Like my sister. Like you.”
I shake my head almost imperceptibly. My hand twitches. The urge to slap him across the face is nearly impossible to suppress.
“Did he ever tell you about her?” Raymond asks. “About my sister, Simone? About how she died?”
And the finale of his sentence, it jolts me a little straighter.
“He was engaged once before,” I say, my voice sounding hoarse. “Jack told me she died. He said he thought he was cursed. But I don’t know how it happened.”
Raymond gives a short, huff laugh, looking away. He shakes his head. “He said he was cursed?”
I nod, recalling his words, from that very first date we went on.
Raymond shakes his head once more. “Should have been five shots to the head. The bastard deserved a thousand times worse.”
I lunge across the table, my fingers outstretched, and claw across his face. My fingernails sink deep, cutting into his flesh.
He scrambles back, tipping right over in his seat onto his back. The prison guard yells, rushing forward, his hand on his gun, the other outstretched toward me.
“Back away!” he yells. “Back up!”
I sit back in my seat, my breathing harsh, my vision red. I hold my hands up, surrendering.
The guard pulls Raymond to his feet. Three deep claw marks mar his face, running from just above his left eyebrow, down over his nose, onto his right cheek.
He doesn’t look angry. Just shocked.
“Back to your cell,” the guard growls. “Visit is over. Don’t expect to be allowed back.” He glowers in my direction.
“I don’t know how he does it,” Raymond says in a hurry as the guard begins steering him back toward the gate. “He gets in your head. He makes you do things. Simone didn’t want to kill herself.”
All of my organs—my lungs, my kidneys, my heart—turn cold.
“Jack somehow made her do it,” Raymond says, pushing back against the guard at the gate. “I pray now that he’s dead he doesn’t do the same to you.”
The guard shoves Raymond through the gate. I get to my feet, crossing the room, watching through the bars as the guard pushes him down a long hall.
“All the same signs are there,” Raymond calls over his shoulder to me. “The obsessive love. The weight loss. I’d guess you’ve cut yourself off from everyone you care about. Once the dangerous behavior starts, it won’t be long.”
They turn down another hall, and my view is cut off.
“Look for records!” Raymond yells from somewhere in the prison walls. “Find a way to fix yourself. Don’t let him win!”
His voice fades away, and he’s gone.
I stand there in the visiting room, trembling from head to toe.
Chapter Thirty-Three
SULLY
I have no idea where to look.
Iona told me she lived in Ander, but I know next to nothing about her, in reality. Where she works. Her sister’s names. Her mother’s.
So, I’ve been driving all around town the entire afternoon. Passed the post office. By the banks. Around the grocery stores.
My eyes burn from looking so hard. My arms and shoulders are stiff and sore.
I haven’t driven anywhere in two years.
I ride alone. Iona’s ring sits in the passenger seat. I’d been right, just as I finally got the engine to turn over, the gate slammed shut. And then off I went.
Finally, I park next to the school. The lot is empty, everyone long since gone home. My eyes sweep the town, but I turn inward mentally.
I wrack my brain.
Iona told me several stories about her life here in this town. About how she met Jack.
Instantly a light bulb goes off.
I put the car into drive, and head back the opposite direction.
Earlier that day, I drove past the police station. The one where Iona’s father once worked for twenty-five years. Parked in one of the narrow spots out front, I climb out. Up the stairs, and through the front doors.
Only two police officers occupy the building at this hour. One sits at his desk, going over papers. He looks young, much younger than myself. The other stands across the room, leaned against a desk, on the phone, sporting snow white hair and a well-manicured mustache.
“Excuse me,” I say, suddenly nervous. I haven’t had any natural human interaction in years.
The young cop’s head snaps up suddenly, his eyes wide.
“Apologies,” I say. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I…” I glance over at the older cop. He’s still speaking on the phone, but his eyes are fixed on me, taking me in, analyzing. “I was hoping you could help me find someone.”
“Name?” the young cop asks, and I notice his nametag. Tilton.
“Iona,” I say. And the effect saying her name has on me, I don’t like its strength. “Faye. The daughter of…I think it was Mason and Willa.”
Officer Tilton’s eyes narrow slightly at me. He looks me up and then down. From my mud crusted boots, to the dirty jeans. To my calloused hands. My mane of hair, overgrown beard. My six-foot-five frame.
“How do you know her?” he asks doubtfully.
I pause.
That’s an answer I can never give.
“I was a friend of her fiancé’s,” I lie. One that makes me sick.
I drove by a business part of town earlier. And saw an office with his name on the door. Just waiting there like he would return any day.
The older officer hangs up and walks across the room, hands on his hips. I don’t miss how close one of them is to his gun. “You were friends with Jack?”
I’m sweating. My throat feels tight. I haven’t talked to anyone by my own choice in so long now, much less lied to someone, and well.
I nod.
“If you’re a friend of Jack’s, why don’t you know where to find Iona?” he questions, his eyes narrowing on me.
“I’d never met Iona until last week,” I say. “She wanted to talk about Jack, so she looked me up and found me. She took some time off of work this last weekend and spent a few days at my…house.”
Partial truth, big lies.
I read the officer’s nametag: Langford.
“Did you work with her father?” I ask.
Langford looks at me for a long time, deciding if he trusts me or not.
He nods. “We worked in the force together for over twenty years. Best man I ever knew. Raised some amazing daughters.”
I nod my head, like I really know. “I’m trying to find Iona,” I say. “She left her engagement ring at my house when she left, and I know she’s going to want it back.”
Tilton and Langford both study me.
I don’t blame them.
I’m more beast than man right now. Looking for the fragile police department princess.
“Poor thing hasn’t gotten any peace since that man
killed Jack,” Langford says. His eyes lower for a moment, his gaze drifting inward. “Though I think just about everyone close to her is relieved Jack’s gone. But Iona…”
I nod. “I know. That’s the reason she came to see me. I was trying to help her.”
Langford looks up at me, his lips pressed into a thin line. Finally, he nods. “She will want that ring back. She lives over on Second. Building on the corner of Center. I think she’s somewhere on the third floor.”
“Thank you,” I offer, backing toward the door.
“Sir,” Langford calls out as I begin pushing it open.
I look back, my heart pounding, desperate to get back out there.
“Iona’s an amazing girl,” he says, sadness lacing every corner of his face. “What she’s gone through… If you can help her, please, don’t give up on her.”
His words lock cement around my heart. Make me too heavy. Fill me with a sense of dread.
But still, I nod.
Putting the car into drive, I point the car in the right direction, and set down the road.
Watching the street signs, I pass road after road. I roll down Center, my heart pounding. And there, Second comes into view.
Cars are all parked parallel on the side of the building. Lights glow from windows here and there. Three floors of apartments make up the building.
I find a parking space across the street, and climb out.
The sounds of the city grow quieter, the hour creeping toward nine. The air is chill, a wind picking up, reminding all that it is February, and winter will not go quietly.
The clouds shift above me, only the movement is too sharp, and my head whips up.
A figure stands at the ledge of the building. A blanket is pulled around their shoulders.
Stark still, they stand, staring out over the city.
“Iona?” I breathe, the word barely formed. I take a step closer. Squinting against the dark. “Iona!”
She shifts, looking down at me. Only she loses her balance slightly, and stumbles.
“No!” I yell, holding my hands up, as if I can keep her from slipping off the edge of the roof. “Iona! Back up. Get down from there. Please.”