Unlocked

by Margo Kelly

  Plug reached into a box and pulled out white gloves. He offered me a pair. “If you want to touch anything.” I slipped them on.

  Wooden crates of various sizes lined the walls, and several individual canvases leaned against each other.

  “Why does your dad have so much artwork?” I asked.

  “He sells a lot in the studio. New stuff arrives daily from around the country.” Plug guided me to the back of the building near the freight door. He popped the top off a large crate and set the lid to the side. He slipped on his white gloves and reached inside.

  “Ready?” he asked, but he didn’t wait for an answer. He lifted out a large canvas and propped it against a crate in front of me. The air rushed out of my lungs, as if a monster from the depths of Hades had kicked me in the gut. The black-and-white painting took me back in time to the moments after the crash. The smoke. The stench. The shock.

  “You okay?” Plug asked.

  The room whirled. My lungs burned. I dropped to my knees in front of the canvas. The painting towered over me.

  “What’s wrong?” he whispered.

  I rubbed my hands on my jeans. I took a small breath and then a deeper one. My head began to clear. The brushstrokes of the painting created the illusion of misty smoke around the edges. I traced the swirls to make sure they were inanimate. The middle of the canvas featured a dark vertical cloud, but with closer study, I realized the image had a hooded robe. Featherless wings extended from the backside, and bare-bone arms with claws reached outward. Tentatively, I touched the extended claws and felt a prick. I jerked back, and a red dot spread along the tip of the white glove. I yanked it off and held it against my finger to stop the bleeding.

  Plug raised an eyebrow.

  “The painting,” I said. “It cut me.”

  Without hesitation, he stroked his glove-covered palm across the surface of the canvas.

  “Smooth,” he said. He pulled off his gloves and coaxed my fist open. Not a single drop of blood. He flattened out my glove. It was completely white. His touch made my skin tingle as he drew his fingers across my hand and double-checked for any wounds. I pulled away from him, tore off the other white glove, and threw it to the ground.

  “This is ridiculous. I need to go home.” I took two steps before Plug gripped my elbow.

  “Just because I didn’t see blood doesn’t mean you didn’t,” he said.

  His confidence in me caught me by surprise, and I worried that my friendship with Plug was another one of my peculiar delusions. I choked back my fear and threw my hands in the air.

  “Crap like this keeps happening to me!”

  “Like what?” Plug asked.

  “Ever since the accident . . . no . . . ever since the stupid hypnotist show, I’ve been seeing strange things.”

  “Were you seeing things when you bought the fry bread from me at the fair?”

  “Ants. They were everywhere, but not just at your food trailer. They also crawled across my hands before I lost control of the car.” I pointed at the painting. “I saw this after the crash. It swirled in and out of the windows. But there were no bones, only mist and smoke.”

  Plug tugged at his ear. I thought I’d said too much, but then Plug gently took my hand. His skin was warm against mine, and I didn’t pull away this time.

  “It’s the Angel of Death,” he whispered.

  He tightened his grasp, and his rings pressed into my knuckles. He had a quieting effect on me, which I’d yearned for since the accident.

  “I don’t think the hypnotist did anything to you,” he said. “It was Jordan’s time to go. You saw the Angel of Death stalking Jordan.”

  “But I’ve seen other things since the accident, and that painting pricked my finger.”

  “I’ve read a lot about the occult, and there are things in this world beyond our comprehension,” Plug said.

  “How did this painting inspire your chalk drawing of the skulls?”

  “If this is what the Angel of Death looks like”—he let go of my hand and stroked the edge of the painting—“I wonder what his victims look like.”

  “Is everyone a victim when they die?” Was my dad? Was Jordan?

  “I hope not,” Plug said, “but you could go crazy thinking about it too much.”

  “A psychiatrist at the hospital said the hypnotist may have brought an underlying psychosis of mine to the surface.”

  “Psychiatrists are full of crap.” Plug hoisted the canvas back into the crate. “They discount the occult and the Angel of Death.”

  “You believe that I’m actually seeing things?”

  “You and I exist in bodies, but there are also other spirits on this earth. Disembodied spirits. Evil spirits. Sad spirits. Spirits who seek our help, and spirits who wish us harm.”

  “And you think—”

  “They could have attached to you during the accident.” He picked up my discarded gloves from the concrete floor.

  “How do we get them to detach—”

  The room went pitch black, and I shrieked.

  “Plug!”

  “Right here.”

  I fumbled in the darkness for him.

  “Stay with me, and I’ll guide you out.” I wrapped my hands around his and pressed into his side. The air around us went frigid, and Plug halted. A high-pitched buzz, barely audible, moved past my ears, as if a horsefly circled my head. I dug my fingernails into Plug’s skin.

  “You have no power here!” Plug yelled. “Be gone!” The volume of the buzzing increased. Plug stomped his foot and yelled. “Be. Gone.”

  The lights popped back on, and a bulb above us burst, pelting us with bits of glass. I let go of Plug and shook the shards from my hair and clothes. He did the same. The temperature returned to normal, and even though the room had been cold a second ago, Plug wiped perspiration from his forehead. He scratched at his short black hair and blew out a breath.

  “Tell me I did not hallucinate that,” I said.

  He rubbed his face and said, “Let’s ask my dad if he flipped a breaker or if the electricity went out.” Plug motioned me toward the doors. We crossed into the studio, and Plug stopped in his tracks. He pointed at his dad. Necro leaned over a customer and continued applying a fresh tattoo. The humming of the tattoo machine contrasted with the soft classical music in the background.

  “He’s in the middle of a tat,” Plug said. “The lights in here must have stayed on the whole time. He couldn’t have flipped the breaker and gotten back here so fast, because the box is on the outside of the building.”

  “One of his employees—”

  “No one else is here today,” Plug said.

  “Tell me you experienced the same thing I did in the warehouse.”

  He counted on his fingers and spoke. “First, the lights went out. Second, it got really cold. Third, bugs buzzed in my ears. Then the lights came back on, and the bulb popped over our heads.”

  “Yes.”

  “But, Hannah, a power surge or a blown breaker—”

  “What about the buzzing?” I asked.

  “The light bulb above us could have made the sound and then burst.”

  “And the temperature change?”

  “Man. I don’t know. I’ve only read about this stuff. But if a spirit is present, the temperature can, in theory, drop drastically. If something has attached itself to you, we need to get rid of it.”

  “How?”

  “We can start by smudging you with burned sage—”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The smoke of sage eliminates negative energies,” he said. “We can smudge, basically spread smoke around, your room and all your clothes. A tiger-eye will help protect you, too.”

  I imagined a dead animal’s eyeball threaded with a cord and strung around my neck.

  “It’s a stone called tiger-eye,” Plug said, as if he’d read my mind. “Its metaphysical properties will help protect you from uninvited spirits.” He pulled several smooth rocks out of his pocket. He selecte
d a brown-and-gold-striped one from the bunch and held it up. It glimmered in the light, like a tiger’s eye. He returned the other stones to his pocket, but kept out the tiger-eye and rubbed it with the pad of this thumb. Then he cupped it, closed his eyes, and huffed on it. He mumbled a few words, but I missed what he said. He repeated the process three times. Then he lifted my hand, set the stone in my palm, and folded my fingers over it.

  “This is yours,” I said.

  “Maybe I only carried it because one day you would need it from me.”

  I was uncertain if I felt flattered or frightened.

  “Thanks,” I said. “How do you know all this?”

  “It’s the occult, baby. I love this stuff. Well, I should say, I love researching this stuff. You’ve brought the first paranormal activity into my life.”

  “Nice. You’re not hanging out with me because of my great hair and fashionable clothes but because I have evil spirits stalking me.”

  “Fringe benefits.” Plug beamed. “My idea of a perfect world includes mystery, art, and friends.” He had managed to lift my melancholy and introduce me to a new realm of possibilities. “Come on,” he said and motioned me toward the warehouse side of the building.

  “No.” My mood changed instantly, and my heart beat faster. “I refuse to go back in there.”

  “Trust me.” He tugged at my shirtsleeve.

  “No. I can’t do it.” I swatted his hand away and ran for the front door. Out on the sidewalk, I bent forward and clutched my knees, gasping for air. Plug followed and squatted in front of me.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to panic you. Let’s go get Thai food or something.”

  Before I could answer, Chelsea’s hee-haw chortle rang out behind me. I spun around, but no one was there. I ran to the side of the building and searched the alleyway. A bottle broke somewhere in the unseen distance.

  “What?” Plug asked.

  “I heard Chelsea laugh.”

  Plug rushed past me and down the alley. The sun went behind a cloud and cast the alley in a dusky gloom. My muscles went rigid, and I stood frozen. About fifteen feet down the alleyway, Plug closed a metal box mounted on the brick wall of the building. He removed something from the side of the box and came back to me, extending his hand to show me a broken padlock.

  “Our breaker box,” he said. “Someone broke the lock and messed with the breakers.”

  “Why is the breaker box on the outside of the building?”

  “Old building. Old wiring. Someone popped the breaker for the warehouse lights and then put it back.”

  “What about the cold air and the buzzing?”

  “Could’ve been paranormal, but someone broke this lock. That’s not paranormal.” Plug went back inside the tattoo parlor and gave the lock to Necro. Afterward, we headed to a nearby Thai restaurant and debated the occult versus psychiatry while we ate.

  • • •

  On the way to my house, Plug parked in the deserted lot of a strip mall. He hopped out of the El Camino and ran around to open my door.

  “You know,” I said, “I am capable of getting my own door.”

  “Right.” He waved me forward, and I followed him to a store called Nirvana. He tugged on the door, but it was locked. He peered inside the window, and I tapped the glass where the store hours were posted. He checked the time on his cell.

  “Man. We talked at the restaurant a long time.” He rapped his knuckles on the door.

  “Plug, they closed at five. It’s after seven now. Let’s go.”

  “We need sage.” He fidgeted with his lip ring and worried me. “Do you trust me?”

  “People ask that question right before they do something stupid,” I said.

  “Keep an eye out.”

  “No,” I said. “Besides, if you want some sage, we can get it from my neighbor’s yard. Sagebrush grows all over the foothills.”

  “Mmm. Not the same thing,” Plug said. “A common misnomer. Sage is from the mint family, and sagebrush is a woody shrub. Not to mention, if you accidentally pick the wrong kind of sagebrush and burn it, people will think you’ve been smoking marijuana—”

  I started laughing. “Okay, I wouldn’t want anyone to think we’re smoking marijuana.”

  He plucked a leather case out of his back pocket. “Let me know if anyone comes.”

  “Plug! We don’t need the sage.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I know the owners.” He slipped two small tweezer-like tools from the leather case. Then he held the leather between his lips and picked the lock of the door.

  I plucked at his gray T-shirt. “Stop! Someone will catch us!” But the parking lot was still deserted. Apparently, all the stores in the strip mall had closed for the day. Plug snatched my hand and yanked me inside. Bells jingled against the door as it swung shut. I remained by the window and kept watch.

  “A car turned into the lot!” I twirled around to see where Plug was, but in the darkened store, I barely made out his silhouette as he slapped something on the counter. Then he joined me at the front window.

  Headlights illuminated the store. Plug yanked some weird bundled weeds off the shelf and tugged me toward the back of the store. The bells on the front door jingled.

  “Hello?” a woman’s voice called out, and the lights in the store came on. “Eugene?”

  Plug trudged out of the backroom, and he dragged me with him.

  “Hi, Grandma,” Plug said.

  I whacked his shoulder.

  “Eugene,” his grandma said. “Stop picking my locks.”

  “Sorry, Grandma.”

  “Who’s with you?” she asked and stepped closer.

  “My friend, Hannah,” he said.

  New wrinkles formed as she narrowed her eyes at me. She wore a denim shirt-dress with cowboy boots and a leather vest trimmed with silver buttons. Her thick gray hair hung in two long braids, as it had at the fair.

  Plug grinned at me. “This is my grandma, my mother’s mother. And this is her store.”

  I whacked his shoulder again. “You could have told me that before you broke in.”

  He rubbed his shoulder.

  “You knew my daughter?” his grandma asked me.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “A good woman,” she said. “You have the same vibrant eyes.”

  I glanced at Plug, and he grinned.

  “You do,” he said. “It was the first thing I noticed about you. Legends say pure green eyes belong to strong, courageous women.”

  Plug’s grandma spoke again. “Cherish your loved ones, Hannah. Time on this earth is limited. My daughter’s been gone too long now. Seven years.”

  “My dad died six years ago,” I said, surprised at my own frankness.

  Plug’s grandma clutched my hand and lifted it to her chest. “So you know this hole in the heart. You lost your father. Eugene, his mother. Me, my daughter.” My breath caught, and I nodded. She embraced me for a moment, and then she hugged Plug.

  “Love you, Grandma,” he said.

  “Then stop picking my locks.” She pulled his ear.

  “Okay. We’ve got to go,” he said.

  Plug and I walked side-by-side out to the parking lot.

  “I can’t believe you let me think you were robbing a store!”

  “More of an adventure.”

  “Would you have told me the truth if your grandma hadn’t shown up?”

  “Probably.”

  “Plug!”

  “I would have,” he said, “eventually. There was no harm—”

  “You broke into the store and took something that belonged to someone else. That’s illegal. And it was unnecessary.”

  “I left money on the counter,” he explained. “More than the sage is even worth, and besides, the store belongs to my grandma. Now we can smudge your room, and you’ll sleep better tonight.”

  “Where did you learn to do that anyhow?”

  “Summer job with a locksmith. It’s a fine art to pick a loc
k without breaking it. You have to solve a mystery and overcome obstacles to release the lock.”

  I studied his round face, his elongated earlobes, and his gray eyes. He barely knew me, but he had picked the lock to get the sage so he could do something nice for me. It baffled me.

  • • •

  Plug parked in my driveway. Mom’s car was gone, probably still at work. He hauled the heavy art book, and I lugged my backpack to the front door. I huffed and dropped my bag on the porch.

  “Waiting for me to open the door?” Plug grinned.

  “No,” I said. “I lost everything when my car exploded, including my house keys.” I stepped into the flower bed.

  “I can unlock it,” Plug said.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “No, thank you.” I found the fake rock behind one of the bushes, slid open the base, and plucked out a key. I opened the door and returned the key to its hiding place.

  “So,” I asked, “do we smudge the whole house or just my room?”

  “Let’s start with your room, but we will need to do the whole house.”

  I led the way upstairs, and he set the art book on my bed.

  “Matches?” he asked. “And maybe a metal pan?”

  “Have you done this before?” I asked.

  “I’ve watched YouTube.” He waggled his eyebrows.

  I dropped my backpack to the floor.

  “Hey,” he said, “I’m a researcher of the occult. Not a practitioner.”

  “Right.” I jogged back downstairs to the kitchen and collected the matches and an old pan. When I returned to my room, Plug still stood in the exact same position. “Did you even move?”

  “Didn’t want you to think I was snooping.” He smirked and took the matches. He lit one and held it to the bundled leaves.

  “Don’t burn the house down,” I said.

  Plug dropped the match into the pan and coaxed the sage into burning by gently blowing on it. A flame formed, and then Plug blew it out.

  “Smokes better this way,” he said. “Flame is gone, but it still smolders.” He waved it in a figure eight, and the end of the bundled leaves glowed red, creating more smoke. He continued the motion and walked around the room. I followed right behind him with the pan, worried the sage would burst into a raging fire at any second.