by Micol Ostow
Once Sanderson caught up to Luke, he began to shout. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but there was no mistaking the rising color in his cheeks, the furious pinwheeling of his arms. There was no mistaking the crease to Luke’s forehead as he shrank back, drew in upon himself.
Through the window, I observed, transfixed, as Sanderson’s gestures grew wilder, more menacing. He was irate, looming, expanding until he no longer resembled a wave so much as an exclamation point, a lightning bolt. Luke’s eyes were round and glassy, and his mouth moved in mealy mumbles. He had progressed from panic to near terror, like an animal caught in a snare. I wished I could do something for him, something about that awful, sickening look. I couldn’t imagine what, though.
I was only ten years old then, remember.
I couldn’t imagine, but it seemed I wouldn’t have to. Something was building in my core, in my center. From within, a prickling sensation bubbled and hitched, burning at the base of my throat, pressing at my rib cage urgently. And though it was the first time this feeling had arisen with such acuity, it was familiar somehow, still.
My skin felt tight, hot, itchy, as though my nerve endings were exposed wires, as though an electrical current coursed through me, setting me alight.
Then, suddenly, that shimmer, that charge, funneled out of me, streaking off into the atmosphere, leaving me dizzy, light-headed.
I rocked back with the force of all of the charged particles around me and in doing so, somehow solidified, pulling together, gathering whatever force was being built into a tightly knit ball that I could envision, just so, within my mind’s eye.
From outside, I heard the low rumble of thunder, of air pressure shifting, gathering energy. Our windows rattled and the sky darkened in a purple, bruise-like patch, collecting like a blood clot, swirling, coming to a vortex. Settling. Just above where Luke and Sanderson stood.
I blinked, trying to understand what I was seeing, why it seemed that whatever was happening, was only happening in my own backyard. I couldn’t find a reason. But no matter; as it turned out, I didn’t have time to dwell.
As it turned out, the stones were here.
THEY CAME ALL AT ONCE, in a pounding sheet, heavy and full, smacking against the flagstone and clicking like chattering teeth. The sound was crystallized, sharp, and bright, even through the windows, even from behind the safety of the living room walls.
As though it were coming from within my own mind.
Luke and Sanderson both stopped short, confusion etched on their faces. They tilted their heads up, shielding their eyes from the steady rain of pebbles, disbelieving. I wanted to shriek, to scream, to call out to them, to tell them—to insist—that it was ice, debris, anything that could be explained away.
Anything that didn’t seem crazy.
But I couldn’t bring myself to.
Because crazy or not, I knew: the rocks. Were real.
And they were mine.
LUKE DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING when he came back inside.
As the stones came down, I’d slithered along the living room wall into a crouch on the carpet, hugging my knees to my chest and biting down on my lip so hard I tasted the thin tang of blood. I heard the front door swing shut with a bang, heard Luke’s footsteps, hard and heavy, moving with purpose toward the living room. I looked up at him as he crossed to the window above me, briefly resting a hand on my head. He frowned as he gazed out the window, alert and worried.
From outside, I heard a final, crashing boom, a clap, and a quick, heavy rain of pellets that sounded concentrated, thick. The stones had gathered, were rushing down with a final burst of force.
After another heartbeat or two, stillness fell, cool and lush. I felt it drape against my skin, velvety and dense, as much as I sensed it in the surrounding atmosphere.
The stones had come and gone.
My head felt clear now. All that remained was a dull throb, suggesting a hailstorm, a rain of something heavy and solid.
Suggesting the stones. Insisting that what had happened should not be dismissed.
Insisting that what had happened, happened because of me.
THE CALM, QUIET AIR WAS ALMOST as full, as pressing, as the stones had been.
“What happened?” I asked, my voice wavering.
Luke looked at me. “You tell me.”
I swallowed. “I don’t know what you mean.”
But that wasn’t quite true. Because this wasn’t the first time, not exactly, that the laws of science, of physics, of gravity, of the typical movement of mass and energy—it wasn’t quite the first time that these laws had rearranged themselves in my presence. It wasn’t quite the first time that a prickle beneath my skin had gathered, bending the atmosphere around me, inverting it to my will.
Was it?
Now that the stones had gone and my breathing had slowed again, images began to replay themselves in my mind: fragmented moments, seemingly innocuous, easy to dismiss.
A glass vase tumbling from the mantel the instant my mother scolded me for playing in her jewelry case.
A pot boiling over on the burner as my parents’ argument built to a fever pitch.
A lightbulb popping and burning out the moment Luke surprised me during an impromptu game of hide-and-seek, the charred, smoky smell lingering between us.
Fragmented moments, memories. Seemingly innocuous. Easy to dismiss. And so I had dismissed them. But between Luke and me, suspicion had always remained, suspended like a spiderweb, sticky and fragile as cotton candy.
Suspicion, and an unspoken agreement.
“I don’t know.” That was more honest. The stones were something new, something greater, and possibly un-ignorable. The stones were possibly too much for Luke and me to bear in secret.
Luke knelt down next to me, breathing hard. “Gwen—”
“What’s it like out there?” I squeaked, cutting him off. My throat felt thick and rusty. Some inner warning bell was blaring now, telling me that whatever Luke was about to say might confirm our long-standing suspicion. Might bring it out into the open.
I wasn’t ready for that.
Go away, crazy. The words danced in the air.
Luke made a hissing sound, sharp, through his teeth. “You’d almost never know. The only thing wrecked is our house. Our patio, I mean. And some … divots in the lawn, it looks like.”
“But nowhere else.” Nowhere else. I’d already known that, hadn’t I?
“The stones only fell over our house, Gwen,” Luke said.
The unspoken corollary hung between us:
Because that’s where you wanted them to fall.
“Do you think anyone saw?” And, if so, what will they think? What will they say?
There were rumors and whispers enough as it was. Proof of anything about me that went beyond “strange” or “fragile,” anything beyond the rational realm …
Well, I guessed others wouldn’t be so accepting of that. Those who’d never been privy to my flashes, my moments … they still weren’t convinced that I was wholly normal.
Sane.
Luke shrugged. “Can’t say. Nobody came outside. Nobody was looking out the window when I checked.”
“Sanderson?”
“He was pretty spooked,” Luke said. “I can’t see him going out of his way to talk this up to people. What would he even say?”
Spooked. “Right.” What would we say?
“So,” Luke said, turning to me at last, his voice hardening with his expression, “I think this is probably something that we should try to keep to ourselves. As best as we can anyway.”
I nodded, relieved. The warning bell calmed. Luke and I were coming to an agreement, then. I didn’t understand what had happened, certainly couldn’t explain it, so keeping it to ourselves made sense to me. I wouldn’t even have known how to begin to describe what had taken place if I’d wanted to.
And I absolutely didn’t want to.
ALWAYS
HERE
Here lies a plot
of land, boundaries, borders bleeding outward, spilling soil, spoil, spreading a legacy of poison, a long, lethal history of bleak, black power; dangerous, venomous earth inching in every direction, seeding the landscape with danger, darkness, decay.
Here lies a collective of the forlorn, the forgotten, the forsaken. A tribe, taken, tormented, tortured. Left for dead and layered, levels deep, buried, bone against bone against bone.
Here lies the former site of a failed premise, a feigned promise, a pact as broken as the bodies that lay beneath, between, beyond. Here lies the hope of a haven, a safe house, a sacred space for magic users, shamans, and those who exist in the peripheral places of our world.
Here lies an in-between land, one which played host to a rotating, ever-evolving cast of struggling, searching hordes.
Here lies the legacy of ancient legends, lore long dismissed. Force, power, soft and dormant. Dwelling silently, gathering, funneling with the rage of a typhoon.
Here lies the apex, the access point to alternate planes, to worlds beyond, to a forever of never and everything other and dank.
Here lies Amity.
Now a house.
But always, ever,
all unspeakable things.
Always awaiting.
Always amassing, absorbing,
reflecting sinister intent.
Always ready to snake its way under the flesh.
Always unsafe.
Not sane.
Always sentient.
Here lies Amity.
Always anger.
Always evil.
Alive.
Here lies Amity.
Always.
NOW
DAY 13
MOM BRIGHTENED when I mentioned to her that I was going to go into town, that I wanted to have a look at the local library. It had been several nights since we’d talked about it. She’d probably thought I’d forgotten, lost interest. It was important to my parents that my interest in “normal” social behavior not waver, so to her this development was good news.
She was sitting at the kitchen table, squinting through her reading glasses at the morning crossword puzzle. She asked hopefully whether I was planning on meeting anyone there, and I hated to have to remind her that I had no one to meet. The younger girl I’d spotted down by the riverbank hadn’t come back—at least, not that I’d seen. And besides, I hadn’t ventured from the property once since we’d moved in.
Which was odd, come to think of it.
“You can take my car,” she offered, another sign that her concerns about me persisted. This type of generosity was uncommon, if not completely unheard of. Mom fished her keys out of a colorful glass bowl in the middle of the table and pressed them into my hand. The metal was cold against my palm.
“Sure.” I wasn’t going to turn down the car keys. If her concern reached a tipping point, it could be a while before I had my hands on them again. “I’ll ask Luke if he wants to come.”
Her shrug told me she expected this to be futile, and I had to agree. He’d been disappearing into the boathouse, shovel in hand, for longer and longer intervals lately, though he’d yet to show us anything he’d uncovered, promising only that it was “great stuff.”
“Great stuff …” and that flat, distant gaze.
(go away, crazy)
I wondered what great meant in this context. I didn’t think I wanted to know.
I slipped the car keys into my back pocket. “Do you need me to bring anything back?”
Mom looked startled by the question, then frowned. “No. I don’t think there’s anything I need. Oh, but, honey?” Mom’s tone escalated, making my breath quicken. “If you’re going to go get Luke, I don’t think he’s in the boathouse right now.”
“No?” That was a surprise.
“He’s in the basement.”
The basement.
The basement, not the boathouse. A surprise, yes.
Whether it was an improvement remained to be seen.
THE BASEMENT SMELLED LIKE MILDEW, THICK AND CLOYING, making my nose prick as I tottered cautiously down the stairs. The only lighting was still that lone, bare bulb swinging from a fraying line at the foot of the staircase. As it arced back and forth, it cast bold geometric patterns in the air. I thought my mother had to be mistaken, that surely there was no way Luke would be down here in the dark, rank rot. Surely, this place was even less appealing than the dilapidated old boathouse.
(not to Luke it’s not)
(not to Amity)
But as soon as my foot touched the cold concrete floor, I saw his shadow skitter along my peripheral vision.
He had a shovel in his hand.
Hearing me approach, he leaned it against the wall and pushed hanks of unwashed hair out of his eyes to survey me. I glanced around the spare, dreary room, finding no remnants of the sage I’d burned. Had Luke removed them?
And if so, why?
He looked at me, eyes flat. “You wanted something?”
I wanted lots of things, none of which I was going to get from my brother, my almost twin, in that moment. “I was about to go into town.”
His eyebrows knit together in a suspicious question mark. “Why?”
Again, the question of why any of us would venture away from Amity. It was a valid one. Until now none of us really had left, more than we needed to.
I ran the toe of my sneaker along the basement floor. “Actually, I wanted to check out the library. I’m interested in local history.” Mostly, I was interested in seeing how the public records might correspond with the garish dreamscapes I’d been encountering lately. “I mean, specifically, the history of the house. It’s got such old bones.” Old bones. The skittering from my bedroom, from within my walls at night, sounded softly in some far-off corner of my mind.
(go away, crazy)
I went on, babbling a bit now. “You should know. I mean, all that poking around you’re doing in the boathouse. You must be getting pretty familiar with Amity’s bones.” A whisper of cold air rushed over my bare arms, making me shudder.
Luke jutted his lower lip out. “And where,” he sneered, “do you think that’s going to get you?”
I’d expected this anger, hadn’t I? Luke defaulted to it more and more these days. As calmly as possible, I replied, “I’m just curious.”
Of course, they say that curiosity killed the cat.
Luke’s face relaxed slightly. “I don’t think you’ll find anything.”
That skittering again from the back of my throat, fluttery movements in the corner of my eyes. Go. Away. Crazy. I swallowed.
Luke flicked his eyes toward a lightless, sooty corner of the room. Following his gaze, I caught sight—just barely—of a torn, dingy plastic bag, lumpy and leaking a small pool of dark fluid. My stomach lurched.
“The thing is, Gwen,” Luke said, his consonants long and drawn out, “I kind of know everything I need to know about this place already.”
I decided I wasn’t interested in any further details from my brother.
(What’s in the bag, Luke?)
(she was shot in the HEAD)
I told him I’d leave him to it. And I did.
MY MOTHER’S CAR HAD SEEN BETTER DAYS, but pulling down Amity’s long, winding drive and out onto the pebble-strewn road felt exhilarating. I rumbled along with the window rolled down and my arm resting over the door, baking in the sunlight as the breeze whipped my hair against my face. But I’d only gone a mile, maybe, when the sky clouded over, gray swaths of steel wool connecting overhead ominously.
I hardly had time to register the swift shift in weather when a fawn bounded out from the wooded thicket that lined either side of the road. In a single leap, it jumped to the center of the road, velvet-lined nose twitching. Its chocolate eyes bored into mine as the car chugged forward, seemingly of its own volition.
I gasped, squeezing my eyes shut involuntarily, bracing for the impact. But there was none.
When I opened my eyes again, the deer was gon
e.
But the figure from my bathroom mirror had taken its place.
SHE WAS THERE IN A HEARTBEAT, a hairsbreadth, a flash, a tangle of dark, matted curls slapping my windshield and fanning out. There was the thud, the groaning protest of metal against muscle, the slam-rattle of glass against bone, my teeth clicking together as my own head snapped forward in my seat.
She was holding something in her hands, holding it out to me, even as her limbs pinwheeled at odd, impossible angles. I glimpsed stained—was that fur? Was it felt or fabric? It was too quick, tumbling away—and then reflexes overtook me.
I jerked the steering wheel to the left, sending the car screeching into the drop-off that sloped alongside the road. The car stalled out, flinging me harshly against my shoulder harness. I quickly unclipped it and stepped out of the car, panting. I climbed back up out of the ditch and onto the road, coughing from the smoke rising from the hood of the car like fog.
Even through the haze, I could see there was no trace of the girl, not a hint left behind.
BACK UP ON THE ROAD, with an elevated vantage point, the situation with the car looked all the more dire. I had nothing but the car keys in my pocket, so walking home looked to be the only option. I was alone on the road,
It was lucky, I supposed, that I hadn’t made it further into town.
“WHAT HAPPENED?”
I whirled to find myself face-to-face with the girl from the sewing room window, the one who had disappeared down by the river. The canopy of the woods behind her remained completely motionless, undisturbed.
She was waiting for my reply.
“I thought I—I thought I hit something,” I said, those glazed, red-rimmed eyes, that matted, clotted nest of hair, that ghoulish image from the mirror streaking through my mind. “A deer.”