Dead Ends

by JT Ellison

  Major stole the Protector for her instead.

  Florence clears her throat, well aware Dylan is thinking of the same memory. She wishes she could tug it back and keep it secret. He smiles, a crooked upturn at the corner of his mouth, almost like he can feel her retreat.

  “Do you still have it?”

  “My Zippo?”

  “No, the Protector.”

  Florence starts to hesitate, and Dylan’s hand brushes her shoulder. She sighs, stands, and goes to the small curio cabinet in the corner of the room. The Protector is as ugly and severe as she remembers. She holds it up for him to see.

  “It’s still warm,” Florence says, with a small smile.

  Cecil did something to the wood so the little sculptures felt like they had been under a heater. Sissy always claimed it was in the glaze, that he had a special one ordered from foothills of the Great Mountains, and there was an ember of magic to it.

  Major said Cecil gave the Protectors pieces of his soul, which explained why he had none left.

  Dylan told her to be careful.

  Her grandmother found it, said a prayer, and locked it up in the cabinet.

  Florence thought Major was wrong and right. There was something soulful about the piece, but she didn’t credit Cecil’s soul. She credited the town. It was as though the Protector carried a piece of the autumn equinox all year round.

  It was just so ugly she couldn’t bear to look at it for very long.

  “He must have really hated kids,” Dylan says, staring at it. “I mean, I’m thirty years old and part of me still thinks when the lights go out that one of those things is going to come and try and carve out my heart.”

  Florence bites back another smile and tucks it away. “That would be the opposite of a Protector.”

  “Yeah, well.” Dylan stands. “Cecil never did as much protecting as prohibiting.”

  He moves to the window and draws back the curtain. In the distance Hollowland stands proud, like a lighthouse, calling all wayward travelers home. It doesn’t matter that the night is as black as an oil spill, or the stars never seem to reach the ground Hollowland claimed. The house appears lit from within without ever using a single light.

  “Is that why you’re home? Because he’s gone and you wanted to make sure the monsters were, too?”

  Dylan turns around. He studies her face. “You don’t know?”

  “Know?”

  “Hollowland, Freckles. Upon Cecil’s death, the house that has been locked up for so many years is finally open.”

  4

  The Gentleman

  * * *

  Everyone turned up at the Center of Town Square on the morning after Cecil Sterling took his untimely fall down twenty-two rather wide and even stairs. Stairs so well placed, the last way you would think to describe them would be menacing or dastardly. Which is exactly how Hairless Gus referred to them while donning his toupee and talking to his white tabby, Professor Snatch. The Professor could care less about the tale; he was waiting for his master to go to sleep so he could try once again to attack the large rodent hiding on his head.

  This was the first death in City, Anywhere in years. And, if pressed, no one could tell you the last person whose demise had occurred in the town. People did not really come and go from City, Anywhere. They came, on occasion, but they found reason to stay. Whether it was the seasonable weather with its fall-like temperatures year-round, the affordable housing prices, or how everything in town was within walking distance, there always seemed to be something that lured travelers to relocate. It was a fascinating thing to watch, but it was also rare. Because while those who came, came to stay, not very many were able to set foot inside the city boundaries each year.

  There were any number of oddities going on inside the town, but this one would be the most intriguing, if anyone in town would pay attention.

  People are like sheep. Self-involved and impeccably groomed sheep, but sheep nonetheless. So of course no one ever noticed the lack of visitors.

  I notice everything, so I watched the townspersons gather with their dark raincoats under a gloomy and despondent sky. There was the butcher, the florist, the baker, the librarian, the dog groomer, the tailor, the painter, and, of course, the bartender.

  She looked saddest of all.

  Well, next to the dog groomer. No one paid more for nail trimmings than the owner of Biscuits and Gravy, and no one loved those craggly-faced creatures more than the lady who did their weekly manicures.

  No, people do not frequent City, Anywhere and expect to leave again. No one, that is, excepting for the Sterlings.

  The clouds, drunk on rain, swelled and expanded. The two brothers stepped into the crowd and moved through it.

  If the crowd were a snake, and believe me it was some kind of reptile with its typically cold-blooded nature, then the head was the mayor, the tail the sad bartender, the body the remaining citizens, and the rats refusing to digest inside the belly of the beast were the two interloping Sterlings.

  I suppose it was a sad occasion, if you believed such occasions to be sad. What with the way Cecil had gone headfirst over that cane so that when he landed his legs were akimbo and all his devious lights were out. They say loss is sad.

  Me? I am never quite so sure.

  What I am sure of is that if secrets were currency, City, Anywhere should be the richest place in the universe, with the residents riding around on waves of the highest coin.

  But that’s the funny thing about secrets. When they’re kept so well, even the secret holders forget what they have.

  5

  Florence

  * * *

  A chill taps its way down Florence’s spine like water dripping from a faucet. She doesn’t have to turn to know who is moving across from her—she can feel Major Sterling’s presence the way farmers sense an oncoming storm. It makes her ache behind the knees, and, if she isn’t careful, in other, weaker, places.

  When Florence finally looks over, Major is not looking at her, but sizing up the mayor. Mayor Fisher also serves as the town lawyer, and is as sharp and decisive as the angles of his face.

  In studying Major, Florence can look for the boy she once shied away from. She doesn’t think Major has ever really been a child, he was likely born with a scowl and disdain for the masses. But whoever he once was, she can’t get a read for how he’ll be now.

  She wishes she didn’t care.

  Memories try to push their way up from where Florence has secured them in her mind’s basement lockbox. Dylan and Major, the faces of her youth, the names she thought would always be synonymous with her own. It is startling how the people you thought would always bring you comfort can end up being the ones you wish to run from most.

  Major turns his face then, so she sees his full profile. The prominent nose, dark hair that is as unruly as his attitude. She sees the boy in the man, and that bothers her for reasons she cannot name.

  It won’t do to dwell on it. Dwelling prevents living, her grandmother used to say.

  Florence feels exposed, like a nerve. She tries to see it, the nerve ending raw, battered, and bruised. She hates the image and instead visualizes an electric wire cut off at the tip, so it sparks and charges.

  She would rather be electric than beaten.

  Slipping to the back of the crowd, Florence listens to the mayor praise Cecil Sterling, a man she has witnessed him hide from a number of times. Fisher ducked into her bar only last Tuesday, watching through the window as Cecil ambled down the road, cane over foot over foot over cane, until he went into the bank. Only then would Mayor Fisher leave the safety of her doorframe and venture back into town.

  The mayor is not the only one who feared Cecil Sterling. He also isn’t the only one who revered him. Fear and respect are funny little friends. The crowd is full of people who knew and, well, if not loved, admired Cecil. His wealth, his presence… his house.

  A house that looms over the town, as if on guard. Which is funny, considering the rum
ors. If rumors are born from even a speck of truth, then perhaps there really is something evil about Hollowland.

  But what is evil?

  It is a question Florence spends a lot of time on. One she can never answer, no matter how hard she tries. She only knows she hopes evil does not feel, or smell, or taste like her.

  Hollowland was not evil, her grandmother told her. “A thing can neither be good nor evil, for it is not the thing that makes the mark, but the person using the thing.”

  So what does that make Florence? As a person—evil or not?

  She shoos the thought away like an interfering mosquito and focuses on the house in the distance. Will they open it today? Will they discuss this as a town?

  Major turns his head, just a sliver of a movement, but it draws her gaze again. Is he really home for the house, for Cecil?

  Or could it be something else?

  Florence’s hand flies to her belly as she tries to settle the off-kilter flipping and flopping of her stomach.

  The mayor steps up to the podium.

  “We’re all here about the loss of Cecil Sterling. I won’t insult those of you here to mourn by pretending this is something it isn’t. While Cecil’s loss is a reckoning that will send shock waves through the toughest pillars of this community, I’m here to pay my respects and put an end to the rumors swirling in regards to Hollowland.” Mayor Fisher clears his throat and surveys the audience like a runner taking his mark. “The house is—”

  “Closed for repairs,” Major calls, his voice cutting through the air like a lightning strike. All heads turn to face him, and he cocks a brow. “Or is it open for business?”

  Mayor Fisher fails to hold back a grimace. “Perhaps you’d like to speak on the matter, Major Sterling? Now that you’ve returned home.”

  “Home?” Major drawls the word. “Is that what this is?”

  His gaze finds Florence. Where his brother is dark and light and something sweeter, Major is shadows and shade. He is darkness and danger, and Florence forces herself to hold his gaze even as everything inside her quivers.

  The good mayor doesn’t answer the question Major poses. Instead he waves him up like it’s a challenge, and Major shakes his head. “I’m afraid that’s between my brother and me, and the solicitor.”

  The mayor sighs in obvious relief as Major cuts through the crowd, heading straight for Florence. She holds her head up, even as whispers from the past send her knees knocking.

  “And you,” Major says, stopping in front of her. “Dylan, you, me, and the solicitor. It appears the reading of the will cannot commence until the whole band is back together.”

  6

  The Gentleman

  * * *

  I admit, this moment, this is the one I’ve been waiting for.

  They should know better, those three. Nothing ever comes in life without a price. I tried to whisper it to Florence when she was three and accepted the first daisy from Dylan, and again when she was eight and took Major’s offered hand when she tumbled from her bike.

  But no ever listens to me.

  After all, I’m only a memory.

  7

  Florence

  * * *

  Solicitor Warren Capax requests that Florence and Major and Dylan Sterling meet with him at Hollowland precisely at 7:00 a.m. the following morning.

  “He’s fucking scared of being in front of that door in the dark,” Major tells Florence, his eyes lingering on her earlobe, causing the tip to feel like it is on fire.

  She doesn’t speak, just nods and tries not to rub her ear as she stares at Major’s forehead. She is tempted to get lost in gazing at his mouth, and the way his eyes crinkle at the edges tells her he knows.

  Major leaves Florence like a ripple in his wake. She returns home to pace her apartment, the two round dogs watching as their new mistress carries a small throw pillow in her arms crossing, repeatedly, from room to room.

  Florence does not sleep.

  When the sky turns amber again, she finds herself in front of the cabinet housing the Protector. On instinct she reaches for it, sticks it in her bag. Then she stuffs the pillow in the bag, feeds the dogs, and leaves a note for Marty, the morning manager, to check on Biscuits and Gravy if Florence isn’t home by lunchtime.

  The drive to Hollowland is a quiet one. Florence’s nerves are so taut, she can barely tolerate the classical music pouring from the radio. The layered melody of violin reminds her of Dylan, while the heavy bass reverberates through her skeleton, making her think of Major.

  She eventually turns the music off and focuses on her breath. In and out. In and out.

  “In or out?” Major had asked her the last time she’d come to his door. She meant to say out, to take three steps back and walk the way she’d come, straight home. Instead she said nothing, and he took her hand, pulling her inside.

  The next day, he was gone.

  She pulls up to the gate, surprised to see it open. She knows they are meeting at the house and they need a way inside the closed grounds, but seeing the gate unlocked sends something skittering down her spine. It takes Florence a moment to recognize the emotion for what it is: exhilaration.

  Florence floors the accelerator, cutting over the hills and pathways in mere seconds, cresting the largest hill on a breath. Hollowland rises up like a phoenix fresh from the ash, and she lets out a loud whoop of a greeting.

  The sight of the impressive manor, the brisk air, and lush landscape fill Florence with life. She does not know why the solicitor has summoned her, what final game Cecil may be playing. In this moment, she does not care.

  Florence whips into the spot next to a sleek black Lexus, her hands loose on the wheel. When she exits the car she feels kilos lighter. Major and Dylan Sterling stand on either side of the large wooden door, watching her approach. Florence does not smile, though she is grinning on the inside. She nods to the thin man with the receding hairline. Solicitor Capax nods back.

  She cannot imagine what Cecil has left her. Perhaps he has left her nothing at all, but rather knows having her here will cause his grandsons to squirm. If he has bequeathed Florence some token, she considers how to politely refuse. It feels wrong to take anything from a Sterling. Besides, she has Biscuits and Gravy now; surely inheriting two dogs, if she is allowed to keep them, is more than enough.

  Dylan gives her a winning smile while Major scowls in the direction of her high heels. The three-inch spikes make her eye level with the eldest Sterling, and Florence feels bolstered by this.

  “Good morning,” she says.

  “Is it?” Major asks.

  “Shove it, Maj,” Dylan says. “Morning, Freckles.”

  Major’s scowl deepens, and the solicitor clears his throat.

  “Yes,” Major says, cutting his eyes to the nervous man. “You can get on with it. Don’t want the house to accidentally swallow you whole before you can tell us what nonsense my grandfather is holding on to from beneath the grave.”

  Capax rubs the bridge of his nose, then pats Major on the shoulder. The gesture shocks Florence. Major shrugs but gives the man a slight smile.

  “This is rather unusual, rather unusual indeed, but so was your grandfather. I am to read his bequest once, and then make my departure. From there, it’s up to you three what you do with it.”

  Dylan looks like he wants to interject, but the solicitor holds up a hand. He opens the sealed envelope in his other hand with a flourish and reads the contents.

  “Darling Florence, dearest Dylan, and hello to you, too, Major. They say a house is not a home without the heart of a family. While my heart is not buried under the floorboards, the secrets of this town are. If you want them, you can have them. But first you three must agree to live at Hollowland, from this moment forward, with nothing more than what you’ve come with, until I say otherwise. Capax will tell you when your time is up. If one of you does not agree, the house is boarded for another 100 years. If you accept, I must give warning. What lays dormant here is more th
an a story. It is more than a promise or a lie or a dream. It is, my dear boys and girl, everything.”

  Solicitor Capax looks down at the note then back at them. He looks like he wants to say something, but instead turns and walks to his car.

  “Capax,” Major calls, and the man looks back. “Has this bequest been offered before?”

  The solicitor’s smile is grim. “To your grandfather and his grandfather before him.” He looks to Florence. “Today is different.”

  Capax gets in his car and drives off. Dylan, Major, and Florence stare at one another.

  Dylan takes a breath and tests the door. It swings open. He looks to his brother, winks at Florence, and walks inside. Major follows, pausing to look back at Florence. She meets his gaze, and this time he smiles a real smile.

  It is as beautiful as every sunrise and sunset Florence has ever seen.

  “So,” he says, one hand on the door, the other held out to her like a promise or a threat. “In or out?”

  Florence looks up at the morning sky. She can feel her heartbeat tapping out an SOS inside her chest. She looks back to her car, worries about Biscuits and Gravy, knows Marty the manager has a soft spot for all canines. She looks back at Major and wonders if he still tastes like rain. She glances down at his hand, places her own in it, and breathes the word.

  “In.”

  8

  The Gentleman

  * * *

  The door closes behind her.

  No one sees the shadow in the window of the third floor.

  No one sees the other shadows—shadows of shadows, really—as they slink from the corners and the cracks in the floorboard and walls, and make their way out into the house.