8 Souls

by Rachel Rust

  It’s a Lutheran church, and I don’t quite understand their stand-up-sit-down routine. But the constant movement keeps my mind from obsessing too much over last night’s events. As I stand up once more, Grandma shoves a hymnal into my hands.

  She nudges me because I’m not singing. So I start singing a little. Beyoncé, I am not.

  As we begin the third verse, pain radiates through my temples. I press fingers into them.

  I try to keep my eyes open—to keep them concentrated on the brown-haired pastor up front—but the pain intensifies, and my eyes eventually squeeze tight in response.

  I open my eyes. I’m still in the church, but it’s suddenly hot. It’s as if there isn’t any air conditioning anymore. Up front, the pastor is gone…or rather, he has been replaced with a different man. This one is elderly and small with white hair and a heavy, cream-colored robe. All around me, women and girls are dressed in light colored dresses. A few have hats. Men and boys are in suits with skinny ties. My twenty-first-century jeans and blouse don’t fit in. Grandma and Grandpa are gone, and I’m surrounded by strangers…yet it’s all familiar. Like I’ve been here before. Whatever year it is, I’ve been here. I feel it.

  The pastor motions to a large, oblong object in front of him. The sleek brown length of wood, placed in front of the congregation, is adorned with flowers. The woman next to me blows her nose and stifles a small sob.

  Oh god, I think. This isn’t a Sunday church service. It’s a funeral.

  I stare at the wood casket, and a wave a grief crashes over me and nearly sends me to my knees. Grief for who, I don’t know. Except I knew him or her…whoever is in that casket, I knew them. But this is isn’t real. It’s a dream…and it’s decades ago. How could I know someone from decades ago?

  I shake my head, take a deep breath, and close my eyes again. I need to get out of here.

  My eyes open and the brown-haired pastor is back. The casket is gone. The air is crisp with cool A/C. Grandma is at my side once again, giving me a worried look. I smile to reassure her, all the while wondering if I’m two seconds from dropping dead of a brain tumor.

  That daydream had been way more detailed and more intense than the one last night.

  We sit back down from singing, and the pastor begins to speak. His sermon is focused on coping with grief, and he speaks about the little girl found in the river and the other two who are still missing. Tissues are out in all directions.

  “Amelia loved to run through the park and play on the slide,” the pastor says.

  My gut tightens at the thought of her. Is she the one who said my name last night? I shake my head. That couldn’t be. But nothing makes sense. Not my new daydreams, not my closet opening on its own. My brow wrinkles out of confusion. The pastor’s voice fades; the ambient buzz of the congregation fills my head. I have no idea what’s happening to me, no idea what’s going on. I just know I want it all to stop and I want to go home to Minneapolis.

  After the service, Grandma leads me by the elbow out into the blinding June sun, toward the pastor who’s standing on the sidewalk. The church is located next to the town park, and the pastor is watching small kids scramble about on the bright-colored playset. His brown hair peppered with gray is dull in the sun.

  “Pastor Schneider,” Grandma says. He turns, his eyes meeting mine. “Pastor, do you remember our granddaughter, Chessie? She’s staying with us this summer.” She stops there, but I pick up on her unspoken “family problems at home” addendum.

  Pastor Schneider smiles—but only with his mouth. His eyes are unmoving. “Glad to meet you again, Jessie.”

  My jaw muscles clench. People are always calling me Jessie. Sometimes, I correct them. But sometimes, I don’t care enough about them to worry about what they call me.

  The pastor’s hand is limp and sweaty as I shake it. I pull my hand back right away, fighting the urge to wipe it on my pants, and decide not to correct him on my name.

  He glances back at the kids on the playground before speaking again. “Sad thing about those girls, huh?” As he speaks, he places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes it. Repulsion sweeps across my face before I can stop it, and Grandma glares at me. I pull my lips straight and nod solemnly, remembering the girls and trying to ignore the clammy hand on my shoulder.

  “I hope we’ll see you two at the food drive next week,” Pastor Schneider says to Grandma. “We’re hoping to beat last year’s record number of donations.”

  Grandma nods. “Of course we’ll help out.” She nudges my arm. “Won’t we, Chessie?”

  “Um, yeah. Sure thing.”

  Another family approaches and Pastor Schneider turns to them, removing his hand from me. I stifle a sigh of relief.

  As I turn toward the parking lot with Grandma and Grandpa, I spot the town’s small grocery store down the block. My stomach is still full from breakfast, but junk food always calms my nerves. Especially the sugary kind with little to no nutritional value.

  “Is it okay if I walk home?”

  Grandma thinks and checks her watch. “Well, alright, but be home by one o’clock for lunch.”

  I agree and set off on my own.

  I don’t only need sugar; my brain needs space—quietness away from people. I need to think and immerse myself in boring, ordinary life. And what’s more boring and ordinary than a small-town grocery store?

  Dotty’s Market only has four vehicles in the lot—all pickups. Everyone in Iowa seems to own a pickup. Grandpa’s is a huge, maroon thing with four doors and a tackle box in back.

  I step through the first set of Dotty’s automatic doors as a mom and her toddler son walk out. A gust of wind blows between us, rustling papers on a community bulletin board.

  In the middle of the board are three pictures of the little girls who have gone missing. The first two pictures are of the girls they have yet to find, Laney and Grace. Laney has long, curly black hair and light brown skin. Grace has fair skin and brown hair with blunt-cut bangs. Both have big brown eyes.

  The third picture is of Amelia. Some people have tacked up flowers and little notes of remembrance. In a town so small, her death is a huge loss. In Minneapolis, crime and death are muted by the size and busyness of the city. Names and pictures are flashed on the evening news, only to be forgotten by the morning news or the next act of violence. But small towns are close-knit. One person’s loss seems to reverberate through the streets, affecting everyone.

  Under the girls’ photos are colorful flyers advertising a bunch of goods and services. A home daycare, computer classes at the library, a John Deere tractor for sale. In the bottom corner, a white sheet of paper catches my attention. In enormous, black font, it reads: GHOST911 FOR ALL YOUR SPECTRAL NEEDS. The bottom of the flyer is cut into strips, each one with a phone number. One strip has been torn off, most likely by whomever put the flyer up, to make it look like there’s interest in local ghost hunting.

  My fingers flex as I consider ripping off a GHOST911 phone number. Except that would be too much confirmation—confirmation that the weird things happening to me are all real.

  Be boring and ordinary, I remind myself. You’re just stressed out. Breathe and things will be okay.

  I shake off thoughts of Amelia’s giggles, the self-opening closet door, and the bodiless voice that said my name, and force my feet past the bulletin board. It’s sunny outside. There are people around. Things are totally normal—my mind and imagination are just messed up from my recent life upheaval and small-town boredom, that’s all.

  It’s bullshit, of course, but I compel myself to believe it and step into the store.

  Chapter Six

  Dotty’s Market is cold inside and smells like oranges and cheese. It’s a quarter of the size of the grocery store we shop at back home, but I love it because it’s my treat store. Every time we’d visit Villisca when I was little, we’d stop and I’d get to pick out a snack for the car ride back to Minneapolis. Usually something gooey and sugary—the kind of thing I was never all
owed to eat at home. Yep, Dotty’s is awesome.

  I walk to the candy aisle and grab a king-size cookies ’n cream candy bar.

  At the register, a girl a little older than me is leaned against the counter, reading a brochure for the University of California. Her hair is like flattened cotton candy, streaked blue and pink.

  I place my candy bar on the checkout counter. The girl raises an eyebrow at me and snort-laughs with a shake of her head. She has a nasty-looking sunburn that’s morphing into a tan.

  She grabs the candy bar. “This it?”

  “Yes.”

  She scans it, then hits two buttons. “Two twenty.”

  Dotty’s is awesome except for their prices. I hand over three bucks and collect my change.

  “I know you,” says the girl—Samantha, according to her nametag. “Your grandparents live behind me. I remember you from when you were little.”

  I study her face, concentrating on her blue eyes and the sprinkle of freckles across her nose.

  My eyes go wide. Shit.

  She’s one of the bikini girls. She’s the bikini girl. The one who dared me to go on the porch of The Axe Murder House when I was twelve. I would have never recognized her, especially not with her colorful hair. She and her friends had all been blondes back then.

  She snorts another laugh, handing me my receipt. “God, you were a chubby little kid. Used to have these big wild, frizzy pigtails.” She motions over her head with her hands, emphasizing the puffy hair of my childhood. “So funny.”

  I force a smile. So not funny.

  “What brings you around?” she asks, picking at what’s left of her red nail polish.

  “Visiting for the summer.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “The entire summer? What the hell for? Aren’t you from Chicago or something?”

  “Minneapolis and it’s a long story.” My parents hate each other.

  “Hmmm,” she says, leaning against the counter again. “Well, good luck.”

  “With what?”

  “With not dying of boredom.” Her head shakes, and she looks around. “This place is awful. Especially right now. Have you heard about the missing girls?”

  “Oh, yeah. That sucks.” Sucks? It’s a lame thing to say about such horrible events, but something about Samantha puts me on my guard. Like I’m twelve again, worried I’ll say the wrong thing and she’ll laugh at me, just like last time.

  “I used to babysit one of the missing girls. Laney McCoy.” Samantha blows her bangs from her eyes. “She’s only three. Lives on the edge of town by my aunt and uncle.”

  “That’s awful. Do they know who’s taking them?”

  She scowls. “Apparently not or they’d have caught the freak by now, right?”

  At the sound of her sudden snarky tone I shove the receipt in my pocket and take a step back. She is definitely that same bikini girl from years ago.

  I say goodbye to her—I can’t help it, I’m Minnesota-nice—and then leave the store before she can make fun of me for something. On my way out, the picture of Amelia stares down at me, and in my mind, I hear the tearing of her flesh as she reached for me in my dream. I rip off a GHOST911 phone number tab. Just in case.

  I exit the sliding doors of Dotty’s and tear into my candy bar.

  “Watch out!” a voice calls out from my right.

  But it’s too late and I run right into a tall man carrying a large box out of the Higgins Hardware Store.

  “Sorry ’bout that,” he says, loading the box into the back of a green pickup. The clinks and clanks tell me the box is full of tools. “Bring the others out,” he shouts into the store. He’s about fifty with shaggy gray hair. He waves for me to quickly walk past the door, but my short legs are not quick enough, and I nearly collide with a second body. This one’s tall like the old guy, except it’s a boy about my age with short brown hair. He grins at me over the top of the box he’s carrying. His eyes are squinted in the sunlight, but I know they’re brown. I’m just not sure how I know that.

  “Sorry,” he says.

  “No, I’m sorry,” I say with a laugh, moving out of his way.

  He watches me as he places his box in the pickup bed. For a split second, I think we’ve met before. Grandma has never let me hang out with boys in town, so that’s a big fat no.

  But there’s something about his face. Something familiar. My head starts to ache.

  “You here visiting your grandparents?” he asks.

  I press a finger into my temple to stop the pain. “You know who I am?”

  “Yeah.” He looks down with a sheepish grin. “Guess that sounds kind of creepy, but it’s a small town, ya know?”

  I nod. Small towns are weirdly intimate. I prefer the anonymity of the city with its millions of people.

  The pain in my head intensifies, causing my eyes to close.

  I open my eyes. I’m still standing on the sidewalk, but the brown-haired boy is gone, and so is the sun. It’s cool and cloudy, and 50s doo wop music is playing from somewhere unseen. A young boy with slicked-back hair, jeans, and a white T-shirt walks by with a baseball glove under his arm. Across the street is an old, bulbous Chevy pickup truck.

  I close and rub my eyes, and when I reopen them, it’s sunny again and the brown-haired boy is staring at me with confusion on his face.

  “You okay?” he asks. “You sort of…blanked out on me.”

  “Oh, um, yeah, I’m fine,” I say as my cheeks burn hot. “I just…” My words drift off and never pick back up again. I just had an impromptu daydream, how’s your day going?

  The boy awkwardly rubs the back of his neck. He’s thin but not skinny. Definitely capable of lifting heavy boxes of tools.

  “You work here?” I ask, trying to salvage whatever dignity I have left.

  “Yeah. My family owns it.” He nods at the older guy who’s bringing out more boxes. “That’s my dad.”

  “Oh.” I should have something cooler to say about this, but my capacity for small talk diminishes in the presence of boys. I rack my brain to think of things to say. What do normal people ask about? The weather? No, it’s sunny and we’re both squinting, so obviously he knows what the weather is like. I need something safe. Something simple…like, “What’s your name?” Seems like a good place to start.

  “David.”

  “I’m Chessie.”

  He nods and it’s clear he already knows my name.

  “How do you know who I am?” I ask.

  He pauses a while before answering. “You’re Will Carpenter’s daughter”—he smirks a bit—“and his granddaughter.”

  I smile. “Yeah, I am.” Both Grandpa and Dad are named Will. As was my great-grandfather, and great-great-grandfather.

  My family has a long line of Williams: William, Senior; William, Junior; William the Third, and William the Fourth. And then came me. Not a William. A Francesca the First. No wonder Grandpa calls me Sport.

  “How do you know my grandpa and dad?” I ask.

  “Your grandpa shops here a lot.”

  It makes sense—Grandpa likes to fish and is one of those types who is always fiddling with a home project. I wait for an explanation on how David knows my dad, but he doesn’t give one. I assume it’s a family thing. He knows my dad because he knows my grandpa. Or my dad’s old high school buddies with his dad. Small-town connections aren’t hard to make. Everyone knows everyone.

  “Well.” David does that awkward neck rub thing again. “I gotta get back to work, so…”

  My mouth opens as my brain searches for a way to keep him from disappearing in front of me. I don’t know why I don’t want him to leave though. He’s cute, but there’s something else keeping me from walking away. Something I can’t quite put my finger on. His brown eyes stare down at me, and all I can think is that I need to talk to him more.

  A breeze blasts down the street, and a large branch creaks overhead. A ribbon of fear ripples down my spine as I remember the squeak of my closet door from last night, opening o
n its own—or worse, opening with the help of something unseen. The outstretched arm of a dead girl, perhaps.

  “A lock,” I blurt out.

  “A what?”

  “A lock for my closet door. Do you guys have those…” I pinch my index finger and thumb together and move them back and forth. “…sliding lock things for doors?”

  He thinks for a second. “Yeah, like a sliding bolt lock?”

  I nod. Sure, whatever. Anything that’ll keep that damn closet door shut. Being stuck in Villisca all summer is torture enough, I’m sure as hell not going to let myself be tormented by some giggly nightmare lurking in my closet.

  He motions for me to follow him inside the hardware store. A small bell overhead chimes as the door opens and again as the door closes. The store is narrow with only four aisles, but the aisles are long, running far back from the door. Up front, next to the window, is a single checkout counter with a small fan rotating back and forth. There’s a hint of air conditioning, but it’s nearly as warm in here as it was outside.

  I follow David down the far left aisle. It doesn’t take him long to find exactly what I was looking for—a small, metal, sliding lock, like the kind inside a bathroom stall.

  “Is it hard to install?” I ask.

  “Why don’t you ask your grandpa to do it for you?”

  “I, ah…I don’t want them to know I’m locking the closet.”

  David smiles and curiosity twinkles in his eyes, but he doesn’t ask why. “Well, if you can find a drill, you can do it yourself. It’s not difficult.”

  I nod, chewing my lip. I’ve used a drill before when I installed new curtains in my bedroom in Minneapolis. What I’m hung up on is the notion that I could do any of this without my grandparents finding out. They’re retired, which means they spend most of their time at home, staring out the windows, watching neighbors, well aware of every movement on their block. As their granddaughter living under the same roof as them, sneaking around is going to take an extra keen set of precautionary skills.