by Matt Moore
But someone would tell them. Sure, someone.
Headlights arced across the walls of Georgina’s living room. She moved to the window, feet aching from a long shift. Paul’s car sat in her driveway. Finally. She’d been trying his cell all day.
She hurried to the front door and pulled it open. Almost sunset. Paul moved up the walkway, black leaves crunching.
Georgina held the door open. “Come inside.”
“I’m not planning on staying.”
“It’s almost dark—”
Paul rolled his eyes. “It’s a legend, Georgina.”
“You said . . . you believed me.”
“I believe something happened, but not that some mysterious force killed your boyfriend. And I’m going to stand here and prove it.
“I spent the morning at the library scanning the town paper going back twenty years. There’s no mention of ‘The Leaving’ or the smell or black leaves. No articles on drifters or teenagers being killed. But I did find an obit for a Colin Keenan. Was that him, Georgina?”
“Yes. Paul—”
“So I went up to the county coroner’s office in Fellow’s Point. There are no records of mysterious deaths in Jefferson Hollow. In the case of Colin’s death, the police and a local doctor signed off on natural causes, so no coroner’s investigation. Family declined an autopsy. You said Colin was killed at dusk, but you told the police he tried to break in at dawn.”
“I didn’t want my mom—”
A ripple passed through the leaves out near the road.
“Paul, please come inside.”
“Even a rookie can tell a freshly deceased corpse from one that’s been out all night by skin temperature. So I looked into that boy from Sunrise Village. Those wounds were clearly not from an animal attack. I have to ask myself: how can these errors be made repeatedly by the police?”
Georgina held up her hands. She didn’t know how it worked, just that—according to Mrs. D’Angelo—for over a hundred years they’d been able to avoid attention. Keep outsiders from turning their town upside down. Staying inside a few nights every couple of years was a small price to pay to keep their town from becoming another anonymous suburb. “What do you want me to say?”
“I then recalled that you said no one asks questions about deaths during the Leaving. And that no one would go out after dark. So I have to ask, Georgina: rather than Colin leaving, did you kill him?”
She went cold. “No.”
“You two had had a fight. He said he was going to reveal your relationship to your mother, which would have ruined your future. So in a heated moment, knowing you could get away with it, you somehow got the better of him, killed him, and said it was the Leaving.”
The leaves in the yard shifted without a breeze to stir them.
“That’s insane!” But she’d left him out there. After Colin had screamed, he’d charged back up the stairs, bloody gashes in his face. Seeing him, she’d locked the door.
“Help!” he’d screamed, yanking on the door. “Please, Georgina!”
She’d froze.
He’d slammed his palms against the heavy glass door. “Georgina—!”
She’d backed away. A flicker of darkness and his cheek flapped open—gums and teeth visible. Had she screamed? She must’ve shut her eyes because a sound made her open them to see the porch, empty. Maybe a flicker of motion going over the railing? Then nothing.
She hadn’t wanted him to die. But if she’d opened the door they both would’ve been killed.
Was that true? Could he have leapt inside, then slammed the door? They might’ve talked it out, forced to stay inside all night.
“Then explain it,” Paul said.
The leaves rippled, sliding towards them.
Georgina charged down the steps, taking Paul’s hand. “Paul, please. I’ll explain the best I can. But we have to get inside.” She pulled.
He set his feet. “The sun is down, Georgina. It’s a story.” He shook his head. “I have no choice. I have to refer this to the chief medical examiner.”
She yanked his hand hard enough to pull him off balance and up a step. “Listen to me—!”
With a roar, the leaves exploded into an obsidian cyclone, engulfing them. The animal stink assaulted her. Paul’s hand yanked out of hers. She threw up her arms to protect her face, leaves whipping past.
Paul’s scream reached her through the noise. Eyes shut, face buried in the crook of an elbow, she reached out. Pain, razor-fine, crisscrossed her arms, her legs, her body. The sound deafening. “Paul—!”
The top of her ear separated and fell. Pain blossomed. The panicked, animal need to flee turned her round, propelled her up the porch steps and into her house. She slammed the front door, stood for a stunned moment and then wandered into the living room. Thick, warm wetness dripped from her fingers.
The light in the living room was wrong. Like it came sideways. From outside. She had an instant to realize it was car headlights through the sun room windows before the glass exploded. She dove behind the couch, chunks of glass falling around her. After a few moments, she pulled herself to her knees, shards sliding off her back and hair, and looked over the couch. The crumbled hood of Paul’s car poked into her living room through the remains of the sun room.
Georgina found herself next to the car. Within, Paul slumped back, a grimace frozen on his face, eyes flat, dark leaves choking a wide, blood-smeared gash in his neck.
Something black shot by her. Warmth trickled across her scalp.
The stink filled the living room. She’d an instant to realize the barrier between her and the outside had been breached before thundering blackness enveloped her.
Arms wrapped around her face, she ran for the bathroom, pulled open the door, and tumbled in. She kicked the door shut, but not before leaves flowed through the closing gap—spinning, diving, slicing. She dropped to her knees, grabbing for a towel. It fell from her grip. Reaching for the other, she saw her right hand was missing all but the pinky finger. She snatched the towel with her left hand and snapped it upward. Fragments of leaves rained down like ash, releasing the barnyard musk.
She leaned against the vanity, panting. She pressed the towel to her ruined hand.
Cold. Clammy. The world—cock-eyed grey.
Something made her open her eyes. Scratching. In the space between the door and the floor, tips of black leaves wriggled against each other, fighting to get through. Strength leaving her, vision going dark, Georgina pressed the towel, swollen with blood, into the gap. She tried to brace it with her heels, but her legs felt heavy, far away.
Something pushed back.
On the other side of the door, a sound like a thousand tiny claws trying to dig through.
And ringing. A high, sweet sound swelling in her ears.
Like the bell at her diner. Its cheerful tinkle making her look up to see Colin, safe and handsome, coming in. His bike was out back, he’d tell her. Just a short walk and he’d take her away from this small town. Untying her apron, she’d tell her mom she was starting her own life. With Colin.
They’d be together.
They’d be leaving.
You’re A Winner!
Squeeze the pump again. Nothing.
The fuck?
Knocking.
Takes a second to tell it’s coming from the station’s convenience store. Somebody knocking on the window. Head’s so goddamn—
Sorry, Lord.
So fucking fuzzy. Can’t think straight.
Guy behind the counter’s looking at me. A dark smudge against the yellow light inside. He’s pointing at a poster in the window. Lights are so bright. Everything’s got a blue-white glow. The poster’s red letters waving like hot blacktop on a July day. I squint. Think it says:
PRAY INSIDE UP TO LORD
Heart thudding. Oh Lord, is this a sign? Telling me what to do after sending me to the middle of fucking nowhere. Ain’t nothing out here but trees and lakes and towns smaller than the block I grew
up on. But how’s praying going to make it right? Mufi don’t let debts go. Even if it’s just two hundred bucks.
But back in rehab, Father Molina told us junkie losers you’re always showing us the way if we pay attention. If we look for signs.
So it must be your will that’s had me going more than a day without sleep to get me out here. Thy will be done, Lord.
Just wish I knew what the fuck it was.
All right, take a deep breath. Give my head a shake. Pull it the fuck together.
I look up again, focus this time, and read:
PRE-PAY INSIDE AFTER 10PM
Fuck. So I am going inside. No pump and run. Barely had fifty bucks when Ortega lost his shit. After this, I got nothing. How am I going to keep running with no cash? Can do some stick-ups, but sooner or later they’d catch me. Then they wouldn’t send me back to rehab but the joint. And Mufi’s got people on the inside. After what happened with Ortego? I’d be dead for sure.
Oh, Lord have mercy. This is where it all goes down, ain’t it?
Through the window, counter jockey shrugs, like he’s saying, “What’s it gonna be?”
If this is your will, Lord . . .
Thy will be done.
I head for the door. Legs are heavy, feet a million miles away. Ground’s shifting back and forth. Pistol’s huge against my stomach.
So I gotta ask, Lord: The counter jockey, he seen my mug shot in the paper this morning? Read that shit about “armed and dangerous”? Least he’s the only one inside. And ain’t seen another car for fifteen minutes. Out into the blackness, just an empty road. One way going back the way I came, the other going someplace else. A long line of streetlights light up the bottom edges of pine trees far as I can see.
Can’t tell if the lights are swaying or I am.
A bell above the door tinkles. Light in here’s so goddamn—
Sorry, sorry.
So fucking yellow. Tiny place. Two aisles. Ten feet end to end. Racks of chips and cookies. Motor oil. Deodorant and razors. Big cooler of drinks on one end. Coffee station next to the check out.
But there’s also cameras behind the counter.
I tug my ball cap low.
Counter jockey’s watching me. Greasy black hair, few days’ stubble. Least he don’t look the paper-reading type. Lord, why’d my photo gotta show up so quick? That your work, telling me to give it up? Or keep running? And shit, I didn’t do nothing. Ortega went nuts when Mufi’s people started hassling us. When ’Tega got hit, you made his gun land right at my feet. And put that rusted out car in my path when I’m hauling ass down Fuller Avenue. Some dipshit leaves it running outside a KFC in that neighbourhood? Gotta be you telling me to run. Least then I knew what you wanted.
So what’s it going to be now, Lord?
Coffee smells like shit, but I grab an extra large cup and pour. Need the caffeine. Besides, the extra large’s got two of those peel-off game pieces instead of just one. Who knows, right?
I take a sip and wait for the kick. One of the tabs looks a little loose. What the fuck. I pull it. Got to read it twice to make sure it says:
YOU’RE A WINNER! Shoot Clerk & Empty Register!
I drop the tab, hands trembling. My knees almost give out. The fuck is this? I ain’t no killer, Lord. Doing stick-ups is one thing, but kill this man? Why you asking me to do this? If this is your will, thy will be done, but they got cameras. I won’t make it too far. Then it’s life in the joint for sure if Mufi’s people don’t get me first.
I put the coffee on the counter and drop to my knees, looking for the tab. Couldn’t have said that.
Floor’s covered with those things. Spilled coffee and crap from people’s shoes ground into them. They all say “Sorry! Try Again!”
“Yo, man, you win something?” counter jockey asks.
I get up before he thinks I’m some psycho or something. Heart’s a jackhammer. “No,” I tell him, turning. “Just . . .”
Need a second to think.
Oh Lord, this is why you led me here. This man needs killing and I get the money to pay back Mufi.
Thy will be done, Lord, but the cameras.
“Um, okay,” counter jockey says. He hits a few keys. “Coffee’s $1.29. How much gas you gonna put in?”
I dig in my pockets. Need a second. Lord, just one more second to figure this shit out. Father Molina never said nothing about something like this. Said to trust you, talk to you, watch for signs—
“And you got ’nother chance on that cup, ya know,” counter jockey says.
Oh Lord. What else you got to say? Hands shaking, I almost knock over the cup pulling the second tab. I blink a few times before I can read:
YOU’RE A WINNER! Cameras Are Broken!
“Anything?”
The world’s spinning.
“Hey, man, you okay?” counter jockey asks. He’s reaching slowly to me with this right hand, like he’s worried about me. But his left is moving under the counter. For a silent alarm?
Or a gun?
Oh Lord, Thy will be done.
The Weak Son
Am I dead? I must be.
I think I’ve been in this house for a couple of days now, but I can’t remember where I am or how I got here. Funny, I should be bothered by all this, but I’m not. This place seems familiar.
I always end up down here in the basement, looking at one of the floor joists. It has a bunch of wires and pipes snaking through a hole drilled in it. Something tells me it’s important.
The front door just opened. In an instant—with just a thought—I’m there.
Two men are coming in, dressed in jeans, T-shirts and windbreakers. One is in his late teens or early twenties, the other old enough to be his father. Behind them, in the gravel driveway, is a pick-up truck.
I think they’ve been here before.
The older one surveys the room while my brother—
My brother.
They’re my brother and father.
“Dad?” I ask, moving to him. “Dad, what happened to me?”
A chill washes over me, full of fear, anger, regret.
It’s my father’s emotions.
No, more than that. Memories. I see them—feel them—all around me.
He was surprised and angry as he read—
He forces the memory away, telling himself he’s almost done. After this, he’ll never need to come back.
He’s afraid.
He’s afraid his guilt will keep building every time he comes here until he cracks and confesses what he did. But more than that, he’s scared there’s some evidence he’s missed. He’s checked everywhere he can think of, but what if, when he left me, I wrote another note describing what he’d done and hid it for Ken in some secret hiding spot?
Ken. My brother’s name is Ken.
“I think we can get all this in one last trip,” my father says.
All this?
Last trip?
Ken is still for a moment, then picks up a cardboard box. I move to his side. “Ken! What’s going on? What happened to me? What did Dad do?”
Ken heads out the front door, thinking how much he hates this.
My dad grabs a bundle of blankets and follows.
The floor.
It’s covered with boxes full of books, plates and cups, old board games. Blankets and sheets are folded in neat piles. There’s an old coffee table, some folding chairs and a small shelf.
This stuff has been here the whole time.
Ken and my dad return from outside, their boots echoing sharply.
The echo. It’s wrong for this room.
I see why: the hideous green carpet is gone. So are the couches and chairs, the tables, the paintings on the wall. All that’s left is what’s on the floor.
What about the other rooms?
With a thought, I’m in the bedroom Ken and I used to share. Empty. No pictures or posters on the wall. Our bunk beds are gone. The books and games and trophies that filled the shelves my grandfather bu
ilt when he bought this place are missing.
The main bedroom. Nothing. I move into the closet. Empty except for a few hangers.
The kitchen. Nothing in the cupboard. The microwave, toaster, coffee maker—the pale green countertop is bare.
This is our cottage. It’s almost empty and I hadn’t noticed.
I couldn’t even remember where I was.
The living room. I’m at Ken’s side as he and my father carry out the coffee table. “Ken, why are you moving everything out? Is it because I died here?”
Memories, sick and putrid:
—a phone call—
—screaming his rage—
—a frantic three-hour drive—
Ken slams his mind shut as he walks backwards to the truck. He can’t stand how the memories bombard him when he’s here.
I’ve done this before.
Every time they come here, I ask them what happened, but they can’t hear me. They work in silence, only speaking to ask for help carrying something or how to arrange things in the truck.
But in their silence, they remember. Their memories scatter and ricochet around me, their quiet a storm of thoughts and regrets. I try to get them to remember what happened to me so I can remember.
And then they leave. And I forget again.
“Dad, what are you scared of?” I ask as he enters the room, knocking a dead leaf from his boot.
I was standing on the workbench—
He scratches the back of his head, digging fingernails so deep the pain obliterates the memories.
“Ken,” I say as he passes through the front door. “How did I die?”
A hospital. As the doctor talked, my father—a stoic man whose only emotions are anger and disappointment—held back tears. Ken couldn’t hear what they said, but saw our father’s grief as a performance and began to suspect our dad was covering something up. That maybe he was to blame.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “What did Dad do?”
Ken thinks about standing in the basement weeks later—silent, shocked—Dad watching from a few steps away.
He rubs his eyes and picks up a box full of old plates. Memories spark to life:
