by Trinity Crow
I chose some kind of batik for the living room. And brown and cream stripes for my bedroom. All that was left was the guest room, not that I intended to ever have a guest. But if I had a guest, what would I want them to feel in my house? I thought of all the kids who had shared a room with me and how they ranged from lost to hateful, and all of them damaged. I scanned the stack again, conscious that my spooky sense was sifting for a feeling. It was eerie when you were aware of it. I wondered how I was controlling the focus and not letting everything in at once. The thought of all those sensations at once made me shudder. I flashed on the memory of Aren’s fingers trailing sparkly colors. Did I have built in protections? A fabric caught my senses and I stopped, then frowned.
Seriously? Bunnies?
It was a deep crimson with a pattern of a big bunny and smaller bunny pounding something in a mortar and pestle. Scattered about were bowls of what looked like dough balls and the background was faint black lines of wheat stalks. I didn’t get the references, but the association was of such overwhelming safety and protection, I knew these had hung in a child's room and that kid had had the most devoted parent in the world.
Single parent, I thought, determined that this kid would never go hungry or feel alone. Whoa, these curtains were like a hug from someone that you actually wanted to touch you. I stood there, grinning like a fool, letting myself be hugged.
“Hey.” The voice was soft and friendly.
I turned around, still smiling. The curly haired guy was standing there. He blinked and stared. For a second, I just stared back and then I realized I was standing there smiling into this dude’s eyes.
Jesus.
I frowned and then walked quickly away. I had enough to deal with already. I told myself I wasn't disappointed when he didn't follow.
Thursday showed up before I was ready, and thinking of the meeting that night seemed to make my shift to go by at warp speed. I'm not shy. I just don't like groups of people, and I don't really like talking to people I don't know. What's there to say? I just don't feel the need for random conversation. I do what I have to, but this felt a lot like volunteering for torture. The thing was I'd never believed in all this mess. Spirits, hauntings, spooky crap. Only, guess what? It turns out it doesn't matter what you believe. When something supernatural walks up to you and licks you on the face, it kind of kills your whole skeptic routine. Maybe some people can blame hallucination, tricks of the light or something they ate, but I've always had too many other people lying to me to ever waste time lying to myself. The facts of the matter were that this stuff was real. It existed. I could accept that. So, why was I so bothered by meeting a group of people who accepted it too? I just couldn’t seem to think of them as normal.
Did they always mess around with this kind of thing? Seances, herbs, and candles. Had they gone through something like I did? I guess I was suspicious of people who went looking for paranormal thrills, who not only accepted it but embraced it, chased it. I always figured they were nut jobs or freaks. When I thought about it, Aren and Sayre were normal, or could at least pass. Okay, well, Sayre wasn't normal, but she was just weird, good weird if there was such a thing. She didn't take her weird seriously. And it didn't seem like they would hang around a bunch of fakes and psychos.
All too quickly I was clocking out, done for the day. The minute I stepped out the door, the heat hit me like a Friday night cat fight. We were barely into June, but summer in the South has no mercy. I thought unhappily the hours I had to drag through the hours until I had to be at the Co-op. Why had I agreed to this? I looked longingly back at Delicata's closed door. At least the bakery was a dry heat, this was like being mugged by a sweaty octopus. I felt the tentacles loosen a little as I started pedaling, the moving air still hot, but bearable. My t-shirt unpeeled from my sticky skin as the wind billowed around me. As I turned up the drive, I remembered that glint of water I had seen from the top of the stairs. It could be just the distraction that Corky and I needed.
I leaned my bike against the tree and ducked upstairs to change out my jeans, pausing at the top to check for the position of the water and a landmark. It couldn't have been more than three hundred feet out, and between me and it was a giant of a hackberry tree. I hurried inside. Shorts were probably not the smartest idea for crashing through the brush, but my preference was for scratches over the sweat any day. I was pretty clear on what poison ivy looked like and that was my main worry. Corky would be my snake and gator alarm. I threw some water, chips and a leftover kolache in a bag and clattered downstairs to where Corky was waiting.
He woofed hello and ran to lick my leg in a disgusting display of affection.
"Waiting for me?" I teased him as I sank down and rubbed his neck and ears. He wiggled ecstatically, his weight pushing me off balance. The cool air pouring off him washed over me, making me sigh in relief, but I knew it would just make the outside air hotter.
"C'mon then," I said, shoving him off me. “Let's go explore"
I considered that for Corky this would be old hat as he and Julia had known every inch of Ruelliquen. Still, it had probably changed in the past two hundred years. We went out and I locked the door behind us. Corky started towards our tree.
"Hey, not that way," I said. “Let's go this way.”
I pointed and he followed my finger with his eyes and then barked happily before crashing into the brush ahead of me. I followed him and let the trees close in around me. Something eased off my shoulders and I had this uneasy feeling that what I felt was the release of tension from someone watching me. The image of the figure in the attic window flickered through my mind and I shook it off. Most of the bushes were over my head and there was no way I could be spied on in this jungle.
If this had ever been a manicured lawn with ornamental flower beds, there was no telling now. We pushed our way through waist-high grasses, Corky blissful and me itchy, sweaty and annoyed. I was starting to think this was a dumb idea when Corky found a trail through the brush. A narrow, twisty little path and judging from the way his nose was working, it was made by some kind of animal. We followed it easily past the big hackberry which was beyond huge now that I was up close. It reminded me of pictures of African baobabs. I stroked the trunk as I went past wondering if it had been here when Julia was. I had no idea how long these lived. I knew the oaks had been here, maybe the magnolia. This one, well, whatever it had seen, it couldn’t tell me.
Or could it? I shook my head, not today. I had enough going on later in the spooktacular department.
Past the tree, the trail widened, joined from the side by a second little path. I hoped the path wasn't made by a skunk. I smiled wondering if the stink would stick to Corky or slide right of his ghostliness. The sound of the water reached me before sight, a trickle, a gurgle, and Corky crashed out of sight towards it. I laughed out loud at his eagerness, and to my right, something rose up squawking in alarm. I ducked and whirled in panic before catching sight of the heron rising awkwardly, its legs hanging drunkenly down. I laughed again, this time at my own silliness. Up ahead, Corky woofed at me to hurry. I could hear him splashing about in whatever he had found. It was nice to just let him be. Knowing he was dead already was a load off my mind. What could hurt him now?
I parted the last of the grasses and was pleasantly surprised. I had expected an arm of the bayou or some kind of stock watering hole, but then I remembered Mrs. Evers had said there was a river. It had shrunk over the years or maybe this was a different beast altogether. This creek was four or five feet wide and no more than a foot or so deep. The water couldn't be called clear, although you could mostly see through it, the golden brown color looked to be stained the rusty color of dead cypress leaves. I studied the water, careful to ignore Corky who frisked back and forth splattering me with his enthusiasm. The bottom was sandy-ish with some rocks but seemed to be okay. I didn't have a lot of experience in the outdoors department. I eased off a shoe and stepped slowly forward. It was warmish but pleasant and I leaned forward an
d cupped a handful to splash at Corky who went nuts. He barked and crouched, his butt up in the air, tail wagging. I knew from experience this was the pre-pounce position and I stepped back to solid land.
“No, sir!" I said sternly and he wilted where he stood. His face was so comical that I had to laugh. A little searching discovered a sturdy stick to throw. I gave it a slow, easy toss downstream and Corky lit out, galloping like a horse down the home stretch, Water rose in sheets on either side from his momentum. Taking advantage of the distraction, I pulled off my other shoe and waded out to the middle to wait for him to return. The rocks underfoot were rounded from the water and my feet were glad. I’m not much for barefoot. Corky managed to grab his stick in spite of the water churning all around him. He made it much more difficult than it needed to be, he was such a ham. I braced myself as he ran full speed back to me. I held up my hands to ward him off, but he surprised me by turning and sliding to a stop in front of me. Great, except for the wave of water than slewed up and drenched me from head to toe.
“You're gonna die!” I growled at him and then, realizing what I said, burst out laughing. Corky dropped the stick and began pushing against me to get in on the joke. I let my knees bend and we toppled over in the water. I grabbed a handful of sand and smeared it on his white coat. His face made me bust out laughing again. Poor Corky, he looked downright insulted. I quickly rinsed him and in thanks, he dragged his gross doggie tongue across my mouth before I could dodge.
“Arggh!” My yell echoed down the creek and startled frogs leaped for safety. I scrubbed my mouth across my damp sleeve and then froze, wondering what kind of parasite were in this water. Call me paranoid, but there is an entire world of freaky stuff that human eyes can't see, but just because you couldn't see it, didn't mean it wouldn't invade your body, attach itself to your intestines and grow twenty-five feet long.
I crawled away from him, the rocks and sand shifting under my hands and knees as he pranced alongside me. I kept twisting my head as he tried to go in for slurps. The sun was hot on my back and butt as I looked around for a better spot. I ended up on a big rock under a willow, happily out of range of his tongue. There was a little breeze that was nice through my damp clothes and I had a supply of sticks to toss for the tireless wonder dog. After an hour or so, I retrieved my bag and ate chips and kolaches with wrinkled fingers and complete contentment. While I ate, Corky flopped down on the grass beside me. Cicadas droned far off enough for it to be background noise instead of unpleasant. A catbird tried to wake Corky, but he wasn't fooled and after an ear twitch, he went back to sleep. I didn't want to think about tonight, but it was the only thing occupying my mind. I pushed it relentlessly away and focused on the water drifting by, busying myself with thoughts about where this creek started from and where it flowed to, why crawfish up North are white, and how people manage to eat okra and not gag. Anything, but the curious vultures waiting to peck me over tonight.
***
The door in front of me was dark wood, tall and narrow with recessed panels. Five panels, I knew because I had counted. And it was closed.
I sighed. I knew I had to go in. It wasn't as if I was going to get any answers about the other side from this side of the door. I turned the knob and went in. The room was empty and the only shocking thing was the wave of absolute relief I felt. So this was what nervous felt like. My relief was short lived.
“Oh, hey!” The voice from behind me was familiar, but not so as I could put a face to it. I turned slowly. It was the curly headed guy from the thrift store. He smiled at me, amused. “Are you here for the, uh, gathering?”
I gave him my best flat stare, not bothering to answer. Instead, I looked at the girl with him. If he was a type, it was ridiculously healthy, outdoors guy, all granola, and craft beer. She, on the other hand, was a poster child for a teen vampire bride, monochromatic in black, including her obviously dyed hair and soul-crushing, teen angst. I knew girls like her from school, all those piercings, and black eyeliner a tip-off for walking emotional baggage.
“He's just dropping me off,” she said pointedly and shoved him back out the door.
“Hey!” Curly protested, holding on to the door frame. “I mean, I'm not a believer,” he smiled down at me, “but I'd like to learn.”
“Get out.” the girl said flatly, turning her back on him. She pulled off her black coat/cloak combo thing and crossed the room to sink into a chair.
“My sister,” the guy said to me with a hopeful look. I turned my back on him as well.
“Stepsister,” she corrected, not making eye contact with either of us.
Ignoring their made-for-TV family drama, I picked out my own chair and sat down. Curly edged his way back into the room.
“It's a private meeting!” the girl snapped, her eyes were angry and resentful at his intrusion.
“That hasn't started yet!” he snapped back at her, and truthfully, I liked him a little better for it. He came in and sat on the arm of the chair next to mine
“So, how's your dog?” he asked. Almost against her will, the girl turned to listen. She was interested in me, my dog. Mental sigh. Someone had been talking.
“We got some dog toys at the thrift store. You should come by.” Apparently, he wasn't going for subtle.
“Mmmm,” I said. My skin was tight and uncomfortable. He seemed really close. What the hell was I doing here? This was more surreal than Corky could ever be. I could hear voices coming from behind another door I hadn't noticed to the back of the room. More weirdos. Curious weirdos who would want to hear all about me and Corky. This was stupid and pointless.
The hall door stood open, the empty doorway spelling freedom. I thought of the pavement unraveling beneath my bike tires and how it felt to be moving, to be leaving. Good. It felt good to be the one leaving, not the one getting left.
I stood up and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” Curly said in surprise.
“I forgot to lock my bike.” I gave the excuse flatly, making no attempt to hide the lie in my voice.
Grimoire girl finally looked at me, only, not snotty or creepy occult, but in this understanding way. Like she too, was a runner. Screw you, my eyes said back, you don't know me.
I don't run, I choose to leave. I told myself as I unchained my bike and pedaled away through a cool, misty rain to the warmth of my kitchen and my books. In my head, I was already behind my locked door, curled in the wing chair, reading, and I was somebody else, someone really far away.
Chapter 17
The next day I ignored anything that was remotely occult. I heard Corky bark as I left for work but just kept going. There was a flash of guilt but pushed it away. I couldn't deal with any of it just now. The dark streets suited my mood and I flew through the empty, sleeping town, burning off unwanted energy. I wasn't distracted by the odd line up of cats on the Lebeau's bottle wall, they could come at me if they dared. I barely noticed the new trash sculpture in Mad Dog's, the town hermit, yard. I just pedaled head down, not pleased with the new events in my life. I made it into the bakery in record time and managed to answer the good mornings from the D's without sounding like a total sociopath. Robotically, I churned out my list but seemed unable to clear my head. There was a special order of twenty-five mini loaves of blueberry, banana nut, and orange cranberry bread, some kind of teacher thank you at the junior high. I made a production of it, wrapping and tagging them with more concentration than the job needed. But in spite of my attempt at distraction, my head still buzzed with something close to anxiety. Anxiety was bad. People were only anxious over stuff when they cared. My last hope was an escape to the store, I was actually happy to see a crowd coming in. A quick glance showed me I didn't know them and they didn't know me, perfect. And as a bonus, they were the indecisive kind. It was just what I needed.
Because this was life. This was real. Life was hordes of crappy customers asking for samples of damn near everything in the place, wiping down counters and cases from their un
thinking fingerprints and refilling sample trays. Reality was heavy oven mitts up to my elbows as I pulled tray after tray of cookies that smelled like we were baking Jesus himself. It was the ache in my shoulders from the repeated motion and the sense that I wascreating something good in the world, something concrete. I was tired of spooky, of complications, of people invading every part of my life. I was over feelings and intuitions. I wanted to work. Also, I wanted to eat, a lot, and lose myself in a book about something real, like being hungry and hunting for food, surviving a hard winter, hard work, sacrifice, a gritty dystopian story where success depends on you and how you coped. Because I am a cope-er, not a dreamer, and this wishy-washy spirit shit was driving me nuts. I didn't want to deal with other people's emotions or needs. I mean, I didn't even want to deal with my own.
I jumped into the fray and sold baked goods with a willing heart and slightly scary ferocity. A few people flinched from my determined smile, but money was money. I didn't care if they bought biscotti and baklava out of fear or love. Just as long as they kept it coming.
When the rush died down, I scrubbed out the big cooler, though it wasn't Tuesday, and found the noise inside my head got quieter as the protests from my muscles got louder. Thankfully, the D's ignored me, except for Mrs. D plying me with stuffed pastries at lunch. I don't turn down free food and especially not Mrs. D's food. The crisp shell imploded as I bit down and the rich meaty interior flooded my mouth. Roasted pork with pancetta, onions, and basil filled my stomach and killed the last of my stress. Two brownies and a wedge of vanilla rum cheesecake later, my shift was over, and I was me again, armor proofed against the emotional entanglements and supernatural crap attacks that had crept into my life. The sucky thing was I still had no answers. I was going to have to go back into their world of woo. But not today, I told myself as I stepped outside the bakery into the broiling sunshine.
