by Ryan Calejo
But her eyes didn’t leave mine; she studied me for a long, quiet moment before finally glancing down at her phone again. “Okay, well, if the coast is clear, then we better get going. It’s almost eight o’clock.”
She was right. We didn’t have time to be seeing mariachi goblins.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The little strip mall on Krome was a knot of low concrete buildings that sat right on the edge of civilization, between a thriving multicultural neighborhood and 734 square miles of marshy swampland known as the Florida Everglades. There was a Quickie Mart, a Sir Galloway Dry Cleaners, a family-owned bodega, and a little body shop. The body shop was closed; it had a sign on the front door that read: REMODELING—BACK REAL SOON! The dry cleaner was open until nine. The Quickie Mart and the bodega were open all night.
We parked our bikes on the side of the mall by the body shop and got to work. Our plan was pretty straightforward: Visit each store, question the employees and shoppers, and see what turned up. Problem was, as soon as we asked anyone if they knew a lady around here who practiced the dark arts, they immediately stopped taking us seriously. Most of them stared at us like they were waiting for a punch line. Others just walked away. The owner of the dry cleaner actually threw us out. But it was the night manager of the Quickie Mart who had the most interesting reaction—he threatened to call the police if either of us tried to slurp slushy directly from the machine. Something told me he didn’t quite get what we were asking.
Anyway, about thirty minutes later, we were standing in the middle of the mostly empty parking lot, kicking rocks and trying to figure out where we’d gone wrong.
“This doesn’t make any sense,” Violet said, anxiously rubbing her face. “The numbers added up perfectly. And we both saw the articles about the skeletons. So, what are we missing . . . ?”
“Maybe we’re not missing anything,” I said. “Maybe she really does work around here.”
“And not one person could say, ‘Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of a lady like that’?” She let out a frustrated sigh. “We’re going to need a new plan of attack. . . .”
“I’m with you on that,” I said. Around us, the wind gusted, blowing through the trees at the edge of the Glades. The tall cypresses bent and creaked. Dried leaves skittered silently along the roadside. In the distance, an animal wailed—a sad, mournful sound that sent a shiver down my spine.
I was about to tell Violet that we probably just needed to ask more people—turn it into a numbers game—when something across the street caught my eye: a swirl of tiny lights glowing luminescent blue just inside the tree line.
The lights seemed to dance and twirl in the darkness, trailing glittery arcs that floated gently on the breeze. For a quick second, all the teeny pinpricks came together to form a single pulsing orb, then scattered almost as quickly, spreading through the trees like the afterglow of fireworks.
I started walking toward the lights without realizing it, like a manatee drawn to warm water.
“Hey, where’re you going?” Violet called after me.
“Don’t you see that?” I asked, never taking my eyes off the hypnotic glow. The lights were so beautiful I had to get a closer look. Had to.
“See what?” She came up beside me. “What are you—oh.”
“Yeah,” I agreed in that same dreamy whisper.
“Are those—fireflies . . . ?”
“Let’s find out.”
The lights glowed brighter as we jogged across the street toward them, but then began to retreat slowly into the swamp. Their luminescent glow and the weirdly mesmerizing way they moved—like silky bedsheets rippling in the wind—made it impossible for me to take my eyes off them.
Follow us! they seemed to whisper. Come, come, right this way!
So that was exactly what we did. We followed them eagerly into the trees. But every step we took, the lights retreated a tiny bit more. Never too quickly and never too far—just enough to keep us after them.
My feet carried me forward almost automatically. I felt warm all over. It was like I was under some sort of spell—only I didn’t care.
In the back of my mind, I could sense something was wrong, but every time I tried to draw the thought forward, the lights grew brighter, more glittery, and I forgot all about it.
Sometime later—I had no idea how long—my foot caught on the edge of a root and I stumbled, momentarily losing eye contact with the lights.
In that split second, the spell broke: The dreamy daze instantly evaporated, and so did my crazy need to follow the lights.
What the heck was that about? I thought, looking around wildly. But I had no more than asked myself that when the answer came, and all the tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickled like the spines on a porcupine.
“Violet, STOP!” I shouted. “It’s La Luz Mala!”
I couldn’t believe what I was saying—couldn’t believe those words had actually come out of my mouth—but I knew it was true all the same. The lights were almost identical to how my abuela had described them: the wispy, glowing orbs with mesmerizing powers; the strings of tiny lights that lured unsuspecting people into the dangers of the swamp. Even the color was the same—a brilliant Spanish blue!
It was crazy to think about—insane, even—but this was now the fourth myth we’d encountered—the fourth in just two days! The real question was, why did we keep running into things from my abuela’s old stories?
“Violet!” I caught up with her, grabbing her by the shoulders. “Violet, snap out of it!” But she wouldn’t even look at me, so I shook her. “Hey, wake up!”
Her eyelids fluttered drowsily. “Huh?”
“The lights! They’re La Luz Mala!” When she only stared, I shook her some more. “Helloooooo? It’s another myth!”
That finally got through to her. She blinked, clarity returning to her eyes, and glanced cautiously back at the glowing spheres, which had paused between the trees maybe ten yards ahead of us, a shimmering blue curtain in the deep dark.
“Charlie, are you sure?” she asked after a moment. When I nodded, a sort of hopeful look entered her eyes and she started toward them again.
“Which obviously means we can’t follow them!” I said, grabbing her by the tail of her coat. “Haven’t you heard the stories?”
“Duh. I read a few of them last night,” she said. Surprisingly, she sounded pretty clearheaded, like she wasn’t under any kind of spell, which made me even more nervous. “It’s, like, the most famous myth in Argentina.”
“That’s right. And if you remember anything else, you’d know that it leads people into danger. Specifically, danger in swamps. Like the huge one we’re currently walking into!”
“Charlie, we have to follow it. Don’t you get it? Like you said, it’s another myth. It means we’re on the right track.”
I thought about that.
“See what I’m saying . . . ?”
I did, actually. But I really didn’t like it.
• • •
My biggest worry was that La Luz Mala would take us into the heart of the Glades—right into the middle of all that crocodiley goodness—and then suddenly vanish, leaving us stranded. That’s usually what happened in the stories. But that wasn’t what happened with us. The glowing orbs never dimmed or even flickered as they led us nonstop for close to a mile and a half, through tangles of low-growing vines and fallen logs, their bright pale light casting an eerie glow in the trees. All around us, mangrove roots reached out of the ground like the gnarled, twisted fingers of an old witch. Small red eyes peered out at us from between the loops and knots. The only sounds were the crunching of saw grass beneath our feet and our own steady breathing. Once I thought I saw something ginormous darting through the shadows. I would’ve bet my life it was a yellowish polar bear, but that didn’t make any sense because one, polar bears aren’t normally yellow, and two, they sure as heck don’t live in the Everglades—not to mention that whatever it was had moved with lightning speed. I told myself to c
hill, that it was just my imagination, but of course that was easier said than done.
“I hate coming to places like this at night,” Violet said a few minutes later. She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her coat and gave a little shiver. “I always feel like someone’s watching me. Like they’re going to pop out of nowhere, hack me into itty-bitty little pieces, then store my mutilated corpse in a portable icebox they keep in their garage.”
“Ay, chica. A little graphic, don’t you think?”
She shrugged, swatting a mosquito away. “It’s the truth.”
“How often do you come to places like this, anyway?”
“I go wherever the story takes me, Charlie. Figuratively speaking, of course . . . I’ve never been out of Florida.”
• • •
La Luz Mala continued to light our way as we trekked deeper into the swamp, glowing between the roots and mangrove trunks, glimmering off the ankle-deep puddles of brackish water. Insects buzzed around us, and with every step, the terrain became muddier and harder to negotiate. My arms were raw from getting lashed by branches. My sneakers kept sinking into the ground and getting sucked off my feet. Twice I went down face-first in the thick mud, giving myself the world’s cheapest (and nastiest) facial. Yeah, it was epically embarrassing, but I was honestly too exhausted to care. My legs felt like they were made of Jell-O. My sweat-drenched clothes clung to my skin like wet napkins.
Just when I thought I was about to drop dead of fatigue, we stepped into a small clearing, and La Luz Mala suddenly disappeared, seeming to evaporate into thin air.
“Where’d they go?” Violet asked, turning in a slow circle. Ribbons of sweat streamed down her face. Her hair was matted to her cheeks in soggy clumps. This deep in the Everglades, the humidity was insane.
I wiped sweat off my face and looked around. No Luz Mala. But I did see something: a shabby little hut squatting in the middle of the clearing, maybe twenty yards away. It had a thatched roof supporting a huge neon sign, which read—well, mostly flickered—THE CRYING PSYCHIC.
And below it, in smaller but equally flickering letters: FREE READINGS FOR KIDS TWELVE AND UNDER! As I stood there, staring up at the sign, the S in READINGS buzzed, darkened, and then exploded in a shower of orange sparks.
I turned to Violet. “The place seems like it’s tip-top, huh?”
“Fingers crossed,” she said, and we started toward it.
The front door was painted electric pink. An old wooden sign (OPEN—COME ON IN!) hung from the doorknob.
Violet had just raised her fist to knock when the door flew open.
A lady stepped out to greet us. Tall, thin, with shockingly pale skin. She wore a long white dress and stylish Mexican sandals called huaraches. Her hair was jet-black. Her toenails were painted in a sort of Día de los Muertos theme with marigold flowers and big ol’ smiling calaca heads. I didn’t even bother asking if she was the crying psychic because her wet, shining eyes and puffy cheeks practically shouted it.
“Hola. My name is Señora L,” she said in a low, sniffly voice. “Welcome to the Crying Shack.” Then, as if to drive home the point, her face crumpled like an empty bag of potato chips and she burst into tears.
Violet and I looked at each other.
Wow, I mouthed. Violet was speechless.
After almost thirty seconds of full-on, snot-snorting bawling, the crying psychic finally pulled herself together and welcomed us into the hut.
I’ll admit it—from the outside, I thought the hut looked kind of cool in a laid-back, islandy sort of way. But inside, it was a total freak show. Every nook, every cranny, every square inch of the place was packed with stuff—and when I say stuff, I mean weird stuff. Dead bats and birds dangled from the ceiling on strings. Spooky black wax candles burned in ancient-looking sconces. Along the walls were fur-covered shelves (at least it looked like fur) crammed with dusty bottles and old glass jars of all shapes and sizes. Some were filled with dark powders, others with gelatinous globs bobbing around in murky liquid.
A curtain of yellow and purple beads hung down the center of the back wall. Around the curtain, arranged on the moldy corkboard like some spooky teenage shrine, were dozens and dozens of unframed photographs. All of them had been taken at night, and all of them featured a smiling Señora L standing in front of some river with her arm around a young kid. Every photo had a different kid in it—six boys, six girls—and they all looked about as happy as a turkey on Thanksgiving to be posing with her.
“Por favor,” she said, pointing us to a small round table in the middle of the room. It was covered by a black velvet cloth and surrounded by three cushy-looking chairs. A crystal ball on a glass stand sat in the center of the table. “Make yourselves at home,” she said. “Mi casa es tu casa.”
Violet and I dropped gratefully into the chairs. And as we did, I heard some banging and muffled sounds coming from behind the beaded curtain.
“What the heck is that?” I said, looking around.
Señora L slid a couple of locks (there must’ve been at least ten different ones on the doorframe alone—a few dead bolts, about twice as many night latches, and a couple of childproof sliding locks) and then joined us at the table.
“Oh, it’s just the rats,” she said dismissively. “I have a bit of a vermin issue being all the way out here in the middle of the Everglades and all. But don’t mind them. They’re harmless. Now, before we begin, I need to learn a little bit about the two of you. Do either of you enjoy breakfast croquetas?”
I frowned, not sure I’d heard her right. “Excuse me?”
“You know, eggs, chicken, and jamón breaded and fried to a beautiful golden crisp.”
“Uh, yeah, I love croquetas. . . .”
Violet was nodding. “Sounds good to me.”
The psychic lady’s lips pulled back in a broad, almost cheerful smile. “Good, because breakfast is the most important meal of the day. By the way, what sizes are you?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Pajama sizes.”
Pajama sizes? Why in the world would she need to know our pajama sizes? I shook my head. “I’m a medium, I guess.”
Violet shrugged. “Yeah, I’m a medium too.”
“Ah, okay.” There was an old-fashioned trunk under the table. Señora L undid the flat metal latch, opened it, and pulled out two striped onesies—one blue, the other pink. “These should fit snugly, then.” She handed them to us. “Compliments of the house.”
“Um, gracias.” I honestly didn’t know what else to say.
“Go ahead,” she urged us. “Try them on.”
“Actually, I’d rather not,” I said. “I’m kinda sweaty right now.”
The psychic’s lower lip began to tremble, and she suddenly burst out crying again. Big, loud, gasping sobs that shook her whole body. “You don’t like my gift!” she bellowed between sobs. “You hate it!—¡Lo odias!”
“No, no, no,” Violet said, raising her hands and patting the air, trying to calm her. “He doesn’t hate it. He loves it. We both do. We just don’t want to put them on quite yet. Later, for sure, though.”
“For sure?” Señora L sounded hopeful.
“For sure, for sure.”
“Absolutamente,” I agreed with a firm nod. Had to say something, right?
“They’re made in Guatemala,” the crazy psychic lady informed us as she dabbed the corners of her eyes. “One hundred percent cotton. Very comfortable.”
I rubbed the blue fabric between my thumb and index finger, trying to seem like I was into it. “Yeah, feels great.”
Señora L smiled at me. “You two remind me so much of my children. . . . You’re going to make absolutely lovely additions to the family!”
“What family?”
She gestured at the wall behind her. At the pictures.
“Oh. Yeah, sure, we’d love to take a picture when we’re done.”
“Maravilloso. So, then, let me tell you about today’s specials. We have tea l
eaf readings for five dollars, tarot card poker for two. I interpret dreams for a flat fee of fifteen US dollars an hour—but no nightmares. Oh, and I should mention that I’ve recently discovered a method for bottling my tears, which gives them up to a forty-day shelf life.” She pointed to a row of amber-colored bottles sitting side by side and three rows deep on the wooden cabinet in the corner of the room. The taped-on labels read: TEARS OF FATE. “I sell them by the ounce, and luckily for you two, they’re twenty percent off today. Just four easy payments of $249.99.”
“A thousand dollars for your tears?” I burst out. Couldn’t help myself. “What do they do? Cure zits?” Geez, talk about a snake-oil salesman—or in this case, snake-oil saleswoman.
“Actually, they lead you wherever the universe wants you to go,” she explained. “I discovered my gift completely by accident. One day I was crying near a river”—No surprise there, I thought—“and a lost camper a few miles downstream unwittingly scooped up some of my tears into his canteen. Yada, yada, yada, long story short, he found his way back to civilization safe and sound.” She wiped one cheek with the cuff of her sleeve. “I accept cash, credit, and Bitcoin if either of you are interested.”
“Uh, sorry, we don’t have any money on us,” Violet said, and the lady made a face like she was going to start the waterworks again. “But hold on! See, the thing is, we came here for a very specific reason. . . .”
Señora L perked up a bit. “And what would that be?”
“Well, my friend here is experiencing some strange manifestations, and we’d like you to take a look, tell us what you think.”
“Manifestations, huh?” Her shiny red eyes narrowed on me. “What kind of manifestations . . . ?”
“Uh, well, a month ago I grew a pair of horns,” I said casually. Like it happened to everyone. “Then, like, three days ago, I got these.” When I pulled back my sleeve to show her the feathers, one came off, floating lazily across the table toward her.
The psychic snatched it out of the air and held it directly between her eyes. “Hmmm,” she said, examining it from pointy end to fluffy tip.
