by Ania Ahlborn
“There,” she said. “Have it back.” Perhaps this was all that was needed—the relinquishment of something she should have never taken, a half-hearted apology to make amends.
She marched back to the car, slammed the door shut, and peeled out of there with narrowed eyes and a tightened grip. When she reached the front gate, her foot twitched against the gas pedal, ready to drive away without a final glance. No more Friendship Park. Never again. But rather than careening onto the road, she found herself robbed of breath.
Because there, half a block ahead and pedaling toward the open cemetery gates, was a little girl on a bike. For a moment, Maggie was certain she was hallucinating, seeing herself over a decade in the past. Maggie, the little girl who would visit the dead on sunny afternoons. Maggie, who had once collected a bouquet of silk flowers for her mother, only to watch her recoil from them as though they had been covered in blood. Maggie, rushing toward the graveyard with Katrina at her back.
She closed her eyes, then opened them again, hoping that the action would clear her vision and make the little girl she was sure wasn’t there disappear. But rather than vanishing, the girl became that much more vivid. Not a figment. She was, in fact, very real.
As Maggie rolled past—her foot barely grazing the gas—the little girl looked up from her furious into-the-wind pedaling. And through that gale-whipped veil of hair, Maggie recognized her.
Hope.
She was headed to Friendship Park.
Alone. On Maggie’s bike.
. . .
Maggie put her niece in the rearview mirror. Too stunned to think straight, she didn’t stop the car or offer to drive Hope back home. But rather than booking it back to the house, she found herself in Impresso Espresso’s parking lot, staring over the curve of the steering wheel, her mouth dry, her stomach twisted into a fist, her fingers coiled tight against her lips.
Don’t go.
She’d promised she’d be back. But she had broken her promise.
She had left, first to go to the beach. As punishment, her father was taken.
Maggie left to go to college, and her mother wound up dead.
She came home for the service, left again to go back to Wilmington . . . and Brynn had started to grow distant, eventually pleading for Maggie’s return. And, as if in retribution for Maggie’s refusal, she had killed herself.
And now, what would happen after tomorrow? When Maggie got on the plane to fly back to North Carolina, what would happen to Arlen and the kids? What would happen to Hope?
Her cell buzzed against the side of the car’s cup holder. She hadn’t paid attention to it all morning, afraid to look at her received texts, not wanting to see more of them coming from Brynn’s phone. But now, something compelled Maggie to reach out and snatch that cell up. Part of her hoped it was whatever had been sending messages the night before—an affirmation that it was time to do something drastic, that all of this had to end. Now.
But it was Dillon, offering nothing short of a promise that things were going to be okay.
TALKED TO YOUR PROF YOU HAVE A RETEST NEXT WEEK! CALL ME!
Dillon, doing everything he could to make Maggie’s life a little easier. He was straining to prove himself, to be a good boyfriend. If only the message had come a day or even an hour earlier; if only she hadn’t seen Hope out there, riding through the wind on Maggie’s old bike toward those lonely graves.
. . .
Arlen looked surprised when Maggie rushed back into the house. She almost yelped when Maggie grabbed her by the arm and pulled her down to sit on the living room couch.
“I have to tell you something.” Maggie spit out the words before she could think better of it. Exhaling, she let her hands fall to her knees. “I did something bad.”
“What?” Arlen shook her head, not understanding.
“When I was a kid,” Maggie clarified. “When we were all still living here together. I mean, you were already living with Howie, but Mom and Dad and Brynn . . .” It suddenly hit her that, of the people she’d just mentioned, three were dead. Her entire family, on the brink of extinction.
Arlen said nothing. She only stared, a veil of bewilderment resting uneasily across her face.
“On my twelfth birthday, I brought home a Ouija board.” Maggie felt Arlen tense beside her.
“What?”
“I kept it a secret. Mom didn’t know. And Brynn kept saying that she’d be pissed, so I never said anything.” That pain was back, biting at her neck. Involuntarily, her right hand flew back, trying to squelch the ache with her palm.
The wind was howling. Suddenly, a bang sounded from outside. A shutter flapped in the gust. All that was missing was Dillon, jumping at the noise.
“I . . .” Arlen faltered. Surely she’d been in Brynn’s room after the suicide. She had to have seen the letters carved into Brynn’s bedpost. Brynn’s death was connected to that board, whether she had sworn the Ouija was a bunch of bullshit or not. But if she had been a skeptic, all signs pointed to Brynn having become a believer in the end.
Arlen rose from the couch and rushed across the room to the window in question. “This damn shutter,” she complained, yanking the window open. You want feex, you feex. Maggie watched her from a distance, sickened by a thought: an endless loop of torment, that’s what this was. History was repeating itself. The shutter. The storm. The bike ride to Friendship Park.
“I know why Brynn didn’t want to move out,” Maggie said. “There’s something living in this house.” She almost whispered the words—like the beginnings of a spooky story that would have thrilled Brynn to bits. “I’ve seen it. It’s been here since I was a kid. And she was . . . she was protecting you . . .”
“Maggie, I swear.” Arlen rolled her eyes as she returned. “Florence is about to barrel headlong into this house, Howie’s still out there because he’s an idiot who doesn’t know when to say when at work, I’ve got the kids to deal with, the funeral is tomorrow, and you’re telling me crazy stories? I don’t have time for this, okay?” She was about to walk by, dismiss the whole thing as nonsense, but Maggie caught her by the arm and yanked her down. “Jesus, Maggie, what—”
“You have to have time for this. I’ve tried to convince myself that it’s all been in my head, but . . .” But the phone. “I got texts, Len. Texts from Brynn. Last night.”
Arlen opened her mouth to speak, but all she did was gape.
“Except it wasn’t her. How could it be her? Don’t you get it? It was . . .” What, the shadow? The little girl from Friendship Park? The doll? She knew she sounded insane, and to top it off, she had no proof, having left her phone in the car.
Arlen stared at her, mystified. Could it be that mental illness ran in their family? Maybe Brynn hadn’t been the only crazy one. Perhaps Maggie was right there with her.
“I know it sounds nuts, Len. At one point, even Brynn didn’t believe. When I brought that board home, she said it was bullshit.”
“That’s because it is bullshit,” Arlen said, wrenching her arm free of Maggie’s grasp. But Maggie could hear the hesitancy in her sister’s voice. If it was powerful enough to lead Brynn down a path of lunacy, that thing was imperious. There was no telling what it could make someone do.
“But she never really believed it didn’t work,” Maggie said. “She tried to keep it in her room so that I wouldn’t mess around with it. She told me that if Mom found it, I’d get into a ton of trouble. But I think she wanted to keep it because she was drawn to it, just like I was.” Even at twelve years old, Maggie had seen something in Brynn’s eyes—a morose sort of hunger for the afterlife.
“And I know it works, Len,” Maggie continued. “Because I played it with Cheryl and she stopped coming over. I played it myself for months. And then . . .” She paused, casting a glance her big sister’s way. She could read the warning across Arlen’s face. Don’t tell me wh
at I think you’re going to tell me. Don’t you even dare.
Back then, playing alone hadn’t seemed like that big of a deal. Making a promise to something invisible seemed harmless. But after that New Year’s Eve with Simon and Brynn, Maggie started to understand: the human mind was vulnerable; a child’s mind was only that much more volatile. If there ever was a perfect scenario for a spirit to use someone as a portal to the living, it was a solitary kid screwing around with a spirit board, oblivious to the dangers. Because it was just a little bit of spooky fun, right?
“And then that shadow thing showed up.”
Maggie waited for Arlen to recoil, to act as though Maggie were infected with some deadly contagion. But rather than pulling away, Arlen simply frowned. “Oh, come on. There is no shadow thing, Maggie. I’ve been living here for years—”
Out of the corner of her eye, a shift of light. Maggie’s attention snapped to look down the hall toward the kitchen. Something was slithering along the wall, too quick to make out. Lingering. I’m here.
“—and I have yet to dodge flying plates, hear moaning ghouls, or see a goddamn ghost, okay?”
“But the wallpaper in Brynn’s room,” Maggie said. “Didn’t you see it?”
“See what?”
So the scorch mark was gone, then. Maggie shut her eyes and squeezed the bridge of her nose. Was she really losing it?
“Maggie, see—”
“Then what about Cheryl?” Maggie asked, deciding to forget the wallpaper. Pressing the point would only make her look like a lunatic. She let her hand fall to her lap and looked back to her sister’s face. “Cheryl, last night, she stormed out of here . . .”
Arlen had no response. She hadn’t seen what had happened, had no idea what they’d been doing in Maggie’s room when Cheryl had screamed. She hadn’t seen the abrasion on Cheryl’s chest.
“She was scared, Len. I followed her out to the car, I tried to keep her from leaving. And you know what she told me?”
“To repent for your sins and join the Jesus camp?” Repent. Arlen snorted, but all that snide comment did was make Maggie miss Brynn all the more. “If you ask me, that girl has always been off. Little Miss Priss, wasn’t it? Mom was right about her . . .”
“She told me that I needed to get out of here, that I shouldn’t be here,” Maggie said.
“Oh God.” Arlen waved a hand, casting aside those ridiculous notions. “Echoes of her nutcase mother, no doubt. That woman is an absolute lunat—”
“Just listen!” Maggie was on the verge of tears, now. Arlen had always thought herself smarter than everyone; she’d never been good at shutting up or sitting still. And then, as if to derail Maggie’s story, that scent returned. “Do you smell that?”
Arlen raised her hands in surrender. “I am listening,” she said. “But you have to admit, you sound—”
“It’s smoke,” Maggie said.
“I don’t—”
“I keep smelling it.”
“I don’t smell anything,” Arlen said.
“Len, listen . . .”
“Listen to what?”
“I started talking to this kid in the cemetery.” Maggie looked down to her lap, then caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “I told her I’d be her friend. And then . . . that one summer . . .” Suddenly, she was regretting ever bringing it up. Because how was she supposed to admit to this? It’s your fault. Her heart twisted inside her chest. All your fault.
“You mean, when Dad . . . ?” Arlen hesitated. She couldn’t bear to say more.
Maggie mutely nodded. “It was my fault,” she then whispered. “The girl, she begged me not to go, but I left anyway. She just kept saying, Don’t go, don’t go. But I didn’t listen, because the board was a fake. I kept thinking about how Brynn had said it was just a game, how maybe it had been my subconscious. I should have never been playing it, I should have left it locked up, but it’s like . . . it’s like I couldn’t stop. So, I told myself, Go to the beach. I told myself, Have a good time. Forget the board. It’s time to move on. I made up all these excuses as to why it would be okay. Because it was fake. Brynn swore it was fake.”
“Jesus, Maggie . . .”
“So, I shoved the board under my bed, and before I knew what was happening, Uncle Leon was driving me home. And then I got here, and the pool cover was pulled from its rails, and you showed up with Howie, and I . . .”
“Maggie . . .” Arlen squeezed Maggie’s wrist, as if trying to snap her little sister out of it, but Maggie refused to give in to the temptation; she wouldn’t clam up. Maybe if she purged herself of this poisonous secret, things would get better. Perhaps this was the way to break free of the curse.
“Brynn said it,” Maggie confessed. “She blamed me. And then Mom . . .”
“Brynn was in shock,” Arlen interrupted, her tone clipped and embittered. “Just like we all were. And Mom was a drug addict. We tried everything. You were the brave one, remember? You stood up to her the way no one else had. What happened to her was nobody’s fault, especially not yours.”
“But Brynn . . .”
“Brynn was clinically depressed, Maggie. Just like Mom was.”
“And that’s why they died?” Maggie asked. “That’s why Mom took all those pills and Brynn jumped out her window? Because they were depressed? Not because of me?”
“Yes.” Arlen scooted a little closer. “Maggie, of course not because of you. Brynn idolized you. She thought you were the most incredible person on God’s green earth.”
Maggie’s bottom lip began to tremble.
“When she was still coming down for dinner, she’d talk about you all the time. She would brag to the kids about their super-smart auntie working out on the coast, about how you were going to figure out how to clean up all the trash in the oceans and save the coral reefs. Hope was riveted. It’s why she clings to you the way she does. Her favorite movie is Finding Nemo—not because she’s crazy about Dory, but because of all the stories Brynn told her about you.”
Maggie pressed her hands to her face and breathed out a sob.
“Maggie, stop.” Arlen rubbed a circle across Maggie’s back. “Have you been blaming yourself all this time?”
A nod. Another staggered breath.
“Oh, Mags. None of this is your fault, okay? None of it is true.”
“But Dad . . .” Maggie whimpered. “He could have swum across the ocean. How could he drown like that? How could the pool cover just—”
“It was an accident,” Arlen assured her.
“Then where’s Hope?” Maggie wept, a jab of pain stabbing her right between the shoulder blades.
“What? She’s upstairs with Harry.”
Maggie shook her head. “No.” Because no matter how much Maggie wanted to believe she was free of responsibility, Arlen was wrong about it all. It was Maggie’s fault, and what she had seen just that morning had been proof.
“She’s not,” Maggie said. “I saw her, Len. She was riding my bike.”
Again, tension from her big sister. Suddenly, that comforting hand disappeared from Maggie’s back. Arlen stiffened beside her, and when Maggie looked up, Arlen’s expression had gone from comforting her baby sister to trying not to panic at the silly crap pouring out of Maggie’s mouth.
“What are you talking about?” The question was clipped, no nonsense. “She’s upstairs with her brother.”
“Go check,” Maggie whispered. The scent of smoke was nearly overwhelming now, but Arlen didn’t seem to notice it. She was too busy scrambling off the couch, nearly tripping over the coffee table as she backed away.
“Where is she?” Arlen demanded. “Harry . . . !” The name came out as a startled bleat. A moment later, there were footsteps overhead.
“Yeah?” Harrison replied from upstairs, unseen. Maggie watched Arlen’s face twist beneath the weight of start
led realization. Again, a shift of light. Again, another blip of darkness too quick to catch. It was getting impatient.
“Where’s your sister?” Arlen was moving fast across the room, stopping a few feet from the couch to look up at the boy Maggie couldn’t see. “Where’s Hope? You’re supposed to be with her!”
Hesitation. “. . . I am?”
Arlen spun around, shooting Maggie a glare. “Where is she?!”
Maggie knew this would be the last real conversation they ever had, knew that this moment would seal their fates. They wouldn’t speak again. Not as siblings. Not like this.
“Jesus, Maggie, what is wrong with you?” Arlen demanded. “Have you bothered to look outside? Do you know how dangerous it is out there? If you saw her, why didn’t you grab her?”
“Because I was scared, okay?” Maggie said softly, then looked away from Arlen, unable to keep her sister’s furious gaze. “I saw her riding to Friendship Park, just like I used to. Riding through the storm to the dead girl. That’s how I know all of this is true.”
SIXTEEN
* * *
WHEN ARLEN RUSHED out of the house to look for Hope, Maggie openly sobbed for the first time in years. She didn’t bother hiding her emotions when she felt Harrison lingering just beyond her line of sight, not even when little Hayden toddled up and placed a sausage-fingered hand upon her knee.
“There, there,” Hayden said, patting Maggie like one would pet a house cat, a child’s attempt at comfort in a situation she couldn’t possibly understand.
And yet, despite Maggie’s momentary meltdown, she couldn’t shake the knowledge that it would be a matter of minutes before Arlen came back, and Maggie didn’t want to be there when the duo returned. There would be anger, barbed and demanding questions. If Arlen sentenced Maggie to an immediate silent treatment, the punishment would be peppered with accusatory glares; narrowed eyes reminiscent of Brynn’s resentment, shot across the breakfast table when things went missing, when the innocent had been blamed.
Poor, weirdly beautiful Brynn. She hadn’t just jumped out her bedroom window and onto the paving stones surrounding the very place their father had perished—she would have survived such a fall with a twisted ankle or a few broken bones. But Brynn had been dead by the time paramedics arrived. Dead, because she’d smashed her window with a desk chair, collected a shard of broken glass in the palm of her hand, and inexplicably stabbed that razored fragment not only into her neck and shoulders, but into her face, inflicting dozens of vicious cuts before finally leaping from the window’s ledge. Her stereo had been blaring Dead Can Dance when Arlen had discovered the body, like a punch line to a morbid, self-deprecating joke. Meanwhile, a channel of blood did a snail’s-crawl across the stonework into the water, dark red turning to swirls of diluted pink like an artist’s paintbrush staining turpentine.
