by Rachel Lou
Everett twirled his spoon in his soup. The cracker he had dropped in it was soggy and breaking into pieces.
“Eat. Don’t play with your food.” His grandfather rapped his knuckles on the table. He brought his bowl to his lips, watching Everett over the bowl’s rim.
Throughout dinner, Everett’s grandfather had kept a close eye on him. If he suspected Everett’s meddling in dangerous paranormal affairs, he’d bring it up at the end of dinner.
His grandfather dabbed his lips with his napkin, eyes on his bowl. He seemed to be in deep thought, wrestling with himself over something Everett figured wasn’t about the paranormal.
“Everett, I finally have a use for the second floor in the shop. I won’t make any executive decisions until I hear your opinion, so tell me what you think of turning the second floor into our new home.”
Everett choked around his spoon. Hot soup sloshed in his mouth and burned his tongue and gums.
“We only need to clean it up and furnish it. It would save me the commute, and you would have a job.”
“You want to live above the shop?” Fire traveled through the walls of Everett’s throat. Whether it was from the soup or his rage, he didn’t know. “It’s in the middle of downtown Sundale! How can we find peace living in the middle of the rowdiest town in the county?”
“Sit down.”
“I don’t understand. Are we running dry on savings? Why would you suggest such a thing?” Everett numbly sat down, realizing he had jumped up in his anger. “And this house…. What would we do with it?”
“Sell it.”
Everett’s vision was a blur of colors. “I don’t understand. My mother and father… this is their house. We can’t get rid of it. They’ll want it when they come home.” He shook his head and his vision sharpened. His grandfather looked at him with sad eyes. “We can’t get rid of it without asking them.”
“Everett, they’re not coming home.”
“They are. They’re just taking an awfully long time.”
“Seven years, Everett. Do you think they are still out there?”
Everett believed they were. He had always believed. His belief in his parents was unyielding. He wouldn’t let his grandfather make him second-guess that faith.
He finished his soup and left the broken cracker a mess of mushy strips at the bottom of the bowl. He took the rest of the cracker packet to his room.
The witchtales and incense waited for him on his desk. He lit two sticks and drowned his sorrow in the second volume. He compared himself to the protagonists in the didactic tales and laughed at the stark differences.
Chapter 7
WHEN HE woke Friday morning, he found a hastily written note from his grandfather on his bedside table.
Your safety is my major concern. That is why I am deciding to move us to the shop. It is not about money or discrediting the possibility of your parents’ return. This is about keeping you safe. I will explain tonight, but I have to leave for work and you look like you’re enjoying your sleep.
Love,
Gramps
If his grandfather had told the truth last night, he wouldn’t have thrown a temper tantrum.
He popped frozen waffles in the toaster and started a paranormal fiction book he had borrowed from the library after his paranormal breakthrough. In a way, it had been a celebratory gift. The book had a gay romance subplot, which wasn’t common in the library’s catalog.
In the middle of the protagonist’s first sexual encounter with another man—a pleasant surprise since Everett hadn’t been expecting anything explicit—the doorbell rang. Everett bookmarked his place in the book and tossed it on the kitchenette counter.
Bryce stood on the doormat, dressed casually with a khaki backpack slung on his broad shoulder.
“Did I wake you up?” Bryce looked at Everett’s baggy pajama pants and even baggier T-shirt.
Everett should have at least brushed his hair. He looked like a mop when he rolled out of bed. The mop hair stayed until he tamed it with a damp brush. He felt overwhelmed in his too-large pajamas. The pant bottoms were frayed from dragging so frequently on the floor, and the drawstrings had to be tightened until the waistband bunched around his waist like a lumpy snake.
Bryce’s sharp gaze made Everett feel underdressed. He crossed his arms over his shirt. He should have put on his robe. “I was reading. What are you doing here?”
“Kwang Jang-nim Ann wanted me to give you the paperwork for lessons. I know you said you weren’t sure, and it sounded like you wouldn’t be able to sign up, but we’re offering you a scholarship. Can you afford fifty dollars a month?”
“I have to ask my grandfather.”
“Is he home?” Bryce looked around Everett as if expecting to see the old man hiding in the background.
“He’s at work. He’ll be back around eight thirty.”
“Well, I have paperwork here anyway. You’d normally fill them out in Kwang Jang-nim’s office, but I convinced her to put them in a folder for you.” He pulled out a green folder with the dojang’s logo printed on the front: two pairs of angel wings attached to a yin and yang symbol. “There are informational packets inside and schedules too, but if you don’t want group lessons, we can get you a private instructor. It’ll cost more, but I can pull some strings.”
Everett smiled at the folder. “Why are you doing this for me?”
“You look like you need a little adventure.” Bryce smiled. There were white and gray specks dotting the blackness of his irises, and those were what made his eyes looked like tiny night skies.
“How do you know I haven’t already had one?”
“Your eyes are big. Big eyes are perfect for adventures. They can see everything.” Bryce smiled. “Poetic, right?”
Everett took the folder, knowing his cheeks were stained with a blush.
They stood in the doorway for a while, silent and both smiling.
Bryce stepped back, his smile bright against his olive skin. “The dojang opens at twelve so… I’m going to head back. You can drop that off anytime during business hours. My phone number is in there if you have any questions… on the left flap in blue marker. Can’t miss it.”
“I’ll talk with my grandfather about this. Thanks for bringing it over.”
“See ya.” Bryce turned after a quick wink and tilt of his head.
Everett locked the door before running to the living room window, where he watched Bryce walk into the woods.
He emptied the folder on the chess table and skimmed through the paperwork. There wasn’t much to sign, only sheets for injury disclaimers, emergency contact information, payment plans—including the scholarship for Everett, and a waiver for public use of photographs taken during class. The other contents included an informational brochure on the art of tae kwon do, class offerings, the dojang’s schedule, and the curriculum for the first belt.
Bryce’s number and name were scrawled on the center of the folder pocket in blocky print. Everett added it to his phone’s contact list and texted, Is this Bryce?
He refilled the packet and right as he put the folder down, a new message popped on his screen.
Yup. Is your name spelled Everett, like the city?
My parents thought it was majestic.
Everett had loved his name until middle school, when people asked if he was named after the city.
My parents picked random names for me and my sisters. Bryce, Melinda, and Julianna. I think they used a name generator.
Are they older than you? Everett asked.
Julianna is 24, Melinda is 20, and I’m 19. I was born 11 months after Melinda. Irish twins!
Do they do martial arts too?
They both instruct. I know you’ve seen Melinda. I’m not sure about Julianna though. She was there when I told you about the scholarship.
Julianna must have been the older woman who came in to assist Ann.
Is your family a martial arts family?
We were. Hey, I’m tripping ove
r twigs and rocks. I’ll text you later, okay?
Will do! Don’t die!
Everett grabbed his paranormal book, curled on his bed, and started the erotica scene from the beginning. The primary character had a similar appearance to Bryce, and the secondary character had Everett’s own more feminine look. When he finished, he put the book aside, untied his pants, and replayed the chapter in his head, Bryce and him taking the places of the main characters. Afterward he changed his soiled bedsheets, blushing while he scrubbed himself clean, thinking that somehow Bryce knew what he had done.
Chapter 8
FOUR HOURS later, he was on the path to the library to return the book. The sun was setting fast, but he wanted to rid himself of his guilty conscience. He had finished the book two hours ago, and for the two hours until now, just looking at the book reminded him of everything Bryce-related. He remembered the first time they noticed each other, after Bryce’s intense round of bag work.
The jellyfish spirit from earlier dropped down from the sky and followed him to the library. Its glow was stronger in the dimming light.
“Are you going to accompany me every time I go into the forest?”
The jellyfish tried to land on the book he held loosely in both hands.
“Oh no. You don’t want to touch this.” Everett held the book away. “It’s filthy with human residue.”
Tight wavelengths of spasms ran down the jellyfish’s tentacles.
“Disgusting, I know.” Everett hadn’t gotten anything on it; he had pushed the book off his bed. Nevertheless, he’d wiped the hardcovers with sanitary wipes—inside and out.
The jellyfish landed on Everett’s head. He could feel its light body nestle in the mop of his tangled hair. He hadn’t dried or brushed it after he showered. It resembled a comfy nest for the jellyfish.
He deposited the book, the weight of his guilt leaving with the book as it slid down the drop box.
After checking to make sure no one was near them, he said, “I should name you.”
The jellyfish buzzed against his head.
“Buzz?”
It buzzed again.
“Okay, I’ll call you Buzz.”
Buzz dropped off his head and nuzzled its cap against his cheek, buzzing so that a faint vibration tickled his face.
It vibrated until it noticed Everett was heading for the woods. It shot at his hand and wrapped its tentacles around a finger. It tugged away from the woods and toward the library’s parking lot.
“What’s wrong?”
It strained to pull him back.
“Buzz?”
Someone whispered.
He registered a faint sting on his finger. A cloud of dense black smoke puffed out of Buzz’s body.
He couldn’t find the source of the whisper. He walked closer to the woods, ignoring Buzz.
“Is there something in here?”
Buzz stung Everett again.
“You’re scared? Don’t worry. I have my—” He remembered he had left his salt in his room.
“You’re not going to walk there, are you?” someone asked.
A ghost girl stood behind Everett. He wouldn’t have been able to tell her apart from the living if her blue glow hadn’t momentarily pulsed into existence around her. She was newly lost. The longer the glow remained, the older the ghosts were.
Everett glanced into the woods. He could see well without his flashlight, but the sun set faster than seemed normal. “I was, but it’s too dark now.”
“Take the long way home. It’s safer. But before you go, can you send me away? I’ve been wandering for days, and I have no clue what my final mission is. I give up.”
“There is no final mission. You can make yourself one if you want, but it won’t be your key to moving on. You decide when you want to move on, and that leads you to a witch.”
Buzz floated around the girl’s head as if he were orbiting a planet. She didn’t notice.
“But you’re a witch, right? So can you beam me away?”
“I need to make a salt ring around you, but all my salt is at home. If you meet me there, I can—”
“You need salt?” The girl looked surprised, an eyebrow curved like the top of a question mark. “Really? I thought witches could do it without the potions.”
“It helps me concentrate.”
“Does that mean you’re a low-quality witch?”
Buzz vibrated with what Everett took to be laughter and then spiraled around a nearby tree like a wayward rocket. Buzz floated down, body spinning like a disk, and sat on Everett’s head.
“No offense. I was joking,” the girl said with an uncertain smile, holding up her hands in surrender.
“None taken. It means I need a focus. A lot of witches need focuses, and salt is the most common one.”
“Cool. Hopefully I’ll remember this wherever I go.”
With the shadows falling over the woods, Everett’s only option was to take side streets, doubling his travel time. Once he got home, he dumped salt in a ring on the kitchen tiles and the girl stepped in before he could even finish. The bridge formed upon the circle’s completion, and with a playful salute, she spiraled into a sphere and rocketed through the ceiling.
He released his hold on the bridge and didn’t expect it to remain. He dabbed his sweaty neck with a paper towel.
The bridge was a one-way connection for most witches; for Bridge Masters, they were a two-way street. How did a Bridge Master cross over?
Everett stuck his hand past the white flames of the bridge. The flames tickled his skin like strings of water. He pulled out and the water dried.
Maybe he had to stand in the ring. He dissolved the bridge and swept the salt into a dustpan. He’d save it for his training with Omar.
Buzz bopped his nose with a tentacle and rapped on the backyard sliding door. He opened it, and Buzz floated out, waving a tentacle in farewell.
“I’ll see you later?” Everett said.
Buzz saluted and left.
HE DID a little housecleaning, primarily in the living room and kitchen, and added to his paranormal essay until his grandfather came home with their late dinner: toasted sandwiches from a grocery store.
“I sent a ghost over the bridge while you were gone,” Everett said as they set the table.
“I’ll send a notification after dinner,” his grandfather said.
After a short silence, Everett asked, “Why are we moving to the shop?”
“For your safety, primarily. Your new status as a Bridge Master has been registered with the Order. The list is private property, only accessible by those who can log into the website. It doesn’t mean it is completely safe.”
Only adult witches who underwent verification by Order officials were given the passwords to the website, which was disguised as an amateur paranormal investigator’s blog. One of the Order’s jobs was to maintain the website and make sure it stayed updated, false, and out of the public eye. Not many visited the blog anyway. The advertisements scared most curious noses away.
Everett wiped a smudge on the table. “When are we moving out?”
“We will clean the apartment out this weekend. Next week, we’ll start packing boxes and moving furniture. We will also host a garage sale for all the unwanted items we have. We should be completely settled within two weeks.”
“It’s so soon,” he whispered. “What about the house?”
“Sell it. The value has gone up immensely from when your parents purchased it, so we’ll have some financial security there.”
“Who is going to buy a house near a haunted wood?” When houses in the neighborhood went vacant, especially the ones on Everett’s road, they were sold to those unfamiliar with Ashville and in desperate need of distance from their former lives.
“Kanyar. She is investigating the happenings of the woods, so a house on this road will be beneficial.”
Kanyar was a scouting witch with a fat investment portfolio funded by her multimillion-dollar inheritance from he
r late grandparents. She would have no issue with purchasing the house in cold cash and remodeling it into something worth twice its value.
Everett’s parents had kept the house as simple as possible so they wouldn’t get sidetracked by the material side of life. They believed in the spiritual importance of relationships and adventure. When they left for the scouting trip in Las Vegas that ultimately led to their disappearance, Everett’s grandfather had spruced up the house with a little color in the form of sofa pillows, wall paintings, and potted plants. It still was plain and ugly—plain ugly.
“This is enough stress to last me a year.” Everett laughed, and it tasted like dust was spewing from his throat.
“It seems like a lot, and it is, but it isn’t impossible to manage.” His grandfather cupped his shoulder and smiled before taking a seat at the table.
“I know. It’s just a lot of change.” From his new status as a Bridge Master to training at the dojang to Bryce to moving, he needed a deep meditation session to take it all in without bursting a blood vessel.
Chapter 9
OMAR ALLAN, hero of the seventies’ bridging scandal, lived in a one-story house with a two-car garage on the corner of a block next to an old back road. The exterior walls were a fleshy color that complemented the darker tiles of the roof. Squat bushes lined the driveway and the front path, sloping to the front porch where they formed a small wall in front of the entrance. The front door was set in an alcove, a small porch light on an adjacent wall.
Everett appreciated the simplicity.
He rang the doorbell, sounding an unconventional chime. It was reminiscent of a tune his mother used to hum to lull him to sleep.
The doorbell’s echo faded. Nobody answered.
He rang it again.
Nobody answered.
He called his grandfather and paced the small rectangular front porch. “Are you sure the lessons start today? He’s not here.”
