by Kat Ellis
I remember the first time I heard someone refer to my family as the “Bloody Thorns.” It was at my grandfather’s funeral, when I was eight. My dad mentioned it in his eulogy, like it was a well-known thing—almost a joke. I sat in the front pew, watching Dad talk about Grandpa in that surreal, squeaky-clean way people do at funerals. “Always a kind word for a stranger . . . gave to underserved communities . . . never dropped a fart in his life . . .” Leaving out all the real parts, trying to make him sound Better Than Jesus. And then Dad just threw it out there: “As all of you know, he was a Bloody Thorn through and through, and would’ve been tapping his watch at me right about now for talking too long.”
“What does Bloody Thorn mean?” I whispered to Mom. She squeezed my hand in that hush, honey way of hers, but answered anyway.
“It means you know your own mind, and don’t let anyone stand in your way.” She eyed me sidelong, which was especially effective with her sharply winged eyeliner. “You should remember that, Ava.”
Know your own mind, and don’t let anyone stand in your way. That did sound like Grandpa. And Dad. And Mom.
Dad arrived back at the pew, and Uncle Ty took his place at the lectern. This was the first time I’d ever seen Uncle Ty in a suit. It looked strange and too big on his seventeen-year-old body, even though it had been tailored to fit him.
Somehow, I could tell even before Uncle Ty spoke that he was about to do something wrong. Maybe it was the way he loosened the tie at his throat, just a fraction. Or the faintest curve at the corners of his mouth.
“Dad always called me his ‘dreamer.’ The son who wanted to be an artist. Who wasn’t going to follow in his big brother’s footsteps and become a great businessman. Who wasn’t much of a Bloody Thorn, I guess. But he always said it with a smile, and never told me not to pursue art. He wouldn’t pay for me to go to art college, but he didn’t tell me I couldn’t go, either. I guess that’s the fun part of being the spare son—you’re not really worth investing in.”
Uncle Ty paused, as though he expected people to laugh, but there was only awkward silence. “My dad was quite the dreamer himself, though, wasn’t he? I’m sure plenty of you here heard his stories over the last few months—about how the orchard feeds on Thorn blood? Or how he kept seeing Dead-Eyed Sadie right before he—”
“Ty,” Dad said, his deep voice carrying easily across the short distance to the lectern. “Wrap it up now.”
Uncle Ty gave him a tight smile. “Of course, big brother. Whatever you say.” He turned back to face his audience again. “I loved my father very much. And I look forward to getting along with him much better now.”
“Ty!” Dad snapped, but Uncle Ty was already stepping down from the lectern. He didn’t come back to sit with us. Instead, he yanked off his tie and dropped it in the collection plate by the church door on his way out.
When the service was over and I was home again with Mom and Dad, the manor still ringing with the silence of Grandpa leaving, I asked them what Uncle Ty had meant. “Why was he talking about Grandpa seeing Dead-Eyed Sadie?”
I’d heard of Sadie by then, of course. But this was my first time hearing of anyone I knew actually seeing her.
Mom’s voice remained low and calm, but I noticed her fingertips whitening against her wineglass. “There’s a Thorn family superstition that each of us sees Dead-Eyed Sadie before we die.”
Dad said nothing, peering out through the lounge window toward the orchard as though he wasn’t listening, but his eyes flickered to me when I went on.
“Like she kills us?” My voice rose, and Mom came to sit next to me, squeezing me to her side with a gentle laugh.
“Nothing like that,” she said airily. “Her appearance is a warning that danger’s on the way. But she’s harmless enough. She’s just a girl who had something bad happen to her. That doesn’t make her bad, does it?”
Then Dad turned away from the window and gave me a tight Thorn smile. “Your uncle just said all that because he’s angry at Grandpa for leaving before they could work things out.”
“But it’s not like Grandpa had a choice about dying, is it?” I pressed.
“No,” he said faintly. “He didn’t.”
EIGHT
I lie in bed, bundled in quilts and blankets, listening to the wind whistling through the gaps around the little round window of my room. If the barn owl is hiding out in the attic above me, it’s keeping quiet. But, as the wind shifts direction, something up there starts to bang out a loud, jarring rhythm.
“What have you got against sleep?” I mutter to no one in particular.
I drag myself out of bed and, remembering the owl pellet from Saturday night, I put on my boots. The weasel skull I found that night has since been cleaned and polished, and now grins at me weaselishly from my windowsill. Carolyn said it added “character” to the room. I tend to agree, although it kind of makes me miss having a pet of my own. One with the fur on, I mean.
The junk area of the mill is dark and musty-smelling. I edge around the stacks of boxes to reach the ladder up to the loft, and stub my toe on one of Uncle Ty’s never-used weights. I’m starting to think this mill might be haunted by a ghost who doesn’t like me very much. Or I might just be a klutz.
Using the flashlight on my phone, I avoid stepping in any more owl grossness. The little round window—a twin to the one in my bedroom below—stands open. The window itself swings back and forth on its hinges, clattering against the frame on the backswing. I hurry over, hoping the glass hasn’t already completely shattered. The mill’s drafty enough without having a permanently open window in the side of it.
Hailstones pelt my arm like bullets as I reach out to grab the window latch. I pull, fighting against the wind. Just as I manage to fasten the latch, the glass panes—intact, by some miracle—flare with a burst of lightning outside. In the glare, I see evil eyes carved into the stone edging of the window. Seven of them, circling all the way around it.
A deep chill settles in my gut. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many in one place. I know they’re just an old superstition, meant to protect against evil or whatever; lots of people here have them carved above their front door. In a town where most of the buildings are centuries old, you expect to find weird things like that. But seeing so many eyes together like this is damn creepy.
Especially after that dead girl washing up with none.
Back in my room, the lingering unsettled feeling from finding those eyes carries me over to the window. I lean across my desk to check the windowsill, looking for the same markings that are on the one in the attic. At first, I don’t see them. But there, under a thick layer of masonry paint, are seven faintly indented evil eyes. I trace my finger over one of them, jumping as lightning flashes again outside. As my vision dances with light spots, I imagine for a moment I see someone standing on the bridge in the far distance, a dark speck against the ink-scratch crossing over the top of the waterfall.
But, as my vision clears, there is no dark figure. Only Burden Bridge, standing as it always has.
* * *
* * *
Getting summoned to see Mr. Hamish first thing in the morning is never a great sign, but part of me’s hoping it might be good news about the summer art program.
It’s not.
Mr. Hamish is in his mid-thirties, and is the kind of guidance counselor who wears tight-fitting khakis, and has beanbag chairs in one corner of his office that nobody but him ever uses. The kind who shaves a center part into his mustache, and rests his finger there while he listens.
When I knock on his door, he smiles and holds his arms out wide like he means to hug me, then gestures to the beanbags when I don’t move from the doorway.
I go and sit down next to his desk, in an actual chair. He frowns, disappointed, and plops down on the opposite side.
“Ava, how are you doing?” he asks, then goes on without waiting for
an answer. “I heard you had a little trouble yesterday, got yourself a detention. I thought we were past all that.”
It isn’t a question, but he tilts his head like it is.
“Just a misunderstanding,” I say, forcing my jaw not to clench as I deliver the line Uncle Ty advised me to use. I say “advised,” but it was not really advice so much as an order. “It won’t happen again.”
“Mmhmm. Mmhmm.” Mr. Hamish nods enthusiastically, pointer finger taking up position in the center part, but only for a second. “I did wonder if it was perhaps something to do with that unfortunate young woman who washed up yesterday . . . That must have brought up some painful memories for you, I’m sure.”
I frown. “If you mean my parents, Mr. Hamish, then not really. They didn’t drown—they died in a car wreck.” He knows this perfectly well. All the faculty, as well as every kid in this school, knows what happened to my parents. The basic facts, at least.
“Of course, of course. I’m glad to hear yesterday’s tragedy didn’t dredge that up for you. Though I have to admit, some of your teachers have been saying lately that they’re concerned about your grades. Very concerned, actually. It seems as though you’re failing algebra 2 and chemistry, and are really behind in your final art project.”
“I . . .” My mouth kind of hangs open while I process all this. Because it’s a lot. “Failing failing?”
“Oh yes,” Mr. Hamish confirms breezily. “But that’s not a shock to you, surely? I really wish you’d followed my advice and hired a tutor before winter break.”
It is a shock, though. Going from your grades are slipping to you are failing hadn’t really crossed my mind, and now it’s like a Klaxon going off in my head.
Mr. Hamish’s suggestion had actually been to hire him as a tutor, and to be honest, even if we’d had the money to spare for it then, I wouldn’t have chosen him. There’s something distinctly . . . unacademic about Mr. Hamish. And is it even ethical for a guidance counselor to pimp himself out to students?
In any case, the idea of failing now, when graduation is literally just a few months away, changes things. I don’t have a ton of money saved up from working at the Pump’N’Go, what with Bessie’s gas needs, but there’s enough to cover a few hours with a tutor.
“I’ll catch up,” I tell him. He gives me this real pitying look, like I’ve just claimed to be able to fly or something.
“I appreciate this has been a difficult year for you, but this is your senior year. There really isn’t a lot of leeway left, Ava.”
Leeway. Because that’s what you get when your parents die in front of you.
“I’ll work something out, I promise,” I tell him. I’m already wondering how hard I’ll need to grovel for Carla to agree to tutor me. She has absolutely zero patience for explaining shit, and I’m going to need a lot of shit explained to me . . . Yeah, I’m pretty sure she’s going to ghost me until after graduation. Maybe I could get Daphne to ask her for me?
Mr. Hamish shrugs. “You still have options, Ava. I mean, you could always repeat the year. Or take makeup classes this summer.”
“But the art program is this summer . . .”
“Ah, yes. I wouldn’t pin all my hopes on that.”
I feel an awful, yawning void open up beneath my chair. My fingers whiten on the armrests as Mr. Hamish goes on cheerfully nudging me into the vacuum.
“Miss Shannon is liaising with me about which candidate to put forward for the program. Only one student can go, so it’s an important decision.” He says this like it’s his important decision. “It’s only because we see such talent and potential in your past work that we’re even considering you for the spot. But I have to say, with your academic record being what it is, you really shouldn’t get your hopes up. And you need to be thinking longer term, in any case. The program is only six weeks. What then?”
I ignore that question because I have no idea how to answer it. “If I raise my grades, though, I still have a shot, right?”
Mr. Hamish leans back and goes to steeple his fingers in front of him, but his arms are too short, so he ends up resting his hands on his stomach. “Sure, that’ll be a start. And you’re a smart girl. Creative. I think once you figure out how badly you want to graduate with your friends, you’ll know what to do.”
* * *
* * *
“Does that not strike you as a bit . . . extortion-y?” Daphne asks me at lunch, after I’ve relayed the conversation to her while we wait for Carla to arrive. I was hoping she’d dive in with an offer to broker some tutoring for me from Carla. Daphne is the only one who’s able to tap into Carla’s extremely well-hidden kinder nature.
But this response confuses the hell out of me.
“What do you mean, ‘extortion-y’?”
Daphne blinks at me. “How badly do you want it, Ava? A girl like you knows how to get creative, right?” she says, dropping her voice so it’s low and sleazy.
“He didn’t say it like that.”
“Are you sure? Because that’s how I heard it, and you know you have some kind of . . . processing glitch when it comes to people being into you.”
“I do not,” I say. “Do I?”
“Does Ava what?” Carla slides into the seat next to me, and I catch an unwelcome waft of her mac ’n’ cheese.
“Doesn’t she completely miss the signals when someone’s into her?” Daphne answers, and Carla nods without hesitation.
“Every time. Remember when Yara Almasi tried to get her phone number at the pre-holiday party in December?”
“Wait, what?” I cut in, despite the fact they seem happy to continue this conversation about me without my input. “Paint-my-ass Yara was into me?” Daphne and Carla mmhmm in unison. “I can’t believe I totally missed that.”
“Of course you did. Your instincts are terrible, and you rely on them way too much. Who’s hitting on Ava now, though?” Carla asks.
“Mr. Hamish.” Daphne’s face sours.
“For real?” Carla side-eyes me. “Even you can do better than Hamish.”
“I hate you so much,” I tell her, meaning it in that moment.
Carla’s gaze tracks to the far side of the cafeteria, where Freya Miller is laughing about something with her friends. For a second, I feel absolutely certain they’re laughing at me, but I’m probably just being paranoid. Of their group, only Dominic is turned vaguely in our direction, his perma-scowl in full force. I feel like he wears that thing instead of developing an actual personality.
Then Mateo feigns like he’s going to thumb-gouge Casper’s eyes and shrieks, “Sadie’s coming for you!” loudly enough that everyone stops and looks at him before returning to their food. It reminds me that the Miller twins’ shit squad really are planning to shoot a Dead-Eyed Sadie special at the manor.
Why did I have to paint that damn mural?
And why didn’t I make sure I covered it up before we left?
No matter what, I can’t get sidetracked—I need to paint over it tonight. I may not be able to stop them from turning my old house into a horror show, but they don’t get to use my painting to do it.
“I saw Freya coming out of Hamish’s office on my way here,” Carla says. “She looked kind of pissed, actually. Though I’m pretty sure Freya would break his face if he ever tried anything with her.”
Despite my loathing of Freya Miller, I have to admit Carla’s probably right about that. But this whole conversation is based on my highly suspect relaying skills, and I need to clear this up before it becomes something it’s not.
“Look, Mr. Hamish wasn’t hitting on me, okay? I probably just made what he said sound skeevy without meaning to.”
Carla points a forkful of mac at Daphne. “She has a point. Ava is not good with words.”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck yourself,” she counters. I feel like I just got
schooled, though I’m not sure how, exactly.
Speaking of schooling . . . “Heeeeyyy, Carla, how would you feel about tutoring your favorite about-to-fail-out-of-school buddy? Algebra and chem? I can pay you . . .”
“No.” She doesn’t even drop a beat, just keeps eating her disgusting lunch. “Do you know how much homework we get in AP classes? I barely have time to do my own studying, especially with Corey and his new goddamned theremin of all things. It sounds like someone’s trying to strangle the theme to Star Trek in his room. Anyway, I’d just end up wanting to kill you. You should ask Carolyn.”
“Carolyn?”
That’s actually a great idea. Carolyn was a chemistry major in college. I tend to forget how overqualified she is for her job at the local pharmacy, but there really aren’t a lot of sciencey jobs in Burden Falls.
Truth is, if I hadn’t been trying so damn hard to hide my bad grades from her and Uncle Ty (really not easy when he’s a teacher), she probably would’ve offered to help me already.
“Yeah, I’ll do that,” I say. “Thanks.” I pick up my empty lunch tray. “I’m gonna work on my art project before next period. Catch you both later.”
I’m just typing out a message to Carolyn at the tray-ditching station when I notice Dominic Miller approaching. He’s probably decided to finally chew me out for being at the manor the other night, despite Ford promising me he’d covered my tracks.
“Thorn, wait a—”
“Kiss my ass.” I’m pretty sure that’s grammatically correct, thank you, Carla.
I hurry out of the cafeteria, feeling Dominic Miller’s glower hitting me right between the shoulder blades.
NINE
I pull in at the public library on the way home. It’s an old red-and-white brick building with a rounded turret at one end—think low-budget Rapunzel.
I go inside and head straight for the local-history section. It’s in a small room off by itself where I can sit and use the Wi-Fi without anyone giving me eyes. I take out my sketchbook and a few pens for window dressing (though I really should be working on my final art project), pull out my phone, and click to download the movie Ford chose for us to watch later. He doesn’t have Wi-Fi at home, either, so I’m forced to sneakily download here.
