The Gateway Through Which They Came

by Heather Marie

  We make it to Trevor’s house in time to see his mom lugging a load of groceries from the trunk of her Infiniti. She’s got the same round face as her son, but her big brown eyes give off a completely different vibe than Trevor’s. Where his eyes are more knowing and sincere, hers are flirty and, well, hot. She’s a few years younger than Mr. Atkins, but not in that beautiful-woman-married-to-an-old-man kind of a way.

  Her straight, blonde hair swivels against her back as she turns toward the sound of Izzie coughing her way up the driveway.

  “Hey, boys! Care to help an old lady with her groceries?”

  If by old lady you mean smoking hot mom, then yes.

  I give her a super smooth, nonchalant shrug as I exit the car. “Sure.”

  Trevor isn’t a fan of us drooling over his mother, and I get that. I don’t even want to think about someone finding my mother attractive. The only problem is, Evan doesn’t understand boundaries.

  “You bet!” Evan replies with too much enthusiasm, or what I like to call raging hormones. He gives the passenger seat a hard shove, smashing Trevor against the dashboard as he fumbles his way out. “I think I could help a beautiful lady such as yourself.” He struts toward her.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Trevor says to himself, placing the passenger seat back where it belongs.

  “I bet you’re quite the helper at home,” Mrs. Atkins says to Evan, giving him that flirty smile I’m not even sure she’s aware of.

  Evan takes more than he can handle, trying to impress her with his strength and failing. We watch as she leads him into the house, her face a little concerned with the fact that Evan’s arms are weighted to the ground, and he’s already breaking a sweat.

  Trevor closes the door to Izzie and says, “I’m gonna kill him.”

  After practically shoving Evan into the basement before he embarrasses himself any further, we kill some time before the food drive by sipping on whiskey and playing pool. Mr. Atkins runs a local contracting company, giving him more than enough money to afford this swanky house and turn the once dingy basement into a game room. It has everything from a pinball machine to card tables and foosball, which I finally admit that I suck at. The smoky gray tiled floor reflects the marquee of lights that cover the entire ceiling, illuminating the mini bar that stands in front of a row of mirrors lining the wall. Under the lip of the counter are two padded leather stools, which match the black leather couch near the adjacent wall. We come down here so often, we practically broke in the leather ourselves. With the chic black coffee table, and the bar counter glistening with black marble, the entire place gives the appearance of an IKEA catalog. It’s so classy that I’m sure if we played the stereo we’d find Sinatra cued up and ready to belt out “Come Fly with Me.” That’s pretty much all Mr. Atkins listens to down here.

  “Eight ball, corner pocket,” I tell Evan, who’s not listening ‘cause he’s too busy peer pressuring Trevor as usual. I don’t quite get the attraction. What does Trevor see in him?

  “One shot, dude. That’s all I’m asking.” Evan stands behind the bar, pours a glass of whiskey, and shoves it toward Trevor. I take this moment to make the shot, closing one eye as I focus, balancing the stick between my fingers. The room is tilted slightly off kilter, and the distraction of their voices sends the eight ball sailing into the air and smacking hard against the tile. That’s gonna leave a mark. I cringe at the sound and look to find neither of them notices.

  Trevor turns the stool away, pushing his hand forward to fight Evan off. “One of us has to stay sober tonight. Who’s gonna drive?”

  “We could take a cab!”

  “Right. How do you suggest I explain that to my parents? Oh, don’t worry, Mom. We’re calling a cab because we’re too drunk to drive. You always told me to be responsible. See ya!” Trevor pantomimes this, waving his hand and smiling at nothing. “Brilliant idea, Evan.”

  “You’re such a killjoy, man,” Evan slurs under his breath, taking the shot for himself.

  “I’m sorry I care,” Trevor says, his voice low.

  I quietly find the rogue eight ball and place it in its rightful place, the corner pocket.

  Evan slams the shot glass down for dramatic effect. “Did you guys hear anything about Koren Banks today?” he asks.

  Her name floats in the air, strange and heavy coming from Evan’s lips. Trevor’s mouth is agape as he watches Evan, and I nearly fall over myself to get closer. We wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. He just stares into the pit of his glass in a daze.

  “What about her?” I try not to sound demanding, but I can’t help the tinge of desperation in my voice. “Evan!” I snap my fingers in his face.

  He jolts, blinking back at me. “Oh. Um… I can’t remember exactly. I heard some girls whispering about her in the hallway. I think they found her or something.”

  “Who? Found her where?” Trevor asks.

  Evan’s eyes gloss over, the alcohol taking its toll. “I have no idea.”

  I want to reach out and shake him, but it would be useless. Found her? I can’t believe I missed it. Did they find Koren’s body? Is that why I can see her now? It’s possible for a Bleeder to become fully aware of itself once it’s been awakened, or rather, when their body is found or exposed. I’ve seen this before with murder victims who have been disposed of and later discovered by authorities. I’m sure something that big would have flooded the news by now. It’s possible we may have missed it during school. But even so, wouldn’t the rumors have spread? The walls of the game room begin to sway and I can’t tell if it’s from the blow Evan just delivered or the alcohol flooding my veins.

  Trevor reaches out to touch me, but I pull away.

  “We should head out,” I say, desperate for this night to be over. “Trevor, you can drive my car.” I toss him the keys. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “Fine,” Evan says, placing the bottle back on the shelf.

  Trevor nods sheepishly and follows my lead. We collect our things and head back toward the stairs.

  “Oh, by the way,” I say to Evan, eyeing the pool table. “You lost.”

  Market Street is bustling with Friday night traffic by the time we make it to the “Black Box.” It’s what they call the 200 Market Building because it’s cloaked in black glass. The entire building is nothing but, and in the daylight it looks as if each window were tinted. As we come upon it now, the Black Box sits ominously in the dark, towering over the streets of downtown Portland.

  Rivers Edge Cafe, where we’re going, is one of several businesses located within the building. The cube itself is filled with everything from business to pleasure. It’s also where we find ourselves nearly every Wednesday during the summer when they have free concerts in the plaza.

  Student council president, Ebony Murphy, is capable of booking practically any event within the building. Her father runs one of the offices on the top floor, granting her access to the cafe whenever she needs it. I think I speak for most of the school when I say we’re sick of this place.

  “Everyone got a breath mint?” Evan asks, checking his hair in the side mirror as we stand outside Izzie. Neither of us is ready to make the first move and follow the other festively dressed students into the building.

  It’s seven thirty and the cold hardly makes an impact on my skin considering the alcohol in my system. I shouldn’t be sweating, but the heavy blazer I’m wearing feels like cement against my bones. Everything is weighted, and I blame the thoughts that invade my head, leaving only the image of Koren and the disturbing scene that replays over and over. I can’t stop myself from picturing a group of uniformed men unearthing her body from somewhere deep within the desolate woods. I can only imagine the worst for a girl who’d disappeared, leaving behind no answers to her whereabouts. It sickens me to think she’s alone, cold and afraid, dead and gone, out there where no one would think to find her.

  “Do you want to leave?” Trevor asks quietly so as not to attract Evan’s attention.


  My mind is hazy. I can only manage a whisper. “No.” I leave him with that, and find my way to the entrance. The shuffling of feet tells me Trevor is helping Evan follow.

  Christmas music blares from the speakers within the Black Box, greeting the crowd of customers that await seating at Carafe and Marata, two of the most well-known restaurants in the area. The cafe to the left of us has been decorated with Joseph High banners that indicate a food drive taking place. Four large bins stand outside the door, labeled with food categories to specify which can goes where.

  Ebony Murphy greets us at the door. “Food cans?” She cocks an eyebrow, and looks toward our hands where a bag of cans should be.

  “We’re just gonna pay the two dollar fee,” Trevor replies, giving her a kind grin.

  “The point was to bring actual food. You know, to help people.” She crosses her arms over her chest. She looks beautiful in a simple red dress with a small white bow wrapped around her tiny waist. Her dark complexion is smooth, glowing with a hint of something along her cheeks that only girls can pull off. The shape of her eyes have a catlike effect, and her lashes are so long, it’s hard not to be transfixed when she flutters them at you. There was a time I would have tripped over my words to talk to her, but right now isn’t one of them.

  “Just take the money, Ebony,” I mumble.

  We each shove two dollars her way and enter into the dimly lit cafe. The tables are the color of avocado, the same color of green used on one section of the wall as you enter, and the rest painted in a rusted red, which fares well for the festivities taking place within it. The obnoxious cheer coming from the others is beyond anything I can handle at the moment. Trevor and Evan are instantly on, talking and mingling with the others, taking the pressure off me. From across the room, I spot Julie Martin waving hello and beckoning me to join her. Before I can wave back or doing anything else, she quickly goes back to her conversation. I blame my pissy mood for not responding, but luckily she’s too distracted to notice. It’s been forever since we’ve had a decent conversation. Not since we spent the summer cleaning the church together anyway.

  Avoiding any eye contact with anyone else, I tuck my hands in my pockets and wait it out. Even though Evan always has his blinders on, I know he notices my mood. He gives me a nudge with his elbow, which coming from him means: Hey man, you okay? I wave him off and continue to watch my feet. The one time I look up for the sake of looking at something other than the ground, I find Justin Chase sauntering through the cafe entrance. Could this night get any worse?

  I roll my eyes and count the minutes. We’re only here to make an appearance, and I remind myself of this every chance I get. All I have to do is make sure Father Williams sees me. Then I don’t have to worry about him hassling me to attend another school function. At least not for another month or so. What is it about these things that people find so important? I don’t get it.

  The hair on the back of my neck prickles. Sudden chills slither down my spine, ignoring the heat within my whiskey-polluted blood. I lift my head and blink back the dizziness. My eyes can hardly focus as I take in the scene around me. So many faces talking at once, my mind can’t process their words. It’s like one big surge of sound crashing into my ears.

  I squeeze my eyes shut once more, and concentrate. Something is burning into me, and I turn in the direction of the source. In my current state, the Gateway senses are heightened. It’s happens every time I get this way, like I’m somehow more sensitive to the world around me. I use this instinct to direct me where I need to go, but a hum of another Gateway’s presence intrudes my focus. I ignore it for now, to seek out the itch at the back of my neck that won’t quit. I feel the Bleeder through a sea of faces and glittering lights from the decorated tree in the corner. When I sense I’ve met my mark, I open my eyes to a silhouette of a girl standing alone behind the tree’s branches. Her wide eyes peek from between the pine needles, the blue of her eyes staring directly into mine.

  My feet stumble forward. I’m only inches from the face I’ve begged to see. I want to reach out for her, to call her name. But even I can’t stop the swimming feeling in my mind as a whiskey-induced nausea sends me crashing to the floor of the Rivers Edge Cafe.

  revor manages to get me on my feet and to the bathroom before I spill my stomach contents in front of everyone. He makes up some elaborate lie, and since it’s Trevor, everyone believes him. The drive back to his house is a blur. I can vaguely remember him and Evan getting my hot mess to the car. Luckily for me, they take care of my drunk ass throughout the night, but that doesn’t hold well the next day.

  I spend the majority of my Saturday hugging the toilet. It’s not a pretty sight and I’m ashamed I let myself get to this point. Thankfully I have my own bathroom to hide in, but that doesn’t stop Mom from checking on me every thirty minutes. She doesn’t believe the food poisoning story for a second.

  “What did you say you ate again?” She’s clearly on to me.

  I don’t have to come up with a lie, because the very thought of food makes me vomit more, which in turn, forces her to leave me to my own demise.

  Despite that my insides are still on fire, thanks to my old pal Whiskey, I pull myself together the next morning to attend church. (And, yes, my mother is still making me go to church regardless of my current condition.) I manage to crawl my way from my bedroom to the car, the Sunday morning sun a little too bright for my liking.

  Along the way, as we drive down Hillsdale Highway toward the Church of Saint Christopher, a glimpse of red hair flashes in my peripheral. I snap to look at it and whip my head so fast, I practically face plant the passenger window.

  “Aiden! What the—? Are you all right?” Mom tries to drive straight and check my vitals at the same time. She might be overreacting a little, but I’m used to it.

  “Yeah,” I answer, rubbing the area of my forehead that is now slightly pink.

  She gives me that wide-eyed, overly-concerned look, and turns back to the road.

  I may not be a fan of Redhead, but I can’t deny that I wish it had been her. Like if I saw her, just once, maybe then what I did wasn’t a big deal. That maybe I hadn’t really done what I thought I did. What exactly I did? I still have no clue.

  Redhead’s shattered face manifests in my mind during the remainder of our ride to church. Her empty eyes, her gut-wrenching scream. She was a real person once. And I did something to her that I could never take back.

  I have to find the answers before it happens again.

  This, along with my food drive fiasco, is what forces me into confession, even though the whole ordeal makes me uncomfortable. Not only do I have to confess the lies and my illegal drinking, which is bad enough, but the confession box makes me claustrophobic. And despite all that, I still have this aching urge to speak to someone about what’s happening to me. But I can’t. Not yet, because how do I explain something even I don’t understand?

  “I sense a change in you, Aiden,” Father Martin says, when I remain silent. “Maybe we should continue our weekly meetings. You need guidance.”

  It’s unsettling the way he uses my name, especially since technically, I should be anonymous in this stupid, shell of a box.

  “I’m fine, Father.” Is it too soon to confess that lie?

  I fidget with my fingers, uncomfortable with the idea that Father Martin may know. Know what? I’m unsure. Can he sense the monster inside me that I’ve tried so hard to forget? With Koren taking up every second of my thoughts, the thing inside me—the thing Redhead awakened when she touched me—has gone to rest. If only I could ignore it, forget it all together, maybe it would simply stop existing.

  My knees readjust along the kneeler. The padding isn’t thick enough for such a long confession. They normally take only a few seconds, in and out. I worry someone will notice the time. It’s been way longer than five minutes. What would Mom think?

  “I should go.” I push myself up.

  “Aiden.” Father Martin presses his face c
loser to the screen, desperation in his voice. “You will come to me if something is wrong, won’t you?”

  The screen between us casts a dark net of shadows across his face, his eyes seeing through the barrier into me.

  “Yes, Father, of course.”

  “Good, son. The Lord will always be here for you. Remember that.”

  I stare back at him and nod, preparing to leave, but not before I catch Father Martin’s eyes widen just then, and in that moment, it’s as if he sees something that frightens him. With a flicker of light, he’s back to the same caring man he’s always been. As I turn away, I can sense something different about him. It’s almost like I can smell his fear, though it can’t be. How could I?

  My mind is somewhere else as I exit the booth, kicking myself for not telling Father Martin the truth. I killed a Dark One. At least I think I did. It’s a bit of an oxymoron when I think about it. I want to go back and explain, but I stop myself. If the fear I saw in his eyes was real, and not a trick of the light, what would he think of me after? He’s like a father to me. The only one I’ve ever known. And if I’ve already lost one, I can’t risk losing another.

  I’m completely distracted as I walk down the aisle, stumbling head-on into a man wearing a dark suit. The broadness of his body rocks me back a step, and I look up to find Justin Chase’s dad, Vincent, glaring down at me.

  “Sorry, Mr. Chase,” I say, taking another step back.

  It’s an accident, clearly, but his displeased expression is far from understanding. A snarl of disgust slips from the thin line of his mouth. Grabbing the lapels of his black coat, he adjusts it as if I’d made a mess of his finely pressed attire.

  “Perhaps you should be more mindful of where you’re going.” The words are thick and unkind, a threat wrapped in a breath of distaste.

  His dark blue eyes pierce through me, startling me back another step until I’m sure he’s out of reach.

  Vincent Chase is a mirror image of his son, in that way any father would be. If you don’t count the roughness of his skin, the slight appearance of wrinkles taking shape along his face and the way his dark blond hair thins with gleams of gray.