The Witching Hour

by J. Fallenstein

She drove out on Zumbay Road, past the church and the graveyard. Omar stared intently out the window as if he were looking for something. Or someone. The memory of seeing Omar in the graveyard earlier that week flashed through Rosie’s brain.

  “What’s out there?” she asked and immediately regretted it. Of course, his best friend was out there.

  “Mackie. He was telling me to—” Omar broke off, thinking. “Maybe if I go . . .”

  “Maybe if you go, what?” Rosie prompted him to continue, easing around bend in the road—the spot where Mackie fell. Omar went silent as he closed his eyes and leaned back until she was a mile or two past the curve.

  “So, what do you think is going to happen in the movie?” she asked, changing the subject. “I heard they’ve already started filming a fourth one.”

  The next forty minutes to the theater seemed to fly by as they got into a heated conversation about the plot twists in the first two movies in the series, who was evil and who was good, and what it all really meant.

  At the theater they took two seats toward the back. The previews flashed on the screen.

  Omar smiled. “You ready for this?” he asked, raising his eyebrows in mock seriousness.

  “Yes. Because I already told you how it’s going to go down and you, sir, are going to owe me a piece of pie from Dina’s.” She smiled and poked his bicep.

  “We’ll just see about that,” he said, sliding his arm around her shoulder.

  “This is fun.”

  “Yeah, it is.” Omar jostled her arm good-naturedly.

  “You seem better.”

  “I’ve got a good distraction.”

  It was true, here at the theater Omar seemed more normal than she had ever seen him. He even gave Rosie a hard time about her dishwater-blond roots showing.

  But then her stomach let loose a tremendous growl. Omar turned to her with wide eyes. “You eat a tiger today?”

  She giggled. She’d been so distracted by thoughts of the weird things that had happened since she’d arrived at Middleton that she hadn’t eaten all day. But it seemed like it was going to be okay. Her plan was working! So now she needed a soda and some popcorn or she might just pass out, if not from hunger, then from pure exhilaration.

  “Popcorn?” she asked. Omar nodded enthusiastically.

  “I’ll be right back.” She stood with her purse and shuffled out of the row. The line for concessions seemed to take forever, and some of the soda spilled on her top as she navigated opening the heavy cinema door.

  Rosie stepped into the dim theater. Someone was babbling, back to the left, near where she and Omar were sitting. “In that black jersey, I couldn’t see you. It was night, bro.”

  She stopped. The vents hummed as they came on. The dark red curtains that ran along the wall rustled and billowed.

  “Omar?” she called as her eyes adjusted to the dark. She took a tentative step towards their seats.

  He turned to face her, eyes wide, his face glistening with sweat.

  Rosie’s heart thudded. “Who are you talking to?”

  “You didn’t see him?” Omar pointed to the curtains.

  “See who?”

  “Mackie. He was here. Just now. Coming for me.” Omar shook his head, the rest of his rambling words too jumbled for Rosie to understand. The movie screen filled with light.

  “Sit down, you’re blocking the view,” a man said gruffly from a few rows behind her.

  Rosie slid into her seat next to Omar. She touched his arm. “Are you okay?”

  “Don’t you smell it?” Omar whispered.

  “Smell what?” Rosie asked and sniffed. The normal movie theater smells of stale popcorn and sugar were gone, replaced by a faint pine smell.

  “Mackie’s forest fresh cologne. He always wore it.”

  “That’s why you think Mackie was here, because of the pine smell?”

  Omar shook his head no. “He was just here, Rosie. He came out from the curtain. I tried to explain. But he said I needed to go—to go to him—like change places I think. He wants me to go to the graveyard. At midnight. I need to . . .”

  “I didn’t see anyone,” Rosie said as she glanced at the still-moving curtains. “Mackie isn’t here, Omar.”

  The loud clash of swords filled the air as the movie started. Music and screams and the whir of flying machines filled the theater.

  Throughout the movie Rosie glanced at Omar, but he stared at the screen zombie-like, barely blinking.

  When the houselights came on, they both stood. Rosie turned to him. Was he truly so guilt-ridden that he was losing his mind? But he wasn’t imagining all of it; she had smelled the pine too. What was happening?

  “So, um, how do you feel now?” she asked. He’d obviously been seriously freaked out. But he hadn’t bolted—he’d stuck it through. That was progress.

  “Sorry,” Omar said. “I guess I’m still dealing with it all.”

  “It’s okay,” Rosie said. “I understand. My mom . . . well.” She didn’t need to air all of the family’s dirty laundry, did she? She didn’t need to tell him about how her mom spent some time “recovering,” as her mom’s therapist called it, after Jessica died. Maybe it was enough that Rosie was standing by him while he got through this. She touched his hand and he grabbed hers. “Thanks,” Omar said, as they walked out of the theater into the parking lot.

  “I wish you would have known me before.” He looked over at her.

  “Oh yeah?” She leaned into him. “What did I miss?”

  “Well, I actually had a pretty good sense of humor,” he said. They walked through the cool twilight and passed a sleek, new SUV with a woman reorganizing some plastic bags in the car’s open back. Her husband leaned against the side of the vehicle, holding her big, green purse.

  “How’s it going?” the man said, nodding to Omar and Rosie.

  “Check it out,” Omar whispered to Rosie and then turned to the man. “Sir,” he began, “sorry, but in my humble opinion, that outfit requires a smaller purse, perhaps in a neutral tone.”

  The man shook his head, laughed, and repeated the joke to his wife. The wife’s soft chuckle joined her husband’s.

  “See?” Omar flashed a grin at Rosie as she retrieved the keys from her purse.

  “Does my purse meet the high demands of your inner fashion police?” she asked, holding up her fuchsia bag.

  But Omar was standing statue-like in front of her convertible, staring at the bumper.

  “Omar, what is it?”

  His arm raised, a finger pointed to a red smear across the beige front of the car.

  “You hit somebody!” he said and took several quick breaths.

  “No, Omar, this must be from a cart at the store. Those red plastic carts?” She bent over and ran her hand over the mark. “See?”

  Omar shook his head. “It’s blood. He was here. Mackie. He was here.” He gripped her arm, hard. “It was him. I told you I was talking to him in the theater. He’s been following me. He thinks I hit him. Killed him. But,” a cry came from his lips. “I didn’t. I swear.” Tears fell from his eyes in relentless streaks.

  “Omar.” Rosie’s hands found his shoulders. “Look at me.”

  Slowly, his gaze left the bumper and moved to her eyes.

  “I didn’t hit anyone with the car. Mackie is not here. It’s okay. You’re just panicking. I’m going to take you home now. Let’s just get in the car.”

  Shaking, Omar got into the passenger seat. He was obviously traumatized and sleep deprived. If he didn’t calm down on the way home she might have to detour to the hospital. He snapped on his seatbelt.

  Rosie moved to her door and bent low. There was definitely something red on the car. But as she looked closer, even she could see that it couldn’t have been from a shopping cart. The red smear wasn’t a red shapeless blob—it was three words. Someone had scratched “Go to him” on the bumper. She felt a cold breeze on the back of her neck as she stared at the letters.

  Chapter 7

>   As she pulled into the school parking lot on Monday morning, Rosie tried to think of an explanation for the red scratches on the car. She got out to examine the beige bumper in the daylight, and a jeep that apparently lacked a muffler rumbled in next to her.

  Rosie kept her eyes on the bumper. Someone had definitely scraped those words into it. But why? She covered them with her hands.

  Jack got out of the jeep. “Something wrong with your bumper?”

  “It’s just . . . ,” Rosie started. “Someone scratched something into it.”

  “Let me see.” And before Rosie could stop him, Jack pushed her hand out of the way.

  They both stared at the bumper. Then Jack broke the silence, his voice level and low, “ ‘Go to him’? What is this, some kind of a joke? It’s bad enough that Omar killed my brother, but to taunt me about it? And now you’re in on it too?”

  Rosie was stunned. She didn’t know what to say. Omar taunting Jack? And Jack thought she was doing something too? “I didn’t . . .” Rosie looked up at him. “What do you mean?” she managed to mumble.

  “All the texts looking like they’re coming from Mackie’s old phone. I blocked Omar’s number for a reason; I don’t want to talk to the dude. So to hack into Mackie’s phone to send me messages . . . It’s nasty. Mackie was my twin. What Omar did . . . He needs to leave me alone. Writing ‘44’ all over too. I don’t know how he’s doing it, but it’s twisted.”

  “Writing ‘44’?” The images came rushing back to Rosie: the jersey at the graveyard, the condensation in the car, the water on the table in the diner. Rosie tried to keep her voice calm. “Look, Jack. I’m not doing anything to you and neither is Omar. Do you even know how hard this has been on him?”

  Jack’s eyes widened. “Seriously? How hard this has been on him?”

  “I know Mackie was your brother, your twin, and I know what it’s like to lose someone close to you, believe me,” Rosie said. “But Omar is suffering too. He’s suffering a lot. Did you think of that? Not only did he lose his best friend, his ‘brother from another mother,’ but it’s like you and the whole town think he killed Mackie. Whether his car hit Mackie or Mackie jumped out of the way and lost his balance over the edge, it doesn’t matter. It was an accident. A terrible accident. Don’t you see that?”

  Jack held her stare. “Of course I think of that. If things hadn’t happened the way they did so much would be different.” He looked up, blinking back tears. “But now it’s like this. And it’s all because one night Omar was careless.”

  “Jack! You don’t even know if Omar hit Mackie!”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Jack’s voice shook with anger now, “He was careless and . . . he’s the one living. He needs to pay for what he’s done!”

  And with that last outburst, Jack rushed into school.

  Rosie stared after him, stunned. Jack had it out for Omar for no other reason than Omar was there when the accident happened. Rosie knew he was upset with Omar, but she hadn’t thought Jack meant him any harm. But from the look on Jack’s face—the anger in his eyes—it seemed like Jack would stop at nothing to make Omar pay for what happened.

  Her mind went back to the day in the lunchroom. That deep pine smell. Could Jack have splashed some of that hardware store cleaner near the table when he walked by? And the Spanish index cards, her bumper . . . could that all have been Jack, telling Omar to ‘go to him’—to die, just like Mackie had? It was so disturbing it was hard to think about. And now Jack was saying that Omar was pranking him, hacking Mackie’s phone to send him texts. Why would Jack do that? To give him an excuse to hate Omar? But that still didn’t explain everything—the number 44 appearing everywhere, what had happened in the theater. There was no way Rosie wouldn’t have seen Jack if he was there. Besides, how could Jack have known about the movie in the first place?

  The wind picked up, sending a chill over Rosie. The thick clouds threatened rain, and a low mist seemed to roll out from the trees to the lot.

  The same creepy feeling she had in her car the first day of school came back. It was as if someone was watching her, following her. She tried to shake it off but it wouldn’t leave her alone, so she gave up waiting for Omar and headed into the school.

  ***

  At lunch Omar was completely zoned out, methodically taking bites of his burger and sipping his milk. Rosie tried to keep the conversation light, “Are there any good places to bike around here?” Omar continued to stare ahead, silent. She waved a hand in front of his dull eyes. “Omar?”

  He slowly lifted his head. “Yeah, Geister Park has a trail, it’s a little steep. Zumbay Road . . .”

  “Great! Maybe I’ll head out for a ride tonight if it’s not raining. What are you up to?”

  He shrugged. Thunder boomed outside the window and rain pattered against the glass.

  “It’s storming pretty badly out there,” Rosie said. “How about I give you a ride home after school?”

  Omar managed a small smile. “Sure, Rosie. Thanks.”

  After the last bell Omar strolled up to her car and tossed his backpack into the back seat. “Man, I love everything about this car,” Omar said, running his hand over the convertible top. “I’m a total vintage fan. I was saving up to buy something like this before . . .”

  “Yeah, it’s a classic. Hey, do you want to drive it?”

  Omar shook his head no and got in.

  “Is it because you don’t know how?” Rosie teased him as she started the car.

  “I know how to drive a stick shift!”

  “Really?” Rosie said as she started the car. “Shift for me then. I’ll take the back roads so we don’t run into any other traffic.” She pushed in the clutch and Omar shoved the gearshift up to the left.

  “Go, New Girl,” he said, and she eased her foot off the clutch and gently pressed the gas. The car jerked forward and she gave it more gas. “Again!” she said, pushing in the clutch. Omar shifted down into second, then, as they drove further, up to the right, third, and then down into fourth.

  “Now that you’ve got a feel for it, maybe you can drive this car for real sometime,” Rosie suggested as she pulled onto his street. “If you think you can handle it.”

  Omar smiled. “I know how to handle a nice car.”

  “Good thing too. My dad would have killed me if we had gotten into an accident.” Rosie pulled up Omar’s driveway. He seemed like he’d relaxed and might be open to talking about Jack if she brought it up now.

  “Omar.” She turned off the car and touched his forearm. “I talked to Jack today.”

  Omar nodded and pulled his backpack onto his lap. She looked into his eyes. “He thinks—and I don’t think you are—but he thinks you’re texting him from Mackie’s old phone.”

  “What?” Omar’s eyes shot wide open. “No,” he said with conviction. “No, come on, you know that’s not me.”

  “I know, but why would he say that?”

  Omar just shook his head back and forth then flung the door open and got out. He put his head in through the window. “You know that isn’t me, right, New Girl?”

  Rosie nodded and he stepped back. “Thanks for the ride,” he said, but his look was doubtful—like he wasn’t sure whose side Rosie was on now.

  She drove home. Why would Jack make up a story about Omar taunting him? What was really happening? There were three possibilities: One, Jack was actually making it all up about getting texts from Mackie. Two, Omar really was texting Jack by hacking Mackie’s number. Or three, someone—or something—else was texting Jack and leaving the number 44 all over. A shiver ran up Rosie’s spine. What if it wasn’t option one or two?

  Chapter 8

  Friday night Rosie sat on the couch with her chemistry book. All of her parking lot studying wasn’t going to fully prepare her for those pop quizzes her teacher hinted at, and it wasn’t like she had friends to hang out with anyway. She’d missed Omar at lunch since she brought up Jack when she drove him home. Apparently he’d stayed home sick f
or the rest of the week. But Rosie wondered if it was really because he was avoiding her. She’d just gotten settled when someone pounded on the front door. Rosie jumped up. It couldn’t be her dad; he was in the city at a meeting and wouldn’t be back until late.

  As she peeked out her side window Rosie glimpsed Omar’s tall frame shivering on her stoop in the dark. She flung open the door.

  “Omar!”

  “I saw him!” he panted, his face full of terror.

  “Saw who?”

  “Mackie. He was, was . . .” Omar could barely get the words out through his shivering. “He was running in the woods along Zumbay, past the graveyard, near where it happened.” A crazed look shot across Omar’s face. He grabbed Rosie’s shoulders, his eyes bulging, his face slick with nervous sweat. “He was trying to get me. Rosie, he was coming for me.”

  Rosie spoke calmly, trying to look Omar in the eyes. “Why do you think he’s coming after you?”

  “Because,” Omar’s voice was high-pitched like he was going to cry. “He wants to change places with me. He keeps telling me to go to him, but when I get to the graveyard nothing happens.”

  She put her arm around his shoulders. “Omar, why would he want that?”

  A cry escaped his lips. “I don’t know. Maybe I should have died. Maybe it was a mistake.” He rested his forehead on her shoulder. “I would though, Rosie. I would change places with him.”

  “Oh, Omar, are you sure it was Mackie that you saw?”

  He pulled back and nodded. “He was wearing his jersey. In the woods. Running in his cleats, keeping up with me. Pointing at his eyes, then to me, like ‘an eye for an eye.’” Omar let out a wail and collapsed into her shoulder again. “This time I saw his face!”

  Rosie’s back buckled slightly as she tried to keep Omar standing. “Let’s get inside,” she said. “You sit on the couch and I’ll get you some water.”

  She ran the faucet. How could Omar have seen Mackie? He saw the jersey, but the face? The only one who looked like Mackie was . . . Jack. She hated to suspect him, but how else could it be explained? Jack did say that Omar should pay for his mistake.