by Laurel Gale
“You lied,” he said at last.
Mrs. Darlingson kept her eyes on her work. “Do you mean about your being contagious? It was for your own good. Someday, when you’re older, you’ll understand.”
“But it was a lie! You shouldn’t lie like that. It’s not right.”
After pausing to remove some maggots that had squirmed to the surface, she completed a few more stitches and put the needle down. “You run away in the middle of the night, leaving me to worry, and now you’re mad at me? No. That’s not how it works.”
“I wasn’t running away. I was just going to the park. I can’t stay inside forever.”
“You can, Crow. And more than that, you should. It’s what’s best for you.” She picked up the needle and resumed stitching. “You need a punishment, of course. I think an essay is in order. Five pages detailing why it’s dangerous for an eleven-year-old boy to wander the streets at night. You can do it tomorrow, along with your regular schoolwork. Maybe by the time you finish, you’ll understand how worried I was.”
Crow hung his head. He’d only wanted to see something beyond the walls of his house. He hadn’t meant to make his mother upset.
“I even called your father.”
“You did?” Crow sat up straighter. “Is he coming over?”
“No. I texted him not to when I saw you walking back. Good thing, too. You know it’s a two-hour drive, and he has to work tomorrow.” She finished the last stitch and cut the thread.
“Oh.” Of course his father wasn’t coming over. Mr. Darlingson only visited once or twice a month, less often if things got busy at the office. Which they often did.
Crow looked at his mother, whose eyes were red and puffy, whose cheeks were streaked with tears. Then he looked at himself: his icy hands with yellowed nails glued on, his stitched-up knee, the maggot crawling around his ankle. No wonder his father had decided to leave. Who would want to live with a rotting corpse? “I’ll try to be better. I’ll use more deodorant. And I won’t sneak out again. I promise. Then will Dad visit more?”
“Crow, sweetie, our separation has nothing to do with you.” She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Your father loves you, and so do I. We just weren’t happy as a couple. Now, it’s late, and I’m tired. We can discuss this more in the morning. I trust you won’t try to go back outside tonight?”
“No,” Crow said. He kissed his mother good night, dragged himself up to his bedroom, and wished the events of the last hour could be undone.
Crow knew that his mother had been right: it was dangerous for an eleven-year-old boy to wander the streets at night. And he knew why: there were monsters out there. With everything that had happened, he’d almost forgotten about the horrible growls and squawks. Now, sitting alone in his room, the dark night pressing against his window, he could think of nothing else.
He’d seen the monster before. It had hovered over him when he’d first awoken from death. Why? He tried to remember more about it. What did it look like? What had it done? But his foggy memory was no help. All he knew was that the monster was somehow involved in—somehow responsible for—his lonely existence as a walking corpse. It was powerful and terrible and it lived just a couple of short blocks away.
So it was dangerous to leave the house at night.
But he couldn’t put that in the paper his mother was making him write, not without upsetting her even more. She didn’t like it when he mentioned his death—as if not talking about the past could improve the present.
Instead, he looked up information on accidents and crimes. The Internet provided him with more than enough horror stories involving kids who ran away from home and wound up abducted, hit by a car, or simply lost forever. By the time the horizon turned pink with the rising sun, he had the five pages he needed.
A bird sang outside. Or maybe it wasn’t a bird. The monster had used the voices of dozens of animals. If it could sound like a lion or a snake, it could probably sound like a sparrow or a warbler, too.
The sun didn’t make Crow feel much safer. Monsters had to get hungry during the day, too. And the light didn’t make the park storage shed any farther away.
Despite this fear, a desire grew in Crow’s unbeating heart. He wanted to return to the park. He didn’t remember much about the monster, but he was sure it had been there when he’d returned from the dead. Scary or not, the monster might have answers, and Crow had so many questions.
—
Crow couldn’t eat, and Mr. Darlingson was gone, but Mrs. Darlingson insisted on dinner as usual. Chicken breasts simmered in mushroom sauce. Asparagus steamed until tender. Red potatoes roasted with garlic. It seemed like a lot of work for one person’s meal, but that was the price of normalcy.
The food smelled delicious. Crow couldn’t eat, couldn’t taste, couldn’t digest, but he could smell. The wonderful scents tormented him. He wanted to try a bite—just a small one. Surely one little potato wouldn’t hurt. But experience had taught him better. One little potato really would hurt. The food would sit in his stomach until it rotted. The maggots would multiply out of control. The stench would worsen. Worst of all, without any remaining taste buds, he wouldn’t even be able to enjoy the food.
The phone rang. Mrs. Darlingson answered it. A moment later, without saying a word, she hung up.
“Who was that?” Crow asked, wondering whether she would hang up on his father. He didn’t think she would, but he hadn’t thought they’d separate, either.
“A telemarketer. I wish they’d stop calling.” She set two places at the table, then removed one, sighing and shaking her head.
Crow took his seat and did his best to smile.
“Did you read anything interesting today?” she asked.
“Mark Twain’s real name was Samuel Clemens.” He hesitated. She wasn’t going to like this, but he had to try. “How did you and Dad bring me back from the dead?”
“So he used a pen name. How inter—” She put her fork down. “Why are you asking about that? We’ve already told you everything you need to know. Your father and I wished for you to return to us.”
“But I make wishes all the time, and they never come true.” Otherwise he would have had a pet dinosaur since he was seven and a helicopter since he was eight. He’d have an endless supply of candy that he could actually eat and friends he could hang out with whenever he wanted, no sneaking required. Most of all, he’d have his life back. He didn’t have any of these things, proof that wishing didn’t work.
“It was a very special wish,” Mrs. Darlingson explained. “One powered by our love.”
“Did someone help you? Or something?”
Mrs. Darlingson’s brow wrinkled as she looked at her son. “Last night, when you were with that dreadful neighbor girl, where did you say you went?”
“The park. We played on the swings.”
She nodded slowly. “And while you were there, did you see…anything?”
“No. I didn’t see much of anything,” Crow said, selecting his words with great care. He didn’t like to lie to his mother, not if he could help it. She always seemed to know. “Don’t try to change the topic. Did you and Dad get help with your wish?”
“I’ll change the subject if I want. This is my house. Now, if you help me with the dishes, I’ll let you watch television this evening.”
“You mean a documentary?” That was all he ever got to watch.
“No. Anything you want.”
“Okay,” Crow said. He still wanted to know about the monster, but talking to his mother wasn’t going to get him anywhere. Luckily, she wasn’t the only one he could ask.
—
Before Crow’s death, he’d always been close to his father. Immediately after he was brought back, little changed. On the Friday evening after the wish, the Darlingson family went bowling, just as they had every Friday evening before. At the time, Crow seemed perfectly normal and healthy, with only a couple of minor exceptions, little things like the heartbeat that no one could find
and the sleep that wouldn’t come. The maggots and the stench hadn’t developed yet.
“We could try another sport,” Mrs. Darlingson said, wrinkling her nose at the rental shoes. “Golf, for instance. Miniature golf, if you insist. Anything without smelly footwear.”
“For the last time, Caroline, we like bowling.” Mr. Darlingson turned to Crow. “Do you remember the techniques I taught you?”
Crow nodded. He’d been practicing at home, even though he didn’t have a bowling ball and could only pretend to bowl. “Can we get some soda and nachos before we start?” He didn’t actually feel hungry or thirsty, but he loved nachos and root beer.
“No,” Mrs. Darlingson said. “The food here is disgusting, and soda will rot your teeth.”
In hindsight, it was a pretty ridiculous concern.
Mr. Darlingson and Crow started playing, while Mrs. Darlingson disinfected her shoes and bowling ball. When it was Crow’s turn, Mr. Darlingson disappeared, but he returned in time to see his son’s spare.
“Nice job.” He handed Crow a soda and added in a whisper, “Don’t tell your mom. She’s still mad at me because I used her eyeliner as a pencil. And because I fell asleep when she was telling me about—about—I don’t remember. Something. Anyway, I don’t need to give her another reason to yell at me.”
Crow laughed.
They bowled a few more rounds, Mrs. Darlingson scowling every time she saw Crow take a sip of soda. It was fun until Crow’s stomach turned sour. He threw up, and the night was ruined.
Not just the night.
—
Crow waited until his mother had gone to sleep. He didn’t expect Melody to meet him in the backyard, not so soon after they’d gotten caught, but he’d check anyway. First, though, he was going to the kitchen.
He picked up the phone and dialed his father’s number.
It rang and rang. Finally, Mr. Darlingson answered. “Caroline, what’s wrong? Did Crow leave the house again?”
“No, it’s me. I—I just wanted to talk.”
“Oh, hey, kiddo. I want to talk to you, too, but it’s really late. Can I call you tomorrow? Or I’ll be coming to visit you in a little while, and we can talk then.”
“No. It needs to be when Mom isn’t around. I want to know about the wish the two of you made. The one that brought me back. Did you get help?” When his father didn’t answer immediately, Crow added, “You know how Mom can be sometimes. She never wants to talk about anything, and she doesn’t get how important this is to me, but you do, don’t you? You know I’m old enough to know what happened when I died.”
Crow considered calling him the coolest dad in the world, but decided that would be taking the flattery a little too far. Playing his parents off each other was a fine art.
Mr. Darlingson paused so long that Crow was starting to think the line had gone dead. But finally, he said, “I guess you do have a right to know. I always thought we should be more open with you. Yes. There was a creature. A Meera, it was called. A shape-shifter. It granted our wish.”
So Crow’s suspicions had been right. The monster in the storage shed had seemed familiar for good reason. It was the Meera, the creature that had brought Crow back to life—if such a state as his could be called living.
“Was it evil?” Crow asked. The way it grunted and croaked, it had to be. He shuddered at the memory of all those sounds.
“No. No, of course not. Nothing about your returning to us was evil, Crow.”
A million questions raced through Crow’s head. “What is the Meera? Why did it grant your wish? Why did it make me like this, still dead and rotting?”
Once again, Mr. Darlingson did not answer immediately. “The Meera is a sort of judge. Some people go to it willingly, like your mother and me. Others are forced. There are tests. Those who fail are punished—assuming they survive. Those who pass receive a wish. We asked for you to come back to us, to be given the chance to grow up.” He hesitated. “I guess we probably should have worded the wish a little more carefully. We just assumed that you’d come back alive.”
Crow let the information sink in. For years, he had wondered why he grew taller every year, even though his dead body shouldn’t have been capable of growth. Now he knew. It was what they had wished for.
“Why didn’t you make another wish?” Crow asked.
“We tried that. The Meera said that a person could only earn one wish. Since your mother and I both asked for you to return, both of us had used up our wish. We couldn’t get another.”
“Could I?”
“No. Definitely not. Your mother might be a little overprotective sometimes, but she only wants to keep you safe. Promise me you won’t sneak out again. Promise me you won’t try to find the Meera.”
“Why not? You said it was good.”
“No, I said it wasn’t evil. Please, promise me you won’t try to find it.”
“I promise,” Crow said. Luckily, his father couldn’t detect lies the way his mother could.
Melody spent more and more time with her new friends Grace and Hannah. They rode their bicycles together, while Crow watched from the window. She waved once in a while, but not very often.
Be happy for her, Crow told himself. She deserved friends. But so did he, and now that his only friend had deserted him in favor of the living, he just couldn’t make himself feel happy for her. Wishes kept popping into his head—horrible wishes involving the two new friends. Their hair would fall out in clumps. Maggots would infest their ears. Their flesh would rot off, leaving nothing but a skeleton. Most importantly, Melody would run away screaming.
He didn’t actually want these things to happen. Not really. Not most of the time. But he couldn’t stop imagining them, either. Would the monster in the storage shed, the Meera, grant wishes like these?
He’d been working up the courage to go back to the park. Not to ask the Meera to torture Grace and Hannah. Just to talk to it. To see what it knew about his death. He had to talk to someone, even if that someone was a monster, and talking to his mother was getting him nowhere.
“How did I die?” he’d ask.
And she’d respond with something like, “Can you hand me that pen?” It didn’t matter that another pen lay on the desk mere inches from her fingers.
Later, he’d try again, and she’d say something like, “Oh, look at the time. I’d better get dinner started.” It could be four o’clock, and she’d still talk about getting dinner ready.
Even worse, sometimes she wouldn’t respond at all, as if Crow were a ghost no one could hear. Being dead was bad enough without being ignored.
He’d tried calling his father again, but his father had said that some things needed to be discussed in person, so the conversation would have to wait until his next visit. Except that wouldn’t be for days, and Crow needed answers now. And even when his father finally did visit, his mother would hover over them, as she always did. They wouldn’t have any time alone. If Crow asked about his death, she would probably announce that it was time for bed. His father would leave, and Crow would have learned nothing.
He missed his father. He missed their basketball matches at the park and their Friday-night bowling competitions. He missed the camping trips they’d gone on. But all of that had been years ago, before Crow’s death. Even if Mr. Darlingson hadn’t moved out, things like sports and camping wouldn’t be possible, not for a dead boy who couldn’t leave the house.
His life had been stolen from him, and no one would even tell him why.
The Meera would have the answers his parents refused to give him.
Mrs. Darlingson had put bells on the front and back doors, ones that would clang loudly if he tried to leave. She’d forgotten about the windows, though. The one in the living room made a convenient exit once the screen was removed. Crow knew because he’d done it every night in the last week, every night since he and Melody got caught coming home from the park.
Careful not to make a sound, Crow tiptoed downstairs. He opened th
e window, put the screen aside, and slipped outside.
That night, like every night, he waited for Melody until two o’clock—not out of hope, but out of habit. He didn’t really expect her to come. When proven right for the seventh night in a row, his disappointment was mild. He pushed it to the back of his mind. Really, it was better that she hadn’t come tonight. Crow wouldn’t have wanted to bring her along on his dangerous mission. He opened the gate as quietly as he could, moving slowly so it wouldn’t creak.
The partially cloud-covered moon offered little light. Crow tried to assure himself that this was, in fact, a good thing. It meant nobody could see him. But it also meant he’d have to confront the Meera in almost-perfect darkness, something he’d rather not do.
Mr. Darlingson had said the Meera was neither good nor evil, just like the wild animals whose voices it mimicked. And wild animals, being neither good nor evil, had a habit of eating people when given the chance. Would the Meera do the same?
Maybe not. Crow wasn’t very appetizing, after all. A vulture or hyena might consider him a decent snack, but other animals would likely leave him alone.
Crow’s eyes widened. He thought he remembered a strange cackling laughter mixed in with the howls and meows from his first night at the park. It could have been the sound of a hyena. Or maybe his memory was playing tricks on him. There was no way to be sure.
—
He’d reached the park.
His feet refused to move any farther. Turn back, he told himself. Go back home, where it’s safe and secure.
Safe and secure and lonely. He couldn’t go back home, not without finding the answers he needed. He wanted something else, too—something more important than information.
If the Meera had granted his parents’ wish, maybe it would grant his, too.
There was only one way to find out. He forced his feet forward.
Something chattered in the darkness. He kept moving toward the storage shed.
Buzzing. Braying. Gibbering. How could the neighbors not hear the cacophony of animal sounds? Or maybe they did hear, but they chose to ignore the frightening noises. If that was the case, would they also ignore a child’s screams?
