by Rachel Rust
“That’s my Uncle Ricky. My parents are dead.”
My eyes go wide. “I’m—I’m sorry.”
Mateo shirks back. “It was a long time ago. Sorry, I shouldn’t have blurted it out like that.” He stands up. “Guess we’ll have to finish this later. I gotta go to work.”
“No problem.” David stands and I follow suit.
We walk outside together. Most of the rain has stopped, having left behind puddles in the gravel driveway that my short legs have to sidestep in an awkward waddling motion.
“Do you have any sage, Chessie?” Mateo asks. “You should smudge your room.”
“Ah, no…fresh out of sage.”
His face falls. “Tomorrow, I’ll bring you some sage. And tonight, put out salt. Spirits can’t cross it.”
I agree, even though it all seems so bizarre. But my entire life has taken a turn for the bizarre. My mind and bedroom are haunted, and a weird kid with arms skinnier than mine thinks he has all the answers.
Mateo’s steps diverge from David’s and mine, and he disappears into the garage. At his green pickup, David opens the passenger door for me and I climb inside. The interior is dark gray, cleaner than Mateo’s truck. It smells faintly of metal and soapy musk—the exact scent I’d expect from a hot guy who hauls tools for a living.
“Mateo’s a good guy,” David says, pulling out of the driveway. “He just takes some getting used to. He prefers spending his time in front of computers and books rather than other people.”
“I can see that.”
David and I head back to town. The bulging storm clouds have moved north, but the sky remains gray. Rain sprinkles onto the windshield in sporadic beats. Short, green cornstalks line the surrounding fields in perfectly spaced rows, until they eventually give way to a large wooden sign.
Welcome to Villisca.
The greeting is adorned with a sunbeam and seems oddly optimistic for a town with secrets a century old and covered in blood.
David’s pickup slows and turns off the highway onto a narrow town road, slick with fresh rainwater. A block before my grandparents’ house, I instruct him to pull over. The last thing I need is to be lectured by Grandma about being in a car with a boy. She’d drag me down to creepy Pastor Schneider for some kind of Jesus blessing.
David has the pickup in park, zippo in hand. Open-close-open-close it clicks. “Can I ask why you’re here for the summer?”
I shrug, searching for an easy answer. “To visit my grandparents.”
“All summer? Did you lose a coin toss or something?”
“It was either this or Hawaii, and come on, obviously I’m gonna pick Iowa. Who wouldn’t?”
We both laugh and I’m happy to keep the conversation light. Though he keeps a watchful eye on me, studying my face as if looking for the real answer to his question.
I remain silent, not giving in to his questioning presence. The town of Villisca is giving me enough stress, I don’t need—or want—to spew all the nasty details of my parents’ relationship issues to a boy I barely know.
Besides, my time here in Iowa is supposed to be a reprieve from the divorce stress. “Just don’t think about it,” my mom had said last week as she worked at her computer, not even bothering to make eye contact with me. I don’t think she even noticed when I rolled my eyes and walked away. She grew up with separated parents and, so far, has been treating her own divorce as nothing more than a predictable life hurdle. One she thinks I should be able to hop over just as easily as she apparently has.
I lean my head back on the headrest. The side of the Axe Murder House is straight ahead, in clear view.
“Have you ever been inside the house?” I ask.
“A few times.”
“With Mateo?”
David nods.
“He really likes this supernatural stuff, huh?”
“His mom used to be into the paranormal. His interest in it picked up a couple years ago after his parents died in a car accident. He thought he could contact them on the other side or whatever, but…no dice.”
I’ve never been friends with anyone who’s lost their parents. It’s a reality I can’t even imagine. Worse even than having your mom move out of the family house and into a condo a mile away. Sure, it’s a two bedroom, but I have no plans to ever spend the night there with her. She’ll have it perfectly decorated—classically accessorized, just like she always is—but it won’t be home. Home is where I grew up. Where my real bedroom is and where my dad makes pretty good breakfast smoothies.
“Is the Axe Murder House super creepy inside?” I ask. “I’ve seen it countless times in my dreams, and I’ve been up on the porch once in real life, but I’ve never seen inside.”
David sits straighter, tenses up. “It’s just wood floors and plaster walls, like the other houses in town.”
“But people died in there.”
His zippo snaps shut. “People have died in a lot of houses.” He looks over at me. “It’s only a house. Houses aren’t creepy.”
“Some people even think it’s evil.”
David smirks with a shake of his head. “This town is full of religious nuts. People are afraid of the devil when they really should be afraid of each other.”
His words send a chill down my spine. The gray color of the foreboding structure seems to absorb the clouds and rain, welcoming them as gloomy guests. “I’ve dreamed of it so often that I never used to think it was creepy, but I’m changing my mind about that. The house itself, the murders—it’s all weird and creepy.” I hook a finger into the door latch. “Anyway, thanks for the ride.”
His shoulders relax and he looks at me with a small smile. “Anytime.”
And it’s clear he means it. He really would give me a ride in his pickup any time. Maybe small-town boys are more desperate than city boys, eager for a new face in town, even if she’s short with frizzy hair. But as we stare at one another, there’s something else. That familiarity I can’t quite put my finger on. Equal parts strange and enchanting. Whatever it is, it makes my stomach dance in circles and makes my heart beat a tick faster. And I like it.
“Catch ya later,” I say with a little grin, just before slipping out of the vehicle.
I try my best to walk away with a good strut—one that moves my butt in just the right way.
I flit up the front porch, high on hormones.
But once inside, my feet lurch to a slow, careful pace. I avoid my bedroom all evening, except to grab pajamas. And then I sleep on the sofa again. Tomorrow will bring salt and sage…and hopefully some answers. Which is good, because I’m not sure how much longer I can avoid my bedroom.
Chapter Ten
I’m up at 6 a.m., exhausted from another restless night. I slept long enough to have my usual, quick dream about the Axe Murder House. But the rest of the hours were spent flopping from side to side. Grandma’s right. The old couch is bad for my back. But at least the voices don’t find me down here, and I haven’t had any other dreams about Amelia.
I pour a mug of coffee and sit at the table. Out the window, the eastern morning sky turns from dark purple to a light pink-orange as the sunlight fights its way through the thick belt of trees in the backyard.
Grandpa makes a quick appearance. He fills a thermos with coffee and then leaves with a pickup bed full of fishing gear. Grandma walks in the kitchen around seven and starts making her usual pan of bacon. Of all the things that Grandma worries about, saturated fat doesn’t seem to be one of them.
Today’s newspaper is on the table. The only update about the missing girls, Laney and Grace, is that there are no updates. No new leads. No new answers. Halfway down the front page is a picture of each girl. The same photos tacked to the supermarket bulletin board.
I flip the paper over to shield my eyes from their sweet faces and pleas for help.
Grandma asks me about school and college plans while we eat. I placate her with smiles and tales of school dances and visions of walking the U of M campus downtown
Minneapolis. She seems pleased. I feel relieved…and guilty. Shit is going down in her own house, and I’m lying through my teeth—to my grandma. Pretty sure lying to grandmas is the lowest of the low.
A half hour later, while I’m washing the breakfast dishes, the doorbell rings, making me jump. A heavy pan crashes into the stainless steel sink.
“Chessie, can you get the door, please?” Grandma shouts down from upstairs.
“Yes,” I grumble back, furiously dabbing at the splatters of soapy grease on my shirt. I flop my bare feet to the front door, wondering who’s about to witness my hideous morning self. The front door has a small window and a head of shaggy, black hair is inches on the other side.
“Crap,” I mutter under my breath, opening the door. Mateo’s dressed in black jeans and a black Star Wars T-shirt. I force a smile and keep my bra-less, pajama-clad body as hidden behind the door as possible. “Hi, Mateo. It’s kinda early.”
He looks to his feet with a blush and stammers, “Oh, yeah, I’m sorry, I—”
My eyes peek behind him. “Is David with you?”
“No, it’s his day off from work. He’s probably fishing.” Mateo holds out a small bag. “I have this for you.”
My eyebrows scrunch and I take the bag. The smell of grass and soap hits my nostrils.
“It’s the sage,” Mateo says. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “I could show you how to use it if you have time—” He cuts off, as though he’s taken himself by surprise, being so forward as to request my company. “I—I mean, if you want, but if you don’t want to, it’s okay, it’s not that hard to use, and you could look it up online, and, oh yeah, it’s early, I should”—he turns—“go now.”
I laugh. “No, Mateo, wait. It’s okay.”
He turns to face me again, like a little kid unsure of his standing.
“Really,” I say. “It’s okay. Let me get dressed and I’ll meet you outside in like ten minutes.”
His eyes light up. “Oh, okay.” He runs fingers through his black hair. “Great.”
I shut the door and giggle a little. No boy has ever been nervous to talk to me before. Villisca is a weird place indeed.
Grandma is upstairs sewing, so I ascend the stairs with a fair bit of confidence—if something is going to attack me, at least I’ll have company.
The upstairs hallway is clear, full of sun and crisp air conditioning. I stand outside my bedroom door for a long while—too long and poor Mateo is probably thinking I’ve ditched him. I don’t want him to leave, so I force my feet to shuffle inside the bedroom where I grab shorts, a much-needed bra, and a tank top from my dresser. I then get ready in the bathroom.
Mateo is sitting on the front porch when I walk outside. “How’d you sleep? Any voices or disturbances?”
“No, but I still slept like crap. I can’t relax, waiting for the next voice, or the next Amelia dream.” I sit down next to him and nod to the house across the street. “Do you think it’s an evil place?”
“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “But then again, evil can show up anywhere. It can be anything…or anyone.”
He doesn’t look at me when he says this. He doesn’t look anywhere but to the dead, dark windows staring back at us. His words remind me of David’s words, People are afraid of the devil when they really should be afraid of each other.
I’ve never questioned the fears I’ve had in life. Scary movies. Clowns. Spiders that disappear from sight. And that damn Bloody Mary game I played once at a fifth-grade sleepover.
Fear has always seemed like a dependable instinct. If something makes me fearful, I go with that gut feeling. But trusting in a person takes a whole lot more courage than facing a known fear. My parents trusted one another years ago. They even took vows and look how that turned out.
The obvious things to be afraid of are not nearly as scary as the things that come wrapped in harmless-looking packages. Perhaps David was right. People, not spirits or old houses, are the truly scary entities.
Someone murdered the Moore family and Stillinger girls. That should be the scary aspect of all this, not the spirits of the victims or the walls that witnessed the crime. Amelia’s glassy eyes and cold touch haven’t left my mind, but somewhere in town, her killer roams free. Amelia herself is not scary; she’s just a little girl—was just a little girl. The person who kidnapped and drowned her is out there somewhere. He or she walks through town, crossing the paths of innocent people. Walking among them, watching and deciding who’s next.
Living people are what should be feared above all else. People lie, people cheat. People kill. Compared to that, the dead are harmless.
Maybe the noisy, innocent victims who are already dead are nothing more than a nuisance. I rub my tired temples. But still, they’re a nuisance that has disturbed my sleep for nearly a week now. Maybe I shouldn’t fear them as much as I do, but I have every right to be super annoyed by them. I’m overtired and grumpier every day. I need my sleep back and the voices need to go away.
I nudge Mateo’s arm. “Come on, show me how this sage stuff works.”
He walks me a couple of blocks east where there’s an old park. The rusting monkey bars are the only remaining relic of civilization. The rest of the space is overgrown with grass and long weeds. We sit next to a large maple tree.
Mateo takes a shallow bowl and a small bundle of sage from the bag. From his pocket, he produces a bright green lighter with Hernandez Garage in red lettering on the side. He lights one end of the sage, then quickly blows it out, leaving it burnt and smoldering. The smoke rising is a thick tendril and quickly overpowers my nose.
“Here,” he says, holding out a thick, white quill.
I take it. “What is this?”
His smirks. “A feather.”
I roll my eyes. “I mean, what do I do with it?”
“Use it to move the smoke around,” he says, handing me the bowl and sage. “Wash it over yourself. And then when you’re inside your bedroom, go to all four directions, all corners and all crevices, chanting, ‘I cleanse this space, I dispel negative energy.’”
“What?” I asked with a raised eyebrow. “You didn’t say anything about chanting. I don’t want to chant.” This whole haunting thing gets more aggravating by the day. Why can’t Grandma and Grandpa’s house just have normal issues, like termites or something?
“It’s part of the deal,” Mateo says. “The smoke, the chant.”
“And what’s the sage supposed to do?”
“Clear the space of negative energy.”
I practice moving the smoke around with the feather. “Why do you think I’m only hearing from the kids? Why am I not hearing the adult voices of the Moore parents?”
Mateo shrugs. “Not sure. Maybe older spirits are more mature and rest in peace easier. The kids are restless and confused.”
“Makes sense.”
“Although, they may not be children at all.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes entities disguise themselves. They look or sound like something less intimidating, but really, it’s just to gain your trust because they’re something entirely different. They’re…”
“Evil?”
“Right,” he says with a firm nod. “That gray haze you described sounds pretty evil to me.”
I ignore his insinuation that I’m being played by spirits. The gray haze was terrifying, but I’m unable to believe the little voices are anything but innocent children. He didn’t hear them with his own ears. I did.
The smoke from the sage spirals up between us. Mateo flicks a finger into it, sending it into a chaotic whirl for a moment, before it settles back into its smooth spiral once again. My eyelids go heavy at the hypnotic display.
“Why do you think they chose me?” I ask.
Mateo shrugs. “Who knows, but spirits usually pick someone specific to use as a vessel or communication tool. You’ve been having dreams about the house for a long time, so there’s obviously a connection between you
and those murders.”
“I wish I understood how I could possibly be connected to a century-old murder. And I wish I knew why I had that weird dream about Amelia.”
He shrugs. “Maybe there is no ‘why.’ There’s not much you can do if spirits choose you. They’ll keep talking to you until you start to listen. Or until you fight back and make them leave you alone.”
I point to the sage. “That’s what this will do? Make them leave me alone?”
Mateo nods.
“But what if they really do need my help?” I asked. “Maybe I shouldn’t fight back.”
“Or maybe this thing is playing with your emotions, to make you feel guilty so you won’t fight it.” He takes the sage from me and stubs out the smoldering end, then puts everything back into the bag. “At least try it.”
“Fine.”
When I return home, Grandma is still sewing upstairs. Her hum drifts down with a melodic rhythm. My feet hit the squeaky wood steps.
“How was your walk?” she asks unseen from her room.
“Fine.” My hand holding the sage moves behind my back, in case she steps out from the doorway. I’m not in the mood to have to make up an impromptu lie about what it is and why I have it.
Once inside my room, I shut the door and shove a few shirts against the bottom of the door to keep the smoke from entering the hallway. Worse than Grandma seeing the sage is her smelling it. I’d end up having to take a pee test for sure.
From the small pouch, I produce the sage, the shallow bowl, and Mateo’s lighter. The sage lights quickly. I blow it out, leaving only the searing edges. Smoke quickly billows around me. With the feather, I once again wash myself in smoke.
I unlatch the closet door. I don’t move for a moment, half expecting the door to fly open on its own. But it only creaks a half inch and stops at its normal resting position. With the toe of my shoe, I nudge it open farther. The blackness of the closet disappears as indirect sunlight filters into it, revealing only a few unthreatening shirts hanging limply on white plastic hangers. Everything looks normal.
With the feather, I push smoke into the open space. The first chants happen only in my head. I cleanse this space; I dispel negative energy. I cleanse this space; I dispel negative energy. Even in my own head, I sound like an idiot.
