8 Souls

by Rachel Rust

  In the grocery store parking lot are two sheriff deputy squad cars. Near the front door, two uniformed officers—a short, stout man with tanned skin and a tall, skinny brunette woman—are talking to Samantha. Disgust is painted across her face as she answers their questions. My ears strain to eavesdrop on their conversation as I walk past, but the automatic doors open with a loud whoosh and I can’t hear their words.

  Inside the store, I grab deodorant, toothpaste, and a cheap, blue toothbrush. I go to the only open checkout lane where a guy of about twenty is working. His nametag reads TJ, and he greets me with a smile, not seeming to care that I look like death warmed over.

  After paying, I head into the bathroom. I freshen up as best as possible, but it’s hard to feel fresh surrounded by blue-tiled walls with dingy brown grout, and a flickering florescent light bulb overhead. The lighting bathes my face in a dim gray, creating a hollow recess under each eye.

  After pulling my hair back into a bun, I exit the bathroom. Samantha is standing just outside the automatic doors, wiping wet mascara from below her eyes.

  The sheriff’s deputies are still there, huddled together near one of the cars, talking amongst themselves. My feet shuffle slowly Samantha’s direction.

  She gives me a side-eyed glare but says nothing.

  “Are those cops talking to you about the missing girls?” I ask. “Do they have any leads or—”

  The short deputy moves away from the squad car, revealing a man in the backseat. It’s the same chubby guy Samantha had been fighting with a few days ago. His graying hair is messy, and his eyes are half closed as he mumbles to himself from behind the car door window.

  The deputy walks to Samantha and hands her a small slip of paper. “We’re taking your dad in to let him sleep it off. You should be able to pick him up tonight.”

  She nods and takes the paper. After a long drag of her cigarette, she sniffles and wipes her nose with the sleeve of her red Dotty’s shirt.

  “Are you okay?” I ask. “Do you need me to call someone or…”

  Samantha cuts me a sharp look. “Mind your own damn business, would ya?”

  “I’m…I’m just trying to help.”

  She flicks her cigarette at me. I lurch to the side, but it hits my arm before falling to the ground. She turns and enters the store without another word.

  So much for small-town hospitality. I pick up the butt and toss it in the small cigarette receptacle next to the door. On the sidewalk, the shadow of Dotty’s fades away, and I step into the bright sunlight. For a moment, the light of day washes away some of the darkness of the night before. Sunshine is good for many things; scaring away bogeymen being one of them.

  The bell of the hardware store next door chimes. David’s dad walks out, clipboard in hand. Along the curb sits a small flatbed trailer. He shouts back into the store, something about loading the larger boxes first. From somewhere in the store’s depths, David replies back in the affirmative.

  I spin on my heel and head across the street—away from David. Away from the events of last night. Away from that boy.

  A little twinge of guilt hits me. He didn’t do anything wrong, but he represents all things Villisca. And though the tiny town is all around me, I want nothing to do with it. Absolutely nothing. Before coming here, there were no voices, no ghosts—I don’t even remember if I believed in such things before this summer. My life has been sucked into a maelstrom of confusion, fear, and mental exhaustion. I just want to be left alone.

  But David is the most confusing part of all of this. A representation of everything weird I want to avoid, but at the same time, there’s an eerie comfort about him. He’s certainly not a normal boy—if there even is such a thing.

  At the house, I tell Grandma I’m not feeling well. She makes up the couch and tucks me in under a heavy load of blankets. I spend the rest of the day watching TV and texting Kaylee—refusing to look at, or even acknowledge the existence of, the stairs. The angry gray haze is up there, waiting for me to come back. Will its hollow eyes and ragged mouth confront me again?

  I don’t want to find out.

  The entire day goes by without any texts or door knocks from either Mateo or David.

  After my grandparents go to bed, I fall asleep in the living room watching Family Guy.

  I dream about the house the moment I fall asleep, but right away, this dream is different than any of the thousands I’ve had before.

  Because I’m inside the house.

  My vision is cloudy. I can’t make out much, but daylight streams through the windows and there are kids running all around me. The space is tight, and they bump into one another, laughing and falling over. A woman scolds them. She opens a door and shoos them outside to play. Things go quiet. The woman disappears and suddenly I’m alone. The sun fades, leaving me in a blackened room. I can’t see where the door is; my heart races and I call out for help.

  A small hand grabs mine. But it’s not the dead, clammy hand of a drowned little girl. It’s warm and soft. A living hand.

  “Don’t be afraid,” a little voice says.

  I jolt up on the sofa. The air is frigid and mist pools in front of my face with every exhale.

  The front door’s knob turns and releases on its own. The door opens a few inches. Just enough to let in a thick blade of yellow streetlamp light. It cuts across the living room floor, up onto my lap on the sofa.

  “Go,” a little voice says.

  I jump at the sound and clutch the blanket to my chest as my heart threatens to rip through my rib cage. The activity from my bedroom has never traveled downstairs to the living room before.

  “Go,” it says again.

  I don’t ask where, because I already know. I curl against the arm of the sofa, arms wrapped around my knees. “I’m not going over there.”

  A child giggles right next to me.

  “Who are you? What’s your name?” I ask, my voice shaky.

  It giggles again. The front door opens wider. My blankets are yanked from me by unseen hands, and, immediately, I know that I don’t have a choice. Something wants me to go to the Axe Murder House, and I can either go willingly or wait for the gray mist to return. And it’d probably grab me by the ankles and toss me across the street.

  That doesn’t sound like much fun. It’ll be better to go voluntarily…I hope.

  I slip my feet into flip-flops and step out the front door. I trudge across the street, moving slower with each step. The warm evening air presses against my skin with every breeze, as though telling me to abort, to retreat and run the other direction.

  But I keep moving forward.

  The overgrown yard of my dream house is a huge mess up close. Its weeds scrape against my legs and the tops of my feet. The brush is dry, and my movements crackle against the dead quiet neighborhood. I might as well be an elephant stomping across bubble wrap. But no one speaks to me. No neighbors peek out of their windows, demanding to know what I’m doing.

  And what am I doing?

  My entire body is trembling as my feet start up the weathered, splintered gray steps of the front porch. The knob of the front door is ancient-looking. Bronzed by weather, it appears welded into place. My fingers touch it gingerly, as if simply feeling it, putting my skin against it will appease the voice. I’m here. I’ve done as you asked.

  I force a stern exhale as I stare at the front door. This is so dumb. It’s just an old house, and the damn door is probably rusted shut. My fingers curl around the cool metal knob and turn.

  The door pops opens.

  I rock back on my heels as stagnant air swipes at my face. The inside aura of the house escapes, smelling of dust and old wood. I push the door open farther, and the darkness of an empty room stares back.

  My feet shuffle across the threshold. It’s warm and musty inside. The dark is different in this house. All-encompassing and heavy. Inviting in the worst way, as if wanting to drape around me, consume me, and make me part of its sadness.

  The window
s are covered by yellowed, tattered curtains, but a bit of streetlamp light makes its way through. There’s no furniture in this room, but a stovepipe sticking out of the far wall tells me this was once a kitchen.

  Now what?

  To the left is a doorway. I move through it, and there are more yellow curtains in this room. A wood board squeaks under my feet, and I jump back, stifling a yelp.

  A click makes me jump again. Then another click.

  A zippo lighter.

  David sits on a window ledge in the far corner of the room. He lights the zippo, illuminating his face in amber flame.

  “You?” I whisper, tensing my muscles to keep them from shaking. I stare at the flame. “What are you doing here?”

  He stares at me, silent.

  “It was you, wasn’t it? I saw you the night I moved here. I saw your lighter in the window. You scared the hell out of me.”

  “Sorry,” he replies with a soft voice.

  “Did voices tell you to come here, too?” I ask.

  “No.” He closes the zippo. The space goes dark and he’s barely visible now. “I came here on my own.”

  I don’t move. My whole body is tense, and I glance back at the front door to make sure it’s still open. “We should go. This is creepy.”

  “Go ahead, I’m staying.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “I have to.” He pauses for a long time “I’m here at night every June ninth.”

  Against the humidity that clings to my skin, goosebumps break out down my spine. It’s June ninth. I’ve been so busy being fake-sick that I didn’t even realize what day it was.

  I clear my throat and ask, “Why do you always come here on June ninth?”

  “It’s the anniversary of their deaths tonight.” He looks at me, perhaps wondering how much longer until I pivot and run like hell.

  I force myself to step forward. “I know that, but seriously, David, why are you here? We need to go.” I wave him my direction.

  But he doesn’t move. “I can’t go. Not yet.”

  “What do you mean not yet? Why not?”

  He flips the lighter open. The flame ripples in the dark, illuminating his face in a circle of orange. His hair is out of place. “You asked me once if I’d been in this house. The answer was yes, because I’ve been here many times, over many years.” He pauses, staring at the flame. When he looks up at me, his eyes are two small, dark circles piercing into me like daggers. “I’m here to atone.”

  “Atone?” I ask. “What do you have to atone for?”

  “Their deaths.”

  Their deaths. His words are clear but make no sense.

  “What do you mean? These people died over a hundred years ago.”

  “I know. I was there.”

  A wave of fear floods through me, down my core, down my arms, to the very reaches of my fingers and toes where it tingles with an innate urge to flee. My heart races, waiting for David to crack a smile. To laugh at my freaked-out face and pat himself on the back for having scared the shit out of the new girl in town.

  “You’re not funny,” I say. “Now let’s go.”

  “I’m not trying to be funny. I’m trying to explain why I’m here and who I am.”

  “Who you are? You mean like a crazy person?”

  The house creaks against a strong gust of outside wind and tears well in my eyes. Please, I beg. Please, let’s get out of this house. But I don’t say the words out loud. I want him to give up the joke and follow me out. Laughing like a normal guy, convincing me that this is all just a practical joke and things aren’t nearly as creepy as they seem.

  The front door is still open behind me, but my feet are glued to the floor in sheer terror. I’m not a sprinter. He has longer legs than me. He’s stronger than me. I don’t stand a chance if he chases after me.

  “You don’t have to go,” he says. “I’m not going to hurt you. Nothing in this house will hurt you. It’s only a bunch of old wood and bricks.”

  I shake my head in utter disagreement. “A lot of people have been hurt in this house.” My voice is small, unable to compete with the ambience of death. My brain forces my mouth to ask my next question. “Did you hurt them?”

  Did you kill them? My mind shifts to the children—the little voices from my room. Did he kill you? Is that why you told me to stay away from him? But then why did you want me to come here? Please tell me what’s going on! I don’t understand!

  My right foot moves back but catches on my left ankle, and I stumble back. “Who are you?” I ask, taking another step back. “What are you? A ghost?” I can hardly believe my life has gotten to the point where I’m asking this as a serious question, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. Either that or David is a legit psycho with obsessive, homicidal ideations—which is far worse than a ghost.

  He springs up from his seated position, hand outstretched my direction. “Wait, let me explain.”

  Run.

  My toes dig into my flip-flops and force my legs to move. As I fly through the front doorway, he calls after me, “Chessie, wait! I’m not a ghost! Please!”

  Tears stream down my face as I race across the street and then into my grandparents’ house. Out of breath, I lock the door and peek out the front window. But David’s not there. He’s not chasing me. He’s not after me. Yet.

  A cough in the corner of the living room makes me scream.

  “Have an interesting night?” Grandpa asks from his recliner. I can barely make out his outline.

  I clap my hand over my mouth and glance at the stairs.

  Grandpa chuckles and waves a hand. “Don’t worry about your grandma. Once she’s asleep, there’s no waking her.” He gets up from his chair and goes to the window and stares at the house across the street. “Creepy place, huh?”

  “Yeah.” I wipe my tears away while he’s not watching. “I’m sorry I snuck out. I…I couldn’t sleep and needed fresh air.” Total lie. But it seems plausible.

  He smiles. “It draws a lot of kids to it. They only spend a few minutes inside before inevitably running out, sometimes screaming.”

  “Have you ever been inside?”

  He nods. “Back in the day.” With a stern look, he turns to me. “And now you’ve had your fun, so I suggest getting back to bed—and not going back inside that house.”

  His stern warning makes me think there’s more to his words than just a concerned grandpa.

  “Do you think the house is dangerous?” I ask. “Is it haunted? Do you know anything about who committed the crimes?” Like maybe the same boy who sells you fishing equipment?

  Grandpa laughs and pats me on the head. “No. I don’t think it’s haunted. I think it’s called breaking and entering. And I don’t want to call your dad and tell him you’ve been arrested. They’ll never let you visit again.”

  “Fine, I won’t ever go back.” Not that I’d even want to.

  He pats my head once more and then retires back upstairs. I double check the door and window locks, then watch Netflix with all the lights on until I drift off just before dawn.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I feign illness for two more days. Another forty-eight hours of food and TV and no David. I don’t even go outside, unwilling to acknowledge the existence of the town.

  On Sunday morning, I wake up with something heavy on my chest. It’s flat and hard and cool to the touch. A book.

  “Chessie! Your eggs are getting cold!” Grandma shouts from the kitchen.

  I ignore her and grab the book. On the cover, a gray, outdated picture of the Axe Murder House stares back. The book is a large, historical hardcover, like a coffee table book, though I can’t imagine it would be the basis for any pleasant coffee table chatting. In the upper corner is a Post-it note with what I assume is Grandpa’s chicken-scratch handwriting.

  Read. A little knowledge does a lot for nerves.

  I thumb through the first few pages where there are pictures of the Moore family and a few paragraphs about the hu
sband, Josiah Moore’s, job at an implement store. Perhaps Grandpa is right. Reading up on the family and the history of the house might make it less insane-feeling.

  Except a book won’t help with the giggling. And all the knowledge in the world isn’t going to magically make the gray haze disappear or explain David’s bizarre behavior.

  I don’t have time to ponder all the thoughts in my sleepy brain, because Grandma scoots me off the couch and to the table where I eat a plate of scrambled eggs and drink two mugs of coffee. I read once that caffeine is good for headaches, and my head is killing me. Although I assume caffeine is good for work-was-a-bitch headaches, not cute-boy-is-psycho-and-ghost-children-haunt-me headaches. But it’s worth a try.

  Grandma clears my plate from the table. “Now, go shower. Church service starts at nine.”

  My stomach plummets as my head spins. Shower. Church service.

  I want none of it.

  Grandpa is upstairs, whistling in their bedroom. I force my feet up the stairs and into the bathroom. The hot water of the shower pounds against my tired, aching head and neck.

  After toweling off, I slip down the hall and into my bedroom. I close the door behind me and clear my throat. “I’m only here to get dressed. Please don’t bother me right now.”

  I say it with as much authority as possible, and while dressing, there is no sound, no giggling, and the closet door stays closed.

  We take Grandpa’s pickup to church. No one speaks except Grandma’s occasional comments on people’s flowerbeds. Very nice. Too much purple. Needs more water.

  They all look the same to me.

  People mill on the front lawn of the church. Pastor Schneider approaches us as we walk toward the front doors.

  “Ah,” he says to me with a wide grin. “Back again, I see.”

  I force a smile.

  The one-hour church service seems to last all morning. I spend the time wondering if I should talk to David. Back and forth I argue with myself. He’s sweet. He’s potentially evil. He’s kind. He might be a ghost. He has a nice smile. He could be the harbinger of death.