Paola Santiago and the Forest of Nightmares

by Tehlor Kay Mejia

  The man hit the red car with a sickening crunch and didn’t move again.

  “¡Papá!” Dante wailed, sobs heaving his little body.

  “It’s okay,” Pao said, sobbing, too, squeezing him tight. “It’s going to be okay.”

  But she knew that was an empty promise.

  The Bad Man Ghost was tearing shutters and doors off the house now, uprooting the whole fence at once like the spine of an animal, and throwing it into the street outside.

  What does it want? Pao wondered, still shielding baby Dante, afraid to leave him alone. She’d never asked Dante why he lived with his abuela, and he had never volunteered the information. Was she seeing it now? The way he had truly lost his parents?

  But his mom . . . His mom had answered the door of this very house what seemed like an hour ago. . . .

  The fantasma screamed again, rattling the ground at their feet, and Pao knew she had to do something, anything, to help. That’s when she saw the woman, a younger version of the one who had answered the door, bolt out into the dirt patch around the house.

  “Dante?” she shouted frantically. “Dante! Come here, baby!” She was sobbing as she called for him, already moving toward the place where the gate had been moments ago. “Dante, please!”

  “¡Mamà!”? Dante answered, reaching out for her.

  Pao held on to him, knowing he should be with his mom but afraid of what the fantasma might do to him. She tried not to think too much about the fact that she’d met little Dante only a year after this . . . and his mother had been nowhere in sight.

  It was this thought, more than anything, that propelled her. Maybe that’s why she was here—to change history for him. To make it better for once, instead of worse.

  “Let’s go,” she told Dante, who was still reaching out. “Let’s get Mamà, okay?”

  Tearfully, his chin jutting out in a way it still sometimes did when he cried, he nodded. Pao took his hand, and they ran through the dead vines as fast as they could together. Her only hope was that nothing would happen to Dante’s mom before they could reach her. That they wouldn’t be too late . . .

  What happened instead was worse.

  They were ten yards from the edge of the vineyard, when Pao realized the calls for Dante had stopped. She looked up, her stomach sinking, expecting the worst. But the fantasma didn’t have the boy’s mother. It had picked up the red car and was peering inside with its too-many eyes.

  Finally Pao spotted her—from the back, her blue dress and long black hair streaming behind as she ran for the road.

  “Stop!” Pao called without thinking. The fantasma didn’t hear her over the sound of rending metal, and Dante’s mother didn’t stop running.

  “¿Mamà?” Dante asked, pulling on Pao’s arm. “I wanna find Mamà.”

  “I know,” Pao said through the lump in her throat, watching from her higher vantage point as the woman—already too far away to call out to even if there hadn’t been an enraged, mutated ghost between them—became nothing more than a cloud of dust up the road.

  “Mamà,” Dante said again, starting to cry. “¡Mamà!”

  Pao was frozen, the horror dawning on her as she patted his head. This was why Dante had been raised by his abuela. Because his father had been killed in front of him and his mom hadn’t looked for her son for more than five minutes before she abandoned him.

  Pao shook herself mentally. This was no time to freeze or try to process everything that had befallen this small, adorable child currently clinging to her legs. There would be opportunity for that later. Right now she had to get him to safety, and fast.

  But how could she keep him safe and slay this horrible monster at the same time? What was going to happen to him after she woke from this dream?

  “Come on,” she said to baby Dante, pulling him back into the grapes. She would have to hide him. Tell him to stay put while she killed the fantasma and . . . Well, that was enough to get her started, at least.

  They were far enough away when Pao found a well, something that would be a good landmark to return to when she was done with the monster. She didn’t need to lose him in here on top of everything else.

  “I need you to stay here, okay?” Pao said desperately. “I know kids aren’t always the best at listening. . . . I know I wasn’t when I was your age. . . . Well, the age you are now, anyway? Ugh, never mind. No wonder no one ever asks me to babysit.”

  As she took a deep breath, Dante was still looking at her with curious eyes.

  “You know what, Dante?” she asked him, trying her best to sound happy and sweet and full of wonder like she’d always imagined a babysitter would be. “When you grow up, we’re gonna be the same age. And you know what else? We’re gonna be best friends, okay? The very best of friends. And you’re going to be okay, I promise. You’ll be with your abuela, and—”

  “¡Abuela!” Dante squealed with delight, breaking Pao’s heart again.

  “Yep!” she said anyway, smiling as big as she could manage, willing the tears to stay behind her eyeballs for once. She wished she knew how Señora Mata had gotten ahold of baby Dante so she could tell him now and he wouldn’t be scared. Instead, she told him everything else he thought his little self would want to know.

  “Your abuela is the best lady, Dante,” she promised. “And she’s gonna take amazing care of you. She makes the yummiest enchiladas, and you’ll have two best friends, and a PlayStation, and you’ll play soccer, and—”

  “¡Abuela!” He was pointing now over Pao’s shoulder, clapping and grinning, the tears and snot drying on his face.

  Pao turned, not daring to believe it, but there she was. Señora Mata as Pao knew her, stooped-shouldered and white-haired and smirking like she knew exactly what was going on.

  “¡Señora!” Pao said, her knees weak with relief. “How did you . . . ? Can you . . . ?”

  “Yes, I can see you, Maria, and we don’t have much time.”

  Pao’s heart, in her throat a second ago, sank a little. Even here, in a shared dream, the señora didn’t know her?

  Señora Mata picked up baby Dante, tickling his chin and cooing at him in a way Pao never remembered her doing in Silver Springs, even when Dante was small.

  Behind them, the fantasma roared again and gave up on the house. Pao could hear him ripping out grapevines by the roots, moving closer to them.

  “It’s time to get this baby home,” Señora Mata said. “You know what you have to do, Maria.”

  “I have no idea what I’m supposed to do,” Pao said, panicking. She had thought Señora Mata would help them, but the old woman didn’t even know Pao’s name. She was going to take baby Dante and leave Pao all alone with the fantasma.

  At least they’ll be safe, she thought.

  “He seeks what they all seek,” Señora Mata said, her eyes grave behind her big, round glasses. “Su familia.”

  “His family?” Pao said. “I don’t know what you mean. Can you just tell me what to do? Can someone just tell me what I’m supposed to do?”

  “You have to find his family first,” Señora Mata said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “They’ve been gone fifty years. You find them, you purify, and poof!”

  Pao was about to ask another question, one of at least twenty more fighting to the front of the line in her brain. But the fantasma’s next roar was closer, and Señora Mata didn’t look any faster than Pao knew her to be in real life.

  If she wanted baby Dante to have a chance, Pao would have to let them go.

  “I’ll figure it out,” Pao said with more confidence than she felt.

  “Good girl,” Señora Mata replied. Then she looked right into Pao’s eyes like she was x-raying her soul. “Whatever they say, Paola, whatever you find out, you know who you are, hmm? You’re the one who gets to decide.”

  Pao, as usual, had no idea what she was talking about, but she nodded anyway. “Hurry,” she told the old woman. “I’ll keep him from following you.”

  “
I know,” Señora Mata said with the kind of wink that meant she’d already seen how this all ended, even if she didn’t always know Pao’s name. Then, clutching squirming baby Dante around the middle, frail old Señora Mata began to walk slowly through the grapevines.

  Over her shoulder, little Dante waved a dimpled hand, looking uncertain. “Best friends?” he asked Pao.

  She let out a sort of strangled laugh-sob. “Best friends!” she called, just before the fantasma’s roar made him bury his face again. “I’ll see you soon, Dante!”

  When they were out of sight, Pao turned, ready to take on the fantasma. To close this loop in time once and for all.

  Pao tore through the vineyard, not bothering to be quiet.

  In the dream, she didn’t even have her sock knife. She had no idea how she was going to fight the fantasma. She just knew she had to keep it from following Señora Mata and Dante. That was the only thing that mattered.

  If she could figure out what Señora Mata had meant about the fantasma’s family, she thought as she ran, maybe she could stop him for good. She had seen Raisin Valley. None of the other people there deserved the scourge of the Bad Man Ghost any more than Dante’s family had.

  She reached the edge of the field, repeating the old woman’s words like they were more than the sum of their parts. You find them, you purify, and poof!

  The only question was, how was she supposed to find the Bad Man’s family if they’d been gone fifty years?

  Were they ghosts, too?

  Before she could continue down this line of totally unscientific questioning, Pao heard footsteps in the vines. She looked up to see the fantasma heading for the well.

  “HEY!” Pao yelled without giving herself time to come up with a plan. “OVER HERE, FIFTEEN-EYES!” In terms of insults, it wasn’t her most creative, but the fantasma didn’t seem to care. It turned toward her with a snarl, half its eyes still restlessly roaming its surroundings, the other half focused on Pao, who had just stepped out of the field.

  Pao’s first thought was that the fantasma was much more agile than it looked, but Pao knew she was faster. She darted past the car, crossing the open space between it and the front porch like her gym teacher was standing there with a stopwatch deciding her final grade.

  She checked behind her to see if the Bad Man Ghost was following, and sure enough it stalked through the dust, clouds billowing around its feet. Up close she could see it was wearing tattered jeans with a massive belt buckle and a flannel shirt. A long piece of hay dangled from its lips. On its feet, dragging through the dust in an awful zombie shuffle, were the most enormous cowboy boots Pao had ever seen.

  This man had been a farmer, she thought. And then he was a ghost. A ghost that had mutated into whatever this thing was.

  But if Señora Mata was right, if Pao could find his family, maybe she could put him to rest once and for all.

  When she was sure he was focused on the house, Pao ducked inside, careful (after what had happened to Dante’s father) to stay away from the windows.

  His family, Pao thought, racking her brain. Where would a man who’s been dead fifty years go looking for his family?

  Before she could solve the riddle, Pao found herself distracted. This was the house where Dante had lived as a toddler. With his parents. She couldn’t help but take it in.

  It was small and sparsely furnished, but clean. On the floor were a few blocks stacked into a tower. A shelf in the living room held photos: little Dante blowing out two candles on a birthday cake, Dante and his father with a dog on the porch of this house. A wedding photo—his mom radiant in white with a veil, looking no older than some high school kids Pao had seen around the Riverside Palace, his father in a suit and a cowboy hat, laughing, his head tipped back.

  They were happy. And then this fantasma came and ruined it all.

  No wonder Dante hadn’t ever wanted to talk about what had happened to his parents, Pao thought, her heart aching for her friend. And no wonder he’d freaked out when he thought he might lose his abuela to the void, too. She was the only family he had left.

  The fantasma shattered the front window, pulling Pao out of her thoughts and back into the present—or, the current situation at least. She had to put an end to this, for Dante. For his family.

  His family, Pao thought suddenly. Where would you find a family that had been gone fifty years?

  Pao raced through the house, searching for more photos. Anything that looked older than the ten years since baby Dante had lived in this house.

  There was nothing in the kitchen—the drawers contained only normal things like spatulas and potholders and knives. On the windowsill, beside a velita with a picture of La Virgen de Guadalupe on it, was a bottle of Florida Water.

  Knowing it was silly, Pao took a match from the matchbook beside the candle. With trembling fingers she struck it and lit the wick, looking into the face of La Virgen and asking for protection for Dante and Señora Mata—both the past and present versions. Asking for help as she fought to save them.

  Pao probably never would have admitted this to her own mother, but she felt better afterward. Like there was a little bubble of light around them all. Even so, she stuck the sharpest knife from the drawer into her waistband for good measure. It wouldn’t do much against the fantasma, but it would be better than nothing at all.

  Next she checked the hallway closet and the little boy’s bedroom.

  No old photos.

  Out front, the fantasma roared in frustration, and she heard wood splintering, like he was prying the walls apart to fit inside. From the sound of it, it wouldn’t be long before he got in.

  Pao was running out of time. There was only one room she hadn’t checked. The door was closed, and it gave off the same aura her mom’s bedroom did back home—forbidden and fascinating all at once.

  But there were no adults left to catch her, and Pao was out of options.

  She opened the door to find a queen-size bed neatly made up with a white quilt and pillows with pink roses and eyelet lace. The window had been shattered, and there was glass all over the floor. She carefully tiptoed around it to get to the dresser, where there were three photographs standing in heavy silver frames.

  The people in the images were obviously related to Dante and Señora Mata. There was his rounded nose and her twinkling, mischievous expression, her white hair and his stubborn chin.

  In the front of the house, the walls rattled. There were no more windows left to break. The fantasma was getting in, one way or another. Pao was sure the answer was here, but as she lifted each photo in her hands, she felt nothing. She didn’t know what she expected to perceive, but her instincts told her none of these photos was what the fantasma was looking for.

  That’s when she saw the jewelry box, tarnished silver like the frames, initials etched in the top: EMMR + RLFA. Pao opened it, and there was the feeling she’d been waiting for. The tingling along her spine, the goose bumps racing up her arms.

  Inside the box was a single item—an old-fashioned locket with a clasp. It looked silver at first glance, but as Pao examined it more closely, the color seemed to shimmer and change like an oil slick.

  As Pao held it, she remembered what Naomi had said about banishing household ghosts.

  They’re attached to an object, or bitter about a wrong that was done to them in that location. It’s just about tracking down that source, cutting the cord that’s tethering them to the world of the living, and setting them free.

  Pao lifted the locket, mesmerized, and the ghost-turned-monster’s roars went higher in pitch, telling her he felt something, too. The presence of the family he’d been searching for.

  With shaking hands, knowing she didn’t have time but needing to see, to understand, Pao opened the clasp.

  The fantasma screamed, but this time she could hear pain beneath his rage.

  In the tiny, circular frame was a photo, the colors all blown out—oranges and blues too pronounced, lighter skin fading into the bri
ght backdrop.

  A woman with long, curly hair, laughing, with two little girls on her lap in matching braids and dresses, holding hands.

  Find them, purify, and poof!

  Now, for the first time since the old woman had disappeared, Pao knew exactly what to do. Run, Maria, she imagined Señora Mata saying.

  She took off, the locket balled tightly in her fist, the screams of the fantasma nearly unbearable now, filling the house with a sound like she imagined a tortured animal would make.

  Just get to the kitchen, she told herself. Get to the kitchen and he’ll be free.

  But when she reached the hallway, she saw him, flat on his stomach like he’d gotten stuck trying to crawl through the hole he’d made in the wall. He took up half the small living room even with his legs outside. His mutated face was twisted in pain, his long arms reaching, reaching. . . .

  Unbidden, the memory of Dante’s father being tossed against the car returned with a vengeance. Pao still didn’t know what happened if you were killed in a dream—a dream where you had already been brought back from the brink of death once—but she wasn’t eager to find out today.

  The fantasma’s arm and head extended all the way to the kitchen’s threshold. When she entered the hallway, all fifteen of his bloodshot eyes swiveled to her at once. Her skin crawled—the stench of him was awful in the small space. Like manure and rot and decades of misery and sweat all rolled into one terrible cologne.

  Pao gagged, but she clutched the locket even tighter. Was it her imagination, or had the necklace started to heat up?

  With a running start, Pao leaped over the monster’s outstretched arm into the tiny kitchen.

  There was no doubt about it now—the locket was hot, burning Pao’s palm, though she didn’t dare drop it. Tears sprang to her eyes, like when she was three and she’d touched the stove burner because she’d liked its pretty red color.