She was there. Or something was. Sitting in the chair by the fire that hadn’t burned in decades. I asked her two questions before the walls creaked and the mirror shattered without being touched. I didn’t run. I bowed and walked out the same way I came in, shaking—of course.
No guts. Just vibes. My hand smelled like blood for three days and I had nightmares for weeks.
Taking in a deep breath, I stepped out of the house in layered sweaters, the sleeves already dusted with lint. My backpack was stuffed to the seams: three torchlights—because I didn’t trust batteries—a notebook fat with sticky notes, my camera, bottle of water, a half-charged drone I’d named Orville, extra memory cards, energy bars, two pocket knives—one for cutting things, the other for pretending I knew how to wield—and a small jar of salt, because you never knew what kind of lore you’d piss off in places like The Crater.
Yeah. I was going to The Crater.
The place books, historians, and even Weeny Man had warned me off.
Sucking it up, I mumbled a few positive quotes then dialled the driver who’d brought me to the house on the day I arrived. He’d said I could hit him up anytime I needed a lift, and well, I needed one at the moment.
A few minutes later, his car rumbled up the road, the broomstick perpetually hanging from his mouth like some old man’s cigarette. He saluted with two fingers. “Aye. Where to?”
Smiling, I bit back the truth, knowing fully well he’d drive off the second he heard my location. “My granny’s.”
He raised a brow, eyes drifting to the overstuffed backpack slung behind me. “Hop in.”
We drove for a while, then a little longer, then far too long. Instead of handing him the map in my hand, I fed him directions in pieces—right here, left there, no, not that turn, the next one. I kept my eyes fixed on the road and never once glanced at him, especially not when the car left the main path and started winding through narrow lanes pressed tight with bush.
At one point, the music playing through his phone crackled, and he paused it. “You sure your granny lives out here?” he asked, his tone suspicious.
I didn’t answer. Just pointed straight ahead.
The trees pressed in tighter. The road narrowed until it barely qualified as one, overrun with roots and time. Eventually, we reached a crude sign nailed into a wooden post that read in bold red paint: DO NOT CROSS THIS LINE.
The car jerked to a stop. He stared at the sign, then at me. “I’m sorry, but I can’t cross this line. You’re sure your granny lives here?”
Unbuckling my seatbelt, I smiled. “Thank you. I’ll go from here.”
He caught my wrist, his brows furrowed. “Don’t go any further. I’m sorry to tell you, but your granny might be dead.”
His voice was dead serious, the concern shining in his gaze. I gave a small laugh, preparing to lie again. “Yes. My granny is dead. I’m here to see her grave.”
He blinked. “Why...why would someone be buried in such an awful place?”
Gently peeling his hand off mine, I stepped out of the car and opened the backseat door for my bag. “Thanks for the ride.”
As I walked away, he leaned halfway out the window, shouting after me. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
I nodded. “This isn’t my first time.”
He scoffed. “Yeah. That’s why you carry a map.”
Biting my lip, I tossed him a parting glance, then turned away. The sound of his car reversing and disappearing down the path behind me was the first moment I could actually breathe.
I walked.
And walked.
The narrow lane curved and stretched and seemed to bend beneath my feet, flanked by thick brush and jagged outcrops.
Then, finally, I saw the sign. Just like in the old photo scanned in one of the books I studied. The sign was real. Faded. Tilted. Splintered at the edges. But real.
Welcome To The Crater: The Scar Of The Moon.
I swung my backpack down, unzipped it, and took out my camera. Click. Click.
Lowering the camera, I muttered to myself, “Don’t be scared, Sanora,” then looked up.
