Everything feels magnified. The warm breeze stirring, the echoing bark of a dog a couple blocks away, the vivid electric green, yellow, red of the stoplight. Morgan’s hair a black sickle against his cheek like the inverse of moon against night.
“Why doyoubelieve?” I ask.
Morgan looks away, ruminating for a spell. “In a town known for being magical, nothing magical has ever happened to me. Not once.” His pain is like a shock wave. “I need for it to be real,” he says wistfully, “because I want to be able to do the unexplainable, like Luna and Romina, and now Alex.”
(It should be noted that Alex himself has professed that he does not have any new gifts, and that he’s able to locate lost belongings simply because he is “good at everything.”)
Morgan turns back to me, jaw set. “If magic isn’t going to choose me, then I’m going to go findit. And if you, Zelda, can see the supernatural, then I need to be exactly where you are.”
—
Morgan drops hisviolin off on Wafting Crescent’s porch, and then we continue walking past our houses, down the road. “All right, then. For the sake of…” I twirl a hand, thinking out loud. “Scientific research. How should we proceed?”
Thatwetransforms his expression to one of greed andelation. “We search with intention. How many paranimals have you seen?”
Counting only this past summer, and not the experiences I had while growing up, it would be…“Three.” The glowing winged creatures that flock to lightbulbs when it storms. The coralote. The huggle. I allow the forbidden thought to sneak in.
What if I’m a witch?
I have no right to feel thrilled at the prospect, given that I have been such a staunch denier. I bite my lip. “Can I confess something?”
Morgan just looks at me, pleasantly expectant.Go on.
“I’ve always wanted to believe in magic. I’m not saying Idonow, but…”
“But maybe?”
“I’m at whatever step is right before maybe. I’m atalmostmaybe.” I’m trying to distance myself from it, wanting to believe without letting on to the universe that I want to.
“I won’t sayI told you soif we’re wrong, you know,” he says.
Eyes forward on the road, my next lungful is jagged. The earth is beginning to cool, fog rising from the hollows that dip here and there throughout our town, the twists and turns on back roads with sheer drops on either side. Mist floats up to wreath treetops, and it reminds me of the legend of brays, which are the spirits of people who died in these woods. If you get too close to a bray on the anniversary of its death, it’s allowed to take your body as its own, leaving you a captive of the forest forever while they wear your skin and your life.
“You don’t find any of this embarrassing?” I sweep my hair over one shoulder and fiddle with it. “Being a fully grownadult, hunting for ghosts, talking about paranimals. Prophecies, crystal balls, love magic.”
“I don’t know.” He spins once, hands in his suit jacket with his elbows pointed out. “I’d rather be wrong than never wonder at all and miss out on incredible. It’s why I never left Moonville. If I’m ever gonna witness anything special,thisis where that would happen.”
“What are you hoping for, exactly?”
“Any sort of magic power. Literally, I would takeany. My neighbor growing up, Hank, said there’s a strange kind of goat around here that comes out only when it senses tornadoes. Disappears as soon as the tornadoes are gone, so you’d only catch one if you were out in a storm. Why is it that Hank knows about that? Hank was the most ordinary guy alive. He didn’t even really care that he saw a phenomenon. No curiosity. It isn’t fair that those of us who arelookingfor this stuff don’t get to discover it.” He makes ahumsound deep in his throat. “I’d love to be able to see ghosts. Or find a waraver.”
“A waraver! It’s been ages since I heard about those.”
“War-ah-vur,” he corrects.
I shake my head firmly. “Where-a-vur.”
We smile at each other. Disagreeing over its pronunciation is as locally famous as the legend itself.
Waravers are formed from whitecaps wherever rapids are found in Raccoon Creek. They survive only by moonlight, collapsing back into water at daybreak, and have a humanlike shape. Some folktales describe the waraver as looking exactly like a small child, but with a sunken nose, lower hairline, and extra joints in the arms and legs; but other stories (particularlyin the modern era) have beautified the legend, depicting them as the same height and likeness as adult humans, but supernaturally attractive, with eyes and skin that gleam as if perpetually wet. Their language cannot be understood by humans. When they speak, bubbles pour from their mouths. They have been known to warn fishermen of danger and save drowning children—but arealsosaid to abduct children and drown fishermen. The thing about folklore is that there are two sides to every story, and they nearly always directly contradict each other.
Could there be waravers out there?
I don’t think so. But I have no evidence, so I cannot say for a fact that there are no waravers.
We’ve been walking for about ten minutes without direction. I look around suddenly. “Where are we?”
Morgan’s hand circles my wrist to lift the lantern higher and spill light over the road before us. Some fifteen feet off, the brick street crumbles into wild grass, abandoned midconstruction. The road was originally meant to lead to Kings Station, a nearby town that’s become more inaccessible and insular by the year. Tunnel cave-ins, collapsed bridges, huge splits opening up in the road, with the stench of sewer gas springing from them. Attempts to make contact with Kings Station are cursed.
