The overwhelming need for her to see me tears through me, peeling back my ghostly flesh, breaking off one rib at a time in a violent attempt to reach my heart, and I’d stitch myself back together only to let her do it again, begging for mercy in the same breath as I cry out for more.
Loneliness presses in on me the longer I watch her. After having her attention for those few precious moments, not having it feels unbearable. I wassoclose, and now, I fear she might never allow herself to see me again. My mind ties itself into knots thinking about what to do next. I long to shake her awake, knock everything in her room over until she’s forced to acknowledge me again. I know that’s not what I really want, but the urge remains. Her being terrified of me instead of refusing my existence entirely would only soothe the beast inside me temporarily. I can’t be a safe place if I’m scaring her just to gain her attention. I don’t want to be another person in her life who’s actively destroying her instead of being the escape she needs.
I’ll try again another night, then another if I must. I’ve got nothing but time, after all. Defeated, I lift myself off her bed, drifting away from her room until I find myself back outside.A streak of moonlight breaks through the clouds, and in the distance, something howls at it. I wince, knowing I have my own monster waiting for me beyond the trees. I wish I could just roll over in bed too, pretending it doesn’t exist, and fall back asleep.
16
JACE
Astorm swirls inside my head, little bolts of lightning striking me as I attempt to lift my head from the pillow. I press my fingers into my temples, trying to relieve the pressure. Memories from last night break through, bringing on a piercing headache that radiates through my limbs. I rarely remember my dreams, if I have them at all, but last night’s vision remains vivid even as I fully awaken.
Cyrus was here, in my bed. His appearance was exactly as it had been the last time I saw him. His dark brown hair flopped over his forehead, and his hazel eyes seared through me, leaving an endless ache inside my chest cavity. He felt so real, like I could reach out and touch him. His scent still lingers in the room, just as it did in the dream. Notes of cloves, cherries, and a hint of smoke cling to the air—now, I know I’m losing it. It’s just the sleeping pill, reminding me why I quit taking them to begin with.
I scoot towards the edge of the bed, shoving the thoughts away to the recesses of mind. My ears pop as I yawn, easing the tension in my head slightly. I brace my arms on the bed and place my feet on the floor, shifting my weight slowly to easeout of bed. Instead of the sturdy ground below me, I slip on something and fall back onto the mattress.
“What the…” I lean forward, looking to the floor for the offending object. Photos lie strewn around the bottom of the bed. My pulse quickens as my mind races to remember if my folks have checked on me since last night. Doubtful; if Pop had, I’m sure I would have woken up to more shouting as he saw proof of my curiosity spread across the floor. I swear I shoved everything from the box under the bed last night.
I leap to the floor, picking up the photos to shove them back into their hiding place. The last one lies face up, the image unearthing the memories I had just buried. It’s Cyrus—a much younger version, his face softer but still the same. He’s standing next to a young girl, close to his age, without touching. Their features are similar enough that they could be related. Both bear grim expressions, wearing church attire, though they’re standing in the woods. The scene is eerie and uncomfortable to look at. My stomach churns, and I flip the photo over. On the back, scratchy handwriting identifies them as Cyrus and Mattie Gibson.
“Holy shit,” I gasp, turning the picture over again and forcing myself to analyze it further. I don’t recall ever seeing photos of his childhood or ever seeing one of Mattie. I try to think of a time I’d seen her in person, but I can’t recall a single one. I could call Roux, though I’m unsure of what I’d even say, but I’m desperate to unravel all this with someone. I reach for my phone on the nightstand then hesitate. It’s probably insensitive to ask about her possibly dead cousin after not talking to her for months.
I struggle to come up with any explanation for why my pop would have this picture. It must be connected to the other contents of the box, but I’m at a loss for how. I peer under the bed like I can find the answer there waiting for me. A dark lump sits behind the mess of papers. A knot forms in my stomach asI reach for it, and I’m met with the velvety softness against my fingers. I grab it, pulling it out from the shadows and into the light of the room. The knot tightens, squeezing bile up to burn the back of my throat—it’s a fucking robe. The velvet garment is midnight black but grey with what must be years of dust ingrained in it. Gold stitching trims the edges, and satin of the same color lines the inside of the hood.
Nausea rips through me, and I throw the grotesque reminder of my pop’s past back under the bed, as if hiding it there can erase it from my memory. I cover my mouth with both hands, focusing on breathing through my nose, panic consuming me. My hands clutch at my chest, gripping the fabric of my nightshirt as my skin overheats.What the fuck do I do now?
Anger ripples through me, thinking of them sitting on the couch drinking coffee, as though everything is still the same. Even if I stormed out there, robe in hand, my folks would probably just accuse me of hurting my own feelings by putting my nose where it doesn’t belong. When anything uncomfortable happens, their choice of response is deflection. Deflect until they can ignore it, letting it fester beneath artificial pleasantries and polite conversation.
I am my father’s daughter, normally willing to ignore painful shit instead of processing it, but not this. Not this mound of evidence proving my father was a monster lurking under my bed. Not with it taunting me to continue digging until every childhood memory is tainted by what was actually happening around me. Certainly not now, not knowing Cyrus is dead too.
Cyrus being dead is a revelation too colossal to simply pretend it’s not in the room with us, taking up all the available space. The realization presses into me with so much force, it’s hard to breathe. Fuck, Cyrus was right, but why couldn’t he just tell me the truth? We could have processed this together, but he did it alone—and now, I do too.
I crawl to my feet, groaning as my vision still swirls with spots of black. The closet looms on the far side of the room, and I swear, it looks emptier than it did before. I move towards it, placing each step carefully, like I’m trying to sneak up on it. Once I’m close enough, I thrust my hand inside to turn on the light. My clothes hang on the rack, no monster hiding between them. If there were, I’m not sure I’d mind if it devoured me.
Since I’m already in the closet, I grab a plain black long sleeve shirt and a pair of jeans, laying them out on the bed before committing myself to taking a shower. With one hand on my head and the other on my stomach, I stumble down the hall to the bathroom. After closing the door behind me, I lean against it, waiting for my thoughts to slow. I wish my head would stop spinning, but it’s no use, so instead, I turn the hot water knob as far as it will go. The small room doesn’t take long to fill with steam, partially easing the ache in my chest. The water rushes over me as I step into the shower, washing away the constant chatter filling my brain. Thoughts of the Revelators and Cyrus swirl down the drain with the dirty water, and my breathing becomes easy for the first time since I got out of bed this morning.
The water heats my skin, relaxing my muscles. Tears stream down my face, and I don’t bother to wipe them away or stifle my sobs. My body shakes as my emotions rupture inside me, tiny explosions rip through me until I completely crumble. I don’t stop to analyze them for once. Sadness, guilt, grief, and rage pour from me until the water runs cold.
Each raspy gasp forces its way from my lungs as I attempt to come back to myself. I shut the water off, stepping out of the shower. The thin rug below me quickly becomes soggy with the water dripping from me. I wrap myself in a threadbare towel and wipe a hand across the foggy mirror. My reflection stares back at me with swollen eyes, my skin read and blotchy. Teal-tintedwater slides from my hair down my body, staining the towel—I know I’ll hear about it from my mama later. The woman in the mirror is a shell of the person I used to be, but I need to find a way to love her, because no one else is going to do it for me. A sob breaks free, catching in my throat, but I swallow it to force back another round of tears.
I grapple with what to do next, already exhausted even though it’s still morning. A need to know more, to understand, still rages inside me. The obscure fit of curiosity ignites a spark of energy, and I use it to sprint back to my room. After getting dressed at record speed, I throw myself to the floor to dig out everything under the bed.
Fighting past the sick feeling building again, I sort through all the papers and photos once more. I lay them out on the floor, trying to mentally connect everything I’m seeing. Maybe I’ve missed something that will make this all a cruel joke. Instead, I uncover a photo I hadn’t seen before. Five men stare up at me, their faces mostly hidden by the hoods of their robes. Out in the woods, they stand around a circular stone with a strange object resting in the middle. The silvery shape is curled, forked, like a broken-off piece of antler—the same one I saw that day in our Devil’s Nest garage. The image is so jarring, I’m not sure what to make of it. Tendrils of dread coil around my spine, and I shiver.
The distinct scent of smoky clove drifts past me. I’m sure I’m only imagining it now, secretly hoping for any shred of Cyrus to keep his memory closer. My head instinctively turns towards the closet—I should really just close the door. The hair on the back of my neck rises, like an invisible voice whispering against my skin.
“Hello?” I call, but my cheeks flush with embarrassment instead of fear. Even in horror movies, the monster never replies. I shake my head, dismissing the recurring sensation I’m not alone.
Outside my window, the late afternoon sun streams in, leaving a streak of light across the floor. Shit, how long have I been sitting here? I put everything back into the box before shoving it out of sight. My stomach rumbles, reminding me I haven’t eaten yet today. I dread the thought of escaping the safety of my room, but I have to leave eventually. Calculating the possibility of returning without having to talk to either of my parents, I resort to at least making a quick dash to the fridge. I’m almost out the door when a familiar laugh carries down the hall.
17
JACE
Roux Danvers.
I’d know her laugh anywhere, and it’s definitely her tinkling laughter radiating from the kitchen. My hands itch with anticipation, eager to see a friendly face but still filled with disgust from moments before. I’m desperate to tell her about everything I’ve learned over the past few days, but what if she has no clue either? I don’t want to flood her with information she might be content never knowing. Do I really want to burden her with what consumed Cyrus and is now plaguing me? Just outside the kitchen, I stop to take a deep breath and collect myself, silently wishing I had stopped in the bathroom first to make sure I don’t look as unhinged as I feel.
“Roux!” I squeal, half genuine and half forced, as I round the corner. My folks, Roux, and her mama all sit around the table, their heads turning in my direction as I enter.
