I exhale, looking around the kitchen to make sure I’ve finished all the breakfast cleanup. Mama doesn’t need another thing to worry about, and it’ll keep my pop from accusing me of not carrying my weight around the house—at least for now. Just as I’m about to head back to my room, Mama appears in the doorway. Her wide, glassy eyes find me, and she tilts her head back towards the hall. “Go on and get changed,” she says softly, but firmly. “I’ll meet you outside, by the shed. I’m going to start in the garden first.”
7
JACE
Even with a distinct chill to the air, the sun is warm enough that I’m sweating underneath my jacket. I slip it off, tying it around my waist and sighing with relief as the cold hits my skin. My shoulders feel lighter without it, at least physically, but even out here, in the fresh air, I’m unable to escape the lingering thoughts. Thoughts about my pop and the Revelators spiral inside me, awakened by the conversation this morning. I haven’t thought about our time in Devil’s Nest in a while, aside from every moment I spent with Cyrus being seared into my memory. Everything else seemed like background noise, easily filtered out and ignored until now. For Cyrus, though, his memories of Devil’s Nest were always front and center.
“Can you grab another bag of mulch, please?” my mama calls, not looking up from where she kneels by the raised beds of vegetables. She fumbles with the tangled plastic tarp she’s using to cover them, but frees one hand to point toward the shed.
“Sure,” I reply, setting down my trowel. I trudge over to the small, rundown shed, sitting on the other side of the area Pop cleared years ago for Mama to set up her garden. He has his cattle, and she wanted something of her own. The shed has been here since we moved in, quickly filled with boxes my folksnever unpacked. I look it over for a moment before entering, wondering if the ancient tin roof will last another winter submerged under a thick blanket of snow. The rusted roof is quickly added to my mental list of to-dos for spring, if I stick around long enough for the snow to melt. As I open the door, it creaks loudly, and I add the door hinges to the list too. The inside is dark, even in the middle of the day. The lone, small window is coated in a layer of grime, blocking most of the light trying to get through. I exhale in exasperation. Another addition to my never-ending list. I’ll need to clean that too.
I squint in the dim light, focusing on the shadowy shapes inside. A chill creeps up my spine as my mind races to identify the objects. Cobwebs brush my face as I walk further into the shed, making me jump and wave my hands furiously to tear them down. Once I can see again, I realize nothing is out of the ordinary here, mostly gardening supplies. Yet, I can’t shake the uneasiness continuing to wash over me.
Something moves in the back, skittering behind boxes. I shriek, jumping towards the workbench against the closest wall. I’m nearly ready to climb on top of it, my heart thundering in my chest as I attempt to pinpoint the source. My breath hitches. I wait several seconds to see if a monster will appear from the darkness to devour me. It was probably just a rat. I release my breath and explode with laughter, shaking my head at my absurdity. “You’re losing it, Jace,” I scold myself, stepping forward toward the bags of mulch.
My hand shakes as I reach for a bag to pull it toward me. The boxes stacked haphazardly behind it shift, startling me again. I lose my footing, falling hard on my ass. The top box teeters precariously before tumbling down. I throw my arms over my head just before it falls to the ground. A cloud of dirt engulfs me, coating my nostrils and causing me to sneeze. More dirt and debris shoot in all directions from the violent expulsion of airfrom my nose. When the last speck of dust finally settles, I stare at the open box, its spilled contents strewn across the floor.
Old documents and photographs litter the dirt-covered cement. It’s probably just junk or forgotten nostalgia, but there’s a lingering feeling it’s something more than hoarded garbage. The hair on the back of my neck raises, thinking of the gossip this morning over breakfast. In this sea of yellowed papers and fading pictures, there could be answers to why Cyrus was so tormented about his past, answers he was never willing to give me—no one was willing to give me. I should shove everything back into the box, grab the mulch, and head out to the garden. Some questions don’t need responses, especially ones I haven’t even had the right words to ask. Hesitantly, I reach a shaking hand toward one photo, the strangeness of it drawing me in. I inhale sharply, my fingers brushing over it, but my hand snaps back when I hear my name.
“Jace?” my mama calls from outside, her voice filled with concern. “You all right in there?” Her footsteps approach the shed. I scramble on hands and knees, pushing everything into a dark corner. Sweat trails through the layer of dust coating my face, my heart hammering as my mama gets closer. I don’t know what I’m looking at, or why I can’t shake the feeling I shouldn’t be. If it’s been hidden for this long, surely, it’s not meant to be found. Either way, snooping is one of Mama’s pet peeves, the holy grail of impoliteness.
The door swings open, creaking loudly again, just as I kick the box to the side. Mama tilts her head, her facial expression hidden by the bright sunlight barreling in behind her. “You alright in here? I heard a noise,” she asks again.
“Yeah, Mama,” I lie, hoping she can’t see the dread plastered across my face or hear my pounding pulse. Cold sweat builds between my back and my shirt; beads of it trail down my skin. I lean over to grab the first bag I see. Hopefully, the proximity ofthe mulch will validate my story. “I just tripped is all. I have the bag right here.”
“Alright,” she replies hesitantly after several seconds. She wipes her face with her shirt sleeve and then looks at me again like she’s made of questions. “Bring it on out then.”
She spins on her heel, heading to the garden without another glance. My shoulders sag in relief. I crawl to my knees to stand on unsteady feet, spots of white dotting my vision. I sway, rushing to grip the edge of the workbench. I don’t know exactly what I just found—something I likely wasn’t supposed to. The heavy ache of uncertainty sits in my stomach like a stone. I wait for my pulse to slow and my vision to return to normal before hoisting the mulch bag into my arms. My eyes shift back to the stack of mysteries a final time before I exit the shed. Only once the door is closed and I’m heading back to the garden do I let my curiosity wander, overpowering my previous apprehension. As I hand the bag to Mama, I make a mental note to come back and retrieve the box. At least it gives me something to look forward to, even if I end up regretting it later.
8
CYRUS
Imay be a ghost now, but my drunken old man is the real horror haunting my former home. The small house appears almost peaceful during the day, standing solemnly in the clearing, sunlight reflecting off the thin layer of snow covering the roof. Despite its serene appearance, he’s in there, crushing any hint of joy like a roach under his boot. It would be more tranquil to take my chances with the thing in the woods than to continuously come back to torment him. I can’t allow him to find any form of rest for too long. Even a second of peace is more than he deserves after a lifetime of torturing those around him.
A circle of trees encloses the cleared space surrounding the house. I linger in their shade, just beyond the reach of sunlight. The monster following me around these woods hasn’t made its presence known this morning, but the feeling of it being near never completely dissipates. Calling it a monster seems childish, but I don’t have a better word to describe it. If I didn’t catch glimpses of it from time to time, I’d assume it was my guilty conscience manifesting itself to follow me around the afterlife. I know it’s something more; the same creature my pop ranted and raved about for years before I knew of its existence.
When I finally saw it, the monster appeared like a nightmare crawling out from the depths of my mind and into the woods, the epitome of every scary story I heard as a child. The thing is a hellish mass of bone, decaying plants and vines hanging from it. It’s a walking heap of decomposition stalking behind every tree, waiting to snatch me. The smell of rot pierces the air when it’s nearby, and eventually, it reveals itself—the only thing I’ve been able to smell since I died. An elk skull rests atop its skeletal frame, amber eyes burning in the dark sockets. Thick tendrils of shadow roll off it, reaching across the ground like sentient appendages. The image, even in my thoughts, paralyzes me with fear.
Pop told stories of how the creature followed us up from Devil’s Nest eleven years ago, continuing to hover over us like a storm cloud we couldn’t escape. If it hadn’t, if it had stayed down south, maybe I’d still be alive. My last night with a beating heart still plays in a loop inside my mind, even two years later. The memory is a skipping record, like listening to the same lyrics of my least favorite song on repeat. It’s a wound that will never heal, never scab over, bleeding out and seeping through every moment of my eternity. When I close my eyes, I’m back in our living room again.
Tiny puffs of stuffing push through the ripped seams of the dark green couch. I pick at them mindlessly, rolling the synthetic fibers between my fingers before pushing it back into the tear. The sound of television static fills the room. I’ve been trying to convince my pop to get a satellite and retire the old rabbit-ears, maybe get some new furniture too. The extra funds would cut into his liquor budget, though, so it’s not an option up for discussion.
I run a hand through my hair, thinking about how Jace was right. She’s right about so many things, but especially this. I shouldn’t have come back. Pop will never change, and the onlyperson I’m hurting by being in this house is myself. She begged me not to go, to just leave him to self-destruct so we can move on with our lives. I had to see him just one last time, needing to confront him so I could close this door and never come back again.
She doesn’t have the same connection to our family’s dark history I do. Her parents kept her mostly shielded, protecting her from everything except the persistent feeling something wasn’t quite right. My mama tried to do the same until she died. Even at fourteen, I knew there was nothing natural, nothing mysterious about the circumstances of her death. Anyone close to my old man could tell you the same, but old Sheriff Danvers dismissed any evidence to the contrary. Once she was gone, all my father’s rage turned to me. Even knowing what I can never prove, I’m still here, sitting on this asshole’s busted couch. Maybe this time, I’ll finally muster the courage to call him out.
Fuck, Jace was right. There’s still time for me to pack my bags and make it back to the city before morning. I could be beside her in bed when she opens her eyes.
As I move to stand, the front door bursts open behind me. My pop’s whiskey-drenched scent enters the room before he does, making my nose wrinkle in disgust. He heaves a series of slurred words in my direction. I’m ready to ignore him and head down the hall to my room before he picks another fight. I’m twenty-eight years old, but he never hesitates to remind me of my place in the household hierarchy. It doesn’t matter that I’m the one supporting us; he hasn’t been able to hold down a job in years. In his eyes, I’m still a child, and he’s the man.
“I’m too old for this shit, old man,” I groan, leaning my head back and closing my eyes. I brace myself for his inevitable verbal assault.
“It’s you!” he roars, his words now crystal clear. My eyes fly open, my hackles raising with the sudden shift. “It’s fucking youit wants, I know it!” This isn’t the first time he’s babbled about the thing in the woods, certainly not the first time he’s yelled drunken nonsense at me, but something is off this time. The air between us fills with static, uncertainty crackling through the room. He quiets, and I stare at the TV blankly, pretending to watch the scrolling picture as the antenna struggles to maintain a signal. I listen for him to move on, for his footsteps to fade. If I leave now, I risk spinning him up further. Better to wait it out, but he doesn’t turn to leave.
His presence intensifies as he moves in behind me. A lump lodges in my throat. I try to swallow past it, but my mouth goes dry. Before I can turn to confront him, his hands slam on the back of the couch. His large, sweaty arms rest on either side of my head, nauseating me with his overwhelming body odor. I jump forward reflexively, spinning to face him.
“What the fu…” I choke on my words as he clumsily leaps over the couch, arms sprawling wide towards me. His eyes are wild with a look I’ve never seen before. I stumble back, but he grabs hold of my leg and uses it to pull me to the ground.
