My hands tremble, terrified that at any moment, my folks could appear. I’ve successfully smuggled the box into my room, but I hesitate, having second thoughts. I’ve spent my entire life knowing I shouldn’t ask questions I don’t want to know the answers to. My mama lived by that mantra, forever ignoring any of my pop’s transgressions. Dust clings to my sweaty palms, making them itch. I rub them across my jeans, leaving streaks of grime on the fabric. Anxiety still lingers in my bloodstream from scurrying through the house, trying to remain undetected. My heart hammers against my rib cage like I’ve just run a marathon. After a few deep breaths, it eases back to a normal rhythm, allowing me to think clearer.
The box wasn’t actually hidden, I reason with myself. If it contains some big secret, they wouldn’t have kept it or shoved it out in the shed for anyone to find, right?Right. I’m not doing anything wrong.I’m not. I repeat the words to myself, attempting to settle my nerves. Maybe it’s nothing, leftover odds and ends Mama couldn’t bear to part with after our move. That would make sense. I’m going to have a good laugh when there’s nothing in here but junk—yet, I can’t shake the notion it holdssomething more. The feeling crowds my mind, adamant there’s something Ineedto find.
Anticipation swells inside me, urging my hands to lift the top. A cloud of dust particles explodes into the air, carrying a caustic scent of mildew and dirt strong enough to gag me. I throw one hand over my nose and stare into the box, choking back a wave of nausea. Cautiously, I peer at the contents, sitting up on my knees for a better view of the disjointed assortment of papers, folders, and photos inside. Nothing jumps out; no one races down the hall to stop me from discovering any sinister secrets I might stumble upon. It’s just a bunch of old paperwork, so why am I overthinking this?
As I remove my hand from my nose, another smell catches my attention. Underneath the musty scent emanating from the cardboard, there’s a hint of earthy sweetness. The smell of cherries and cloves is distinct, like someone’s thrown a pack of clove cigarettes in with all the papers. Only, it’s not coming from the box. My heart plummets when I pinpoint the familiar smell—Cyrus. The tartness of the cherry and the richness of clove smells the same way our pillows did for months after he left. It’s the scent of his skin as my lips brushed against his neck, the way I always knew he was in a room before I was. I look around, tears pooling in my eyes and goosebumps flaring across my skin. It takes a moment for me to realize I’m looking for him, but a shudder rolls through me as the feeling of being watched descends over me. My eyes dart to the closet, as if I’m expecting to find him standing there in the darkness. The shapeless lumps inside blend, resembling the outline of a person. An icy chill slides through me, a whimper forming in my throat.
I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking my head before I open them again. There’s nothing in the closet except a pile of unhung clothes. My hands shake again, my body reacting to the urge to hide from an unseen threat. Maybe it’s only my conscience,guilting me into not exploring further before it’s too late. I can still take the box back to the shed, pretend I never saw it. I don’t even know what I’m looking for or what questions I’m trying to answer, but I have to keep looking. If there’s even a chance I might learn more about why Cyrus left, I’ll take it.
My fingers twitch with trepidation as I remove the first layers of paper from their cardboard tomb, spreading them out on the floor. There are photographs of my parents, probably in their late twenties, standing with several others. One of their faces catches my attention, and I hold up the photo for a better look. The man standing next to my pop is Elias, much younger but undoubtedly him. Another man next to him must be his brother, Ezra, since they look so much alike. I’m sure I met him, but if I did, my mind’s blocked his face out. The men’s arms are around each other, but the women stand off to the side. Two of them are holding babies. The third is my mama, belly round beneath her dress, and I realize she must have been pregnant with me. I turn the photograph over to find the word ‘Revelators’ scrawled in pencil, along with a date from almost thirty years ago.
Something stirs in the recesses of my mind. Bile rushes up my throat at seeing all the men together, toothy smiles plastered onto their faces. After everything came out about the cult—he was obviously very much a part of it—I thought Pop would have burned all this shit. There’s no way he would have left any evidence this damning to tie our family directly to the Gibson brothers. Apparently, nostalgia is stronger than common sense, because the proof ishere, staring me in the face. I toss the photo aside to shuffle through the rest of the papers. Most of them look unimportant: old invoices and miscellaneous legal documents. I push them away, picking up an old manila folder. As I open it, a shuffling noise comes from the closet. I jolt backward, falling and catching myself with my hands. “What the fuck was that?”
No one answers me, thankfully, but I glare into the closet waiting for someone to appear. More nothing, of course, but some of my shirts gently sway like something brushed against them. I close my eyes, counting each second of my exhale. When I get to ten, I open them again, looking to confirm nothing is there. My throat tightens. I swear I see the outline of a person again, but on a second glance, it’s gone.
You’re freaking yourself out, Jace. Get a grip.
I creep back to the heap of papers from the folder, now lying every which way before me. They all look similar, and on closer inspection, I see they’re flyers. My jaw falls while reading the big red letters stamped at the top of each one: ‘MISSING’. Each one features a different person, all black and white pictures of smiling children or young women. My stomach plummets, threatening to fall out of my body. The room spins, black tunneling the edges of my vision. Iknewthis had happened, Tally even confirmed it, but there was still achancethe cult had nothing to do with the disappearances. Seeing their faces solidifies it in a new, horrifying way.
How many of them were there? Why did Pop keep these? Why would he have them to begin with? Did he help kidnap them? Has Mama seen them? The questions bombard me rapid fire, making me sicker by the second.
A dull pain begins behind my eyes, quickly radiating throughout my skull. I rub my fingers in slow circles against my temples, hoping to massage the pain away before it’s full blown. My lungs burn, unable to draw in enough air as they collapse in on themselves while I struggle to breathe. I fall to the floor, panic taking control of my muscles and my emotions. Tears stream down my cheeks, hot against my clammy skin. I beg my brain to go silent amidst the barrage of intrusive thoughts.
Grief consumes me, crushing me between its teeth, a feeling so powerful, I’m convinced I’m going to be smashed into athousand pieces, breaking apart between its invisible jaws. I’m ready to claw my skin to shreds. My nails make crescent-shaped cuts on my palms as I clamp my hands shut. I’m ready to curl into a ball and let this be my end when a strange tingling starts in my limbs. The same static I feel as I fall asleep washes over me, alleviating the unbearable ache that was there a moment before. I fight against it at first, squirming as it grows in intensity, but I finally relinquish myself to it. The throbbing in my head turns to a gentle pressure, like someone’s running their fingers over my brow. It’s strangely soothing, although foreign, but it’s easy to close my eyes and pretend someone is here, trying to help me through this moment.
The scent of cherries and cloves drifts through the air, and I pretend it’s him. I pretend Cyrus is here, helping me fight off the demons of our past once more. The vision is as painful as it is comforting, my heart unsure if it should swell or break.
I don’t know how long I lose myself in that vision before footsteps coming down the hall snap me back to reality. I’ve let myself lie here for too long, disassociating into the strange popcorn pattern of the ceiling and memories of Cyrus—and now, I’m about to be caught.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I scramble to shove the box and everything from it underneath the bed, my pulse thundering in my ears. There’s a knock at the door, and I don’t get a chance to respond before it creaks open. Fighting against lightheadedness and the persistent ringing in my ears, I slide myself over to sit on a rogue piece of paper that didn’t make it under the bed. I barely have time to cover it before Pop enters the room.
His head peeks in at first, face stern and eyebrows knitting together. Our eyes meet, and his gaze roams over the floor before returning to me. His expression changes, questions flickering behind his eyes. My teeth grind as I try to subdue my panic, andI hope he can’t hear them clacking. He raises an eyebrow and asks, “The hell you doin’ in here, girl? You comin’ to dinner? Your mama’s been callin’ you.”
“I’ll…” I sputter, pushing the last piece of evidence under the bed before I stand. “I’ll be right there.”
My pop nods without another word, turning to give me one last, curious look before closing the door. I collapse in relief against the side of my bed, leaning my head back on the mattress and sighing. Wiping my face with the backs of my hands, I take another minute to compose myself before getting up to head to the door. The sensation of being watched still weighs heavily on me. I take a final glance at the closet, moving a few steps toward it—just to be sure. It’s still empty, save for the clothes and junk that’s always been inside. After chastising myself for getting so worked up, I head towards the kitchen.
Right before I leave the room, the faint cherry scent returns.
12
CYRUS
Holy fuck, I touched her.I fucking touched her, or as close as I can get, but Ifeltsomething. For the first time since I’ve crossed over into this liminal space between life and death, the vacuum of despair constantly sucking me in has dissipated. Even if it was only for a few moments, I had eternity at my fingertips. I want her to know it was me, to know I’m more than a memory tingling in her subconscious. Her body remembers, responding effortlessly to my caress. Her muscles unwound beneath my fingers, finding familiarity in the either—proof she could feel my presence.
Each time she stared into the closet, I waited for her to glimpse me, begging for her eyes to fall upon me—toseeme. Her mind won’t allow it just yet, but she felt me—Iknowit. How will she react when she finally does? She doesn’t even know I’m dead. Does she?
My ghostly form fills the space she vacated moments ago, imagining it still being warm from her body. I would give anything to feel the heat of her touch again. It’s a curse to feel unpleasant sensations but not the ones I wish for the most. All the trial and error I’ve done over the years, testing my limitations, and it all still seems so fucking random. My oldman can see me most of the time, but others can’t, even when I’m standing right in front of them. I’ve reduced it down to me really wanting that asshole to see me, but that wouldn’t explain why Jace can’t. I’m desperate to figure out my boundaries so I can actually use them to my advantage instead of constantly guessing.
The expressions that cycled over her face as she sorted through the box flicker through my mind: curiosity, fear, disgust, sadness. Whatever she was looking at gave her more questions than answers, it seems. If only she were one of those people who think out loud. She’s always been quiet, keeping everything bottled up until the pressure is too great to contain. The box is still here, hidden only feet away. I roll to my knees, crawling under the bed to look through the papers myself. It’s difficult to see anything at first, my sight adjusting to the darkness. When my vision comes into focus, my body tenses. Dozens of ‘MISSING’ flyers litter the floor, several loose photographs dispersed among them—my pop’s shit-eating grin looks up at me from several. I wish I could shred each one, ripping all this from my memory. There’s nothing down here but years-worth of unresolved trauma from our time in Devil’s Nest. I wonder how much Jace knows about this, the cult or the significance of what she’s discovered. She came so close over the years to piecing it all together, what I couldn’t bring myself to say out loud to her.
I struggle to sift through the remnants of our past, taking several tries to move each piece of paper. Moving objects isn’t as easy as the movies led me to believe, though I’ve had plenty of practice attempting to knock shit over at my pop’s house. Jace should have left this hidden away, forever rotting and forgotten in the shed. One particular picture makes me hesitate, staring at two children, both around ten years old. They’re solemnly standing side by side, not even a hint of a smile. Pain slicesthrough me like a hot knife. The image is of me and my cousin, Mattie, dressed in church clothes, although we’re not at a Sunday service. We’re outside the Gibson family cabin in the Hellsmouth Woods, just outside Devil’s Nest. This day was the last time I ever saw her, forever burned into my memory.
Our fathers were as close as two brothers can be, but Mattie’s mom rarely let her out of the house, or out of her sight, really. Her dad, Ezra, insisted on getting us together this day, despite our mother’s protests. I still remember the sadness filling my mama’s eyes that morning as she got me ready. Together, Mattie and I were forced to play several games, strange ones that felt more like tests. Ezra, my father, and their friends stood around watching us, making occasional comments about how well, or poorly, we did. The unsettling feeling from that day washes over me, fresh, like it never left, only waiting for the right moment to be released upon me again. I’m not sure I’ll ever know what they were testing us on, but I must have failed, because no one ever brought it up again.
The longer I stare at the photo, the more vividly my memories emerge. Each photo is a reminder of how deep I pushed down the little signs my pop and Ezra were up to something sinister. Even when the truth was inescapable, a blazing neon sign, I couldn’t bring myself to admit it. Mattie’s emerald green eyes bore into me, her young face frozen in time, pleading with me to find a way to change the trajectory of what our lives were to become.
