Page 17

“No. It’s real. I heard it. I saw it. I was—”

Whip.

“You hear that? That’s the sound I will continue to make until you stop talking altogether. No child of mine will feed into these delusions. You’re just like your…”

“Harlan.” Tori breaks the bubble I’m in as she rubs my back, but her touch only drives the trauma further to the surface, and I tear away from her touch.

“I’m sorry, I just wanted to see if you’re okay. If you need me to do something I can…”

I lift my hand to stop her. “I’m good.” I lie. The same lie I've been telling since I learned my lesson at the ripe age of five, and of what telling the truth to someone who can’t accept it means—embarrassment, pain. Neither of which I have time for. Making my way out of the storage room, Tori follows after me.

“Didn’t you need something from your dad’s office?”

“Forget it,” I say, continuing to walk away.

I shake my head, brushing off whatever it was I thought I heard back there. Convincing myself it’s in my head, and needing the lie to be true. I continue moving, through the blanket of darkness in the hallway of the basement and up the stairs. I only stop to place my head on the door that separated me from the main sanctuary. Hand on the knob, I go to turn it, and as I do, the uncontrollable urge that I have to look down at the floor overcomes me. I peer down as I open the door, look to the floor, and giant muddy footsteps fill my vision.

I walk around them and the noise sounds in my ear again, forcing my attention back to the floor. This time I see something. A pentagram—Araceli’s pentagram—lies on the floor. I bend to pick it up, slipping it into my pocket. A grimy texture brushes against my callouses but I don’t have time to look at what it is, not with Tori now standing a few feet behind me.

“Where are you going?” Tori calls out.

My lips part, but something else catches my attention on the floor, dark brown blotches of mud line the floor. The footsteps I saw just moments before are now long, jagged letters. I take a step forward, trying to decipher what it says. Squinting, I can make out the first two words, ‘no one’ but it isn’t until I move closer that I can see the rest, ‘gets in for free.’

No one gets in for free. What the fuck does that mean?

I blink. When my lids ascend, and I go to read the message again, the writing… the mud… all of it isgone.

“Harlan.” Tori breathes my name, a question on her lips. “What’s wrong?”

I shake my head, heading back to the door. “Nothing,” I quip as a vicious chill lodges down my spine.

I have to get out of here. I need air.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” I burst through the doors into the October night air. Leaves whip at my jeans, and the weight of the necklace in my pocket becomes prominent.

Araceli probably put some spell on it, or whatever she believes in, and she’s fucking with me. That has to be it.

I convince myself that this is the truth, as I walk past the graveyard that separates the church from our farmhouse on the property, replacing one nightmare for another. If she did purposely leave her necklace for me to see in the hopes that I’d bring it back to her and she tampered with it, that means that whatever she did, is real.

So maybe her mom was right, that night that she and my dad were arguing before she was found in the cornfield not too far from here.

Maybe the veil is slipping since tomorrow is Halloween.

That, or I’m cursed for everything I’ve been secretly wanting to do with Araceli. Nothing brotherly, and everything that makes me the sinner my dad has always feared I’ll turn into.

Six

My lips pinch together,holding the fresh joint in place so I can light it. The earthy scent drifts my way and the eagerness I have to smoke it only increases as I crave the calm I know it will give, even if I know deep down that it won’t be enough. Well, until I get my pills, and Harlan better have gotten them, it will suffice.

A small, controlled flame blossoms from the lighter, drawing my eyes to it. My vision crosses, focusing on the twisted end of the rolling paper as it crackles and burns as I suck in a deep inhale until it’s ready to smoke.

One hit becomes another until the joint is reduced to a flameless roach. I lean forward, tossing it into the garbage pail off to the side of the tub, though as I do, the damn dirt that has embedded itself in my cuticles steals my attention. I try rubbing the dirt away with an equally tarnished hand, but it doesn’t budge. Grabbing the loofa slung on the faucet in front of me, I dunk it into the water to wet it, hoping it will be able to scrub it away. But its abrasive texture is no match against the dirt that’s clung onto my skin like cement.

I toss the loofa into the tub and stare at it. Not even afragment of the mess on my hands transferred onto it. As I sit back, settling my backside against the tub, I try to think if there was anything on the book when Frida handed it to me. I don’t remember there being any, but then again, I was just coming down from the laced joint I smoked prior. Details are always fuzzy when I begin to sober up.

Unable to let this mystery go, I lean over the edge of the tub and grab my towel to dry my hands. I need to see the damn book again so I can figure out what the fuck got on it that is holding my skin hostage to its mess. Grabbing my bag, I reach inside for my journal. As my fingers search—cataloging all the things that aren’t the book—Harlan suddenly appears in the doorframe as he barges into the bathroom.

“Araceli,” he scolds, startling me. Despite the naturally deep rasp of his voice he still manages to spew my name like a little fucking goody two-shoes.