Page 4

Two

The next day…

“Open up, you stubborn fucker,” I murmur in frustration. The rusty door handle scratches my palm, mocking me with each failed attempt. Light illuminates past the stained windows on either side of the most stubborn door ever created, indicating that The Last Stop, the oddities shop I frequent behind my stepdad’s back, is, in fact, open. Yet, here I am, staring at the weathered sign on the front door that reads ‘ We’re open, all welcome, ’ unable to open the goddamn door. “Fine, have it your way.”

Taking a step back from the entrance, my gaze shifts to the arched window to my right, immediately drawn to the vibrant shades of amber and crimson that seep past the mosaic design. Pretty as it looks, it makes it damn near impossible to make heads or tails of what’s on the other side. I squint, trying to get a better look inside, but all that meets my vision aside from the glistening patchwork is my silhouette staring back at me.

I glance at the time on my phone. My stepdad, Pastor Rainey’s infamous Devil’s Night service, will be starting soon. Frida knows this, which is why she told me to get here when I did since she also knows what will happen to me if I’m late or not in attendance. The same thing that happens anytime I do something that he deems disrespectful to his god—he punishes me. I’ve grown used to it. Oftentimes, I find myself acting out or doing things on purpose, not only to get a rise out of him but to ensure that I will be reprimanded. At least then, I can feel something without having to run to the drugs—even if it means having my skin burnt or beaten. I’ve given up on peace; it’s too fleeting. Pain, as harsh and destructive as it is, has become the only reliable thing I can cling onto in this life. So I embrace it, even if it’s slowly killing me.

Still, even though I accept the torment that comes with being his stepdaughter, I know that the repercussions will be more severe tonight if I miss the service that has replaced his Christmas Eve and Christmas Day sermons in importance. I may be a glutton for punishment but even I know my limits.

The crowds of parishioners that tonight’s service draws has become such a moneymaker for him that it’s imperative to him that our family—or what’s left of it—maintain the illusion of a happy, God-fearing family unit. It’s that very lie that makes parishioners open their minds and their wallets in appreciation of each service. Without those funds, he wouldn’t be able to keep the lights on and the fine-oiled machine of deception he calls his church afloat. Anything that puts his business model at risk brings with it a level of punishment that even I, as stubborn and thick-headed as I am, don’t have the desire for. Not today, at least. Not on the anniversary of my mom’s passing.

Impatience gets the better of me as I take a step forward to knock on the glass, ignoring the sign that explicitly says not to touch. My knuckles tap at the windowpane. The time between knocks becomes less. One after the other, my knuckles pound on the glass, wanting a reprieve from the chokehold the bitter October air has on my skin, lining it with raised bumps so harsh, it feels like my dress can tear at any moment.

Logic sneaks past my desperation, tempting me to give up and walk over to the church. But if I do that, I won’t get what I came here for. A grimoire of sorts, but in journal form, that I’ve been waiting for Frida—the shop’s owner—to obtain. Before my mom married Pastor Rainey and converted to his biblical nonsense, she and each of the women in her family were all given a journal on their eighteenth birthday that they would call “el libro del destino”— a book of destiny . Since my mom has passed and I don’t have the luxury of turning to my stepdad for his support in my beliefs and tradition, I have to rely on Frida. To keep tradition alive—and to piss off my stepdad, of course—Frida helped me to find my own journal for my eighteenth birthday, which was earlier this month.

“Frida!” I call out her name, though it’d be a miracle if she could hear me over the sound of my incessant knocking. I continue this pointless attempt to get her attention a few moments more, until it dawns on me there is a back entrance to the shop.

Gathering the draping hemline of my dress, I lift it so I don’t lose my footing on the mess of moss-covered vines poking through every exposed crevice of the porch as well as the limestone steps.

Just as I lift my platform Doc Marten up to take a step, the unmistakable groan of aged floorboards sounds inside, stopping me in my tracks.

I turn my head, my eyes hone in on the distorted shadow through the decorative stained glass. The creaking continues now paired with the distinct thud of hurried footsteps. As the competing sounds reach a crescendo, I inch closer to the entrance, hoping it’s Frida on the other side finally ready to let me in.

“Have you been smoking again?” a voice shouts to me—Frida.

Hinges in dire need of oil grate at my eardrums as a bell sounds. The sound is abrupt, though the lingering percussion has the same effect as a gong, ricocheting its way from the doorway as it latches onto my spine, vibrating every vertebra .

Standing in front of the open door, my hands shoot upward in playful defeat as I shrug.

“What gave it away?”

“Oh, I don’t know, could it be that you forgot how to open an unlocked door?” She waves her wrinkled hand, motioning for me to come in.

Frida knows that I smoke weed often. Though, she doesn’t know that whatever strain I choose is almost always tampered with, lacing it with whatever I have accessible. I’m sure she assumes it’s just a phase. That I’m a cliche teenager trying to act cool by smoking the ‘Devil’s lettuce’ as my stepdad calls it. I’ll let her think that. It’s easier that way. She doesn’t need to be burdened with what drives me to numb myself day after day, or that weed and all the fun ways I can alter it is my second choice since my go-to pills are no longer an option. Not since my fuck-face stepdad took that away from me too.

I move past the threshold and immediately have to stifle the sneeze I have coming on from the strong scent of earthy patchouli mixed with what smells like a fucking heap of nutmeg.

“Besides, you have a key to get in here anyway. No excuses missy.” Frida’s voice trails as she turns over the welcome sign—another whimsical saying etched into the wood that reads, ‘ Sorry, we’re closed. Better luck next time, ’—before closing the door behind us and locking it.

“Closing early?” I ask, but my question is ignored.

She gives me a blank stare. “Something like that. Anyway, follow me this way,” she hums, leading the way through the thicket of odds and ends that fill the small, arguably cramped space. As my steps trail Frida’s, I feel the tension that stiffens my shoulders daily start to soften just like it does every time I sneak off here. It’s here amongst the peculiar trinkets and items whose existence tests the hands of time, that I feel like I can be what my stepfather fears most… myself .

Silence lingers between us, but I don’t fight it. Instead, I indulge my eyes in what makes “The Last Stop” the most unique oddities shop I’ve ever been to.

Walls cluttered in an assortment of taxidermy hung on plaques with displays scattered all throughout, housing items that range from bones to antique masks and even some vintage torture devices, fill my heart with joy. Every detail is vivid and beautiful.

Now stopped in front of the glass display by the register that holds the small macabre themed books, I wait for Frida to say something. She doesn’t. Instead she mutters something to herself while she takes inventory of what’s inside the case.

Impatience and excitement dance within me though I can’t say the same about Frida. The stern expression on her face is anything but a mirror of my own anticipated demeanor.

“Soooo,” I drag as Frida crouches down behind the display, flipping on the light switch that illuminates the rare books she keeps inside.

“Do you have it? Did it come in?” My enthusiasm overpowers me, as I rattle off one question after the next.

Straightening her spine, she offers me an apprehensive look.

“He’s going to kill you.” A dramatic and cryptic warning. “Especially if he finds out that Harlan was here not too long ago, and now you are back after he forbade it.”

Harlan… was here?

I’m about to ask her when Harlan was here, a place I’d never expect him to be, but she continues on, stealing my opportunity to ask.

“You have to be more careful. The last thing I need is for your stepfather to burst in and disrupt everything I’ve built here.”

“Don’t worry he can’t kill me. Isn’t that a rule or something? Thou shall not murder?” I joke.

A sigh slips past her pursed lips as she remains unconvinced. “You don’t strike me as someone who would have the commandments memorized.” Her tone is ripe with disappointment. If there’s anyone who despises the church and all it stands for as much as I do, it’s Frida .

“I’m not,” I reassure her, “I just have a good memory. Plus, it’s fun using the shit he preaches against him.”

“That’s my girl,” she clicks her tongue in approval, though her playful demeanor vanishes as quickly as it appeared. In its place, another foreboding glare.

“Let me rephrase, he’s going to kill you if he finds…” her voice trails as she lifts her hand, exposing a sliver of the cracked leather spine I’ve been impatiently waiting for, “… this, mi brujita.” My eyes light up as her hand shakes the palm-sized book in her grip for emphasis.

Restlessness settles in my bones, causing my fingertips to buzz with eagerness to have what I came for— what I’ve waited so long for —in my possession. Reaching into my crossbody purse, I fish for my wallet. Sliding the cash, I’ve been saving for months out, I place it on the countertop and extend my greedy palm out ready for our exchange.

One second bleeds into five, and by the ten-second mark of her just holding it within arm’s reach, not giving it up, I go to snatch it.

“Araceli,” she scolds, jolting her hands back. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” I snap, eyes glued to the weathered black leather she’s holding captive. “I promise he won’t see.”

Frida maintains distance between the book and me, unconvinced or moved by my words.

Adjusting my tone, I continue. “Besides, it’s just a book.” The words escape me and immediately I feel the weight of them hanging in the air. It’s not just a book. It’s anything but. Regret fills me. Suddenly, the shop feels ice cold, as if I insulted every object in here, and the violent chill wreaking havoc on my spine is a collective reminder.

No, you fucking dumbass, it’s not just a book.

Mumbles in Spanish flee Frida’s lips in long streams, were too fast and too low for my high to decipher, despite me being fluent.

“No estás lista,” she says, clear as day, and indignance causes me to stomp my feet like a child.

“I am ready.” I defend myself. “You know I am.”

“Are you?” She places the book on the glass countertop. Her index finger points to the title. Gold, embossed lettering shines before my eyes. “Fatum enim eligimus ,” she reads the title. “It means—”

“For we choose fate,” I answer for her, familiar with its Latin translation.

“Exactly. So no, brujita, it’s not just a book. It’s your book—your journal. It’s a beginning, and if your mother were—”

“Alive?” I cut her off. “Well she’s not, Frida . Hence why I’m here so you can give me the book that I would've been gifted had she been alive.” A lump lodges in my throat as my voice lowers. The words preemptively sting before they pour out. “Or if she didn’t abandon the Pagan roots my birth father introduced her to thanks to—”

Frida snaps her fingers, stopping the spiral I was about to go down.

“Enough, Araceli.” She tilts her head in the direction of the book she placed on the counter, signaling me to pick it up. “Let’s not focus on any of that and instead focus on why you’re here. Go ahead.” Her words nudge me to pick it up, and the moment the worn leather meets my hands, a surge of warmth floods my body.

“Jesus Christ,” I blurt as my palm glides over the title before opening to skim the pages.

Her tongue clicks, correcting me. “He isn’t welcome here.”

“Oops,” I say through a half chuckle. Skimming the pages, I’m surprised to see that all the pages are empty. Completely blank, aside from a picture on the left-hand side of the cover. Confused, I study the picture. My gaze falls to the curved edge of a wooden sailboat. A man with a stare as blank as the pages that fill the book bore into a woman whose begging expression reeks of pain. I angle my head, trying to take in every detail, but before I can study the rest, Frida’s hand emerges and closes the book. My money, trapped between the cover and her palm.

“What is this a beginning to? There’s nothing inside. ”

“Fatum enim eligimus ,” she reminds me again of the title. For we choose fate . “It’s the beginning of whatever it knows you need.”

I look up at her, confused. “But I have to write it and as the title implies, don’t I get to choose?”

She giggles, amused by my inquisitive nature, which is nice to see for a change since my stepfather detests it.

“If only it were that simple. Fate is subjective. It’s up to us to choose which of the many stories already written and waiting for us in the stars will be our beginning, so then we can determine how we can impact its end.”

Church bells ring in the distance. Their sound is the equivalent to poison saturating the air. Even with the favorable distance the shop is from the church property, Pastor Rainey has made it so anyone within a fifty-mile radius can hear the church bells ‘rejoicing’ as he foolishly calls it. His hope is that it will bring more parishioners his way since Sacred Promises is the only church in town. Man’s got a monopoly on the holy game. If only he embraced his business side more instead of the piss-poor acting he does within the church walls, maybe he’d be happier. Or, at the very least, more honest.

“You better get going, don’t want to make Pastor Rainey angry. Not on Devil’s Night Service.” Her fingers wiggle for dramatic effect.

“Yeah,” I scoff.

I grab the book off the counter clutching it to my chest. Peering down at my newly acquired journal, I stew on her words.

“… we can determine how we can impact its end.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to pay you?”

“No, Araceli, of course not. It’s your gift. Oh, and Araceli,” Frida begins but pauses for a moment as if to catch her breath.

“Yes?”

“It’s important that you keep that to yourself. Your story is yours and yours alone. If anyone gains access to your path, consequences will arise.”

“Okay,” I drag. “Got it. I have to go.” I thank Frida and walk towards the door. Opening the flap on my bag, I place my journal inside—or try to. I should’ve chosen a bigger bag today. This one is already jam-packed. Not paying attention to anything but trying to get the book secured, I startle when I hear footsteps stomping behind me.

“Wait!” Frida calls out.

I turn around and Frida is half bent on the floor picking up something that must’ve fallen out when I tried to stuff the book inside.

Frida rises to her feet, though her attention is on the paper.

My brows furrow, not sure what the fuck she is even looking at. Half the time I just shove shit in my bag and forget about it. It isn’t until she turns it over and I see the Petrine cross that my memory is sparked.

“What’s the big deal? It’s just a haunt.” I hold out my hand for her to give it to me but she doesn’t.

She holds it close to her chest. Her eyes full of warning look into mine. “The big deal is this isn’t just any haunt. It’s Heathen’s Cross.” Her nostrils flare in synchrony with her widening eyes, waiting for me to put together the pieces of the puzzle she thinks she’s laying out for me, but her hesitancy is only making me more confused.

Heathen’s Cross is one of the only haunts in the area that honors what Halloween actually is about. It’s a celebration of the veil between this life and what lays waiting on the other side at its thinnest. From everything I heard about Heathen’s Cross, it’s the perfect mix of spooky and spiritual. It was originally founded by Lucien Suárez, a leader in the Pagan community that once existed in our small town before my stepdad built the conglomerate that is Sacred Promises Church. I’ve seen pictures that Frida shared with me from her visits there back in its heyday. The whole vibe seemed so freeing, and from what I’ve seen in the picture Frida showed me, she looked so happy there. Something I haven’t seen often from her anytime I visit. She lost her husband quite a while back, and she said it changed her. I can understand that. Grief does that to a purpose. It steals small parts of us as it transports us to an alternate reality, one where we can go on through our day-to-day fine one second and distraught the next, out of nowhere. It’s why I run to drugs when all the feeling and remembering becomes too much of a burden.

I leave my hand stretched out between us with my palm opened and flat waiting for her to give the invitation back.

“I’m going to be late,” I remind her, hoping that will be the nudge she needs to hand it over.

Reluctantly she does. “I know how much you hate your stepdad. Gods knows I hate him just as much, if not more, but people have gone missing from there or even worse…” she pauses, looking uncharacteristically frightened.

Fuck, there’s something worse than going missing?

Frida’s throat clears to finish her thought. “They’ve come back and never been the same. It’s not what it used to be. Trust me.”

What she's saying should scare me but it doesn’t. What actually scares me is where I have to go after I leave the comfort of The Last Stop, where I have to fake a smile and sit— and suffer —through an hour of pretending to be something I’m not. “Saved.” I don’t want to be, not if it means being like my stepdad.

No. Fucking. Thank you.

I stash the flyer back in my bag. “That makes no sense. How is it worse to come back changed than it is to not come back at all?”

She swallows thickly. “Who gave that to you?” she asks instead of answering me.

“No one. I found it outside after I went to the costume shop in town the other day.”

“The one on main street?” she asks just as the church bells ring again in the distance letting me know that I’m really late.

“I gotta go.”

“Araceli, please.” Frida’s hand reaches for my wrist. Stopping me from moving, forcing my attention to her cold and dark stare. “If you insist on going, I can’t stop you, but make sure you wear your necklace.” She lets go of my hand and points to my pentagram. “It’ll protect you.”

“I know.” I nod in agreement, bringing my attention back to the door. My hand now on the padlock, flipping it first before moving to the handle to open it.

I look at the tripping hazard of steps before me. “I know the door got me, but my high has settled. I think I can manage the steps even though they are a death trap. You really should get them fixed,” I joke.

“?Ten cuidado!” she calls out.

“I know, I will!” I shout as I shut the door behind me, knowing that she is referring to Heathen’s Cross. Her warning, though creepy as hell, only makes me want to go more, so I can experience it for myself.

Hurrying my stride over to the church, dread seeps within my gut the closer I get. I hate it there. I hate how everything in that collection of beams and sheetrock judges me for not believing what I’m told I’m supposed to. Inside its walls lies true horror because it’s a deceitful entity that looks inviting and is anything but. I’d be lucky to come back changed after attending Heathen’s Cross. Hell, I’d be lucky if it took me and never brought me back. Anything is better than the reality I’m forced to live.

Approaching the church entrance, I brace myself for the hour of masking I have ahead of me. Pretending to be the perfect pastor’s daughter everyone knows I’m not. My lids fall shut and a wave of lightheadedness consumes me, just how it always does, when my high wears off. I remain still with lids shut, waiting for it to pass and once it does, I inhale and begin to count to four. One, two, three, four . I hold for a second, before exhaling, counting to four again, except this time I will open my eyes on the count of four.

One.

Two.

Three .

My lids open preemptively. It’s like a force I can’t explain wants me to look before it’s too late.

Four. This time I count out loud as my gaze falls to the wrought iron handle in my grip.

I squint in confusion because my nail beds are soiled in what looks to be dirt. Wind whips around me, my hair falling out of place. I tuck it behind my ear just as another gust of wind comes, this time bringing a swarm of golden and rust colored leaves with it as the wind spins around me relentlessly.

“ It’s your gift. ” An internal whisper grips me, mimicking what Frida said to me back at the shop, but it’s not her voice. It’s unrecognizable. Unsettling.

Ignoring it, I pull the door towards me, still hung up on the word “gift.”

Gifts are subjective because whatever ailment—as my stepfather refers to it—I inherited from my birth father, isn’t seen as a gift to those trapped within these holy walls I’m about to walk into. It’s seen as a curse and every time I walk and feel what I feel, which is the opposite of the peace that surpasses all understanding I’m told I’m supposed to feel. I’m reminded just how cursed I am.

Jokes on him though, I’d pick being cursed or haunted over being saved any day. It’s more fun that way.