Page 5 of The Folklore of Forever (Moonville #2)
Five
Spirits of those who die alone in the woods are called brays, and they move with the storms.
Local Legends and Superstitions, Tempest Family Grimoire
Re: New Idea
Hi, Zelda! Hope you’re doing well. I had the opportunity to read over your proposal, and while CATASTROPHICAL sounds fun, there’s a lot going on here that perhaps needs to be pared back. I also worry that a vampire main character might not be enough of a departure from Henriette. While you know I LOVE Henriette, I think we can both agree that it’s time for something new. Should we schedule a phone chat?
All best,
Abigail
Editor (she, her)
Sara Spright Books | Wuthering Press
Self-doubt is a sickness. As I examine myself, I can almost see it spreading down my arms, pooling in the creases of my fingers. It colors the space between my ears with monochrome fuzz.
I don’t have any good new ideas. I’m a one-off.
My phone rings.
I jump in my seat; I’d begun to slouch sideways, eyes glazed on the email from my editor. The computer screen falls asleep, and now all I see is myself, blank-faced and utterly failing at this core part of my identity that I am supposed to love.
I scramble upright. “Hello?” I’ve accepted the call without checking the name. “Who’s this?”
“Morgan. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Not at all.” I’m instantly bright-eyed. “What is it?”
“It,” he replies, “is time .”
“Hm?” I move my mouse around to wake up the computer. “Eight o’clock.”
He laughs. It’s soft and dark, conjuring images of kissing in closets, or traipsing along Black Sands Beach as the stars lift up. I shiver. “Yes, I know. I’d like to take you on our date tonight.”
Tonight? I am not a Woman Ready to Go Out; I’m in black velour pants with the top two buttons unsnapped, and an oversized, holey Jack Skellington shirt, my hair stuffed sloppily in a claw clip.
“It’s…kind of late for a date, don’t you think? I already ate dinner.”
“I’m not taking you to dinner. Be downstairs in ten minutes.”
“Wait—”
He hangs up.
I am soon swimming through all the clothes I own. Pants and skirts and dresses and tops, all my favorites are in the dirty laundry hamper, of course ; where’s that gray outfit I bought especially for dates? Oh, but it doesn’t fit when I’m this close to starting my period. Thunderation , I have nothing decent to wear.
I eventually track down my black-and-green-plaid dress under Aisling’s bed, shimmy into black tights, and I’m off to the races (with an extra deodorant in my purse, just in case I start nervous-sweating).
Downstairs, Morgan is pacing the sidewalk, dressed in his usual shine and flash. His brow is furrowed, eyes cast down, lips moving silently as if he’s talking to himself. When he spots me, that strange expression on his face melts away and he mirages back into the Morgan Angelopoulos I recognize: leaning against his vehicle, legs crossed at the ankles, shoulders back. He is the portrait of cool confidence.
“Hello, gorgeous.” He greets me in a sleek, seductive voice.
“Hi. You look nice.”
“Not as nice as you.” He opens the passenger door of his car and waits for me to slide inside. I am the human equivalent of ten cups of espresso as I buckle my seat belt. Do first dates always feel this way? I don’t remember being so jittery in the past.
He peers in his rearview mirror. Morgan wears his anticipation like a heavy cologne, high energy burning outward. It crackles where it touches my own energy, inquisitive and fickle, coiling itself protectively around my body. “Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.”
With dinner out of the equation, that doesn’t leave many options. The movies? I try to recall what’s playing. I’m so consumed with wondering where we’ll end up that I don’t pay attention to where we’re going until we’re speeding in reverse up a hill. I brace my hands against the glove box. “What are you doing?”
“You have to drive backwards on Wiley Palmer Road,” he replies breezily. “Everybody knows that. The Black Bear Witch can only see you if you’re moving forwards.”
“This isn’t safe!”
“Nobody’ll be coming from the other direction. There’s only one thing at the end of this road, and trust me, I’m the only person in this town who wants to go there.”
I lay out a mental map of the area, memory clouded by panic. The words Wiley Palmer are a flashing Danger! sign in my mind, connected to a childhood of horror stories, rumors, the fact that it’s a dangerous road in general. But then I remember—
And then I see it.
Turning fully in my seat, I catch Morgan’s smile as the outline of a saltbox house looms into view.
As a kid, I loved the old story that the Davilla house is alive, aware of you. If you wish to enter, first you have to feed it.
Even though I’m an adult, a wonderful terror still flutters at the sight—because the memory is so strong, the memory of what I believed . Suddenly, it isn’t only me and Morgan sitting in this car; ten-year-old Zelda is with us, too. She believes, and she presses her hands to the window, wriggling with delight.
He puts us in park, headlights slowly dying as the engine shudders to a standstill. For a moment, all is silent.
“You brought me to an abandoned house?”
“I certainly did.”
I don’t remove my gaze from the crooked timber-framed building, which used to be brown, I think, but has rinsed to an ash-gray, roof collapsed on one side, vines choking broken windows. The house’s face, propped against a rust-red sunset, has sagged in a way that lends it a sad expression. All five trees in front of the house have veered, leaning from it; an aspen near the chimney is so curved that its trunk has made itself horizontal, and you could sit on its trunk like a bench. I’m amazed nobody’s torn the place down, then salted the earth yet.
My heart tha-rump , tha-rump s. I look properly at Morgan now, and he is watching me—unsmiling, curious, a bit hopeful, maybe. I grin back at him.
“This is perfect.”