Packing my things and putting everything else back to where it was took the rest of the night. When Uncle Killian knocked on the door asking if I was awake, I had barely just zipped the suitcase up with great effort.

“Yeah, I’m up!” I told him.

“Good. Take a shower, Dennis and Amelia will be here in half an hour for breakfast and then we leave,” Killian told me through the door. I felt a pang of guilt; Dennis and Amelia had to drive with us because Dennis’ car had crashed into the Washington Monument last summer. It wasn’t technically my fault.

‘Breakfast’ turned out to be yoghurt and granola and orange juice, which was pretty decent by Killian’s standards. It was usually me who cooked, unless he bought boxed mac and cheese or ordered pizza. I didn’t mind cooking; Fiona, who used to live across the street, had taught me well.

Getting out of the house was a big ordeal. Killian had two big suitcases and a leather bag that the rest of us had to help with because he had a limp and missed an arm. Then, Amelia remembered she left her passport on the kitchen table (“Why did you take it out in the first place?!” Dennis bellowed) and once we were all finally in the car, I had to run back and get my Walkman and CDs.

It was a tight squeeze in Killian’s Mini. We had to strap some of the bags on the roof; Killian used a spell to make sure nothing would fall. Dennis had to sit with his knees to his chest because behind his seat, Amelia’s suitcase needed space. There were bags between us and on my lap, and if I didn’t hold my skateboard tightly it hit Amelia in the head every time there was a bump or a turn.

I was raised in Los Angeles, so I knew what a crowd looked like. It still didn’t prepare me for San Fransisco International Airport. Some people were in crisp suits and cocktail dresses, others in sweatpants and hoodies. There were hippies in tie-dye and bangles, a group of punk rockers with guitar cases, people drinking coffee, people drinking beer and wine, people sleeping on hard benches… I suddenly had no sense of time.

Once we gave our suitcases away and got through all the security, which was nerve-wracking to say the least, Killian lead us to our gate. “Now, we have an hour and a half before the boarding starts. I want you all here in an hour. Don’t wander too far away,” he said sternly. He gave Amelia and I both ten dollars to spend.

“What are we gonna get?” I asked nervously as we walked past tax free stores, fast food places and souvenir stands.

“Burgers!” Amelia said confidently.

“We just had breakfast,” I pointed out.

“It’s the last good food we’re gonna get for the next 12 hours. Trust me,” she said, grabbed my arm and started leading the way towards a bustling burger place. It did smell good.

“Why would I trust you? You’ve never been on a plane either,” I said.

“You trust me because I’m older, smarter and taller,” Amelia said. I admit, she made a point even if she was only an inch taller.

We ordered cheese burgers and cokes and chose a spot that had a good view of the airport. We entertained ourselves by guessing where all the travellers we saw came from.

“He’s obviously French,” Amelia said and pointed at a man a bit older than Dennis. He pulled a red suitcase and had an expensive-looking backpack on his back.

“Just because he has a striped shirt and a moustache,” I argued. “He could be from anywhere.”

“He’s going to the smoking room,” Amelia said.

“Okay, maybe he is French,” I said. “But don’t all Europeans smoke?”

“French smoke the most. Everyone knows that.”

“Fine. What about her?” I nodded towards a very blonde woman. She had a crop top, which revealed stone hard abs and tan skin.

“Australian?” Amelia guessed.

“Or maybe she’s just been to Australia,” I said.

“Maybe she’s Russian,” Amelia mused.

“But do they tan?” I said.

“Shit, you’re right,” Amelia said. “She could be Californian, though. Maybe she’s not going home, she’s going abroad.”

“I don’t know,” I said skeptically. I’d seen many Californian surfer chicks in my life, and she didn’t look like one.

We decided she was Australian.

After burgers, we browsed the tax free. We bought candy and sodas for the flight, and Amelia got a neck pillow. I told her I’d just ball up my hoodie if I needed a pillow and spent the rest of my money on a bag of chips. She didn’t admit I was smarter.

Boarding the flight, the butterflies that had been having a party in my belly decided to go even crazier. There was a full on rave going on down there, with colourful lights and bass and everything.

Amelia and I had seats next to each other, and Dennis and Killian sat a couple of rows over. We had a rock-paper-scissors over the window seat; Amelia got it, but she promised I could sit there on the flight back home. I wouldn’t have minded the middle seat so much if the old lady next to me wasn’t so talkative.

“So, where are you two heading to?” she asked in a heavy New York accent. She had curled grey-blonde hair, red nails and clumpy eyelashes. I thought it was warm on the plane, but she had a thick fur coat.

“Same place as you, I assume,” I said. I frowned — flights didn’t have stops, right? Killian hadn’t said anything about stops or transfers.

“Of course! Sorry, I have to take these meds, see.” She took out an orange bottle half full of pills and rattled it around like a toddler.

“I have a friend who has anxiety too. Sucks,” I said.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“Oh, yes, it does. Do you know when we’ll be leaving?” she said.

I looked out the window past Amelia’s shoulder. We had been mid-air for the past ten minutes at least. “We’re already flying.”

“Oh!” The woman looked a bit startled and clutched her pearls. “Well, I suppose they worked, didn’t they?”

“I guess so,” I said.

“What’s your name, darling?” the woman asked. I assumed she needed a distraction and felt bad for her.

“Oscar,” I said. She offered a hand, and I shook it. It was cold.

“My name is Peggy,” she said politely.

“Nice to meet you, Peggy,” I said and let go of her hand. She smiled.

“A brave boy like yourself, you’re not scared. Are you?” she babbled on. A glass of wine had appeared in her wrinkly hand.

“No,” I said. I was nervous, sure, but at least planes were… well, man-made. Human-made. I was more worried about harpies in the sky or something.

Something smelled. I’d never smelled a corpse, but I did find bad meat at the back of the fridge one time. This smell was something similar, and it seemed to be wafting right out of Peggy’s mouth.

“I do get so worried on planes,” she said and pulled the bottle of pills out of her pocket again. She shook one out onto her palm. It wasn’t like Charon’s anxiety pills at all; it was a greyish black colour that had brown blotches. It reminded me of a bug. Peggy swallowed it with ease and washed it down with the rest of her red wine, which stained her dry lips and yellow teeth.

“You look familiar. Are you a child actor?” Peggy said, staring at me over her tilted sunglasses. I saw her eyes for the first time now. They looked milky white, but it must’ve been just the lighting in the plane. They were probably just very light blue.

“I’m not,” I said slowly. She nodded: understood. The conversation was over.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Peggy announced eventually and got up, groaning. I tried to help, but she waved her hand dismissively.

When she came back after almost half an hour, the smell was gone. I guessed she was one of those people who get anxiety gas, or maybe she had been really needing the toilet. Either way, she didn’t talk for the rest of the flight, which I had no complains on.

Amelia and I played a few quiet games of Uno, listened to music on the Walkman and ate and traded our snacks. About halfway through the flight, Amelia decided that she was going to take a nap and took out the travel pillow she had bought. She curled up against the window and fell asleep almost instantly.

While Amelia slept, I kept glancing at Peggy. She was napping as well, most of the flight. At some point she busted out a halfway finished scarf and started knitting, but that only lasted half an hour.

I dozed off sometime after Amelia. In my dream, I was in a forest. It reminded me of Hoia Baciu, the place my great-aunt had visited in the 60s, though I saw no warped trees like in the drawing. This forest felt younger, but just as menacing. A crow croaked on a tree branch, somewhere so high up I couldn’t see it. I was starting to have a bad feeling about the dream.

I couldn’t see any other buildings except a red brick house with no path leading up to it. It looked like it had been abandoned for a while, but had recently been cleaned up by someone just enough to live in. The windows were boarded up and the vines that climbed up the walls had been ripped off the doorway.

The door creaked open. Two cloaked people walked out, both carrying books that radiated old magic. I didn’t see the other one’s face, but I could’ve recognised the shorter one anywhere. It was Fiona.

I wanted to cry, seeing her. Partly because of the still fresh betrayal, but mostly because despite everything, I missed her immensely. She had lost weight. What I could see of her red hair was thinner than I remembered, and had a lot more white streaks in it.

I followed Fiona and her companion. I don’t know if the dream made me, or if I just wanted to keep being with her even if it wasn’t real.

We walked for an eternity, their cloaks dragging along the foliage and me silently like a ghost. The day grew darker as we went on, or maybe the forest became denser. I couldn’t hear birds singing anymore, or bugs buzzing. In fact, I didn’t see any life besides us.

Eventually we arrived at a clearing. It wasn’t a big one, just enough for three or four people to meet comfortably. In the middle there was a mossy boulder. When I stepped closer, I realised it wasn’t just a boulder; it was a gravestone. I couldn’t make out the name, but the date said: 1678-1694.

When I tried to get a closer look, Fiona’s companion blocked my way to place something on the gravestone. Six candles and a clay plate with something smoking on it.

Fiona’s companion retreated to the edge of the clearing and started muttering a chant in a foreign language while Fiona kneeled in front of the gravestone, hunched over. I wondered who she was mourning until I realised she wasn’t mourning at all.

She was eating. There was a large platter that might’ve looked appetising weeks, maybe months ago. Grapes that had shrivelled into raisins, grey steak, roasted potatoes covered in mould, slimy lettuce and green beans turned black. I couldn’t even smell it and it still made me feel sick.

If Fiona was grossed out, she didn’t show it. She soldiered on eating the spoiled food like it was a five star meal. Her brow was sweaty when she swallowed the last bit of steak.

Her companion, still chanting, offered her a silver chalice. She washed everything down with a red liquid that I would’ve suspected to be wine if it wasn’t so much thicker. It dribbled down her chin and throat as she drank, leaving a crimson trail on her pale skin.

“Isobel Whitelock!” Fiona called out in a trembling voice once she was done, and threw the chalice away. “Another fine name lost in our gruesome history. My sister, I ask you to seek revenge. Revenge against those who did you wrong, those who forgot you, and those who are yet to betray you. Remember Theodosia, Hezekiah and Holmes. Remember those names.”

There was an angry rumble. The gravestone cracked like a windshield hit by a small rock on the highway. Fiona looked confident.

“I ask not much of you, my sister. I am in need of advice and guidance. In exchange, you will be granted freedom from your grave,” she said. Her voice grew louder with each word, to a point where my head was pounding. Her companion’s chanting became quicker.

I opened my mouth to tell her to stop, but nothing came out.

“I will call your name three times,” Fiona said breathily.

“Fiona!” I screamed. This time, there was something. It wasn’t my voice, exactly, but if I just tried harder…

“Isobel Whitelock,” Fiona said. The gravestone cracked again; the largest line was almost half the length of the boulder. In the back of my mind, I knew that if Fiona completed the ritual the gravestone would split into two halves.

“Fiona, stop!” I was getting there. I could feel my voice in my throat. Fiona, however, couldn’t hear a thing.

“Isobel Whitelock,” she said again. The crack grew longer. It was an inch off, now.

“STOP!” I roared as loud as I could.

Something faltered in Fiona’s eyes. She had heard me. For a brief second, I was relieved. I had done it, the spell wouldn’t be cast.

But then she said it, hesitantly.

“Isobel Whitelock.”

We all waited. The rumbling had stopped, it was dead silent. The crack stayed the way it was.

“Isobel Whitelock!” Fiona repeated in a clear voice, but her companion had already given up and dropped her spell-book.

“It didn’t work,” she said angrily. “Why didn’t it work, O’Beirne? You said you knew what you were doing, we’ve been working towards this for months!”

“I did know!” Fiona said. “I do know, but the ritual was interrupted…”

And she looked straight at me. She looked more confused than angry, but definitely not happy to see me. I had to wake up. Something told me that it was a bad thing to be seen there. I had only been seen by one person before, and that was Sibyl; a prophet who had sent me visions throughout my journey to find my uncle.

“Wake up,” I told myself.

“No, Oscar—“ Fiona warned and reached out.

I squeezed my eyes shut so hard it hurt. I could almost feel her unnaturally warm hand on my shoulder.

When I opened them, she was gone. I was back in the plane, cold and sweaty but safe. Amelia was too busy staring out the window to notice how distraught I was. Peggy was sound asleep.

When I reached into my bag to grab something to drink, Amelia shrieked: “You’re awake!”

“I’m awake,” I confirmed in a hoarse voice. My throat was on fire. For a second I was sure I must’ve screamed in my sleep, but Amelia would’ve looked more concerned if I had.

“Look! It’s Spain,” she said.

My spirits were lifted immediately. I leaned over to look and sure enough, I saw land.