“You activated the focus on your first try?”
“Lot of good it did me. It stopped working after that.”
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I grip the cold metal hilt in my right hand, my flashlight in the other, as I stalk through the woods. My flashlight cuts through the pitch-black night. The blinding white light creates long, dark shadows crawling along the wetland floor. The wild of the night crawls, croaks, and chirps around me, snickering as I wander these crooked woods.
“HEY!” That wretched voice squawks like a scratched record. Its lifeless tone squirms in my ears and wriggles into my skull.
The shadows blur as I spin to face the voice, but my flashlight flickers away and dies. The cold, dead emptiness overtakes everything. Everything but two glowing red eyes that tower above me.
The rancid smell of decay floods my nostrils, and my heart shudders. But I remember Dad’s notes. I feel my eyes turn oily and black as they swell with heat. I focus on Mallory. Her fear. Her hope. Then, I direct it into the hilt and unleash my power.
But nothing happens. Nothing. The cold, useless piece of metal does nothing but grow heavier in my hand. I try again and again, only to yield the same unfortunate result. The glowing red eyes dip low, glaring at me with hunger.
I stumble backward, twist my body away from those wretched eyes, and charge through the night. The cold air scratches at my lungs. I can’t see a thing. I bounce between unseen branches and trees, ripping at my clothing. Then, I fall.
My body plummets into ice-cold water. The freezing water squeezes my lungs tight, and the dizzying shock scrambles my brain. Am I upside down? Which way is up? To my relief, I spot the faint glow of moonlight rippling over the surface of the water. I swim up toward a small log floating in the center of the circle of light.
I heave my arms over the log and burst from the water. But the moonlight is unkind. It reveals a new horror. My arms are not wrapped around a log, but Mallory’s bloated corpse. Her waxy skin glistens in the light like the hogs my dad used to cook.
I scream as her body disintegrates under my weight like a bundle of wet blankets. Then, long bony fingers wrap around my chest and lift me into the air. I flail my limbs around, screaming in terror, but no sound exits my mouth. I screech, panic, and cry in silence as the red-eyed monster dangles me over its open mouth.
Slowly, it reaches up, wraps its other hand around my waist, and begins to twist my body. Pain splits across my back as my muscles rip open. Hot blood drips from my body. He twists, and twists, and twists until—
CRRRACK!
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“Death is our final frontier. A frontier where there is no return,” Father Normand delivers his sermon from a small wooden pulpit. I sit beside Mom on the second row. My eyes burn from the lack of sleep. I was up all night reading Dad’s notebook. Only half of it made any sense. So I read it over and over, trying to piece together his scattered thoughts.
The worst of it, however, was the hilt. No matter what I did, I couldn’t get it to ignite again. Dad called it a weaving focus to channel spiritual energy into a weapon, but apparently I’m too weak to do even the simplest incantations.
“But life is our field to tend. In the end, what we seed it with will either grow plentiful and bear food for our spirit or turn to rot and decay,” the priest continues in the dim, warm light of the small church.
Mom sits up tall, giving the priest her full, undivided attention. She sits at the end of the pew, near the aisle, positioned just so everyone can see her. “Elections are coming up,” she said to me this morning. “I can’t have my daughter appearing in church like some kind of criminal.” Ripped jeans and an oversized sweatshirt just won’t cut it in God’s house. My black skirt and top made her roll her eyes, but I’m not wearing a damned dress.
I’ve never liked the bright colors and styles every other girl scrambles to show off. Black is more me. It gives nothing away, it doesn’t lie about who I am with frills and glitter, and it matches everything. It isn’t fake, like Mom, who postures tall and proud. Who lied about Dad. Who let me suffer in silence and convinced me it was all in my head as I saw specters of the dead growing up.
CRRRACK!
I flinch as the boy behind me cracks his knuckles. I put my hand over my chest to calm my pounding heart. I look back at the boy. He lifts his eyebrow as if I’m overreacting. Who pops their knuckles that loud in a church? I snarl back at him and turn back to face the priest.
“A heart at peace gives life to the flesh,” Father Normand reads Psalms from the large Bible before him. He smiles as he reads, as if his words are some kind of gift to us. “But envy makes the bones rot.”
I pick at my nails as Dad’s notes swirl in my head. Much of it made little sense, but it matched what Dr. Ward told me. I am a reaper, an ancient and rare bloodline destined to walk between the veil of life and death. His notebook doesn’t explain much, other than that reapers vary in abilities. Some are more powerful than others, and Dad was one of the others. More proof I’ll just be useless to Dr. Ward.
What sets reapers apart from mediums or psychics is our power - weaving. We can siphon the energy that remains after death, then bend it to our will. Dad’s notebook is full of weaving patterns and structures of varying strengths. It’s also filled with jokes and tips on handling my emotions. The book is a headache to follow, jumping from one topic to another.
“Luke also tells us that life does not exist in abundance,” Father Normand continues. “Greed is a rot that consumes life. It eats and eats until nothing remains. But how do we combat greed? With generosity. With sacrifice…”
He drones on as my mind wanders. I notice the candles behind him flicker near the altar. My shoulder twitches as a cold breeze passes through me. Suddenly, the Bible before Father Normand turns a page without his consent. He quickly flips the page back, no doubt chalking it up as a rogue breeze.
The faint smell of incense hits my nose, only no incense is burning. It’s a feeling I’ve been expecting. This little church is full of old haunts. Moments of its past that stick around and replay like an old movie. Sometimes it’s a woman crying, or whispered prayers. The wood paneling creaks in the aisle. I peer over and spot a distorted reflection in the polished wood. Six dark figures, obscured by the warped wood paneling, slowly step down the aisle. Their gait is short and rhythmic as they carry a long black coffin. Today’s haunt: a funeral.
Residual spirits, or as Dad’s notebook calls them, echoes, aren’t spirits at all. They’re memories of lives passed. Just temporal imprints repeating over and over like an image burned into a TV screen, or a toy that spasms after the batteries are removed.
“Echoes take many forms,” My dad wrote. “It could be a piano playing, lights flickering, strange smells, or even visions. But they’re mostly harmless. They can’t see you or hear you. You’ve simply tapped into an old radio station playing its top hits.”
The wood groans some more as the pallbearers step past the pew. The sermon continues as if nothing is wrong. The priest gives his loving benediction as he stands over the reflection of a coffin. I kneel, stand, and trace a cross over my chest as a woman weeps in the pew beside me.
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Mom hovers near the church entrance, talking with Father Normand about the upcoming elections. I’m sure it helps to have the town priest in your pocket. I, however, would rather be anywhere but here.
Snow floats from the sky, and a thick fog blankets the town in white. I look out toward the neighboring graveyard. Gravestones of varying shapes and sizes stand in neat rows that disappear into the fog.
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“I’m going to see Dad,” I say to Mom.
“Okay, mija.’ Her face tenses with concern. Or maybe it’s anxiety. She visits Dad sometimes, but never with me. So, this will buy me some time alone. “Don’t stay too long. You’ll catch a cold again.”
I pass by old trees scattered throughout the graveyard. Their branches stretch wide overhead, happy to fill the space other trees once filled long ago. Light snow sprinkles over the well-tended grass. New gravestones emerge from the fog as I walk. Some are modest and small; others are grand statues of angels offering their hands. Few have flowers, candles, coins, and photos of loved ones. Most have nothing.
Guilt weighs heavy on my gut as I imagine graves for Mallory and Trevor. No one else knows the truth. Their friends and family still likely hold onto hope that they’re just lost somewhere. I quickly shove the thought away of telling them myself. I’d only add to their pain. Besides, I have no proof.
How sure am I that I’m not just imagining all of it? The cut on my arm has almost completely healed, though it might scar. But what if it was just a bear in the woods? Maybe I cut my arm on some thorns. What if Dr. Ward is just playing with my emotions? What if I’m really losing my mind? No. I didn’t imagine Dad’s letter. Those were his words.
As I walk toward his grave, a figure comes into view. Hannah sits on top of a grave mound with her legs crossed. Her striped socks, silver chains, and bright pink hair stand out against the fog. She turns to me when I approach.
“You dyed your hair,” I say.
“Yeah.” She runs her fingers through it. “The single strip just wasn’t enough.”
“What’d your parents say?”
“Please.” She rolls her eyes. “My parents barely paid attention to me before Hailey died. They don’t give a shit.”
I look at the gravestone. Hailey Harrow is engraved across the top. “Your sister?” I ask.
“Today’s her birthday,” Hannah replies solemnly.
I know better than to offer my apologies. I’ve never liked when people offer their condolences. It always feels like a way to escape the conversation and offer nothing real in return. I imagine Hannah feels the same.
“Happy birthday, Hailey,” I say with a soft smile.
Hannah smiles and rubs her arm. Her eyes well up for a moment, but she wipes the tears away before they fall. Looking at the dates, Hailey would be twenty today. She died when she was fifteen.
“She was your older sister?” I ask, knowing the answer, just to give her a new topic.
“Yeah,” she replies. “She’d be twenty today.”
“Can I ask—” I begin.
“Pills.” Hannah already knew what I was about to ask. I immediately regret asking.
“Where is your dad buried,” she offers me the same escape.
“A few rows that way.” I point into the dense fog.
“You ever talk to him?” She asks.
I’m confused by her question. She must think I can see all of the dead. “Hannah, it doesn’t work like that.”
“No, I know.” She smiles. She pulls a recording device from her bag with earbuds wrapped around it. “I like to come out here and just talk to her. Sometimes, other voices come through on the recording. They’re probably not her, but— I don’t know. It helps.”
She hands the recorder to me. As I go to take it, I notice rows of thin scars on her wrist. Fresh cuts layer over old scars and crawl up her wrist, disappearing under her sleeve. She quickly retracts her hand after I take the recorder and fixes her sleeve.
“Just hit the record button.” She breaks the silence. “Then, when you’re done, just hit rewind and play.”
“Um, thanks,” I reply.
“I’ll be right here if you need me.” She smiles back.
I take a few steps, then pause. “Hannah.”
“Yeah?”
“Why do you want to prove ghosts exist?” I can’t help but ask.
“I have my reasons.” She replies with a proud grin. “Now go. Talk to your dad.”
I give up on my prying and head deeper into the fog to Dad’s grave. His headstone isn't anything fancy, not that we could afford it. I brush the snow off the top, then run my fingers across the engraving. I recognize every letter on the cold granite. August Raven Everly.
I unwrap the earbuds from the recorder and hit the record button, then set it on top of his headstone. I step back, standing before his grave, and take a deep, unsteady breath.
“Hey Dad,” I begin. “I know—This is so stupid.” I try to shake the anxiety out of my hands.
“I know you can’t hear me, but Hannah says this helps. Oh yeah, I made some friends, I think. Real, living ones this time. I think you’d like them.”
I pick at my fingernails, struggling to find a single word that could begin to convey my feelings. Every sound I make is a disappointment. Like the pages of my brain’s dictionary are glued together.
“I found your gift. I love it. I liked the card.” I force a laugh to hide my shuddering breath. I bite my lip, shoving down my feelings.
“You could have told me, you know. God, I want to hate you. I want to hate you and Mom both. You could have just told me! But right now… Right now, I just miss you. Mom misses you.”
I pat my eyes with my sleeve and mutter, “This is stupid”. I stop the recorder and rewind it. A cold emptiness brushes my shoulder as I hover my finger over the play button. The same subtle dread I feel when an echo is near, like I’m standing in a crime scene.
There’s no way my dad could be here, right? It’s just another echo. I plug the earbuds in and hit the play button. A wave of heavy dread shoves my stomach into my throat.
The recording begins with a loud CLICK. Soft static plays on repeat as I stare into the empty fog. A shadow darts across the fog and out of view. The static continues, repeating again and again. I look down at the recorder, and it stops.
Only a few seconds were recorded. Maybe I didn’t rewind it enough. I hit the rewind button again, then play. Again, the same noise repeats over and over. But it isn’t noise. I turn the volume up and play it again.
“Curse you… cannibal,” a voice whispers through the static.
I feel a cold breeze crawl down my spine.
“Somebody!” A woman shrills behind me.
I turn to find a woman backing away from me. Suddenly, the sky darkens, and the trees feel taller, looming over me. My vision narrows on this woman.
“Help me!” The woman backs away from me in fear.
“It’s okay,” I offer. She must be some lost spirit. “I won’t hurt you.”
I step toward her. The woman flinches and stumbles backward. I reach out to grab her, but my hand slips through her. She crumbles to the floor and stares back at me. Her empty black eyesockets are filled with terror—no, that's rage.
“Curse you.” She spits hot red blood on my face.
“I can help you,” I mutter and rush toward her.
Then, her head peels backwards, revealing the pink and red muscle of her neck. Her head swings back, releasing a torrent of blood, and her body crumples into a bed of crimson snow.
I step back but trip over something and slam my back into a tree. Below my feet is another body, a young boy with his skin pulled tight against his face. As I look around, there are more bodies scattered around me. Each one, lifeless and cold.
I shuffle backwards and press my full weight into the tree. Their blood is everywhere. It’s all over my hands. It won’t come off. I wipe it on my pants, but it just spreads everywhere I wipe it.
This isn’t fair. I don’t know what to do. I close my eyes and start to sob. I don’t understand. I don’t want to do this anymore.
“Autumn!” A voice shouts.
“Autumn, it’s okay.” Soft hands embrace me, but I can’t open my eyes. I won’t.
“It’s alright, you’re not alone.” I hear Hannah’s voice as she rips the earbuds away from me. “Just focus on my voice. You’re not alone.” She grabs my hand and places it on her face. “I’m real, just focus on me.”
My breathing slows as a wave of calmness washes over me. I open my eyes. I’m in the graveyard, pushed up against my dad’s gravestone. My hand is pressed against Hannah’s face. She smiles at me with reassurance.
She steps away to give me some space and I take a deep breath. I wipe my tears and look around. No bodies. No blood. I sit in silence for a moment, sick with embarrassment.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be sorry, weirdo,” she teases.
“I heard a voice.” I grab the recorder and hand it to her.
“You’re kidding,” she smiles with glee and grabs it. She plugs in the earbuds and hits play. After a moment, her eyes narrow. “This is just static.”
“What?” The blood drains from my face. “No, turn it up.”
She tries again. “I don’t know. Maybe JJ can mess with it.” Hannah smiles with pity. “Come on.” She steps toward me and offers a hand. “Let’s get you on your feet.”
I take her hand and stand up, brushing the dirt and snow off my legs—checking for more blood.
“How did you do that?” I ask. “You knew exactly what to say to calm me down.”
“Hailey,” she replied solemnly. “She used to have panic attacks. She’d see things sometimes too. Sometimes it was stress. Sometimes it was the medication. Sometimes it was faces in the dark.”
“Is that why you believe in ghosts?” I ask.
“No, she knew what she was seeing wasn’t real. But she did feel a connection to something. She used to say Greenfield was cursed and that the dead were angry.” She pauses for a moment. “The day she died, we had an argument. I was pissed at her for wandering into the woods. I had to drag her back home. Mom and Dad were so angry. She told me the spirits were crying for help.” Hannah bites her bottom lip. “I told her she was crazy. And that she needed to take her crazy pills and shut up.”
My heart drops. I lock my arm with hers and pull her close.
“You can’t blame yourself, Hannah,” I say.
“Of course not. I’m not that pitiful.” She forces a laugh. “But I can make it up to her.”
The fog begins to lift, and the town reveals itself under the sunlight. I think for a moment, then smile.
“I think there’s someone you should meet,” I say.