Page 13 of The Blood we Crave

I love being his ghost. But now, I want him to see me.

It’s not enough to haunt him. I need more from him.

“What’s the game?”

Briar grins. It’s wide, full of excitement, and it makes my stomach roll.

“Tag.”

the exposition

TWO

thatcher

Every town has a ghost story.

One that is told at kids’ sleepovers and nights spent circling around a crackling fire. A tale that has grown into almost an unbelievable lie over the years, but at its core, it carries some form of the truth.

My last name is that story.

The bump in the night. The boogeyman in the closet. The scratching noise in the wall.

My family had become a century-old myth meant to frighten the residents of Ponderosa Springs; a legend that was rumored to have started when the town was founded. The Piersons, being one of the founding families, had established a reputation of coldness and unreachable expectations. Others were so spooked that they only allowed us a piece of the town because of the sheer terror of what we would do to them if we did not receive our fair share.

There are many different origin stories. Some of the more far-fetched ones claimed we were vampires or some other form of inhuman, demonic creature that fed on pure souls. I can appreciate the creativity, especially considering the truth is far more boring.

My predecessors were secluded. They did not share with others unless absolutely necessary, and trust was not something they gave freely. They spoke swiftly and in small quantities.

This secretive behavior made others uncomfortable; more than that, it made them jealous. When weak-minded people are not given attention by those who are at the top, they will try to tear off the crown, chip away at the throne by drawing baseless conclusions and off-kilter rumors. Whatever they can do in order to knock someone down a few pegs.

Like dogs fighting for scraps of slop.

Unfortunately for those insecure folk, they only succeeded in lifting our legacy higher. All they accomplished was making people afraid of us, which worked in our favor.

People will serve the things they fear.

The town of Ponderosa Springs feared us more than anything else. So much so that the terror had continued years later. And for a while, all these horrid tales had only been fiction, gossip-riddled folklore created by bored town citizens.

Until one day, it wasn’t.

Until one day, because of my father, my family proved every single terrifying narrative to be true.

Minus the vampires.

My head begins to lull back and forth as my long fingers stroke the ivory keys. Elegant music floats to my ears as I work the piano, tickling the instrument until it laughs out the melody I’m currently working on. Chopin, while I believe he is overrated, was one of the first composers I learned to master on the bone-white Steinway & Sons grand piano, an early birthday present my grandmother had gifted me when I was young. Even then, I knew the addition of the cherry-red color on the lid, music desk, and prop stick was not a coincidence.

She knew my favorite color. She knew why I loved it so much.

Movement catches my attention for only a second, my eyes opening briefly as I glance towards the far-left side of the basement, my little chamber of immorality, and notice that my single-member audience has started to wake from his slumber.

I don’t need to be over there to see the fright in his eyes. I’d imagine anyone would immediately start to panic when they woke up to find themselves unable to move, tethered to a freezing metal gurney wearing nothing but boxer briefs.

The temporary paralysis should continue working for at least another fifteen minutes, which will feel like years for my friend, Walter Hendricks. The K-hole he’s currently found himself tripping inside of is not a pleasant one. I’ve never personally understood the need to chase artificial highs or why people would be willing to take a veterinary drug just to experience dreamy hallucinations.

Deciding to let Walter continue panicking a little longer while the Ketamine does its job, I bring my attention back to the piano. I’d continued the piece even as I’d looked away, but as my late music instructor would say,“If you’re not consumed by the music you play, how do you expect anyone else to be?”

I can practically feel his cane swatting at my hands, the faint scars on my hands evident of his superior teaching. It had been years since my piano teacher had struck my knuckles, and yet I could still feel the blood that would leak from my skin onto the instrument.

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