Page 11 of Hell Gate

The days that follow are full of odd shit, even by my skewed standards. While doing Mrs. Talbot’s assigned chores, I swear hands and arms reach beneath the door to the cleaning closet to swipe at me, their limbs made of smoke and shadows that disappeared when I jumped back. Marie won’t come on my side of our room, swearing I speak a freaky demonic language in my sleep. And I keep catching whispers that sound like my name. I’m sure it’s Jessica being a bitch.

I haven’t died or gone crazy yet, so it’s a win in my book. Or maybe I’m just built different, too stubborn to let it all get to me like the other idiots in Brim Hills who mess with the supposed gate to Hell. It’s all in my head. As long as I remember that, it will be okay eventually.

The weirdness will stop. I just have to ignore it like always.

On the third day after the night in the graveyard, I go to bed pissed off because Jessica refuses to cough up the hundred bucks she owes me for doing the dare. She’d better watch it; I’m not above stealing if I need to. Sleep brings no relief. As soon as I’m unconscious, I’m pulled into a terrifying prison my overactive imagination has cooked up every night since I ran from the cemetery.

The dream has been the same each night. It starts me inside the chapel ruins. Except when I leave, I’m not in the graveyard, I’m in a dark fairy tale realm.

Fire rages across the strange landscape surrounding me, yet it doesn’t burn when I swipe my hands through it. The chapel sits on top of a rocky hill. Above the flames that can’t hurt me, the violet sky is speckled with swirling clouds and a blood red moon. Across a ravine connected by narrow bridges made of ruddy clay and vines sits a city with architecture that pierces into the air above it. The heart of the city almost looks like a forbidden castle, the highest central tower emanating a bright orange glow.

There’s something about this place that feels familiar. Maybe I’ve had this dream before. A different version where I’m closer to the underworld-like city in the distance. Or maybe it’s the effect this dream has on me, instilling a sense of history I remember when I’m stuck here.

I’m over the isekai my subconscious has made up. Lucky for me, all I have to do is step off the hill to leave the fake fantasy world. Unluckily, it sends me into another part of the dream that forces me to relive a version of the worst night of my life. I tug at the long, regal skirt of the gown I’m dressed in, scuffing my toe against a rock. I watch it tumble down the hill into the ravine. I can’t stand dreams like this, being aware and retaining my memory of being through the dream before, but unable to change it or get myself out without moving forward.

Balling my fists in the fine material of the dress, I take a running leap into darkness. Uncomfortable pressure chokes me from all sides until I fight my way up from beneath the hot water in the tub. Mrs. Clark’s fingers dig harder into my skin.

“It’s not right. Unnatural. I have to fix it. Have to fix it,” she wails before shoving my small head under again.

I splutter through frantic tears, limbs flailing to get her off me, clinging to my will to survive. Everything is too hot, burning, burning, burning. It hurts, the ache to breathe like a cavern dug out of my tiny chest.

At last, I’m out of the bathtub. The water bubbles, steam filling the room. My skin is pink and I’m quaking all over. My foster brother, Mrs. Clark’s son, shakes me by my shoulders, shouting unintelligible words my brain can’t decipher while asleep. Then he freezes as his skin bubbles and puckers until it melts off his arms, leaving behind sinewy muscle tissue and exposed bone. He glares at me like it’s my fault.

Then the dream shifts and I’m outside alone, watching the Clarks’ house burn to ash, swallowed by roaring flames.

Jolting awake, I scramble to a seated position and scrub my flushed face with a trembling hand as ragged breaths scrape my throat. My heart races and I question if I really am going crazy. Three fucking nights in a row I’ve endured that hellish vision.

The way it plays out in the dream isn’t what happened. He did stop her, but the fire was after. One minute I was screaming hysterically, the next fire spread out from my feet to swallow everything in its path. We made it out. She never emerged from the inferno. And he didn’t glare at me. His look of fear is one of the only things permanently carved into my mind from that night.

Swallowing hard, I check the clock on Marie’s side of the room. It’s a little past four. My roommate sleeps peacefully like she didn’t have a hand in fucking me over, her features lax and a string of drool trailing from the corner of her mouth. My brows flatten. There’s no way I’ll sleep after that unpleasant trip down memory lane. Might as well get up now.

Screw waiting the full seven days. I’m sick of getting myself so worked up I have to keep reliving my worst nightmare.

I keep myself occupied for the next two hours once I creep downstairs, the creaky steps memorized after that first night we all snuck out. The library doesn’t open until eight. First I’ll need to deal with Mrs. T.

She pokes her head in the kitchen with a suspicious squint at ten to six and finds me on my hands and knees scrubbing the floor with vigor. This is above and beyond my assigned chores on the rotation schedule. It’s also the only way I can erase the feeling of my foster mom’s bony fingers digging into my skin, the hard floor and stringent chemicals stinging my nose reminding me where I am.

“What are you doing?”

“Exactly what it looks like. Chores.”

She allows a beat of silence. “Why?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

She doesn’t question me further, skirting around me to make coffee. She sets an extra mug on the counter and leaves it for me before she goes to make sure the other girls get up. I don’t touch it. Not because I don’t like it, but because I’ve learned time and again never to trust anyone’s random acts of kindness. They don’t exist. They’re more myth than the stupid local urban legend.

CHAPTERFIVE

LILY

Mrs. Talbot lets me out for free time early with far less pushback than I expected. Whatever she saw in me in the early hours, scrubbing the floor so hard my arms are sore, she’s left me alone today.

While the other girls are stuck in the house enduring the matron’s homeschooling, I walk along the side of the sun-dappled road to head into town. I’ve skipped my fishnets today for knee high socks, a flared tan corduroy miniskirt with suspenders, and a black v-neck shirt that makes my cleavage look amazing. The sleeves are long enough to hide my scarred hands if I want to.

These are my comfort clothes, my own brand of armor that helps me feel empowered and in control of my life—what little control I can take for myself. When I feel good about the way I look, it gives me the courage to take on the judgmental as fuck world.

I give the rusted iron gate to Brim Hills Cemetery the middle finger on my way past and cross the road at the next bend to walk through the red covered bridge. As far as I’m concerned, the night I met those three guys there after completing my dare was a cruel prank. I refuse to even acknowledge the strange things that happened as anything more than a psychological break born of the potent high of adrenaline combined with fear. The girls hyped up a legend and my mind played right into it to create a hellish night of terror. Same goes for the nightmares and things I’ve seen from the corner of my eye in the last few days.

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