Page 21 of Beneath the Dirt

I look down at his hand. It’s the duplicate key he made years ago from the one his dad uses to lock me in my room as punishment.

He pulls at my towel, securing it enough to stick the key in without undoing the makeshift knot.

“Is that a yes?” I ask, but he’s already heading to the door.

“Good night, Araceli.” He deflects, back turned to me.

“Good night, church boy,” I tease.

Whatever, it’s not a no. I’ll convince him. I know I can.

I gather my stuff and drain the rest of the water from the tub before making my way back to my room. Harlan’s door slams from down the hall. The picture frames and crosses that hang on the hallway walls clatter and shake in response. I walk to my room across from his, and in nothing but my towel, my skin immediately pebbles as I walk through the threshold of the doorway.

I look over to the window near my bed and see that it’s open. I never open the windows in this house. They are still original to when the house was built. The previous owners painted them several times, making them damn near impossible to open and close, hence why I never bother.

Confused as to why it’s open but too tired to care, I place my purse and journal down on the bed and go to close the window. As it always does, it gives me a hard time. My reflection stares at me from the glass, highlighted by the small lamp resting on the nightstand. As I begin to press down, my silhouette shifts into something taller, darker. It expands until I close the window, and it’s gone.

I drop the towel wrapped around me to the floor and walk my naked body to bed, ready to fall victim to the warm cocoon of blankets. As I slip beneath the covers, I notice that the book is open to the Ferryman illustration. The blank page next to it is no longer empty. A bold, crimson circle, reeking of the iron tang of blood, shines before my eyes at the top of the page. Unable to control myself, I feel drawn to touch it. I dip my fingertip in it, swirling it around to create two more circles. It’s still tacky and abundant enough that I can use it to write the first thing that comes to mind.

A title.

The Horrors We Endure.

My name is next, though after the first letter of my name, my hand takes over. Smearing one letter after the next, I watch the page as if it’s an out of body experience until the blank page is no longer empty. I read the name out loud.

“A.H. Charon.”

I don’t know who or what that is, but apparently, the story I’m meant to write isn’t mine… but theirs.

Seven

“Look at it,”Araceli coos, pointing to the flashing marquee of the pop-up Halloween shop in front of us. I look begrudgingly. I can’t fucking believe she convinced me to come here and go out tonight. Alternating shades of vibrant red and burnt orange burn into my retinas as I stand staring, internally mulling over all the ways this night can, and likely will, go wrong. Anytime I’ve ignored my gut and gone along with one of Araceli’s ploys, it’s never ended well. So tonight, with me already on thin ice with my dad, not to mention lying to him, I told him I picked up an extra shift at the movie theater. I can only imagine what will happen if he finds out who I’m with and where I am. But if I’m being honest, a part of me—the part of me that has denied myself freedom my entire life—doesn’t care… at all.

I feel my fist tighten at my side, but with a gentle tug of my hand, Araceli weaves her fingers in mine as she leads the way through the remainder of the parking lot. With each step we take, I can feel a shift in Araceli. The usually defiant, grumpy rebel—somehow, in the blink of an eye—vanishes the very moment we step through the automated doors.

Two steps into the shop and my feet freeze on the spot, and my hand locks onto Araceli’s, causing her to stumble back.

“You can’t be serious?” She looks up at me with a raised brow before rolling her eyes. “Oh my fuck, seriously?” She giggles. “You’re afraid?”

“No.” I glare at her.

“You should feel comfortable in a place like this... it’s no different than The Last Stop, silly,” she says teasingly, dragging us down the first aisle by my hand.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say in defense. It’s true. I don’t. I have not the faintest clue what the hell The Last Stop is.

Araceli doesn’t elaborate more. She simply leaves it at that and leads the way through the grotesque displays. Some are scary, others gory, and all are definitely not my vibe, but I can’t help but notice how happy she is amongst the cheesy macabre displays. It’s like she’s home.

Now at the back of the store she lets go of my hand, spinning around to face me, a floor-to-ceiling wall of masks behind her.

“Well,” she motions, both hands to the masks as if I could possibly miss it, “don’t be shy, pick one.” The feistiness laced within her tone is a challenge, and so is the smirk on her face. She thinks I won’t pick one or go through with tonight. I don’t feel great about it, but we agreed tonight was a ‘fuck you’ to my dad. If celebrating a holiday that’s been ingrained in my head since birth is a sin, and stepping out of my comfort zone with my stepsister, who seems to find trouble wherever she goes, is my only way to do so, then so fucking be it.

I bite down on my lip, looking past her at the overwhelming display. “Calm down, church boy,” she hums her go-to jab. “No one is going to see us here.” She takes a step closer, my pulse ricocheting through my veins. “Well, no one except, you know.” She teasingly cranks her neck up, insinuating that the god I’ve been conditioned to believe in will see. I look up pathetically, but all I see is the ceiling.

Looking at me knowingly, Araceli steps forward, closing the space between us. It’s as though she can sense the angel that I’mforced to keep on my shoulder is pleading with the devil on the other to come out and play. She places her hands on the leather harness wrapped around my waist that traces and wraps around both of my thighs—that she somehow convinced me to wear—and pulls at it, tugging me closer to her. “Tonight, it’s just you and me. No one to stop us…” she pauses to point at the mask wall once more, “… no one to recognize us.” She lets go of me, stopping in front of a section of the overwhelming display.

“That’s the beauty of Halloween, you have one night to let down your guard and lose yourself in the fantasy of being something you’re too afraid to be all the other nights of the year.”

Fuck, she’s wearing me down.

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