Page 45 of Beneath the Dirt

I don’t want him.

What I do want is my necklace, and to get back home to finish my deadline, so I can finally do what I haven’t been able to do for so fucking long. Rest.

With my book clutched against my chest, I storm out of my house, locking the door behind me. Turning, I walk down the steps and past the rows of pumpkins that line the footpath in front of my house. All of them have different—yet equally fucked up—faces carved into them, reflecting my mood this time of year.

As my feet reach the last pumpkin, a gust of wind crashes into me, knocking the book out of my hands and into the dirt. The breeze quickly picks up, displacing my hair. Though only the side of my part that has the bleach blonde moves, whipping me in the eye causing it to water. I tuck my hair behind my ear and snatch the notebook up. Fallen leaves and twigs drag around me as thewind continues its relentless howl, making it clear a storm is near. I love storms, but right now this feels more like a sinister omen, than it does just another October night storm.

As I head towards my car, I brace myself, readying my nerves to go back to the hell I used to call‘home’.Hunger strikes at my core, processing the anger I feel right now for Harlan. Though above all, the sense of fear he has elicited from me feels the most striking, because the thought of seeing Harlan, after all these years, feels somehow scarier than any of the horrors I’ve written or the ones I’ve endured. Most of which are loosely based on moments in my life I’ve had no one to tell but the paper or screen in front of me. Harlan and me, we’re a tragedy with no end in sight. The kind of horror that lingers before it festers and rots…. before it kills.

Thirteen

I slowthe car to a stop. My foot hovers on the pedal and the exhaust hacks away as I take in the tall iron gates in front of my windshield, dumbfounded by its presence. “Well, this is new,” I grumble to myself… and definitely wasn’t here the last time. Throwing the car in park, I sit and try to figure out my options since I can’t plow through it how I’d like without risking an injury to myself or this already shitty car. I reach in the glove box, grabbing my pocket knife and two strips of Listerine from the pack I keep in there. I was so frazzled leaving my house this morning after the mess I was left with, I forgot to brush my teeth. Not like bad breath would be the worst of my problems, considering that once I get past this obstacle, I’ll be faced with another, much angrier one.Harlan.

The car door slams as I leave it behind me, exchanging it for the unpaved driveway. It’s a stark contrast to the intricacy of the gate where ornate slats of wrought iron tower over me. Every detail is grand and obnoxious and nothing that would be expected to be on a pastor’s property.

My hands wrap around one of the iron rods, shaking it, but of course it doesn’t budge. I look at either side of the locked gate, trying to see if there’s magically another way around it or in. It’suseless. Bricks stacked higher than the expansive gate span as far as my eye can see, wrapping around the property in a protective hug, separating me from it.

“Fuck!” I yell, stomping my boot on the ground. Gravel kicks up as a dust cloud forms. Every loose particle clinging onto my black clothing.

Maybe this is the sign I’ve needed to put the hell of living as a Rainey on this hellish property to rest. A warning from the universe, giving me one last opportunity to just get in my car and drive away for good. To forget about what happened last night and forget getting my necklace back. Even though Frida always told me to keep my pentagram on me for protection, and considering how far it seems Harlan has plummeted, he’ll likely taunt me and I can use all the protection I can get.

Who knows, maybe seeing each other—that is, when we’re both aware of it—will give us the closure we need, and we can both move on in peace. Or, at the very least, one of us can move under the other, finish what I tried to start in the hospital bed before his dad ruined that for us, too.

A flush of heat spreads to my cheeks from that image of me straddling Harlan while he slept that day. I should feel guilty, but I don’t. That’s the problem. I don’t feel anything anymore. I'm incapable. I’m just so…

“Can I help you?” a voice calls out, disrupting my internal battle. I turn my attention to the uniformed security guard running towards me from a small shed. I somehow missed it being off to the side and in front of the closed gates.

I look at him, studying his plain features, trying to determine if I’ve seen him before. Given that the gate is new since I’ve been here last, let alone having the property guarded, I think it’s safe to say that he’s just another addition since I’ve left… with the intention of keeping me out.

Inching closer, I try to think on the fly, since I know for a fact that I’m banned from the property. It’s only a matter of time before he pieces that together.

“Sorry, I’m a friend of—”

“Holy shit,” he interrupts me. “You’re…” He pauses, looking me over, up and down. A combination of uncertainty and intrigue consume his brown stare.

Panic strikes. In the years that I’ve spent living away from the Rainey property, I’ve changed in appearance. My hair, no longer solid black, but split down the middle. One side is my natural black and the other, a shade of pale blonde that teeters on white. Some Botox has helped define my features more, as well. I look different, sure, but not unrecognizable. All it’d take is him pulling up a picture of me from a couple years ago and he’d connect the dots real fast.

“Trying to see Mr. Rainey.” I finish his sentence for him, hoping it will be enough to disrupt whatever thought process he’s been stewing.

“Hold up.” Excitement claws at his tone. Taking his eyes off me, the gun and taser holstered to his belt beckon my attention. Fuck, my puny pocketknife is no match for either of those.

I try to maintain an even keeled demeanor, but it’s slipping the more I watch in horror as he mulls over what to grab from his belt.

My lips part, words about to spew from my mouth like vomit, because I have no idea what I’m about to say. I just know I need to say something.

“Shit, it’s not here. Give me a second. I gotta go get it.”

I latch onto the calm that seems to have washed over him as he jogs back to the security shed. Not sure what he’s getting, but hoping—as naive as it may seem—that it’s not a weapon since he already has an exhaustive arsenal of them attached to his person. I stand and wait.

A few moments later, he runs over, out of breath, with a book in his hands.

Fuck, I would’ve preferred a grenade thrown at my feet over this, but here we are.

Excitement clicks his tongue. “I knew you looked familiar. You’re A.H. Charon.”

Extra fuck.

A reader.

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