Page 6 of Beneath the Dirt

“Open up, you stubborn fucker,”I murmur in frustration. The rusty door handle scratches my palm, mocking me with each failed attempt. Light illuminates past the stained windows on either side of the most stubborn door ever created, indicating that The Last Stop, the oddities shop I frequent behind my stepdad’s back, is, in fact, open. Yet, here I am, staring at the weathered sign on the front door that reads ‘We’re open, all welcome,’ unable to open the goddamn door. “Fine, have it your way.”

Taking a step back from the entrance, my gaze shifts to the arched window to my right, immediately drawn to the vibrant shades of amber and crimson that seep past the mosaic design. Pretty as it looks, it makes it damn near impossible to make heads or tails of what’s on the other side. I squint, trying to get a better look inside, but all that meets my vision aside from the glistening patchwork is my silhouette staring back at me.

I glance at the time on my phone. My stepdad, Pastor Rainey’s infamous Devil’s Night service, will be starting soon. Frida knows this, which is why she told me to get here when I didsince she also knows what will happen to me if I’m late or not in attendance. The same thing that happens anytime I do something that he deems disrespectful to his god—he punishes me. I’ve grown used to it. Oftentimes, I find myself acting out or doing things on purpose, not only to get a rise out of him but to ensure that I will be reprimanded. At least then, I can feel something without having to run to the drugs—even if it means having my skin burnt or beaten. I’ve given up on peace; it’s too fleeting. Pain, as harsh and destructive as it is, has become the only reliable thing I can cling onto in this life. So I embrace it, even if it’s slowly killing me.

Still, even though I accept the torment that comes with being his stepdaughter, I know that the repercussions will be more severe tonight if I miss the service that has replaced his Christmas Eve and Christmas Day sermons in importance. I may be a glutton for punishment but even I know my limits.

The crowds of parishioners that tonight’s service draws has become such a moneymaker for him that it’s imperative to him that our family—or what’s left of it—maintain the illusion of a happy, God-fearing family unit. It’s that very lie that makes parishioners open their minds and their wallets in appreciation of each service. Without those funds, he wouldn’t be able to keep the lights on and the fine-oiled machine of deception he calls his church afloat. Anything that puts his business model at risk brings with it a level of punishment that even I, as stubborn and thick-headed as I am, don’t have the desire for. Not today, at least. Not on the anniversary of my mom’s passing.

Impatience gets the better of me as I take a step forward to knock on the glass, ignoring the sign that explicitly says not to touch. My knuckles tap at the windowpane. The time between knocks becomes less. One after the other, my knuckles pound on the glass, wanting a reprieve from the chokehold the bitter October air has on my skin, lining it with raised bumps so harsh, it feels like my dress can tear at any moment.

Logic sneaks past my desperation, tempting me to give up andwalk over to the church. But if I do that, I won’t get what I came here for. A grimoire of sorts, but in journal form, that I’ve been waiting for Frida—the shop’s owner—to obtain. Before my mom married Pastor Rainey and converted to his biblical nonsense, she and each of the women in her family were all given a journal on their eighteenth birthday that they would call “el libro del destino”—a book of destiny. Since my mom has passed and I don’t have the luxury of turning to my stepdad for his support in my beliefs and tradition, I have to rely on Frida. To keep tradition alive—and to piss off my stepdad, of course—Frida helped me to find my own journal for my eighteenth birthday, which was earlier this month.

“Frida!” I call out her name, though it’d be a miracle if she could hear me over the sound of my incessant knocking. I continue this pointless attempt to get her attention a few moments more, until it dawns on me there is a back entrance to the shop.

Gathering the draping hemline of my dress, I lift it so I don’t lose my footing on the mess of moss-covered vines poking through every exposed crevice of the porch as well as the limestone steps.

Just as I lift my platform Doc Marten up to take a step, the unmistakable groan of aged floorboards sounds inside, stopping me in my tracks.

I turn my head, my eyes hone in on the distorted shadow through the decorative stained glass. The creaking continues now paired with the distinct thud of hurried footsteps. As the competing sounds reach a crescendo, I inch closer to the entrance, hoping it’s Frida on the other side finally ready to let me in.

“Have you been smoking again?” a voice shouts to me—Frida.

Hinges in dire need of oil grate at my eardrums as a bell sounds. The sound is abrupt, though the lingering percussion has the same effect as a gong, ricocheting its way from the doorway as it latches onto my spine, vibrating every vertebra.

Standing in front of the open door, my hands shoot upward in playful defeat as I shrug.

“What gave it away?”

“Oh, I don’t know, could it be that you forgot how to open an unlocked door?” She waves her wrinkled hand, motioning for me to come in.

Frida knows that I smoke weed often. Though, she doesn’t know that whatever strain I choose is almost always tampered with, lacing it with whatever I have accessible. I’m sure she assumes it’s just a phase. That I’m a cliche teenager trying to act cool by smoking the ‘Devil’s lettuce’ as my stepdad calls it. I’ll let her think that. It’s easier that way. She doesn’t need to be burdened with what drives me to numb myself day after day, or that weed and all the fun ways I can alter it is my second choice since my go-to pills are no longer an option. Not since my fuck-face stepdad took that away from me too.

I move past the threshold and immediately have to stifle the sneeze I have coming on from the strong scent of earthy patchouli mixed with what smells like a fucking heap of nutmeg.

“Besides, you have a key to get in here anyway. No excuses missy.” Frida’s voice trails as she turns over the welcome sign—another whimsical saying etched into the wood that reads, ‘Sorry, we’re closed. Better luck next time,’—before closing the door behind us and locking it.

“Closing early?” I ask, but my question is ignored.

She gives me a blank stare. “Something like that. Anyway, follow me this way,” she hums, leading the way through the thicket of odds and ends that fill the small, arguably cramped space. As my steps trail Frida’s, I feel the tension that stiffens my shoulders daily start to soften just like it does every time I sneak off here. It’s here amongst the peculiar trinkets and items whose existence tests the hands of time, that I feel like I can be what my stepfather fears most…myself.

Silence lingers between us, but I don’t fight it. Instead, Iindulge my eyes in what makes “The Last Stop” the most unique oddities shop I’ve ever been to.

Walls cluttered in an assortment of taxidermy hung on plaques with displays scattered all throughout, housing items that range from bones to antique masks and even some vintage torture devices, fill my heart with joy. Every detail is vivid and beautiful.

Now stopped in front of the glass display by the register that holds the small macabre themed books, I wait for Frida to say something. She doesn’t. Instead she mutters something to herself while she takes inventory of what’s inside the case.

Impatience and excitement dance within me though I can’t say the same about Frida. The stern expression on her face is anything but a mirror of my own anticipated demeanor.

“Soooo,” I drag as Frida crouches down behind the display, flipping on the light switch that illuminates the rare books she keeps inside.

“Do you have it? Did it come in?” My enthusiasm overpowers me, as I rattle off one question after the next.

Straightening her spine, she offers me an apprehensive look.

“He’s going to kill you.” A dramatic and cryptic warning. “Especially if he finds out that Harlan was here not too long ago, and now you are back after he forbade it.”

Harlan… was here?

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