Page 8 of Beneath the Dirt

“If only it were that simple. Fate is subjective. It’s up to us to choose which of the many stories already written and waiting for us in the stars will be our beginning, so then we can determine how we can impact its end.”

Church bells ring in the distance. Their sound is the equivalent to poison saturating the air. Even with the favorable distance the shop is from the church property, Pastor Rainey has made it so anyone within a fifty-mile radius can hear the church bells ‘rejoicing’ as he foolishly calls it. His hope is that it will bring more parishioners his way since Sacred Promises is the only church in town. Man’s got a monopoly on the holy game. If only he embraced his business side more instead of the piss-poor acting he does within the church walls, maybe he’d be happier. Or, at the very least, more honest.

“You better get going, don’t want to make Pastor Rainey angry. Not on Devil’s Night Service.” Her fingers wiggle for dramatic effect.

“Yeah,” I scoff.

I grab the book off the counter clutching it to my chest. Peering down at my newly acquired journal, I stew on her words.

“… we can determine how we can impact its end.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to pay you?”

“No, Araceli, of course not. It’s your gift. Oh, and Araceli,” Frida begins but pauses for a moment as if to catch her breath.

“Yes?”

“It’s important that you keep that to yourself. Your story is yours and yours alone. If anyone gains access to your path, consequences will arise.”

“Okay,” I drag. “Got it. I have to go.” I thank Frida and walktowards the door. Opening the flap on my bag, I place my journal inside—or try to. I should’ve chosen a bigger bag today. This one is already jam-packed. Not paying attention to anything but trying to get the book secured, I startle when I hear footsteps stomping behind me.

“Wait!” Frida calls out.

I turn around and Frida is half bent on the floor picking up something that must’ve fallen out when I tried to stuff the book inside.

Frida rises to her feet, though her attention is on the paper.

My brows furrow, not sure what the fuck she is even looking at. Half the time I just shove shit in my bag and forget about it. It isn’t until she turns it over and I see the Petrine cross that my memory is sparked.

“What’s the big deal? It’s just a haunt.” I hold out my hand for her to give it to me but she doesn’t.

She holds it close to her chest. Her eyes full of warning look into mine. “The big deal is this isn’t just any haunt. It’s Heathen’s Cross.” Her nostrils flare in synchrony with her widening eyes, waiting for me to put together the pieces of the puzzle she thinks she’s laying out for me, but her hesitancy is only making me more confused.

Heathen’s Cross is one of the only haunts in the area that honors what Halloween actually is about. It’s a celebration of the veil between this life and what lays waiting on the other side at its thinnest. From everything I heard about Heathen’s Cross, it’s the perfect mix of spooky and spiritual. It was originally founded by Lucien Suárez, a leader in the Pagan community that once existed in our small town before my stepdad built the conglomerate that is Sacred Promises Church. I’ve seen pictures that Frida shared with me from her visits there back in its heyday. The whole vibe seemed so freeing, and from what I’ve seen in the picture Frida showed me, she looked so happy there. Something I haven’t seen often from her anytime I visit. She lost her husband quite a while back, and she said it changed her. I can understand that. Griefdoes that to a purpose. It steals small parts of us as it transports us to an alternate reality, one where we can go on through our day-to-day fine one second and distraught the next, out of nowhere. It’s why I run to drugs when all the feeling and remembering becomes too much of a burden.

I leave my hand stretched out between us with my palm opened and flat waiting for her to give the invitation back.

“I’m going to be late,” I remind her, hoping that will be the nudge she needs to hand it over.

Reluctantly she does. “I know how much you hate your stepdad. Gods knows I hate him just as much, if not more, but people have gone missing from there or even worse…” she pauses, looking uncharacteristically frightened.

Fuck, there’s something worse than going missing?

Frida’s throat clears to finish her thought. “They’ve come back and never been the same. It’s not what it used to be. Trust me.”

What she's saying should scare me but it doesn’t. What actually scares me is where I have to go after I leave the comfort of The Last Stop, where I have to fake a smile and sit—and suffer—through an hour of pretending to be something I’m not. “Saved.” I don’t want to be, not if it means being like my stepdad.

No. Fucking. Thank you.

I stash the flyer back in my bag. “That makes no sense. How is it worse to come back changed than it is to not come back at all?”

She swallows thickly. “Who gave that to you?” she asks instead of answering me.

“No one. I found it outside after I went to the costume shop in town the other day.”

“The one on main street?” she asks just as the church bells ring again in the distance letting me know that I’m really late.

“I gotta go.”

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