Page 6 of The Pawn

The inside of the chapel smells like sawdust and varnish.

I don’t know what I expected—an occult scent, maybe some whiff of the arcane. If ghosts do exist, it seems like they should be obligated to announce their presence.

Of course, if ghosts existed I would know by now. Because I would feel Silas’s presence at my side.

There are two rows of long pews in the chapel, made of dark heavy wood, with faded embroidered cushions on the seats. To the left of the door is a small booth that must be a confessional; half of it has been torn down, and fresh wood planks are leaning against what remains, waiting to replace wood that must be weak or rotten. Up front is the altar, where little Martha Hayes must’ve lit a candle in the cold one evening before curling up beneath a thin blanket to fall asleep, no idea she was about to die.

That’s where Tanner is standing, a lighter in one hand, head cocked to the side. He speaks without turning around. “I knew you would follow me in here.”

The air around me is dry and still. It feels heavy with the past—or maybe that’s just the dust and still air. It doesn’t stir as I take a step forward, waiting for Tanner to turn around and realize it’s me behind him, the scholarship kid in the discount clothes.

He flicks the lighter open, a tiny flame dancing on it, glowing against his fingertips. I lick my lips, which are suddenly dry. “It’s not Lukas.”

“I know.” Glancing over his shoulder, he stares at me, surprisingly still. This whole tour he’s been moving, fidgeting, constantly in motion. Until now, before the altar with a flame in his hand. “Like I said, I knew you would follow me in here. You’ve got curious eyes. You don’t belong here.”

My breath catches. For a moment, I almost think he’s found me out, that he knows I’m a fraud.

Then I realize he’s just pointing out that I’m a poor nobody. Anger burns down my throat, a close companion by now. I take a step forward, feeling no fear at the creak of wooden boards beneath me or the legends that the place is haunted.

I’ve only got eyes on the boy with the shaved black hair who took so much from me and doesn’t even know it, wouldn’t even care if he did.

“My mom liked churches,” he says. “She was always bringing me to them, even when it wasn’t a Sunday. They’re peaceful places when there are no people in them.”

There are long tallow candles on the altar, next to a carelessly-strewn set of hammers and nails, tool belts and dirty rags. Tanner passes the flame of the lighter near their unlit wicks, and as I get closer, I see that mischief is playing across his face, next to something that almost looks like grief but can’t be. Boys like Tanner don’t know loss or wanting or what it feels like not to have everything you desire. His life is the definition of bountiful.

“Why doesn’t your mom like churches anymore?” I ask, knowing that his mother is still alive. I’ve seen her on the morning talk shows, selling her line of “clean” skincare and haircare products for kids.

A shadow crosses Tanner’s face at my words. “Evangeline Connally is too busy to go to church more often than once a week. That's enough to show the good folks of Kentucky that their senator is still a praying man.”

The bitterness in his voice surprises me, but it’s gone as soon as it came. With a smirk, he reaches out and brings the flame so close to one of the wicks that the wax still covering it smokes a little. “Think she’ll get mad if we light one?”

“Who?”

He jerks his chin towards the mantle behind the altar, and I see the plain, undecorated urn sitting there. “She hates the altar, especially when the candles are lit. They say she’s cursed this place, and that’s why it keeps falling apart. Not that I blame her, what with it killing her and all. I’d curse it too. Dying alone like that—it wasn't fair. Someone should've paid for what those bullies did, but the world is blind to injustice. So she's had to take matters into her own hands as a ghost and tear down the place that killed her.”

My snake bite scar twinges with pain and discomfort, reminding me what I came here for. He needs to pay for what he's done, just like Martha Hayes’ tormentors should have paid for her untimely death.

“It’s probably just falling apart because it’s old,” I tell him, taking another step forward, until I can smell the light citrus scent of his cologne, can see the places in his swirling neck tattoo where the semi-permanent ink is fading. “Ghosts aren’t real.”

“Pragmatist, are we?”

“Believing in things is for children.”

Tanner turns towards me slightly, the lighter wobbling in his hand, a frown creasing his mouth. “Pretty sure we’re still kids, Brenna.”

I feel it. A shudder up and down me at the sound of my name in his mouth. Warmth pooling in my neck at his eyes on me so close.

I didn’t think he was paying attention before, but now he is, his light hazel eyes glowing slightly with the flame of the candle he’s just inadvertently lit.

“Watch out.” I look at the fire, then up at him, into the boldness of his sinner's eyes. “The ghost is gonna get you.”

"Oh?"

"Yeah." My eyes land on the urn behind the altar, and I pitch my voice loud to call out, "Martha Hayes! I summon you. Get the revenge now you were denied when you were alive. Punish the living for the sins of the dead."

If there’s any justice in the world, she’d be real. She would show up, making my joke summoning of her an act of retribution. Tanner Connally would piss his pants, that's how scared he'd be.

But there are no ghosts to carry out revenge from the beyond. Just the living. Just me.

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