Page 6 of Follow Her Down
“Sleep now,” I say, though she is beyond sleep.“You are finally seen.”
I gather my things methodically.Nothing left behind except what is meant to be found.I check my hands, my clothes.The storm has been a blessing—rain washing away footprints, wind scattering evidence.Nature collaborates in revelation.
As I step onto the porch, the rain hits my face.Cold, clean, and washing.I breathe in the scent of dry earth receiving water.Rebirth through destruction.This is the world’s oldest story.
I walk away from the house.No need to hurry, since in this city, abandoned buildings keep their secrets.Days may pass before someone ventures inside.By then, the transformation will be complete.
Headlights cut through the downpour, moving past the diner.It’s a dark-blue or black sedan, its windows fogged against the cold.It moves slowly, as though the driver, a woman, is looking for something.
One bumper sticker on the car readsTell the voices in your head I said hi,and instead of the original sticker that readsMade in USA,she marked it up with black Sharpie to readdead inSIDE.
I smile, not with humor but with recognition.Like finding the first piece of a complex puzzle.Like an artist receiving inspiration from their muse.
I decide to follow, swiftly enough but without drawing attention, staying within the shelter of buildings and shadows.The car makes a slow right turn onto Lakeview Drive where there is no lake, only old houses where newcomers often buy up cheap property.
The driver parks in front of number seventeen, a house I’ve been to before.The porch light is burned out.The garden is overtaken by weeds.The mailbox tilts at an unnatural angle.
When she steps out of the car, I see the careful way she moves and the tension in her shoulders.The way she cautiously checks the street.
She is carrying something heavy inside her.I can see it in her posture, the slight forward curve of her spine, as if protecting a wound.A realtor-looking woman arrives shortly after her, and they both disappear inside.Shortly after, the realtor flees.
I stand in the rain, watching and waiting.A shadow passes behind curtains while the woman checks the locks, securing her territory.
She is someone who believes in locks.In barriers.In keeping things out.
Or perhaps in keeping something in.
There will be time.There is always time for truth to emerge.
For a second, she peers out a second-floor window, and it’s then that I can see the true weight she carries.The secret she holds.The past that follows her like a faithful dog.
They are called survivors, but all of them wear masks.
If she’s anything like the others, she will break so beautifully.
3
Sera
Iwakewithajolt,my limbs tangled in a blanket damp with sweat.
For a moment, I can’t remember where I am.The ceiling above me is unfamiliar—peeling paint and hairline cracks that branch like lightning.
But there’s something else too.
Footprints.Bloody footprints climbing up the wall to my left.They continue across the ceiling in an impossible path, as if gravity means nothing here.The prints are small, like mine.Each one perfectly formed, displaying arches and toes in tacky crimson.
My first thought is that someone’s fucking with me.
I kick off the blanket and examine my own feet, but they’re clean.No blood between my toes or caked under my nails.I slide off the mattress and approach the wall, peering at the first footprint.It’s still slightly wet, glistening in the dim morning light.
Standing on tiptoe and using the windowsill for support, I press my right foot against one of the prints on the wall.
A perfect match, right down to the slightly crooked pinky toe I broke as a child.
A normal person would be packing their car by now, fleeing this fucked-up house with its bloody wall and ceiling art.But I just nod, as if confirming something I already suspected.
“Of course they’re mine,” I mutter to the empty room.“Why wouldn’t they be?”
