Page 1 of Follow Her Down
1
Sera
Mybodyisn’tatemple.It’s a mausoleum.And I bury things in it every night.
I sometimes wonder what archaeologists would find if they excavated me—memories calcified into bone, rage preserved like amber, grief packed in salt.The things I’ve swallowed would fill a museum.
The things I’m about to do would burn it down.
I come to town when the storm does, and the first fat raindrops hit my windshield as I pass the rusted sign for Wichita, Kansas.
Lightning cracks the sky open.For a single white-hot second, I see this place for what it is: a collection of fading buildings huddled together against the darkness, like teeth in a rotting mouth.
I ease off the gas.No reason to hurry now that I’m here.The rain picks up, drumming on the roof of my car like impatient fingers.Through the blur of water on glass, I see empty storefronts with newspapers in their windows.A church with a crooked steeple.A diner that looks like it’s been closed since the eighties, though the flickering neon sign still saysOPEN.
Someone stands in the shadowed parking lot watching me pass.
My GPS chirps, the robotic voice too cheerful for this place.“Turn right in 500 feet.”
The road winds uphill, and here, the houses grow sparser, older.Trees close in on both sides, branches stretching over the pavement like grasping claws.The storm intensifies, as if trying to push me back the way I came.
I turn onto a pockmarked gravel driveway.At its end looms a house—three stories of a weathered Victorian, silhouetted against the storm-dark sky.Black shutters hang askew from tall windows, and dead vines cling to the siding like veins on an old woman’s hand.
It’s absolutely perfect.
I kill the engine and sit, listening to rain hammer the car roof.From here, I can see a curtain shift in an upstairs window, though there shouldn’t be curtains or anyone to rustle them at all.The house is supposed to be empty.
Maybe it isn’t.
The thought doesn’t scare me.Nothing does, not anymore.Fear seems like a luxury for people who still believe the world has rules.
I grab my purse and step out into the deluge.Water soaks through my clothes immediately, plastering my black hair to my skull.I stand in the rain, letting it hit my upturned face, and study the house.
TheFor Salesign dangles from one hinge, swinging violently in the wind.
“I’m here,” I whisper, though I’m not sure who I’m talking to.
The house, maybe.Or the man across town who doesn’t know I’ve come for him.
A car splashes up the drive behind me.Headlights catch the falling rain, turning it to silver needles.A car door slams, and heels crunch on gravel.
“Ms.Vale?I’m so sorry I’m late.”The woman’s voice is strung tight with forced cheer.“This weather is just dreadful.”
The realtor is petite, middle-aged, clutching a leather portfolio over her head in a futile attempt to stay dry.Her blonde bob is already plastered to her cheeks.She winces when she peers at me, likely because I applied my eye shadow with a razor blade this morning.
No, not literally.I just like my eye wings lined extra sharp.
“Let’s get you inside.”The realtor fumbles with keys, dropping them once before managing to keep them in her grip.“I’m Meredith Byers.We spoke on the phone.”
I nod, not bothering with pleasantries.Her smile falters, but she recovers quickly.
“Shall we?”she asks, already moving up the cracked stone path.
The porch steps groan under our weight.Meredith’s heels click across the wooden boards as she hurries to the front door.More fumbling with keys.More nervous glances at me, at the sky, at her watch.
“This house has been vacant for a while now.The previous owners left rather suddenly,” she explains, her voice pitched too high.“Hence the…well, the condition inside.But the structure is sound.The inspector found no major issues.”
Liar.I can hear it in the way her words rush together.
