Tag: writing

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“So… we’re graduating tomorrow,” my friend |||||||||| said from the backseat.

“Yeah,” I answered, half surprised and half frivolous.

The headlights of my hand-me-down, 1990 Jeep Cherokee illuminated the twisting dirt road and the dense forest of pine trees surrounding it. The sky still showed dark blue, but it wouldn’t last long. Two friends, my brother, and I had spent the afternoon and evening hiking and playing frisbee in Blue Mountain Forest. We often did in the spring when the cold finally left. Today, we’d only stayed out much later than usual. We were celebrating I guess, but we hadn’t even spoken of graduation.

“Do you think it’ll be worth it?” |||||||||| asked.

Esarose chuckled beside him. “Is ‘it’ worth ‘it’?”

“I wasn’t talking to you, sophomore.”

“Junior,” Esarose corrected him.

“I mean when we enter the real world tomorrow, will we be ready? Will we have success? Will we make a difference? Or will we realize that twelve years of ‘education’ didn’t prepare us for anything, doomed us to being cogs in the machine of a hopelessly broken system?”

“Deep,” my brother Gene said snidely from the passenger’s seat. I heard his crooked smile in his voice.

“These sophomores keep giving me crap! What do you think, Logan?”

“Well, your dad says the Left is turning America into a communist, third-world country,” I said with a laugh. “Maybe he’s right!”

“Keep in mind,” Esarose said, “he also thinks reptile people run the government.”

“Personally, I don’t care if I’m unprepared. I’m ready for something completely different.”

“The world ends December 12, 2012,” |||||||||| offered. “That different enough?”

“Happy graduation!” Esarose joked. “Enjoy three years of futile existence followed by…”

“…the complete collapse of the economy,” I started.

“Then, Obama will throw his hands up and yell, ‘It’s over, man!’ and pound the ‘Nuke Russia’ button,” |||||||||| said.

“But aliens will arrive in time to conserve the planet’s precious resources,” Esarose followed.

“Right before the sun goes supernova earlier than anyone expected,” Gene added.

“Awesome! Let’s just quit school!”

I reached the bottom of the dirt path twisting down the mountain and stopped at the main asphalt road that led back to town. I could’ve turned right to get to the highway, but instead, I turned left, taking the scenic route. We couldn’t see much, but the conversation was good enough. The road followed the Bitterroot River, hidden behind trees and bushes to our right, and the mountainous forest to our left. The sky faintly glowed yellow from the lights of the city across the river.

“No, no,” I stopped Esarose. “Maybe we’ll continue living in a post-apocalyptic future. We’ll need skills to survive.”

“Right, I’ll develop the video games,” |||||||||| said, referring to his desired career. “We’ll need entertainment.”

“I’ll be the veterinarian!” Esarose said.

“A veterinarian?” I jeered. “What do we need a vet for?”

“The reptile government official we keep as a pet, obviously,” Gene answered.

I laughed. “Alex Jones was right!”

“That leaves Gene and Logan as the police officers,” |||||||||| said.

“No, Gene’ll be the architect,” I corrected him.

Gene scoffed. “Well, that depends if dad’s still alive.”

I glanced at him, tapping his fingers to his thumbs in quick succession in his lap.

Dad told me not to worry about Gene. He’d make sure Gene finished high school, got into a good college, and became a cop just like I would. I could take my diploma, A-average, sports trophies, and volunteer hours and follow my destined career path without looking back.

Dad was furious when I selected a college out of state, a place Gene could get into easily, even with his B-average grades. It even had an architecture program. I could have gone almost anywhere. I had full scholarships other places, but I wanted Gene to be able to follow me easily if he wanted to, if he needed to. Dad grudgingly agreed to pay part of my tuition at mom’s insistence. She didn’t see the problem with Gene and me attending the same school, but dad knew what lay beneath my decision.

I worried the strange and dark thoughts Gene confided in me when we were kids had only gotten worse. He stopped talking about them four years ago at the peak of their intensity, and ever since, he seemed determined to prove he was fine. He could be fragile, more fragile than ever, but dad dismissed my warnings and fears as
overprotectiveness and paranoia. Gene could be on a precipice, but he would deny it until he threw himself off it. The best I could do at this point was make the end goal as visible and easy to reach as I could. Maybe without dad constantly hovering over us, I could convince Gene he didn’t have to act so strong. Maybe he’d confide in me again. He had to survive the next two years by himself first though. I worried he wouldn’t make it.

Maybe I should tell Esarose everything before I leave…

Lights from an approaching car highlighted the edges of the trees ahead of me, reminding me to keep my mind in the present. Shoving my thoughts aside, I returned my attention to the curving road and gripped the steering wheel.

“Oh yeah,” |||||||||| ranted while I lost myself in thought. “If Rendor’s still alive, he’ll probably make all of us police officers. I swear to God! Every time I come over to your house, he asks if I’ve considered joining the military or the police. Excuse me! You’re not
my dad!”

“Well, maybe you should get a real job,” Esarose said, “for the apocalypse, you know.”

The high beams of a large pickup truck blinded me as they popped into view from behind the trees. I squinted and focused on the white line following the asphalt’s edge. Then, I realized the headlights were on the wrong side of the road.

#

I gasp through my teeth and tense for the impact, but the dark trees and blinding lights disappear before my eyes. A quiet, sunny neighborhood replaces them. Glancing around, I find myself in the passenger’s seat of Conrad’s van. The pounding in my chest relents somewhat.

I remind myself I’m not Logan Cusick. I’m Seth Rose, “the greatest psychic the world has ever known” as hawked by my business partner Conrad. Sometimes I forget that. Logan died three years ago, but he still haunts me. His death is the one mystery I can’t solve. His memories, laments, and demands for answers are louder than usual today. Today’s significant for him.

“They’re throwing the hats!” Monica shouts from the backseat, continuing her commentary on the nearby graduation ceremony. “Gene’s officially a high school graduate!”

I sigh irritably, disappointed she hasn’t disappeared, too. Her reminders of what day it is aren’t helping. She’s monitored Gene to help me soothe Logan even since I met her two years ago. Lately, however, she’s taken to narrating Gene’s life to me. I think she’s
trying to convince me to stop dwelling on Logan’s death. Everyone who cared for him has moved past the night he died, and Logan and I should, too. My job is to help the living, not seek revenge for the dead. I wish she’d stop. Hearing about Gene only makes Logan tighten his grip on me.

I return my glare to the two-story, dark green house out the passenger’s window. I’ve stared at it for what seems like days. It hasn’t gotten any more haunted. In fact, there’s still nothing haunting it. No spirits, no tragic memories, no dark energy. I wish Conrad would hurry up and figure that out. I don’t want to be here anymore.

“Now Teva’s taking pictures of Gene in his cap and gown,” Monica continues.

I finally twist in the seat to cast my glare at her. She smiles knowingly at me from the middle of the back bench. The joy of mockery brightens her brown eyes. Her ponytail of brown hair bounces as she kicks her legs back and forth in the space between the seats. Her activity and amusement, however, doesn’t add color to her pale brown
skin. Technically, she’s been dead for six years and has constant access to all the knowledge of a world-wide spirit collective, but she certainly still acts like a twelve-year-old.

“Have you looked in the house yet?” I ask testily.

“The investigation hasn’t started yet,” she teases.

“There’s nothing to investigate. If you looked ahead of time, you’d know that.”

Really, Conrad’s investigations exist because Monica never looks ahead of time. They border pointless ruses. I suspect we do them only because Conrad likes the drama, Monica likes pretending she doesn’t know the answers before she finds the clues, and both of them feel sorry for me.

“Then, shut up, and listen to Gene’s graduation,” Monica answers smartly.

My irritation tips toward anger. I press my lips together.

She continues smiling at me and generally annoying me as much as possible. “Rendor’s tired of pictures already,” she narrates. “Jeeze. Teva’s barely gotten one!”

“I don’t care.” I try to make myself believe it and turn back to the house.

“Yes, you do!” she sings. “Come on! Admit it!”

I ignore her.

“Ha ha! Esarose caught them before they left!”

Pulling the van door open, I escape into the quiet neighborhood. A red and green, stencil font logo plastered to the side of Conrad’s obnoxious black van reminds me why I’m supposed to be here when I slam the door. “A Call for Help: Parapsychological Services,” it reads. I turn away and head for the main road five blocks away. Conrad can service crazy fanatics by himself today. He can’t pay me enough to listen to another word from Monica.

“Okay, okay,” Monica relents as she catches up to me instantly. She actually sounds apologetic. “I was just trying to cheer you up, all right?”

“Seth!” Conrad shouts from the house’s porch. “Where are you going!?”

I growl and slow to a stop. A tubby, middle-aged, Asian guy runs across the lawn to me. He wears an official A Call for Help jacket that, like his car, has at least four logos patched to it.

“What took you so long?” I demand.

Conrad adjusts the circular-lensed glasses framing his brown eyes. “It’s only been twenty minutes. Are you okay?”

“There’s nothing in that house,” I say, pointing accusingly at it. “That woman is just hearing things.”

“Well, why?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Then, get in there, and figure it out.”

Despite his size, he physically directs me towards the house. He’s so short in general and compared to me he can reach only as high as my midback comfortably.

“You don’t work; you don’t get paid,” he continues as we cross the lawn.

I sigh. I want the pay.

“Did you look yet?” I ask Monica.

“I’m looking,” she complains, following at my side. Her eyes unfocus as if she’s reading an invisible book in front of her face.

An image of headlights flashes before my eyes. “Are the lights off?” I ask Conrad.

“Yes,” he says, “I checked myself.”

Conrad closes the door behind me as I sense the house’s atmosphere. I face a white, carpeted staircase to the second story, and a cylindrical, glass chandelier hangs high above us. The lights are off, but the large living area to my left, high ceilings, white carpeting and walls, and strategically placed windows let in plenty of midday sunlight. Similarly, I don’t feel any disconcerting energy. Neither despair, anger, nor fear draw me anywhere. I don’t sense anyone other than Monica, Conrad, and the client, sitting on the back porch. This house doesn’t know tragedy or death.

I place my hand against the drywall next to me, giving me a stronger connection to the network of memories held in the house’s materials. I skim centuries of drab existence buried in wood, stone, and metal. Fires burn, hammers hit, axes cut, footsteps pound, predators murder prey, sunlight warms, and things grow and decay. Events so old and
insignificant that they don’t mean anything anymore. I still don’t see any weird rituals or recent traumatic events.

That leaves my search to the owner’s personal items and history. An antique curio cabinet filled with trinkets and family photos stands against the wall ahead of me. Flashes of memories and emotions from the client’s life and the lives of her family and friends pass through me as I touch the framed pictures and items on an open shelf.
I glance over the images and energies but still find nothing concerning. Judging by the rest of the house’s bland energy, I doubt I’ll ever find anything.

Conrad’s excitement remains the most palpable, which doesn’t surprise me considering he’s matched my every step. I turn to him and catch him huddled over the notepad and fancy pen in his hands, two steps behind me. He straightens, realizing I don’t have any riveting insights.

“There’s nothing here,” I repeat. If anything here produces enough energy to affect the living, I’d notice it by now.

“You barely looked,” Conrad argues. “What does Monica say?”

She stands before the front door with her hands on her hips. Her eyes scan the black, stone floor sightlessly as she searches her spiritual knowledge base. It’s much larger than this house’s network, but she’s never needed this long to find anything. Her eyes focus as she senses me watching her. She directs her troubled frown to me. “Check the
back porch.”

I look over my shoulder as if I can see through the walls and staircase separating us from the backyard. Mentally, I reach out to it. At first, I only sense the client, but then, I feel something else, a strange energy so faint it blends with hers.

“She’s wearing a necklace,” Monica continues.

I look back at her in disbelief. An energy so weak couldn’t cause that much distress to the living. “That’s the cause?”

“I know. Nothing about it makes sense.” She shakes her head at her flat-bottom sneakers, resuming her search. “I’m having trouble finding more about it, too.”

We’ve never come across information she doesn’t know on an investigation. It exists though, and it all relates to Logan or her, their unfinished business, the reason they’re still on this plane. Those answers aren’t given or found so easily. I breathe in, fueling
a flutter of hope.

“Well, what do you know about it?” I prod.

She meets my eyes again. “I think you’d better see it for yourself.”

She only withholds information about one subject from me. The only reason I do these investigations is in pursuit of him, Logan’s killer. Maybe today I’ll find him.

“What’s going on?” Conrad asks obliviously. Monica being a spirit, he can’t see or hear her.

“The client is wearing a necklace,” I say to him. “I need to see it.”

Conrad grins and scribbles in his notepad. “Okay, but first, tell me why we’re here.” His patronizing tone reminds me of a parent prompting a child to say, “thank you.”

He knows perfectly well why we’re here. He just wants a good story to tell people about how I know things that should be impossible for me to know. I just want my pay.

I sigh irritably. “Can we not do this right now?”

“Come on,” he coaxes. “It’ll take less than five minutes.”

“Did we come here to do a job or to fluff my reputation?”

“Both,” he persists. “Proving that you’re not a phony is as important as helping people. The more people trust us, the more opportunities we get. Now, you said the client hears things. What does she hear?”

I grunt in annoyance and frown at the stone floor, relenting. If the past two years of A Call for Help’s existence haven’t proven that insanity and keen observation don’t explain my apparent abilities, then we might as well give up. Arguing won’t get me what I want though.

Conrad’s mind practically screams the answers at me, but what the client told him lacks details. His enthusiasm clogging the air doesn’t help either. I manage to wrestle his thoughts far enough away to focus on the necklace on the porch. I hear a sound. It’s
unmistakable.

“A loud crash,” I answer. “A car crash.”

Conrad chuckles and makes a note. “Anything else?”

“Some guy sobbing. Another screaming.” Despite my flippant tone, they sound familiar. I listen closer a moment but then retreat, deciding I’d rather not.

“Get any names?”

I look to Monica for the answer this time. I’m terrible at detecting names. Even in Logan’s memories, I hear only a muffled sound or see a blur where there should be a name. Monica shakes her head at me, pressing her lips together. She won’t say, which further confirms my suspicions. I’ll find Logan’s killer here. Pay day.

“Not yet,” I say, deciding to keep my thoughts to myself.

“How about where the client hears these sounds?”

I look to Monica again. Such information wouldn’t be stored in the necklace, and reading people doesn’t work as well as reading objects for me. People’s minds constantly change. Unless they actively think about what I want to find, their random thoughts, emotions, memories, and senses usually overwhelm me first. Objects, on the other hand, ring the same note of energy, the same moments in time, over and over
again, readily readable, slowly fading, drastically changing only when they absorb the next major event.

“She hears them wherever she goes,” Monica says.

Conrad hesitates as if I said something wrong when I relay her answer to him, but he continues his interrogation. “Has she experienced anything else?”

I concentrate on the necklace until I hear the sounds again. A short pain I don’t expect stabs into me this time. I press a hand to the harshest ache in my lower back.

“Ahh!” I groan. “Back pain.”

Intense alien emotions envelop me just as suddenly. My eyes narrow as I notice again that this energy feels familiar. More concerning though, I wonder how it can affect me at this distance and yet produce only the faintest signature. I retreat before the disturbed emotions can blend with my own. I close my eyes and cover them with
my hand to recover.

“And she feels angry or confused or sad all the time for no reason,” I say. I exhale, releasing the tension built up in me.

Monica releases a held breath, too. “Be careful, Seth,” she cautions belatedly.

“Do you need to take a break?” Conrad offers, his curiosity yielding to worry.

I lower my hand from my face. “No, I need to see that necklace.”

Conrad pulls a corner of his mouth into an unconvinced frown. Deciding to test my patience, he returns his gaze to the notepad. “When did this start?”

“When she got that necklace, about a month ago,” Monica says.

Conrad forgets about me when I repeat her answer. He has that look of realization on his face. He gets it when I’ve revealed new information that makes sense of everything. He smiles and writes it down, solving the mystery, continuing the legacy of Seth Rose. Then, he scratches his scalp with the back of the pen and reviews his notes, clearly pleased.

“Can I see the necklace now!?” I shout, reminding him I’m still there.

“What’s with the necklace?” he asks, enjoying himself now.

I decide against touching it again, and Monica keeps her silence under my impatient gaze.

“Monica won’t tell me,” I tell Conrad.

The smile slides off his face. He suspects what I do now. “Does this have something to do with Rio Lamar?” he asks hesitantly.

“I don’t know, Conrad!” I snap. Hearing his name makes me completely lose my temper. “Maybe you should let me do my job so I can find out!”

Conrad watches me critically. “Fine.” He steps past me towards the hallway but stops short. Looking up at me, he implores, “Try to be personable, please.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter.

We follow the rock flooring down the short hallway to a tiled kitchen and dining area. A sliding glass door leads to the back yard. The owner, a thin woman in her thirties, sits on a swinging bench hanging from the ceiling of the covered, brick patio. She stands and turns to us.

I stop noticing details there. Her necklace, a metal, twelve-pointed star with a red ruby at its center, attracts all my attention.

What’s she doing with that? That’s my mother’s.

I mentally shake myself, realizing what I’ve thought. I’m not Logan Cusick!

“Don’t freak out,” Monica says, seeing me freaking out. I look to her, hoping for answers, but she only says, “I’ll tell you what I can later.” She holds her hands up like she’s soothing an animal.

“…this is my partner Seth Rose.” Conrad’s voice fades in. He nudges me.

Reluctantly, I turn my attention to the woman. I might as well learn what I can from her since Monica is so infuriatingly intent on withholding information. Then, I see the giddy grin on the client’s face. Great… She’s a fangirl. She grabs one of my hands in both of hers and shakes it before I can react.

A montage of faces, voices, and emotions from her briefly overwhelm me. I hate being subjected to everything I touch. I could wear gloves to prevent it, but then, I feel like I’m blind, deaf, and suffocating. For the moment, I take comfort that this fan doesn’t have sexual fantasies about me. Those are the worst.

“I’ve read your blog since the early days,” she gushes while I struggle to suppress the energy rushing through me to tolerable levels. “It’s an honor to meet you. As a member of the A Call for Help Community, I just want to say from all of us, we appreciate what
you do to help people find peace. Roses are our favorite flower.” She winks as if sharing an inside joke.

“I’m not named after a flower,” I answer crossly as I extract my hand from hers and shove my hands into my jacket pockets.

Conrad clears his throat, signaling me to shut up.

I roll my eyes. I don’t see the point of feigning politeness with clients like this. Their enthusiasm can’t be deterred by anything. I’ve tried. I don’t read what Conrad writes about me, but it apparently incites mindless worship.

“You told me you have these experiences in this house,” Conrad says. “During our walkthrough, Seth said you’ve had them in other places as well. Is that true?”

“Oh, yeah,” the lady says, nodding. “They’re everywhere.”

Conrad nods and scribbles. “The crashing sound you hear, is it consistent with a car wreck?”

The woman glances away thoughtfully and then back in surprise. “Yes… I mean I’ve never heard one, but I imagine it’d sound like that.”

Conrad smiles at me, pleased with my performance. This banal conversation hasn’t soothed my impatience though.

“What are you doing with that necklace?” I demand.

“Seth,” Conrad hisses warningly.

Monica elbows me, which feels like ice stabbing through my insides. I flinch and quickly cross my arms to try to hide it. Leaving the diplomacy to Conrad, I glare at the flower bed off the edge of the brick patio.

“Sorry,” I hear Conrad continue to the woman. “Seth and his spirit guide Monica believe that necklace may be the source of your problems. Do you wear it often?”

“Yeah,” she says uncertainly. “My boyfriend gave it to me for my birthday… last month.”

That attracts my attention again. She connects the dots. Conrad’s already grinning.

“Oh my God!” the woman exclaims in surprise. “It is from this!” She removes it as fast as an escape artist removes handcuffs.

“May Seth examine it?”

Relinking the chain’s ends, she hands it to Conrad. “I didn’t even realize!”

“Don’t feel bad,” Conrad consoles her. “Objects with powerful negative energy attached to them have a way of fascinating new owners.”

He holds the necklace to me by the chain. I reach out to take it by the star centerpiece, the source of the faint and strange energy.

“Don’t touch that!” Monica snaps as if I’m a child reaching for an expensive china vase.

I freeze. This object is important to Logan, not to me, I remind myself. Redirecting my hand, I grasp the chain.

“I thought it was a strange thing for him to get me at the time,” the woman jabbers excitedly. “And he thought so, too. He said he found it at a pawn shop, and he just liked it. Then, we both forgot about how weird it was. It’s like those families who buy an old houses they see as their dream home, but it’s really haunted by a demon or something.”

“You never think that’ll happen to you until it does,” Conrad says.

“Right!”

I scowl but keep my mouth shut. This object means more than a decaying house or a creepy antique on a TV show. I hold it against the bright, green backyard beyond the patio. The twelve-pointed star is about an inch in diameter. It’s ruby centerpiece, a quarter inch. This family heirloom doesn’t belong here, let alone with this energy.
It doesn’t belong to this woman… unless she has some kind of importance.

She and Conrad watch me, waiting for some dramatic truth. I might as well ask for my pay now. If she has this, she must have a connection to Logan’s killer… right?

“Do you know someone named Rio Lamar?” I ask her.

Conrad frowns. He doesn’t like it when I collect sooner than he thinks I should.

“Doesn’t sound familiar,” the woman says thoughtfully. “Should I?”

I don’t sense a lie. So much for that theory. With a tight grin, I say, “It doesn’t matter then.” I shorten the chain between my fingers and the metal star, drawing attention back to it. “This necklace belongs to Teva Cusick. Her two sons were in a car crash three years ago.”

“Ah, it must have absorbed the energy surrounding the incident,” Conrad cuts in academically as if he can hide the rising tension in the air. He gives me an anxious look.

“Were they killed?” the woman asks with morbid interest.

“One was,” I say to her, lowering the necklace slightly.

“How old were they?”

“Fifteen and seventeen at the time.”

“What were their names?”

My frown harshens. “Gene and Logan.”

She scuffles her sneakers on the brick, sensing she’s asking too many questions. “I suppose it’s none of my business, but after a month of experiencing these feelings, I want to understand what they mean… It must have been horrible whatever happened.”

“You’d never understand,” I say coldly.

“I should be able to purify this necklace,” Conrad says loudly, “and you shouldn’t have any more problems. Give it to me, Seth.” He holds his hand out.

“She shouldn’t have this at all,” I argue. I lower the necklace to my side and flick the centerpiece into my fist.

Conrad balks. “Seth, that’s her property,” he reasons. “Give it…”

#

I didn’t want to think. I wanted to sleep and never wake up.

Trees, half illuminated and half shadowed in headlights, rushed by my window. I heard voices, mine among them. They sounded happy, but I didn’t feel it.

“So… we’re graduating tomorrow,” one said.

At the end of the summer, my brother would go to a mediocre college because of me. And still I’d disappoint him. Why did he always think it would be different? All I did was drag him down.

Worthless! I was worthless.

Looking down at my hands, I tapped my fingers to my thumbs. In my head, I began the process of counting from one to twelve a dozen times.

…eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve.

The dashboard lit Logan’s face subtly in the darkness. He watched the road, but I hated counting in front of him anyway. He worried about me more than I wanted without him seeing this. If I could help it, I’d stop, but my thoughts had become intolerable. I didn’t know how else to stop them. My brother graduated tomorrow, and I couldn’t even be happy about it.

…eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve.

“No, Gene’ll be the architect,” Logan corrected his friend.

I scoffed. “Well, that depends if dad’s still alive.” As long as he lived, he’d never let me do anything I wanted.

…eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve.

What did I say? I was the only reason I couldn’t do what I wanted.

…eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve.

It wasn’t his fault I was such a disappointment. Stupid! Stupid!

…eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve.

I didn’t want to feel like this anymore.

…eight, nine, ten, eleven…

A light shone into the jeep, distracting me. I heard Logan gasp and looked up just in time to see headlights hurtling toward us. They cast the world in white until it was all made of light.

My life flashed through my mind, encapsulated in a single thought.

This was all my fault.

An impact ripped my body in all directions, twisting and breaking it. Fire spread through my back and limbs. Time seemed to stop. I grasped for the light but couldn’t reach it. Then, everything faded into darkness and the fire consumed me. I heard someone scream.

But still the world refused to end.

#

Ice dumps down the back of my jacket. It feels like that at least. I realize Monica has just placed her hands against my skin. I flinch.

Conrad reappears in front of me. He searches my face as if to make sure I’m there. “Did you hear what I said?” He sounds annoyed, but he looks worried. I’ve scared him, and he’s trying not to scare the client, too.

“What did I tell you, idiot!?” Monica shouts. She removes her hands. “Drop it!”

I still clench the twelve-pointed star in my fist.

“You’re right,” I blurt out. Shakily, I shove the necklace into Conrad’s outstretched hand. “Sorry.” I glance at the client but don’t process her expression. “Excuse me.”

Hastily, I stumble back through the house and out to the van. I slide to the sidewalk without opening it though, deciding I’d rather not sit in a car. Burying my face in my hands, I try to calm down. I shiver and pant as if I ran here for my life, as if I can vent the
foreign memories out of me.

“Seth,” Monica says nearby. “Gene graduated today, remember? Everything’s okay now.” She means to comfort me, but the uncertainty, the lie in her voice only hurts.

#

Brand Danil lets himself into the Cusick’s yard through the wood gate off the driveway. The high school colors, red and black, and “Congratulations, Graduate!” balloons decorate the yard. Eugene Cusick graduates today. Brand spots him among a handful of teenagers gathered around a laptop and speakers in a corner of the yard. Eugene’s friend Esarose Porter and a neighbor’s son appear to be having a dance off to the other teenagers’ amusement.

Brand grabs a soda from a tub against the fence, cracks it open, and hopes his faded dress suit and black tennis shoes blend in with the well-dressed guests. He rubs his bushy, gray beard, wondering if he should have shaved that morning. Giggling children run by him. More pet Eugene’s mild-mannered German Shepard, lounging in the grass. The adult guests talk in groups with beer and wine in hand. Eugene’s mother Teva flits between them, chatting as she goes. His father Rendor is out of view, which Brand finds part comforting and part disturbing.

It appears a normal graduation party, but Brand knows better. Rendor’s coworkers, Teva’s friends, Cusick relatives, and their children compose most of the guests. Eugene’s invited some classmates as well but only to add to the appearance of normalcy. The only friend he sees regularly outside school is Esarose.

This party hides what the Cusicks are, what they serve, what they’ve done.

Today holds significance for a different reason than Eugene’s graduation. It echoes the graduation that should have happened three years ago and the tragedy that replaced it. Everyone here knows it. The Cusick’s can’t avoid the subject forever. They can’t hide their guilt forever.

Brand’s therapist says his beliefs are irrational, the result of grief and trauma, but Brand knows better. The aliens who ruined his life are real, they’re invading Earth, and the Cusicks serve them. Perhaps they were human once, but now they are mind-controlled pawns, if not aliens themselves. After how they made Logan disappear three years ago, how they deny his existence now, Brand can’t imagine them as anything else. Brand’s best hope to stop them from hurting anyone else is to wait for them to slip up and reveal themselves for the monsters they are.

Brand follows the fence and tables of food toward the backyard in search of Rendor. He nearly spills his drink down his front when he finds him much sooner than he expects. Rendor stands just around the corner of the house with a glass of beer in hand. The red rose tucked in the front pocket of his black suit and his hulking 6′ 5″ figure remind Brand of a crime boss. The peaked police officer’s cap on his head says otherwise. Brand backs away a few steps to a safer distance. He sips his soda, attempting to appear nonchalant as he settles in to observe and wait.

Rendor watches the teenagers across the yard with a frown akin to disapproval or maybe disgust. Esarose and the neighbor’s kid have finished their dance off: disco vs. break dance. The neighbor has had enough, but Esarose hasn’t. As another dance track begins, she encourages Eugene to join her. Eugene’s smile shifts to wide-eyed nervousness, but it doesn’t take much encouragement from Esarose for him to relent. Soon they’re doing simple disco moves together. As the other teenagers and some of the little kids join them, Esarose turns the graduation into a silly dance class.

Rendor downs half his beer.

“Care to dance, Rendor?” Teva asks lightly, joining him. “You look jealous.”

“That girl’s a bad influence,” Rendor answers.

The teens move on to “the flight attendant” at Esarose’s instruction. Exits, exits, masks, seatbelts. Exits, exits, masks, seatbelts.

“Please, they’re just playing,” Teva says, sipping from a glass of wine in her hand. “This isn’t a metaphor for life.”

The song ends after only a few phrases once everyone’s gotten the hang of it. The teenagers leave the grass dancefloor for a plastic tub of ice and canned sodas against the fence. Only Eugene, Esarose, and giggling children remain. A pop ballad begins. Esarose bows to Eugene with an overly elaborate flourish. Eugene smiles timidly, but
he returns an equally ridiculous flourishing bow to her. Esarose steps forward and takes his outstretched hand. She positions his other hand at her waist and leads him in a slow, disco-flavored ballroom dance. Eugene glances between her face and his feet
nervously. Esarose directs him encouragingly. They smile whenever their eyes meet.

Brand can’t help but smile, too. He likes to see Esarose happy. He only wishes she’d befriended someone more honest than a Cusick.

“Eugene says he wants to take a year off before he goes to college,” Rendor says to Teva as he continues watching. “Esarose did the same thing and look at her now. She’s working a dead-end job at a slutty restaurant with no sign of stopping.”

Brand casts Rendor a glare. The filthy alien would be the type to call naturally beautiful and charming women brain-dead sluts. Esarose is large-chested and on the chubby side but wears a tight-fitting red t-shirt and black shorts today anyway. A black bandana with the red letters GPO across it ties her shoulder-length, black hair back from her tan, Native American features. She always wears it to hide her ears, her only feature she’s self-conscious about. She doesn’t try to hide the scars marring the right side of her face with makeup, now or ever. At the moment, she’s barefoot. Her discarded flip flops lie just off the grass dance floor. She’s the most casually-dressed
person at the party, but Rendor would only see a deadbeat whore in such beauty.

“It’s just Hooters,” Teva argues. “She’s lucky she found anything in this town.”

“She could’ve gone somewhere else.”

“She wanted to see Gene graduate.”

“And now he’s graduated, and she’s still not leaving.”

Teva looks up at Rendor, a foot taller than her. “The only reason Gene looked at colleges was because of her. Did you forget that, too?”

Rendor laughs humorlessly. He returns her gaze. “Eugene is not going to some crummy community college with her. He’ll have better education than that.”

“Gene can do whatever he wants,” Teva says firmly.

“He says he wants to study criminal justice. Why should he wait?”

“Does he really say that to you?”

“Yes.” Rendor returns his gaze to Eugene and Esarose and sips his beer.

Teva’s eyes linger a moment longer before she follows Rendor’s lead. Eugene looks more comfortable, less self-conscious. Esarose directs him through a series of more complicated steps.

“He can never be an officer, Rendor,” Teva finally says, breaking the tense silence, “not since the accident.”

Brand frowns. Despite his skepticism of the Cusick’s, sometimes he can’t help but have sympathy for Eugene. He suffers from chronic back pain and a monstrous father. Brand wishes it weren’t too late to save him from the aliens’ influence.

“There’s a place for anyone wishing to serve his community,” Rendor persists.

“What about when he took those CAD classes his freshman year?” Teva asks. “He used to spend hours after school working on that special computer program they had there. Hasn’t he said anything about studying architecture? He’s always working on something related to that.”

Rendor looks down at Teva again. “If he can’t swing a hammer, why would anyone trust him to build their house?”

“Architects aren’t necessarily builders,” she offers.

Rendor looks back at Eugene and nods with his chin. “Look at him, Teva.”

Eugene pirouettes under Esarose’s fingers. Then, Esarose tips him backward and finally spins him back onto his feet. The two of them circle one another, still holding hands. They throw their opposing arms up in the air dramatically and stare at each other with overly serious expressions. Eventually, their dramatic air crumbles into laughter.

“He looks fine to me,” Rendor says. “He probably doesn’t even need those pills.”

“There’s a reason he takes them. There’s a reason some days he only lies in bed.”

“People just like him don’t need pills at all.”

“Everyone experiences pain differently especially with back injuries.”

“Esarose broke half the bones in her body, and she doesn’t complain as much as he does.”

“Enough, Rendor,” Teva says sharply. She sips her wine. Then, she looks at him with a gentler air. “You can’t fix him, and you can’t control when he gets better.”

Rendor’s frown remains stern, but he stays silent. He takes a gulp of beer.

“Hey, Rendor!” one of his co-workers bellows as he approaches them.

Brand jumps and ducks around the corner. He realizes how tense the conversation has left him. He chugs some of his soda, briefly wishing he hadn’t given up the stronger stuff, and shakes out his hands one by one.

“Hello, Teva,” he hears the co-worker continue. “Mind if I join you?”

“That’s why we invited you,” Teva says, a smile in her voice.

“I just wanted to say how happy I am for you and Gene… Kid’s been through hell. He deserves this. He really does.”

Brand peers back around the house, his interest peaking again. This is it.

“He’s tough,” Rendor says, cracking a smile. “You’re part of the reason he’s still here.”

His co-worker smiles humbly and looks at the ground. “I still think about it a lot, you know, what happened to Logan. Sometimes I…” He sighs and looks between Rendor and Teva. “I wish there was more I could have done.”

Teva looks away and sips wine to hide the bitter look on her face.

Rendor pats his friend roughly on the shoulder. “You did everything you could. We’re moving on as best we can. You don’t have to feel guilty about it.”

“If I solved only one case in my career, I would want it to be that one.”

“I know… You’d better go congratulate Eugene yourself before he gets dragged into another dance.”

Brand grits his teeth. Even today, they refuse to explain the car crash that took Logan Cusick from this world. Their avoidance and lies prove their involvement as much as a confession.

Rendor’s co-worker laughs. He glances back at Eugene and Esarose. Ending their dance, they present each other with more lengthy, extravagant bows. “She’s pretty good, about thirty years behind the times but not half bad.”

Rendor chuckles. “If anything, she’s enthusiastic.”

“Did those two ever start dating?”

“Afraid not. I guess if it doesn’t happen after a decade, it never will.”

“We’re still hoping,” Teva adds brightly, crossing her fingers.

“They’re good together,” the co-worker agrees. “Anyway, Teva, Rendor, I’ll catch you again before I leave if not sooner.” He nods to them and heads towards Eugene.

Rendor finishes off his beer and shares a knowing frown with Teva.

Brand empties his soda and turns away. Some of the guests are giving him suspicious looks, which means he’d better leave. On his way out the gate, he looks back at Eugene and Esarose one last time. In a silent cheer, he holds up his empty can.

“Congratulations, Eugene,” he says, “whatever’s left of you.”

#

Tall, gray, and brick buildings pass by the window as Conrad navigates us through the middle of downtown. The thoughts of the people in the cars pressed all around us make a constant roar in my mind, but it takes a particularly large cluster of pedestrians on the sidewalk, a car’s width from us, to finally make me break my silence. I groan and cover my eyes, trying to find relief in darkness.

“Sorry,” Conrad says.

He usually avoids downtown for my sake, but I think he’s using it now to get me to talk to him. Or he’s preoccupied. His thoughts during the trip haven’t been pleasant: worried, confused, and self-berating. My silent treatment hasn’t helped any of us.

“I didn’t think that accident would come up.” Conrad continues apologizing for what really bothers him. “I don’t bring you on these investigations to hurt you.”

I lift my head from my hands and squint at him. He sits tall to see over the steering wheel and grips it tightly for the dense traffic around us.

“What would you do if you knew?” I ask. “Would you have hidden it?” I half direct the questions to Monica in the backseat.

Conrad glances sideways at me, relief on his face. “Are you okay?”

“I didn’t know,” Monica reasons. “I didn’t know that necklace was there until today, and by the time I found out, I realized you were more likely to have a meltdown than to investigate why. I thought maybe you’d have a chance if I didn’t give you time to think about it, but you’re a walking mine field! What do you want me to do?”

I sigh and bury my face in my hands again. “Whatever.”

It doesn’t make sense she didn’t know. I don’t sense she’s lying, but that’s the only explanation I have. She has to be lying. She lies to me about Rio Lamar’s whereabouts…

“Was that necklace really Teva’s?” Conrad asks tentatively.

“It was a family heirloom,” I say after a while. “It was her grandmother’s, then her mother’s, then hers, and then… Gene’s.”

“It was Gene’s?”

“…Yeah.”

Conrad doesn’t answer.

“You were his therapist for a while, weren’t you?”

“For about nine months.”

I swallow. “How… How was he?”

Conrad hesitates. “He was… troubled when he first started seeing me, but he’s better now. It’s been two years since I last saw him. He’s fine, Seth.”

I sit back in the bucket seat and frown out the window. The streets have widened, the buildings spaced further apart, and the traffic lightened. The world doesn’t seem so cramped and loud, but I still can’t find comfort.

“He moved past whatever happened,” Conrad continues. “You can, too.”

“No, I can’t.”

“It’s been three years. You’re the only one still looking for answers.”

“What other choice do I have?”

He scoffs, tilting his head to me. “You’re Seth Rose, the greatest psychic the world has ever known! You’ve got quite a future if you’d only get your head out of the past to see it.”

I give him a twisted frown. “My job is to look into the past. I can’t exactly ignore it.”

“Yeah, your job is to look into the past, not to live in it… Rio Lamar isn’t around any–“

“He is not gone!” I cut him off warningly.

Rio haunts me as much as Logan does. He can’t forget Logan either.

#

“Not too late, Eugene,” Rendor calls up the metal spiral staircase to Eugene’s room. “It’s been a long day.”

“I know,” Eugene calls back down. “We’ll just be a few minutes.” He shrugs to Esarose, standing at the banister beside him.

Eugene’s room is a finished attic space built into the eves, at one point intended to be a living area. It’s the sole room on the second story of the house. The low ceiling and its odd angles determine the height and placement of the furniture. It’s near-windowless, almost claustrophobic, but it’s tidy, minimally cluttered, and well-lit.

“Do you mind if I lie down a minute?” Eugene asks as he steps toward the twin bed near the middle of the room.

“Not at all.” Esarose kicks off her red flip flops by the stairs.

Eugene flops back on the bed, leaving his feet dangling over the end. He’s still in his dress clothes: a black suit, shiny black shoes, and a white dress shirt. He closes his eyes and sighs.

“Does your back hurt?” Esarose asks. She grabs the ergonomic office chair from Eugene’s tidy desk next to the stairs, rolls it closer to the bed, and makes herself comfortable.

“A little.”

“Do you need anything?” She glances at the nightstand next to the bed. The shelves hold a variety of prescription and over-the-counter pain and sleep medications.

“No, not right now.”

“Sorry, Gene.”

“What can I say? I’m a dancin’ fool!”

“I should have known better.”

Eugene opens his eyes and looks over at her. “No, I had a lot of fun today, Esa.”

Esarose smiles.

“I think these shoes are killing me more than anything.” He nods towards his feet.

“You should have worn flip flops,” Esarose jokes, showing off her dirty feet. “That’s classy.”

“Real classy.” Eugene looks up at the skylight over his bed, the one window in the room. The setting sun casts the sky in orange, pink, and yellow. “So, what’s this graduation present? I don’t see anything missing or broken, so I guess I should look forward to it.”

“Do you give up? You haven’t even tried looking for it yet.”

“All right, lady!” Eugene says with a theatrical groan.

He shoves himself back to sitting position and gets to his feet. He paces to the far side of the room where an odd assortment of folding and beanbag chairs surround a TV mounted to the wall. He scans the stand of DVDs, video games, PlayStation consoles, and accessories beneath it.

“Nothing new there,” he says after a moment.

He returns to the other side of the room and examines a bookcase of science fiction and fantasy novels next. Esarose swivels in the office chair, following him. She smiles mischievously.

“Am I close?” he asks.

“You’re cold.”

Eugene steps sideways in front of the dresser and places his hands on a drawer. He glances back at Esarose.

“You’re freezing,” she says.

He turns to the desk across the room and paces towards it hesitantly.

“You’re approaching zero Kelvin,” Esarose comments as he passes by her.

“Hmm.” Eugene looks towards the closet by the stairs.

“Atom movement increases.”

Eugene approaches the closet and places his hands on the knobs of the folding doors. He pulls them open and glances through the clothes and coats hanging before him. He steps back, examines the shelf of boxes overhead, and scans the shoes at his feet. Then, he freezes as he spots the difference.

“Whoa…”

He reaches past the clothes and retrieves the thin metal object leaning against the back corner of the closet. He stands the four-foot-tall, eight-inch-wide display sword point down. Two large holes are drilled through the side of the blade near the guard, a
simple rectangular piece between the blade and the cylindrical handle, wound with black electrical tape. A crude welding job holds the three pieces together. Eugene stares at it, spinning it slowly in his fingers.

“You may have graduated,” Esarose says, grinning. “You may claim you’ve outgrown video games. You may even think I’ve forgotten my idle suggestion… but you and I will cosplay as Cloud and Tifa at an anime convention someday. You can’t escape.”

Eugene numbly carries the Final Fantasy VII-inspired sword to the bed and sits, laying it across his lap.

“Where’d you get this?” he finally says. “Prop swords cost a fortune.”

Esarose scoffs. “You flatter me. I made it in shop my senior year. It only cost the material really. The whole thing’s aluminum. The blade bends at the touch of a finger.”

Eugene looks at her. “You made this?”

“Yeah, for you. I did plan to give it to you for your birthday last year, but after what you gave me for my graduation, I felt too embarrassed. You’re definitely still the builder and the artist here.”

Eugene looks back down at the sword. He presses his lips together in a frown… almost as if he were holding back tears.

“Do you like it?” Esarose prods.

“…It’s awesome… You’re amazing.”

“Are you going to cry over how terrible my welding job is?” Esarose chuckles, but a troubled expression flashes across her face.

“I can’t accept this.” He meets her eyes.

“Don’t get all weird on me, Gene. It’s nothing. Enjoy it. You don’t even have to spike your hair and pose with it for me… but that would be pretty great. I’m just sayin’.”

Eugene chuckles, lightening his frown. He wraps his fingers around the sword’s blunt edge as if it held more significance than a fun novelty item though.

“Eugene!” Rendor calls from the living room below. “Time for Esarose to go home!”

Esarose rolls the office chair back to its place at the desk. “Just don’t tell your dad about it,” she says in a hushed voice. “He’ll spoil the fun.”

“Esa.” Eugene hurriedly sets the sword aside and follows her. He pulls her into a hug. “Thank you… and thanks for today.”

“Thanks for inviting me,” Esarose says as she squeezes him back. “It was fun.”

They continue holding each other. Esarose frowns. Eugene doesn’t hold her out of gratitude. He’s holding on for life. Esarose’s doesn’t hug him in gratitude either. Hers is protective and consoling.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

Neither of them moves. Neither of them wants to.

Eugene hasn’t spoken of his grief in two years, and even then, it showed more in his actions. Only in rare moments like this, where he shows any vulnerability at all, does he confirm Esarose’s suspicions that he hasn’t recovered. Esarose wishes he would speak, that he’d let her do more than hold him. She’s sure today was even harder for him than it was for her.

“It’s still hard to believe that…” The words slip out. Esarose stops herself. She feels Eugene tense.

“You can say it,” he says unexpectedly.

“…Logan isn’t here.”

They slowly separate, hands lingering on each other’s shoulders. Eugene avoids her eyes, frowns at the white carpet.

“He would have a nicer party than me,” he says jokingly when he looks up.

Esarose smiles crookedly. His defenses are back up. The moment is over. “I don’t think so,” she jokes back. “He’d make sure yours was better.”

Eugene smiles subtly.

Esarose backs toward the stairs and slips on her flip flops. “See you tomorrow?”

“Of course!”

“Call me if you need to talk to a human in the meantime.”

“Why? Do you have one of those?”

Esarose steps onto the stairs. “Chained up in a cupboard somewhere.” She waves.

“Bye.” Eugene waves back.

“Night.”

Eugene watches until she leaves his view, listens until he hears her bid goodnight to his parents and exit out the front door. By then, a grimace of pain has replaced his smile. He grabs a bottle of pain killers from the night stand, dumps a couple into his hand, and throws them back.

#

“Sounds like you’re afraid of her,” Conrad Xiao Hong comments.

Brand Danil sits on the polished leather couch across from him. He frowns at the wood floor and rug at his feet in silence. Then, he intertwines his fingers behind his head and leans back with a smile. His wild gray hair and beard, wrinkled, tan skin, and worn clothes clash with the high-end furniture.

“How do you think the world will end in December?” he asks casually, deflecting the subject.

“Why don’t you start?” Conrad answers patiently, adjusting his grip on the pen and notepad in his hands.

Their voices echo slightly. The glass French doors separating Conrad’s home office from the hall do little to stop their voices from bouncing through the large house of hardwood floors.

“Aliens!” Brand answers predictably. Then, he withdraws. “Actually, no. Let’s mix it up a bit. How about a zombie plague wipes out humanity? You ever read the Zombie Survival Guide? The most recent case of zombification occurred during the Swine Flu outbreak in 2009. Maybe I should make a club dedicated to zombie survival to save
humanity. No one cares about the aliens plotting to kill us all, but maybe they’ll care about violent reanimated dead.

“Hmm… Then again, the occult doesn’t seem popular in this town, judging by your two-person ghost hunting club. Of course, I’d join if you’d let me. I could analyze the pictures and the video afterward like they do on that Ghost Hunters show. Seth strikes me as too much of a primadonna for such demeaning labor. I’d do it. I like that stuff.”

“What does this have to do with your daughter?” Conrad attempts to refocus the subject.

“I can’t talk to my daughter without Seth’s help. She’s on the other side.”

“The other daughter.”

Brand’s mischievous smile falters. “You never answered my question.”

“Are you afraid she’ll hurt you?”

“I’m afraid the world will end. Really, what do you think? You read those paranormal conspiracy magazines. You must believe at least some of their theories.”

Conrad glances at his watch. Deeming Brand’s therapy session close enough to finished, he leans back in his black leather chair. “Demonologists and exorcists claim that demonic activity around the world is on the rise.” He shrugs. “Perhaps God will lose power over the Earth.”

“Has Seth observed that trend?”

Conrad smiles ironically. “I don’t think he’d argue against it.”

Brand glances around Conrad’s office. A shelf of psychology books covers one wall. Framed certificates and a Ph.D. in Psychology are tacked to another behind a large black desk. Conrad’s round glasses, dress clothes, and black vest also scream “psychologist.” His short black and gray hair, combed to an angle and held in place with a tasteful use of product, gives him an added professional and wise appearance. Brand sometimes wonders if Conrad’s reassuring his patients or himself of his status. Occultist and psychologist don’t go together nicely.

“Is that because he thinks he’s one of the monsters?” Brand asks.

The smile slides off Conrad’s face. Uncomfortable, he stands. “We’re done for today.”

“Maybe I’ll stop deflecting my problems when you stop deflecting yours.”

Conrad presses his lips together. “See you next week.”

---

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