Chapter Ten

I’m up at 6 a.m., exhausted from another restless night. I slept long enough to have my usual, quick dream about the Axe Murder House. But the rest of the hours were spent flopping from side to side. Grandma’s right. The old couch is bad for my back. But at least the voices don’t find me down here, and I haven’t had any other dreams about Amelia.

I pour a mug of coffee and sit at the table. Out the window, the eastern morning sky turns from dark purple to a light pink-orange as the sunlight fights its way through the thick belt of trees in the backyard.

Grandpa makes a quick appearance. He fills a thermos with coffee and then leaves with a pickup bed full of fishing gear. Grandma walks in the kitchen around seven and starts making her usual pan of bacon. Of all the things that Grandma worries about, saturated fat doesn’t seem to be one of them.

Today’s newspaper is on the table. The only update about the missing girls, Laney and Grace, is that there are no updates. No new leads. No new answers. Halfway down the front page is a picture of each girl. The same photos tacked to the supermarket bulletin board.

I flip the paper over to shield my eyes from their sweet faces and pleas for help.

Grandma asks me about school and college plans while we eat. I placate her with smiles and tales of school dances and visions of walking the U of M campus downtown Minneapolis. She seems pleased. I feel relieved…and guilty. Shit is going down in her own house, and I’m lying through my teeth—to my grandma. Pretty sure lying to grandmas is the lowest of the low.

A half hour later, while I’m washing the breakfast dishes, the doorbell rings, making me jump. A heavy pan crashes into the stainless steel sink.

“Chessie, can you get the door, please?” Grandma shouts down from upstairs.

“Yes,” I grumble back, furiously dabbing at the splatters of soapy grease on my shirt. I flop my bare feet to the front door, wondering who’s about to witness my hideous morning self. The front door has a small window and a head of shaggy, black hair is inches on the other side.

“Crap,” I mutter under my breath, opening the door. Mateo’s dressed in black jeans and a black Star Wars T-shirt. I force a smile and keep my bra-less, pajama-clad body as hidden behind the door as possible. “Hi, Mateo. It’s kinda early.”

He looks to his feet with a blush and stammers, “Oh, yeah, I’m sorry, I—”

My eyes peek behind him. “Is David with you?”

“No, it’s his day off from work. He’s probably fishing.” Mateo holds out a small bag. “I have this for you.”

My eyebrows scrunch and I take the bag. The smell of grass and soap hits my nostrils.

“It’s the sage,” Mateo says. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “I could show you how to use it if you have time—” He cuts off, as though he’s taken himself by surprise, being so forward as to request my company. “I—I mean, if you want, but if you don’t want to, it’s okay, it’s not that hard to use, and you could look it up online, and, oh yeah, it’s early, I should”—he turns—“go now.”

I laugh. “No, Mateo, wait. It’s okay.”

He turns to face me again, like a little kid unsure of his standing.

“Really,” I say. “It’s okay. Let me get dressed and I’ll meet you outside in like ten minutes.”

His eyes light up. “Oh, okay.” He runs fingers through his black hair. “Great.”

I shut the door and giggle a little. No boy has ever been nervous to talk to me before. Villisca is a weird place indeed.

Grandma is upstairs sewing, so I ascend the stairs with a fair bit of confidence—if something is going to attack me, at least I’ll have company.

The upstairs hallway is clear, full of sun and crisp air conditioning. I stand outside my bedroom door for a long while—too long and poor Mateo is probably thinking I’ve ditched him. I don’t want him to leave, so I force my feet to shuffle inside the bedroom where I grab shorts, a much-needed bra, and a tank top from my dresser. I then get ready in the bathroom.

Mateo is sitting on the front porch when I walk outside. “How’d you sleep? Any voices or disturbances?”

“No, but I still slept like crap. I can’t relax, waiting for the next voice, or the next Amelia dream.” I sit down next to him and nod to the house across the street. “Do you think it’s an evil place?”

“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “But then again, evil can show up anywhere. It can be anything…or anyone.”

He doesn’t look at me when he says this. He doesn’t look anywhere but to the dead, dark windows staring back at us. His words remind me of David’s words, People are afraid of the devil when they really should be afraid of each other.

I’ve never questioned the fears I’ve had in life. Scary movies. Clowns. Spiders that disappear from sight. And that damn Bloody Mary game I played once at a fifth-grade sleepover.

Fear has always seemed like a dependable instinct. If something makes me fearful, I go with that gut feeling. But trusting in a person takes a whole lot more courage than facing a known fear. My parents trusted one another years ago. They even took vows and look how that turned out.

The obvious things to be afraid of are not nearly as scary as the things that come wrapped in harmless-looking packages. Perhaps David was right. People, not spirits or old houses, are the truly scary entities.

Someone murdered the Moore family and Stillinger girls. That should be the scary aspect of all this, not the spirits of the victims or the walls that witnessed the crime. Amelia’s glassy eyes and cold touch haven’t left my mind, but somewhere in town, her killer roams free. Amelia herself is not scary; she’s just a little girl—was just a little girl. The person who kidnapped and drowned her is out there somewhere. He or she walks through town, crossing the paths of innocent people. Walking among them, watching and deciding who’s next.

Living people are what should be feared above all else. People lie, people cheat. People kill. Compared to that, the dead are harmless.

Maybe the noisy, innocent victims who are already dead are nothing more than a nuisance. I rub my tired temples. But still, they’re a nuisance that has disturbed my sleep for nearly a week now. Maybe I shouldn’t fear them as much as I do, but I have every right to be super annoyed by them. I’m overtired and grumpier every day. I need my sleep back and the voices need to go away.

I nudge Mateo’s arm. “Come on, show me how this sage stuff works.”

He walks me a couple of blocks east where there’s an old park. The rusting monkey bars are the only remaining relic of civilization. The rest of the space is overgrown with grass and long weeds. We sit next to a large maple tree.

Mateo takes a shallow bowl and a small bundle of sage from the bag. From his pocket, he produces a bright green lighter with Hernandez Garage in red lettering on the side. He lights one end of the sage, then quickly blows it out, leaving it burnt and smoldering. The smoke rising is a thick tendril and quickly overpowers my nose.

“Here,” he says, holding out a thick, white quill.

I take it. “What is this?”

His smirks. “A feather.”

I roll my eyes. “I mean, what do I do with it?”

“Use it to move the smoke around,” he says, handing me the bowl and sage. “Wash it over yourself. And then when you’re inside your bedroom, go to all four directions, all corners and all crevices, chanting, ‘I cleanse this space, I dispel negative energy.’”

“What?” I asked with a raised eyebrow. “You didn’t say anything about chanting. I don’t want to chant.” This whole haunting thing gets more aggravating by the day. Why can’t Grandma and Grandpa’s house just have normal issues, like termites or something?

“It’s part of the deal,” Mateo says. “The smoke, the chant.”

“And what’s the sage supposed to do?”

“Clear the space of negative energy.”

I practice moving the smoke around with the feather. “Why do you think I’m only hearing from the kids? Why am I not hearing the adult voices of the Moore parents?”

Mateo shrugs. “Not sure. Maybe older spirits are more mature and rest in peace easier. The kids are restless and confused.”

“Makes sense.”

“Although, they may not be children at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes entities disguise themselves. They look or sound like something less intimidating, but really, it’s just to gain your trust because they’re something entirely different. They’re…”

“Evil?”

“Right,” he says with a firm nod. “That gray haze you described sounds pretty evil to me.”

I ignore his insinuation that I’m being played by spirits. The gray haze was terrifying, but I’m unable to believe the little voices are anything but innocent children. He didn’t hear them with his own ears. I did.

The smoke from the sage spirals up between us. Mateo flicks a finger into it, sending it into a chaotic whirl for a moment, before it settles back into its smooth spiral once again. My eyelids go heavy at the hypnotic display.

“Why do you think they chose me?” I ask.

Mateo shrugs. “Who knows, but spirits usually pick someone specific to use as a vessel or communication tool. You’ve been having dreams about the house for a long time, so there’s obviously a connection between you and those murders.”

“I wish I understood how I could possibly be connected to a century-old murder. And I wish I knew why I had that weird dream about Amelia.”

He shrugs. “Maybe there is no ‘why.’ There’s not much you can do if spirits choose you. They’ll keep talking to you until you start to listen. Or until you fight back and make them leave you alone.”

I point to the sage. “That’s what this will do? Make them leave me alone?”

Mateo nods.

“But what if they really do need my help?” I asked. “Maybe I shouldn’t fight back.”

“Or maybe this thing is playing with your emotions, to make you feel guilty so you won’t fight it.” He takes the sage from me and stubs out the smoldering end, then puts everything back into the bag. “At least try it.”

“Fine.”

When I return home, Grandma is still sewing upstairs. Her hum drifts down with a melodic rhythm. My feet hit the squeaky wood steps.

“How was your walk?” she asks unseen from her room.

“Fine.” My hand holding the sage moves behind my back, in case she steps out from the doorway. I’m not in the mood to have to make up an impromptu lie about what it is and why I have it.

Once inside my room, I shut the door and shove a few shirts against the bottom of the door to keep the smoke from entering the hallway. Worse than Grandma seeing the sage is her smelling it. I’d end up having to take a pee test for sure.

From the small pouch, I produce the sage, the shallow bowl, and Mateo’s lighter. The sage lights quickly. I blow it out, leaving only the searing edges. Smoke quickly billows around me. With the feather, I once again wash myself in smoke.

I unlatch the closet door. I don’t move for a moment, half expecting the door to fly open on its own. But it only creaks a half inch and stops at its normal resting position. With the toe of my shoe, I nudge it open farther. The blackness of the closet disappears as indirect sunlight filters into it, revealing only a few unthreatening shirts hanging limply on white plastic hangers. Everything looks normal.

With the feather, I push smoke into the open space. The first chants happen only in my head. I cleanse this space; I dispel negative energy. I cleanse this space; I dispel negative energy. Even in my own head, I sound like an idiot.

I force my mouth open and ever so silently speak. “I cleanse this space; I dispel negative energy.” I clear my throat and with another gust of smoke, say louder, “I cleanse this space; I dispel negative energy.”

After smoking up the closet top to bottom, back to front, I close the door and re-latch it. I continue, in all directions, from corner to corner, top to bottom. Even under my bed. Because nothing good ever comes from under a bed.

I dab the end of the sage into the bowl, putting out the smoke. I find comfort in the hazy air. A shield. If only I knew exactly what I was shielding myself from.

I head back downstairs and into the kitchen. After a few unsuccessful searches, I find a large container of salt in the cabinet over the stove. I shake my head. This is even dumber than chanting.

But, whatever.

I pour salt all around the perimeter of my bedroom, careful not to leave too thick of a trail or Grandma will see it. The entire room is quiet and sunny—exactly like any bedroom should be on a typical summer day.

And the normalness makes me question my own sanity.

…

That night, I change into pajamas, brush my teeth, and get into bed. No more couch. No more fear.

The weak lamplight outside streams through my window, slightly illuminating the latched closet door. I drift off and then wake up around midnight. My ears search for sound, but there is none. No voices. No giggling.

I drift off again and dream about the house across the street.

It’s hot and sunny outside. I’m barefoot on the street, but the road doesn’t burn me. The house is old and abandoned with no blood to be seen. The neighborhood is peaceful, and the scent of charcoal and hot dogs hang in the air. Fireworks are being set off nearby, though I can’t see them.

Sometime around four o’clock, I’m roused by a soft hum. At first, it’s in my dream. The sound is lyrical, with a certain repeated pattern. But as my eyes flicker open, it’s not a dream.

And it’s not giggling either. Someone is crying.

I sit up in bed. The sound of crying is all around, in the air, coming from seemingly nowhere. But this isn’t regular crying. It’s deep. A sobbing, sad and dramatic.

But why? Why’s tonight crying, not giggling? What’s different about—

The salt and sage. Oh shit.

It really is affecting them. Mateo was right.

My nostrils sniff only clean air, but no doubt traces of sage linger all around, hanging on everything like a smoky blanket. I lie back and put my comforter over my head, trying to ignore the wailing, trying to get back to sleep. But it does no good.

The sobbing throbs in my head, pulsing through me like a heartbeat.

They’re sad. They’re confused. What if the salt is hurting them? Or the sage is burning or choking them? Oh god, why did I do this to them when they’ve been through so much already?

Exhausted but full of guilt, I launch out of bed and down the stairs. From under the kitchen sink, I grab a dustpan. I run upstairs and sweep up all the salt around my room.

I leave my bedroom door open to air out the room. Back in bed, I huddle under my covers and the throbbing of my head stops. As does the crying. But things don’t go silent. In place of the crying comes the chattering. Two little voices jabber and giggle. Unseen feet shuffle here and there on the wood floors.

I lie still in bed. The closet door remains closed and the voices carry on with each other. Nothing here seems intent on harming me. I force my eyes closed and breathe steady breaths until I drift back to sleep.