Chapter 5 #2
Maybe it was just a dream? I was in that weird first stage of sleep where I wasn’t quite asleep yet but not fully awake. I run my hands over my face and slowly get out of bed, not making a sound. My bare feet hit the wooden floor beneath me, and I hear it again.
Someone is talking, and the voice is low and deep. I grab my gun and slink into the hallway, moving without a sound. The bedroom opens up onto the catwalk, giving me a good view into both the living room and down into the entryway.
I move my finger near—but not over—the trigger and take another step. I don’t see anyone in the house, and I can tell from up here the front door is still closed and locked. Quickly, I dart across the catwalk and lean against the wall near the stairwell, pausing again to listen.
This time I hear a woman crying. It’s so soft it’s hard to hear, and her sobs are muffled as if her face is pressed into a pillow.
I can only recall a handful of times when I heard my mother cry—really cry—and I know right away this isn’t her.
She was an emotional person, my total opposite, and would get teary eyed from TV commercials or sappy love scenes on the silly soap operas she liked to watch.
My bare feet don’t make a sound as I pad down the stairs, gun by my side.
My fingers start to tingle and spark, and I shake out my left hand, switching the gun to it.
I have no idea how hot the magical fire burns around my fingers.
The last thing I need is my bullets combusting inside the gun.
That’ll be a hard one to explain at work.
The upstairs heats up more than the first level, for obvious reasons, but it’s a noticeable difference. It’s not just cooler downstairs, it’s cold. Mom, if that’s you…give me a sign that won’t make me jump and pull the trigger please.
I inch toward the library, going slow so I don’t make a sound and give myself away. If someone is in my house, I’m going to be fucking pissed. But there’s not someone in my house and I know it.
It’s something.
I move through the living room and the smell of sulfur hits me hard.
I stop dead in my tracks, turning my head into my shoulder.
The smell is suffocating, making me want to gag.
It came on as a shock, and I made the mistake of breathing in through my nose.
I’ve been to enough crime scenes with not-so-fresh bodies to be used to breathing in nasty smells, but the scent of sulfur will forever take me back to the day my parents were murdered.
A bad feeling starts to form in the pit of my stomach.
It’s making me want to turn around and leave the house, to keep walking until the entire frame is out of sight.
What the hell? I’m not one to run away. My flight-or-fight response is broken to fight or fight harder.
I know when to retreat, when to pull back and come again with a bigger gun, backup, or a better plan.
But I don’t run in fear.
My fingers start to spark and glow red, and I tuck my gun under my arm, not wanting to risk it heating up to a dangerous level. I take another few steps toward the library. Suddenly, the floor creaks behind me. I whirl around. Flames erupt all along my right hand.
Nothing is behind me, and I madly scan the foyer.
The floor creaks in the dining room. It’s a bit annoying, but I’ve actually liked the tell-tale sign of someone walking through that particular room since the day I officially moved in.
I know which floors creak. I know where to step.
But someone unfamiliar with the house won’t, and one foot out of line will get them caught.
I look from the foyer to my hand, blinking from the bright light of the fire.
My eyes aren’t quite focused yet, and I bring my hand down, holding it out to the side to keep the flames from hitting me in the face.
I’m not sure what would happen if the flames did catch my hair.
They’re burning around my hand right now and I don’t feel any pain at all.
My skin doesn’t char or burn. I think the rest of me is the same, but I’m a little worried about trying it.
Letting out a breath, I turn around, seeing the dark shadow of a girl run through the living room.
She comes from the library, emerging through the closed doors, and hurries through the house.
Tears are streaming down her face and she’s not exactly corporeal.
Her legs are moving as if she’s walking, pink dress swirling at her knees, but she’s more or less floating off the ground.
She moves down the hall and I rush after her, flames still glowing around my hand.
I can’t burn a ghost. They’re already dead, and not knowing how to defend myself should be enough for me to pause and come back at this another way.
But I can’t. The girl disappears from sight, but then something moves outside in front of the barn.
I set my gun down, needing to use my left hand to open the door.
Hoping I don’t set the house on fire, I move through the doorframe and go onto the porch.
The breeze picks up, blowing the flames into my face.
I clench my fist, watching them shrink down almost immediately.
I squeeze my fist tighter and they extinguish completely. Hey, I’m getting pretty good at this. There’s no time to think about that now. I jump off the porch and start toward the barn. The bad feeling comes back tenfold, so hard it’s making me feel like I’m going to throw up.
I’m overcome with the need to get back inside the house. Everything inside of me is screaming to turn and run as fast as I fucking can, because whatever is out there, whatever I’m following, is bad, bad news.
I stop, wind blowing my hair around my face. I don’t see the girl anyway, and I’m not wearing shoes. It’s not like I could follow her well without them. The ground is rocky and uneven.
Still, I don’t want to turn and run. So I take a few steps back, reaching behind me and feeling my way up the porch. Then I can’t help it anymore, and I scramble inside, locking the door behind me. I close my eyes and let out a breath, and then I hear something coming from the kitchen.
Shit. My gun is on the kitchen table. I extend my right hand and the flames ignite. Swallowing hard, I march into the kitchen, ready to burn a motherfucker to the ground. But there’s no one here, though there is something out of place.
Jacques’s note about performing the banishing spell is on the center of the kitchen table, and I know for sure I didn’t leave it there.
“Acelina.”
My mother’s voice rings out, clear as day.
“Mom, is that you?” I bring my hand down, putting out the fire. “Are you here?”
“Acelina,” she repeats, tone calm and steady. “She’s not what you think. Stay away.”