CHAPTER TWO
MASSACHUSETTS, PRESENT DAY
A crisp but silent breeze rustled my T-shirt as the leaf blower removed the dead leaves from the plot. Ellen H. Mills might have died in 1971 at the baffling age of one hundred three, but I liked to think she appreciated my diligence in keeping her burial site tidy.
A gaggle of teenagers meandered down the path I’d just cleared of debris from last night’s gale, the remnants of twigs and dried leaves still in the blower’s bag. They were all dressed in a uniform of typical so-called mall goth attire. Black tops and black jeans, worn tight and hanging low on the hips of two girls and the singular boy. The other two girls wore skirts to reveal the torn fishnet tights and pasty-white legs underneath. Their faces were all caked in white while their eyes were lined with deep black, and their hair was choppy and dyed a flat black any self-respecting hairstylist would’ve turned their nose up at.
I only knew this because I had dated one once years ago, long before I had no choice but to run away from the only home I’d ever known.
The group of kids strolled past me, carrying with them an air of arrogance I found nearly infuriating. I might’ve been well into my thirties now, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t remember being a teenager myself. Not unlike them in my choice of clothing, but lacking the ambition to dye my hair or lips a color to match. But what had really set me apart was the lack of companionship. Other kids—Luke’s friends or others in our neighborhood—saw me as the freak, the weirdo, the outcast too messed up to fit in.
Sure, I guessed having the occasional panic attack over nothing and everything hadn’t helped my case much, but neither had my choice in favorite color or my fascination with the macabre.
But anyway, my point was, these kids tried to be this weird. And other people—their peers— liked them for it. Which, in turn, didn’t make them all that weird at all. They didn’t know what it was like to be cast aside, to be teased and tormented for being truly strange and unusual, and I didn’t like them for it.
Then, somewhere beneath my distaste, I found my envy. Oh God , how nice it must be to easily find acceptance. How truly wonderful to have friends without needing to change who you are.
One of the teenagers—the girl in the shortest skirt—caught my eye for one second longer than the others. Not for any reason. It was simply a stutter of the eyes, but in that second, she held my gaze, and she sneered in response, curling her black lips.
“What the hell are you looking at, you fuckin’ perv?” she asked, accusation heavy in her tone.
I quickly looked away and maintained my usual silence, focusing on making sure Ellen’s plot of neatly trimmed grass was clear of weeds or anything else one might find unsightly.
“Freak,” another girl said to my back.
A rush of heat rose from my collar. A frown tugged at my lips.
The fact that a girl who modeled herself after the freaks of the world could turn around and use the word as an insult nearly made me chuckle. The irony nearly made me shake my head. I was tempted to scold her. To tell her to respect her elders—I must’ve been at least twenty years her senior. But I never did well in situations of confrontation, so I kept my mouth shut and my eyes on the headstone before me while wishing they would just walk away, as I usually did in times of being bullied and tormented.
All but one .
But alas, they didn’t.
It could never be so easy. It never was.
I heard the boy say, “Watch this.”
I listened as he walked with determination from the path and onto the grass, coming to stand beside me. He was inches shorter, the top of his head barely reaching my nose, but confidence emanated from beneath his black trench coat. More than I possessed in my pinkie finger.
I kept my eyes down, aimed at Ellen H. Mills's name, and used all my brainpower to will this little shit to get back to his stroll.
But of course, he remained beside me.
He pulled a tissue from his pocket and blew his nose loudly, the snot emptying from his nostrils in two strong huffs. Then, he threw it on the ground, right beneath Ellen’s etched epitaph.
My eyes slowly lifted from the crumpled wad of white to pin him with my withered glare.
“Keep your goddamn eyes off my girlfriend,” he warned, the big, grown-up words passing through his painted boy lips. “Now, clean that shit up, creep.”
“You gotta say something, Charlie,” I could hear Luke telling me as the nasty little fuck walked away with his arm around the girl in the short skirt, boasting and laughing. “What the hell are you gonna do if I’m not around to fight for you?”
“Nothing,” I replied in a mutter, turning from the path to stare once again at the decades-old stone marker. “Apparently, nothing.”
Then, I bent over and snatched the used tissue off the ground.
***
The mosaic rays of sunlight peeked through the branches of the white oak, its trunk to my back. The sketch pad in my lap stared back at me, the white paper still crisp and blank, untouched by my marker. I had thought the statue of a snarling gargoyle would spark some creativity, but I couldn't convince the Sharpie to lay anything down on the clean sheet before me.
I was a creature of habit. Life was predictable that way. It was safe . Living every day exactly the same as the last with few surprises. Time moved quicker; the days passed more efficiently. But today felt different. Something had shifted in me; a piece had somehow fallen out of place.
I considered that maybe the brief run-in with the teenagers had shaken me up. I had kept my head down and existed only in the shadows for so long; it felt disturbing and foreign to be suddenly acknowledged, like a ghost finally seen after an eternity of being invisible. It reminded me of a time before Salem—back when tragedy and trauma had instilled the drive in me to leave everything behind, and it had left me desperate for cover. No longer did my little bubble feel as safe as it had before, and now, there was a brand-new sense of restlessness, scratching beneath the surface of my skin.
I'd been content to sit in this cemetery for years, seldom venturing out and only when absolutely necessary—often in either the early morning hours or late, late at night, when the only people emerging from their caves were others likely to also keep to themselves. But today, I was no longer satisfied to sit behind the safety of my wrought iron fence and eight-foot-tall stone pillars. Today—though I knew I might live to regret it—I craved a little more than the hallowed ground could provide.
So, with that unusual desire fueling a flame beside an unsettling sense of foreboding in my gut, I stood from my seat beneath the tree and headed back to my house on the hill. I dropped my sketch pad and pen in their rightful home on the small table between the armchairs in the living room, then grabbed my keys from off the hook beside the front door.
Maybe a quick ride will make me feel better .
After locking the door and double-checking that it was secure, I went around back to where Luke's motorcycle was always parked.
Man, he had loved that bike. It was his pride and joy at a point when he otherwise had none, and when he could no longer use it, he'd insisted I take it for myself. But since I’d left Connecticut years ago, the black Harley rarely left the cemetery grounds. Maybe once a month, when I dared to stop at a nearby grocery store for provisions, but apart from that, the bike was used only to zip around the cemetery.
I doubted it was what Luke had intended when he gave me the keys, but could he have honestly expected anything else from his reclusive little brother? Or maybe he'd thought the damn thing possessed some kind of power to pump confidence and sufficient social skills back into a person—as if I’d had any to begin with.
I huffed a gentle chuckle through my nose as I pulled the helmet on and mounted the bike, remembering Luke and how he had never needed the Harley to make friends or pick up women—but it certainly never hurt.
Me though? All it gave me was the rush of having the quiet wind sifting through my hair, and usually, that was enough.
The cemetery closed at sundown every night. With a quick glance at my watch, I saw that I had about three hours before I had to lock the gate. But that was fine. I wouldn’t need that much time to get whatever had awaken beneath my skin out of my system. A quick ride around the city, maybe a stop somewhere for something to eat, and I'd be good for the next several years.
Or I hoped so at least.
***
In the time that I'd been living in Salem, I hadn't gotten any food from any of the local restaurants apart from an occasional stop at McDonald's. The desperation to remain elusive and alone had kept any possible curiosity thwarted. But there must've been something in the air tonight, something sweeter and unexplained because I found myself heading down the sidewalk toward Village Tavern.
It'd come on suddenly, the hunger and intrigue, while I was taking my first impromptu walk through Salem's Derby Square.
It was easy to understand how I'd never found myself strolling through the city's small plaza, crowded by a street market's varied booths full of oddities and curiosities, though I’d heard the tales and seen the pictures on social media. Several years of solidarity might've sounded like a lot to most people, but to me, it was nothing outside of normal. Hell, for a good deal of my life, I’d made it a point to keep myself locked away—whether at work or at home—like a hunchback guarding his sacred tower. Only Luke could ever talk me into doing something outside of my norm with never-ending promises of fun and good times.
What would he think of me now? I’d thought, wearing a melancholy smile as I walked down the wide brick steps toward the street below.
I was imagining his incredulous laugh and shaking head and rolling eyes when my stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since that afternoon. After a quick glance at my watch, I was startled by having allowed two hours to pass so easily. My precious and treasured routine had been set so off-kilter, and I nearly tripped on that last step, right into a booth of incense and burners.
It would be time to lock the gates soon, and I needed to eat.
So, I pulled out my phone and looked up restaurants in the area, feeling absurdly embarrassed that I didn’t already know. I was no better than these tourists surrounding me, consulting the internet for recommendations instead of knowing from the experience of having had lived in the city for nearly half a decade.
Pathetic, Charlie. That’s what you are. A pathetic loser. A fucking creep. A—
Stop .
I shook my head, sending the voice away, as a list of the best restaurants in Salem came up in the search results. Number one was Village Tavern, so that was who I called to put in a takeout order. Because Lord knew there was no way I was going to sit down in a restaurant and eat. But nothing said I couldn’t grab my food and get the hell out before anyone had much of a chance to notice me.
And that was exactly what I’d done.
I parked Luke’s bike and hurried down the street to the restaurant, where I walked inside, muttered my name, and grabbed my food. The staff was quick and efficient, and I was out of there before I could commit the foolish act of making eye contact with anyone. But I was moving too fast as I neared the corner, ready to cross the street. I was too focused on putting my wallet in my back pocket and taking the keys from my jacket while juggling the bag of food and a highly anticipated soda. I was so distracted, so in my fucking head and thinking too much about a life I could no longer have, that I didn’t notice the woman coming around the corner or the people she was with.
The impact was jarring. Her body crushed against mine with the force of a battering ram, knocking the drink from my hand. I took a hasty step back, putting distance between us before I dared to allow my eyes a quick look at her face.
Holy shit .
If the force of her body bumping into mine had been jarring, witnessing how indisputably beautiful she was could only be described as catastrophic. A pile of raven-black hair crowned her head, her face framed by strands kept loose. Her ghostly-white skin was adorned with more piercings than I could count in the brief glance, but those eyes … green and otherworldly …
I’d never seen a green quite so deep, never known eyes could take on such a hue, and just like that, in that instant, it was my favorite. I knew I’d remember it for the rest of my life. I’d hunger for another glance, and I’d have no choice but to starve.
You’re a fuckin’ creep, Charlie. Look away before she has the chance to see you staring .
Loser.
Pervert .
I hung my head lower and dodged my eyes toward the drink pooling at my feet, but not before I noticed the watching, scrutinizing glare of the tall man standing beside her.
Boyfriend?
Husband?
I wished I could wither away and take back ever wanting to venture outside my wrought iron fence and stone pillars.
“Oh!” the woman exclaimed in a husky, sultry voice. “I’m so sorry!”
I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t will my mouth to form words or my lips to let them spill, too afraid I’d say something stupid and foolish in the presence of a woman more stunning than the full moon above, shining brighter than the streetlamps and taunting with a watchful, imagined grin. I tightened my grip around the bag in my hand and dropped my gaze to the drink.
“I’m sorry,” the woman repeated, digging into the satchel at her hip. “Here, let me pay for it. I can—”
“Don’t worry about it,” I hurried to say, pushing the words past my lips in a forced, exasperated, and agitated tone.
I held the bag firmer, the food growing colder by the second, and before she or any one of her party members could say something else in reply, I rushed past them all, full of regret and an endless string of nitpicking thoughts barreling through my head, along with a very sudden loss of appetite.
Loser .
Freak .
As my unrelenting brain continued to berate me, I threw the bag in a nearby garbage can and walked with clenched fists back to Luke’s bike.