The Sisters of Nowhere

t h i r t y : p h o t o

The Ford idled in the driveway of the Best farmhouse.

"You're sure he's not here?" Marigold asked.

Sneaking into a strange uncle's house seemed like a thrilling thing to do at the time. Now, she wasn't so sure.

There were no more ghosts in Hal's yard to tell on them--besides the chickens (but as of yet, Wyatt was sure they were trustworthy).

The moon was faint and provided very little illumination to anything besides the blue light shining through Hal's bedroom window.

"If we want to find out more about Gwydyr," Wyatt said, "we have to start here. Silas doesn't remember anything. The forest isn't helping us. And I know what I saw up there--Hal already knows about it."

"Well, where is he, then?' Marigold asked. If Birdie were here, she'd already be halfway up the steps and unlocking the door. Marigold needed a plan. And apparently, she couldn't count on Wyatt for one of those.

"How should I know?" Wyatt shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. "We don't speak to each other. But he left this afternoon and if he isn't back by now, he won't be back until late. Or maybe even until morning."

Marigold chewed on her lip.

The farmhouse was dilapidated, to be sure, but in the darkness, it was downright eerie.

The porch sagged. A window was broken. And there was a smell--like rotten wood, or perhaps rotten vegetables, or maybe rotten flesh.

Marigold turned off the engine and got out of the truck.

She and Wyatt crept up the porch steps and carefully pushed open the front door, not making a sound even though there was no real reason to be quiet.

"We shouldn't be here," Marigold whispered, rubbing her arms against the sudden dampness inside. "This feels wrong."

"That's because it is," Wyatt replied simply.

They went up the stairs, their footsteps creaking through the house, rustling the musty silence.

Before they even got up to the hallway, Marigold could smell the thioacetone that Wyatt had told her about. It was rancid.

Wyatt led the way down the hall.

Marigold wasn't often skittish, but the dark corners were pitch black--alive, almost. No wonder Wyatt didn't mind the greenhouse.

He pushed open a door slowly at first, before swinging it wide.

A stench more powerful than anything Marigold had experienced before billowed out of the room like a cloud of fog.

She staggered back a step and gagged.

Wyatt looked at her apologetically. Or was he squinting because of the smell?

Now that they knew Hal was definitely not on the premises, they scavenged for a few cloths and soaked them beneath the sink, hoping to filter out the smell before trying again.

Marigold held her wet rag against her nose, having to force herself to breathe every time she ran out of air.

They stepped into the bedroom.

The first thing Marigold noticed was the drawings. Violent, angry black lines scraped across page after page after page.

The second thing she realized was that it really was of Gwydyr. All of it. She wasn't sure how--all the trees looked the same--but she knew.

And the third thing she saw was a picture. It looked brand new, teetering at the edge of an open drawer. It clearly hadn't been looked at often--the brown-and-white photo was far too new, probably taken and then never looked at again.