Grave Magic

Chapter Seven

A.N. Okay so I'm going to come out and say that I'm not native American or anything. I will be doing more research, but for now, I'm going to be mainly making my own lore for the magic Frankie and Len use, as I was before. I kind of regret jumping into this now, but I made a choice and I'm going to try to bring it justice. So, now to the actual story. 

L Aweley: 

I feel that I might actually die here, on the Locklear's dining table. 

Just expire. No obvious reason, it would turn out that my heart had stopped from overexertion. Not that they'd do an autopsy, of course. They'd bury me as quickly as possible, probably in an unmarked grave. Deeper than normal. Deeper than regulation. 

Why do they bury people so deeply? 

I mean... in the end, the same goal is accomplished. The dead are buried, gone out of sight. For me? Out of mind. If I think about them more after they're buried--

I shudder, though it's hotter than it ever was before. I just can't help it, honestly. 

The dead scare me. 

Where do the souls go? Where's the person that was, just a moment ago, breathing? 

What if I'm one of them by tomorrow?

By tonight?

In a moment? 

"Excuse me?" The voice breaks my spiraling, and I'm so grateful. I don't care who it is. I don't care, they still broke me out of the spiral, and that's enough. That's good enough, I swear. 

Frankie looks up, and I can't read their face. Because you know, the mask. I think that's the thing that's off about them to me-- how am I supposed to read them without a facial expression? I don't know how to react or how to act in general. 

"Yes, Kendall?" Frankie says, tilting their head a bit. "What is it?"

"Len was asking for you." 

Frankie immediately stands, nearly knocking their chair to the ground.  They rush out after the person that I didn't recognize last night. Kendall. Len's familiar, I guess? Of course Len's familar-- who else would the- he? Who else would he be? 

It doesn't look like they get many visitors, or that they really have a social life outside each other. No one else has really been around the house much, and they haven't exactly been doing all the home repair they could've. 

Sorry. That was rude. 

The table's scratched all over, like when a kid drags their fork or knife against it, trying to create a pattern or a drawing in the wood. I think most of it was Len, in a way. Because Frankie-- gods, this makes it sound like I actually know either of them-- doesn't seem like the type to do this. They're serious, and quiet, I think. 

Or maybe they were just like that because we were digging a fucking grave. 

With a sigh, I look around the room. The wallpaper's old. Older than me, probably. It's nice, though, I guess. The room's old, obviously, but it's been lived in, and probably loved. It's better than anything I've ever had. Even when I was a kid-- I was a ward of The Committee, so I wasn't exactly growing up in loving, perfect family homes with a parent to kiss me goodnight  and sternly talk to me about drawing on the walls. 

There's crayon drawings on the wallpaper. Just a little stick family that I don't know, but it's cute. Cuter than anything I could draw, ever. 

I continue to sit there, waiting. I'm not sure about what to really do, honestly. It's awkward. What do I do in a stranger's home?