A weighted silence envelops the dank, stuffy room. Heavy and eerie, like I can touch it with my fingers.
As if Ethan's ghost hovers over the wobbly card table.
"How do you feel now that you've gone and got all that out?" Mr. Thatcher's watery eyes peer at me over the rim of his coffee cup. His hand shakes slightly.
I shrug, palming tears from my cheeks.
How do I put it all into words, Mercy? That I feel purged. Hollowed out and empty. But I don't feel vindicated. I still don't understand why Ethan killed you. It should've been me.
Mr. Thatcher places his cup down, eyeing my hot, flushed face. He clicks his tongue at Alex. "Alright, then. Guess we better get started." He picks up the pentagram wind chime with his forefinger and thumb as if it's a stinky diaper and holds it out to me.
Alex turns his eyes on me, searching. His mouth curves downward. If he's judging me for anything I've said, his bruised face doesn't show it.
"I still don't know what you expect me to do," I say. But I take the the wind chime from Mr. Thatcher anyway.
The ornament is heavier than it looks, like a piggy bank full of quarters. The black paint is chipped, revealing a sheen of bronze underneath. Four small, golden bells are attached to a circle and surround the five-pointed star. They hang from holes in the middle. Three smaller bells dangle from the bottom.
"Thatcher has a hell of a plan," Alex picks at his thumbnail cuticle. "But it just might work. Though I'm afraid to see what comes after."
"This is Shannon's sacred chime." Mr. Thatcher cuts his eyes at Alex. Motions to the black star in my hands. "She didn't use this one much 'cept to send that thing to kill Ethan and raise Bella. Now you're gonna use it."
I still haven't forgiven Mr. Thatcher for calling the cops on my mom. Or for sending Alex into my house like a prowler. Or Aunt Shannon for dropping such a heavy load in my lap. But I don't feel I have much of a choice. If I fail to listen to Mr. Thatcher, right here, right now, my next home could be in the belly of The Dust. Or so he says.
"You're gonna do some whisperin' now," Mr. Thatcher says as he stands from the table, his knees popping loudly. He retrieves Aunt Shannon's journal from his couch and places it on the table in front of me. "The Colbys'll be led here like little lambs."
🐺
Sirens pierce the chaotic, night air. They start as a low, ominous hum, swoop higher, then swell, sustaining a long howl.
The blaring sound brings a prickle to the back of my neck. Or maybe I'm freaked out by the bag of bones sitting at my feet.
It's been half an hour since I spilled my guts, and I don't feel any better about any of it. I stand in Aunt Shannon's front yard while Mr. Thatcher is on one knee, tying a thick rope into a sturdy knot.
I still haven't shaken the feeling that Ethan is around. Lingering. I can almost see the crinkle in the corner of his eyes as he calls me, Little Tease.
"What the hell are those alarms?" I ask Mr. Thatcher, wrapping my arms around myself. Aunt Shannon's journal is tucked inside of the stonewashed jean jacket I've changed into. The mere thought of what I've been asked to do turns my bones to icicles.
"Tornado sirens," he hollers over the wind, standing on tiptoes. The wind whips at his white beard as he loops the rope over the lowest, strongest branch of the old oak tree. "The Dust is pissed off. Must know that we're about to send its ass back to Hell."
It sure feels and sounds like it knows. Hail taps on the porch's tin roof a few yards away. Thunder makes the ground quiver. Wind chimes slam into each other with shrill gongs.
Mr. Thatcher and I have retrieved dozens of chimes from Aunt Shannon's attic, copper ones and silver ones, small ones shaped like birdhouses, and large Corinthian bells. We hung each one on her porch while the relentless rain battered our faces. It was his idea to mount the black, sacred one in the oak tree.
Alex has constructed a khaki-colored canvas tent under the tree, anchoring it with rocks and bricks when the steel pegs threatened to bend.
When Mr. Thatcher mentioned a Veil, I imagined some black, lace, elaborate number. Something that would adorn my head, cover my face, and shudder down my back, making me feel invincible and powerful. I'd stand with my arms outstretched like a mutant from X-men, and command the dead to march at the sound of my voice. When he told Alex to set up The Veil, and Alex fetched this tan canvas tent from the trunk of Mr. Thatcher's car, I was less than impressed.
But the tent wasn't the only thing Alex grabbed. He handed a large, bulky, black trash bag to Mr. Thatcher saying, "I gotta be honest. This idea still skeeves me out."
Now, the trash bag is at my feet, and Mr. Thatcher says I'll have to open it soon. The bag bulges out at odd angles with sharp points jutting through the plastic. A strong aroma of dirt and moldy cheese wafts from it.
Mercy, I don't think I can do this.
"I'd have preferred a night with a full moon," Mr. Thatcher murmurs as he steps back from the wind chime hoisted by the rope. The pentagram sways in the wind as the golden bells clang.
A series of beeps sound from Mr. Thatcher's flannel-shirt breast pocket. He takes his phone out, reads the message, and responds as quickly as his frail hands will allow.
"Your mama is waking up," he says, dropping the phone back in his pocket. "Alex thinks he can make her ready for when it's time."
He doesn't know how much of a wildcard Mom is, Mercy, but his plan relies on her. This is the stupidest thing I've ever been a part of. And I'm counting that time I thought it was a good idea to moon passersby from the school bus in fifth grade.
"Now, Shannon always said it all starts with a spidery whisper. Like it has legs." Mr. Thatcher gives the ominous sky a worried look. "Once you feel that, then you should know what to do next."
The sirens scream.
I want to say that this isn't enough. I need more. He literally expects me to raise the dead with a whisper and a wish.
As I'm ready to tell Mr. Thatcher his plan sucks, the wind kicks at the back of my neck. It rams against the tree's branches. The wind chime spins.
A humming rushes through my body. Starts in my hair, zooms down my neck, and spreads through my stomach. The hum grows louder. Knocks my knees together and chatters my teeth.
"What the—What is happening to me?" I cry as Aunt Shannon's journal shakes free from my jacket, falling to the wet grass.
Mr. Thatcher swallows, taking a step closer to me with his hands outstretched. "Calm down. Breathe like I told you. I think it's happenin'."
And so it is. Happening.
Tendrils of breath creep up my pant legs. It feels like fingers. A soft shiver nips at the collar of my jacket. The hum expands throughout my cells. Loud. Until the tornado sirens are just white noise in the background.
"Moriah. My sweet." A voice moans. Sings.
"That's it, Moriah! Hang in there." Mr. Thatcher's voice sounds faraway, like he's calling from a tunnel.
My eyes roll. Lungs struggle for air.
"Call to me. Let me live, my dear." The moan comes from the sky, the oak tree, the ground. It drifts from the trash bag.
I open my mouth to tell Mr. Thatcher that I can hear Aunt Shannon, that she wants to be free. But my knees fold into themselves. I careen into rain-soaked leaves, my cheek scraping a tree root that's broken through the dirt.
A word churns in my stomach and flies out of me. "Redress!"
Every nerve in my body is on fire, like I've harnessed the sun.
"Yes, say the words that give me life. I want to live." Oh, she wants to live so bad. To feel blood running like rivers in her veins again. Her yearning makes me dry heave.
My voice drops several octaves. "Redress this situation. This grievance must be avenged." Turning on my side, my head lolls in the dirt. Above me, Mr. Thatcher's face swims.
"Say it again, Moriah," Mr. Thatcher says, hooking his hands under my armpits. Sticks and rocks dig into my back and scrape my rib cage as he drags me towards the entrance of the tent. "Don't stop saying it."
But I can't stop, even if I wanted to. It tumbles from my guts: "Redress this situation."
Inside of the tent, a musky smell taints the air. It's a one-person dwelling, pitch-black, sparse, and snug. The hum inside of me crashes in my ears as I peek through the mesh opening.
Mr. Thatcher dumps the contents of the garbage bag out. Though I knew she was in there, the sight of Aunt Shannon's corpse tumbling out makes me gag.
"Say the fucking words, Moriah!" Mr. Thatcher orders, as her skeleton smacks the ground. A tattered blue dress with polka dots clings to the bones. The skull is the last thing to fall out of the bag.
The wind pummels the top of the tent. As I sit cross-legged on the cold ground, uttering the words, Aunt Shannon's skull spins and wobbles like a fumbled football. The jagged bones on the rib cage make a cracking sound. The femur, still attached to the pelvis begins to vibrate. Next, the feet click clack and move toward skeletal hands.
With a loud ziiiiip, Mr. Thatcher unlatches the tent's opening and flies inside with me. His eyes are wild, crazed. "You're doin' great. Soon you're gonna black out. But I'm gonna be right here. And when you come back, Shannon should be here."
My back seizes when he says this. Goes bone-straight. And with one, last, "This grievance must be avenged," I fall into a darkness blacker than the grave.