“How is the . . . work . . . coming along?” Do you call it “the work” in a situation like this?
“Oh, it’s fine. It’s gonna be nice, actually. They’ll like it, I think. He will. I don’t know about her. I only met her once.”
I’m assuming he’s talking about the professor. Funny, no one ever seems to have anything nice, or anything really at all, to say about the wife. I wonder why that is? Is it unconscious misogyny or is she really, like, not a nice person? Aloof? Full of herself? Snooty?
“What are you guys doing now?” I am trying to seem like I care. A normal person would definitely care.
“Oh, we’re digging a hole. For the foundation.” He contemplates for a second. “Hey, did you see a dog out here or anything?”
“Excuse me?” That came from left field.
“I dunno. There were all these claw marks around some of our equipment.”
The blood stops in my veins.
“Kind of big ones.”
Wait. Big ones? Like big claw marks?
“I know. It sounds weird. It’s just . . .” He trails off.
“Uh. I don’t have a dog. I didn’t see a dog.”
We both just stand there in silence for a second. Neither of us wanting to seem too weird talking about mysterious claw marks.
“Yeah, I dunno.” He shakes it off. “Well, better get back to work.” He starts off toward the back, leaving me nodding and smiling.
Nodding and smiling like someone who isn’t thinking about kind of big claw marks.
Chapter 17
Inside, the house is just as I left it. I shake my head. Why am I being so dramatic? So there are a few claw marks on the side of the house. This is the country. There are animals. And animals have claws. Not such a big deal, really, is it?
And the other night, the “presence” I felt . . . can’t that just be chalked up to some new-environment jitters and the general spookiness of a dark night? I’m really just a kid afraid of the dark. That’s all it is.
I pick up the landline because, yes, the professor is so old-school he actually has a landline. I dial my cousins, Abby and Ollie, to fulfill my diabolical plan of forcing them to come visit me. It’s strange, though, when I call them. There’s a beep boop beep. “We’re sorry, the number you’re trying to reach is not in service.” Well, that’s weird. Probably I just got the number mixed up. I vow to try again later, on my cell. I can never remember anyone’s numbers, anyway.
I take solace in going through the cupboards. A snack to hearten me while I watch my latest conspiracy obsession online. Although I can’t seem to find what I’m looking for. I could have sworn there were some salt and vinegar potato chips that had my name on them in here. I rustle through three different bottom shelves before sighing in defeat and reaching for a chair. I don’t know why they make shelves so high. It’s as if girls don’t even exist! Dragging the chair across the floor, I hear the men outside yelling to each other. Something about a missing hammer. As much as I’m not used to hearing full-volume yelling from man voices, there is a comfort to it. In this quiet place. Maybe this is where I discover an appreciation for the male species. Or at least, less of a fear.
The top shelf is as cluttered as the rest and I am just about to give up on those tantalizing chips when I notice something tucked in the back of the shelf.
Odd.
It’s a little glass jar. Inside is some kind of . . . organic material.
I reach in and grab the glass jar, teetering a bit on the chair.
It’s a mason jar, with a burlap kind of string wrapped around it. Inside are what looks like dried flowers, some kind of charcoal, and a little note, a kind of scrawl. The scrawl isn’t a language, or even an alphabet, I recognize. It’s almost like some kind of ancient rune writing . . . something you imagine would be found at Stonehenge. I peer at it, wondering if this was left by the professor. Is it his? Or his wife’s? I never met her. Maybe she’s batty? Eccentric.
Mad.
All of this comes over me at the exact same moment the organic material crystallizes in my head. Oh yes. I know what this is. I recognize that scent. Copper. Oh, I know it well.
It’s blood.
Not much of it, just about a teaspoon. Here, at the bottom of the glass. Almost black. And in it . . . a few odd hairs. As if plucked. Meticulously placed. In the blood.
Well, this certainly is not my salt and vinegar chips.
I know some people might get queasy at the sight of blood but, trust me, I’ve had enough periods to just see it as a regular old nothing. Oh, yes, blood . . . that happens once every twenty-eight days and is really annoying. Associated with cramps, crying, a desperate need for chocolate, and the throwing out of at least one pair of underwear a month. The grossness of blood is not a thing for me. It’s more like the inconvenience of blood. The ugh of blood.
But, that said, you have to admit, whatever this is . . . this little glass jar of runes, blood, hair, and burlap. It is a bit strange. I mean, this has to be some experiment. Akin to the frog, ever swimming in his jar in the library?
It’s a spell, some dark part of my brain whispers. And I scoff at the thought.
But perhaps this wife is into witchery. Maybe there are books strewn across the house with magic potions and spells. Witches aren’t inherently evil, after all. It’s just the patriarchy that made us think of them that way.
A potion. That’s really all it is. A nothing thing.
But just as I am about to think the next comforting thought, the cupboard door swings open and the jar falls to the floor.
The kitchen door frames Mike as he looks up at me, there on the chair, having just dropped the glass jar, now shattered on the floor.
“Sorry . . . I just wanted to ask you if you’ve seen a hammer around. We seem to have misplaced one.” He looks around. “Did I scare you? I’m so sorry.”
“No, no, it’s just . . . um, a hammer?” I try to act normal. “You know, I haven’t seen one. I haven’t been looking. But . . . if I see one, I’ll be sure to leave it out for you. Maybe by the shed?”
“Yeah, okay,” he replies. “Again, I’m really sorry. Here, I can help you clean it up.”
“No!” If he comes closer, he’ll see what it is. “No, it’s fine. I’ve got it. I’m just . . . clumsy, I guess.”
I shrug. This is what I do. I make myself small. I sigh. I swat it all away.
Just a girl.
Just an absentminded girl.
Why do I feel the need? Why does the presence of this jock-like guy make me feel the need to erase myself? Or make myself slight?
I look down at the glass shards below.
The blood and hair just sort of congealed and lay as a clump there on the white tile. The tile spreading out in little octagons across the floor.
A thought crosses my mind.
Was this a spell? Was this jar some sort of voodoo offering?
And then:
If this was a spell . . .
Is it now broken?
Chapter 18
After cleaning up the random, slightly disgusting shards of glass jar of organic material and scribbles, I decide to take a shower, relax, and google. Whatever that thing was, that lunacy in a jar, I can probably find it on the internet.