I spend an inordinate amount of time going down about five different rabbit holes from ancient rune paintings to spell-casting sites that will actually cast a spell for you. For one hundred dollars. One thirty if it’s a double-cast spell. Which means they cast it twice in one day. Very powerful.
Insert eye roll emoji here.
By dusk, I still haven’t found the exact same combination of items in that glass jar or what they might mean. The closest I have found is a spell called “return my love to me.” While it does involve hair, blood, and a glass jar . . . there is no charcoal or rune markings involved. This may take a little more doing than I expected.
Or giving up. That is, also, a possibility.
Hmm. Give up or try?
The ancient question.
Pros of giving up: don’t have to do anything.
Cons of giving up: won’t know what that thing is.
Also, pro of giving up: won’t be giving that thing more energy . . . possibly might forget it.
Also, con of giving up: maybe it matters? By ignoring it, I will never know.
Okay. So far I am leaning heavily toward giving up.
There is, also, the small matter of my latest conspiracy binge: Flat Earth: The Great Lie. I cannot tell you how happy I am to sit around and watch a bunch of yokels going on about falling off the edge of the world. I mean, call me simple, but it’s the little joys that count.
I resolve to give up.
Down in the yard, the guys have all gone home for the night. So . . . no more pesky interruptions about missing hardware or tools or whatever you call it.
Somewhere in the middle of a screed about conspiracy by a balding man in a beige Members Only jacket, I fly away into dreamland. Up, up, and away.
Tonight I get to dream about things that happened before the bad thing.
On this night, I dream about the first few weeks of biology class with Zander Haaf.
You see, at first, I pretended not to notice Zander. I pretended that I couldn’t care less. That I had no idea he was the be-all and end-all of every girl this side of the Mississippi. Oh, I was cruel! I was better than cruel, I was indifferent. And, somehow, the more indifferent I was . . . the more bent out of shape Zander Haaf became.
It got so I was just used to acting like that—calm and apathetic—and he was just used to acting his way—interested and slightly agitated. He would write me notes. I would barely look at them. Sometimes, if I’d finished my work and there was no lecture, I’d scrawl something back. Some tiny thing. But just enough.
And Zander would be filled with hope.
It was strange. Because I was never the best-looking girl in the school, not even close. Like, I could rattle off a list of girls, Tiffany, Juliette, Charity, etc., etc., who were way more good-looking than me. And it’s not, at all, like I was even the most popular. In fact, I was always considered a bit weird. Strange. Eccentric, my grandmother would call it. But she was just trying to make me feel better. Let’s face it.
So, to have Zander Haaf, king of crushes, slayer of hearts, writing me note after note after note in biology, which I had the audacity to ignore . . . made no sense. It was like the world had turned upside down and, all of a sudden, people who never even knew I existed were saying hi to me in the hallways between classes. People whose names I’d only heard. People who played sports. People who belonged to the country club.
And, you know this about me by now, I did not belong to the country club. I belonged more to the country barnacle. My house was what a real estate ad would call “cozy,” by which I mean “crappy.” The paint was faded from white to gray, and the house always seemed a little bit like it might just fall over on itself.
So, happy day! To have, for once in my life, some kind of fantasy life where the high school royalty deigned to actually see me . . . all because of Zander Haaf. Well, I don’t have to tell you. It was like being lifted off an anthill onto the tippy-top of the rainbow. And I loved it. I lapped it up. I never thought I’d have to slide down that rainbow again. Happy days were here to stay!
You see. These are the things I dream about. These are the days I have trained myself to play on repeat over and over to just a certain point. If I can keep them to that certain point. Then it is glorious. It is a glorious defense.
But make no mistake.
It’s a defense nonetheless.
And this shiny, happy defense is whisked away in what seems like a wind, or a draft, or a shudder, and I find myself awake in my humble attic bed once again.
Although, now the window is flung open and the night air is rushing in. Yes, that must be what woke me. Just weather. You see, totally natural.
I sigh and move toward the window but, when my feet hit the ground, I notice the floor looks different now. Worn, weathered. I look around the room.
Wait.
The paint on the wall is faded, peeling. I move to turn on the light, but there is no light switch. Instead, there is a hollow rectangle where the light switch is supposed to be.
This is a dream, yes? This must be a dream.
And in my dream, I tell myself not to panic. It’s okay. This is just a dream. Let’s play along. Okay, I’ll get my phone. I’ll turn on the flashlight mode.
Now, looking around the room with the light, it’s as if the house is abandoned. Even the painting on the wall is not there, just a pale rectangle where the painting used to be.
I’ll play along with this dream, because it’s just a dream. I’ll inspect the rest of the house.
And, indeed, the landing is empty, decrepit. Down the now wobbly stairs, one stair even missing. And the downstairs bedrooms . . . the grand bedrooms . . . empty. Completely empty. Not a bed. Not a chair. Not even a curtain.
Ah, yes, this dream. I will go along with this dream. Now I will go along, down to the first floor.
Here it is. The downstairs study. Desolate. Not a desk. Not a book. Nothing.
And the front door. Ajar.
Clanking back and forth in its frame.
And the spiderwebs.
In this dream, which must be a dream, the spiderwebs cover the dusty chandelier in the dining room, the rafters above the entry. Vast, intricate spiderwebs. As if the spiders have taken over for centuries. A spiderweb haven. An altar for Arachne.
The creaking of the front door in its frame leads me out, drawing me out the front door and down the outside stairs. It’s not even cold tonight, a summer night, the moon in a crest, the constellation Scorpio in the distance; you can tell it by the arc near the horizon, it’s one of the easier ones to see in summer.
Yes, I am still game for this dream. Yes, I will look back at the house in this dream.
And so, with the slip of a moon and Scorpio behind me, I turn to see the house.
A decrepit house. A house falling in on itself. A house abandoned.
If this weren’t a dream, well, this would be a moment to have a heart attack. A gasp. A choking off of air.
But, you see, just put it in a dream. Put it in a dream and you can walk slowly back up the stairs, inside the house. Put it in a dream and you may walk steadily through the cobwebs, up the stairs, up the second set of stairs, up into the forlorn old attic and close the dusty window. Put it in a dream and shut off the phone and lay back in the bed and understand that none of this is happening.
And everything is perfectly fine.
Chapter 19
“Yoo-hoo! Is someone there?! Oh dear, have I come too early?”