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I bring my bleeding hand to my lips and suck the dark bead. Esmeralda is trembling, and yet she can’t look away. Her scent is a mix of so many different notes, I wouldn’t know where one ends and the next begins.
“A monster, Esmeralda, is exactly what I am. A powerful one at that. Death is of little substance for me.”
The demonstration I offered her is a bit simpler than fulfilling our bargain would be, to be fair. Her mother’s been dead a long time, and before I could unravel her soul, I’d have to find it, living out its days somewhere in the Beyond.
But I could do it. If Esmeralda won the game, I could do it.
“Your mother, Esmeralda. No weird tricks. Just agree to play a game with me.”
So many words hang unsaid in the silence that stretches between us. Only one I want to hear: yes. For several moments, I feel as though she’s about to say it.
Then, my little prey surprised me again by shoving me a third time. I’m less prepared for it, and I do falter. She takes the opportunity to duck under my arm.
“Stay the fuck away from me,” she says with a finger pointed in my direction.
But her voice lacks any conviction this time, and though it’s not a yes, it tastes like victory nevertheless. As she rushes into the bookstore, I don’t feel as defeated as I had at the beach.
Because this time I played my cards right, and the next time I see Esmeralda, it’ll be to accept the bargain.
I’m certain of it.
chapter 15
regrets from six feet under
esmeralda
The afternoon passes in a fog. When Sara asks what’s wrong, I blame a bad headache — which I guess, in a way, this entire situation is. If I was one for major understatements, that is. By four PM, the bookstore is dead quiet, and when Sara suggests I go home and rest, I don’t stop to weigh the pros and cons of skipping out on an hour of pay. I just thank her and head out.
Except once I’m behind the wheel, it’s not home I steer the car toward.
I drive the main road as Hazel Creek gives way to scattered industrial buildings, along the stone wall painted with blue waves and cranes, which don’t make what’s hiding on the other side any less morbid. The entrance to the cemetery is all but advertised; a sharp left turn behind that wall, and a sign no more than two feet wide across the street from the used car lot.
Because the cemetery is on a hill, the ocean makes an appearance every once in a while; a sliver of deep blue, hidden behind the pipes of the masonry company. It’s a meager view, but it’s the best we’re going to get in Hazel Creek. As I walk to the plot, directions burned into my memory from years of making the trek, I keep my eyes on that shard of horizon.
I wish I’d brought flowers. Not like either of them can enjoy them — their spirits aren’t here, nor have they ever been. Mama and Àvia both crossed over quickly and peacefully, a small mercy. The flowers are more for me, to keep my hands occupied, so they wouldn’t shake so bad. To look like I belong, just another good old griever, and not someone on the verge of a nervous breakdown. But alas, here I am, and as far as I can tell I’m the only one in this quarter of the cemetery, save for the spirits.
I sink to my knees, wet grass soaking into my jeans. My fingers curl over my mother’s grave, dirt finding its way under my naked fingernails. Something about connecting with the Earth, the same one that homes my mother’s bones, is oddly calming.
Maybe I have lost my very last wit after all.
“You didn’t teach me enough,” I accuse the headstone. Knowing her spirit isn’t here won’t stop me today. “You didn’t… prepare me.”
Fat teardrops blur my vision. I roll my eyes skyward, hoping to kick the droplets back, but it’s no use. When they start streaking down my cheeks, I pull the sleeve of my jacket over my hand to dry them with it.
“There’s a whole world of horrors I don’t know how to handle.”
I scoff, then lower my voice to a whisper. “Monsters, Mama. You couldn’t warn me about the damn monsters? If they come from the same world spirits go to…”
The thought hits me like lightning, knotting my stomach into a thousand tight twists. All my life, I figured spirits who move on do so peacefully, finding some kind of eternal rest. But as I wreck every remote corner of my brain, I can’t for the life of me remember my mother ever saying that, just that ghosts stuck in our world are ill at ease, potentially dangerous. I connected the dots myself, assuming if this world is restless, then rest must be waiting spirits on the other side.
Unwelcome, images of Teizel from our night at the beach flash in my mind. Long, claw-like fingernails. Liquid fire in his irises. I have a feeling what I saw is just a glimpse of the monster he is. The bird’s dying chirp plays in my ears on repeat like a morbid cacophony.
If the spirits’ afterlife is home to monsters like him, I can’t imagine it being restful in the least.
My breath comes in shallow. I imagine Mama, crossing over to be welcomed by a creature with a wolf’s head, ink dripping from their sharp fangs, claws so sharp they can pierce human skin with little effort. I picture them reaching for her, clawing their way past her ribcage to grip her tender, still warm heart, before tearing it out and licking the blood dripping from it.
I dig my fingers into my scalp, unbothered by the dirt clinging to them, and press hard, as if my hands could pluck the dark images from my brain. It’s no use. The picture is painted vividly, and forever imprinted behind my eyelids.
