Flowers.
Me.
I touch the tiny wristband.
Selah Mae Whitlock.
A name from the Bible. Found in the Psalms, mostly—breaking apart songs and poems, denoting a peaceful pause. A moment of reflection. According to Dad, my mother battled demons all her life. Most times, the demons won. But for awhile, when Mom found herself pregnant, the demons let go. Her life entered an extended moment of peace and reflection. For the first time since she could remember, she was clearheaded enough to think about the life she had lived and the life she wanted to live, and she felt hopeful that it was all possible. So, when she gave birth to a healthy baby girl, she named her Selah.
Her own peaceful pause.
The problem is, hope of a thing is different than the thing itself. She intended to take care of the plants in those sour cream containers, to nurture them and watch them grow, just as she intended to be everything a little girl might need amother to be. But keeping life alive proved a task too arduous for my mother.
I pick up the ticket stubs, from a theater in Ohio that played old films on the big screen. Mom took me to one on my seventh birthday—Little Monsters, a favorite from her childhood—and I was only a little bit scared. But it was the fun kind of fear, like riding a roller coaster at an amusement park. A jolt of adrenaline. An exciting thrill. It left such an impression, I made Twig watch it in fifth grade. From there, we discoveredLabyrinth,Gremlins, and every other supernatural cult classic from the 1980s.
I unfold the tabloid, the front page of an oldNational Enquirer. The headline is in bold caps,Vampire Baby Born in Idaho, Doctors Baffled. It still smells of cigarettes. I picture her at Save-A-Lot, snagging a copy to read while waiting in the checkout line. Every now and then, she’d splurge and buy one and read it cover to cover, then set it on our coffee table next to her ashtray while reruns ofUnsolved Mysteriesplayed on our television. Perhaps this is where my obsession with the strange and mysterious comes from—she was always drawn to it, too. And then I had that dream …
I shuffle through the meager stack of photographs, pausing on a glossy 4x6—a picture of my parents when they first started dating. Unlike Twig, I bear a strong resemblance to my mom. I have her auburn hair, thick with a slight wave. I wear mine long, halfway down my back or up in amessy bun. In this picture, hers is cut just above her shoulders with the kind of layers popular in the nineties. We share the same eyes—wide set and deep blue. The same straight nose with a spray of freckles across the bridge. The same petal pink lips and pointy chins.
I’m so locked in, so utterly focused on the photograph in front of me, the loud thwack against glass sends a strangled scream up my throat. Staticky adrenaline zips through my veins as I send the photographs flying and duck for cover, arms covering my head like they might protect me from whatever just hurled itself at my window.
What was that?
Slowly, I lower my arms and come out of my chair. With one hand set over my chest, I unlock the latch, push open the window, and look down at the grounds.
A crow struggles in the grass, its right wing bent at an unnatural angle.
My thudding heart twists.
That poor bird!
Unwilling to let it suffer alone, I hurry downstairs and out into the night where the grass is damp beneath my bare feet. But the bird isn’t there.
A shadow slips across the yard, fast and wrong. A branch snaps behind me. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howls. The sound lifts the hair on my arms, and I bolt back inside, heart hammering.
4
DG + DB
The next morning, the bird remains a mystery, only not such a frightening one in the light of day. I search around the spot where it fell. There’s not even a vague imprint. It’s as gone as Dad’s Bronco, but at least he left a note.
Went to Home Depot. Will bring home biscuits from Tudor’s.
I swipe at the dewy grass with my tennis shoe, wondering if it somehow hobbled away. Surely it didn’t fly away, not with how bent its poor wing was. I imagine it slowly dying somewhere under a bush, then shake the image away with a shudder. I refuse to let the fate of a bird dampen my first morning as an official resident of the Vandenberg Estate.
I pull my hair into a ponytail and slip my phone into the side pocket of my leggings. Thesummer heat is finally relenting, Hollowed Grounds Cafe has rolled out its pumpkin spice latte, some leaves are just beginning to change, and pale fog stretches across the landscape. Soon, the sun will rise over the manor and chase it away. For now, mist floats over the grass like a blanket spun from gossamer, wrapping the property in sleep.
And it’s mine to explore.
With an excited inhale, I roll my shoulders and jog up the service road, around the west end of the manor until my heart is pumping. Typically, I record voice memos when I jog—verbal notes almost always related toAccounts of the Uncanny. An idea for an episode, edits for an episode, cuts to an episode, additions to an episode, my favorite cult classics to mention in an episode.
Today, however?
I jog in silence, soaking it all in.
The orchard on the northwest lawn boasts row upon row of gnarled apple and twisted pear trees, their branches tangled like skeletal fingers, the ground thick with rotting fruit. The black iron fence gives way to low stone walls and iron posts with missing chains. The gravel road narrows and turns to dirt. I follow its winding path to a large paddock choked with weeds. Beyond it, a long wooden barn sits weathered and still.
With my breath coming in quick puffs, I stop in front of the barn’s massive double doors. They’re marked with the faded insignia of theVandenberg crest, just like the front gate. I give them a push. They don’t budge. Panting, I lean my whole weight against them. The hinges groan. I give another shove, and with a shuddering creak, one door gives way just enough for me to slip through.
