Almost immediately, my screen shows a scrolling ellipse.
I don’t have data to work with, but assuming humans mostly don’t descend from angels, my best guess is basically zero.
My thumbs type fast and furiously.
And yet, they traveled into this dimension. They stayed for two days. They came out alive.
I imagine the text landing on Twig’s screen. I imagine him staring at it in his bedroom as he weighs the implications. Lainey and Ivy aren’t the only pure-blooded humans to have traveled through a rift. Back in 1998, a pair of local teenagers did, too. For two days they went missing. And then they came out alive.
We’ve been operating under the assumption that humans with no angelic ancestry die in this other realm. Violently so. But we forgot all about the trapped teens. We interviewed the guy—Dylan Mercer, a forty-three year old bartender living in Pittsburg—last year, long before Jude Vandenberg moved to town, long before we had any experiencewith alternate dimensions. The interview had been anti-climactic. Dylan claimed the whole thing was a bad trip. But what about the girl—Megan Carlisle? She had remained elusive, declining our request for an interview.
I shoot Twig another text.
Think Megan would talk to me off the record?
His reply comes quickly.
I see no harm in trying.
He sends me her email address.
I open up my account and compose my request, trying not to sound too desperate.
Hi Megan,
My name is Selah Whitlock. About a year ago, my friend Spencer Calloway emailed you about the experience you had at the Vandenberg estate back in 1998. It was for our podcast,Accounts of the Uncanny. I’m reaching out because I have some personal questions about what happened to you back then. I think something similar mighthave happened to me, and I’d really appreciate hearing your perspective if you’re open to talking about it. I promise this isn’t for the podcast. It can be completely off the record. Whatever makes you most comfortable.
Thanks so much,
Selah
I read it three times over, add in my phone number, and hit send. Some unrealistic, hopeful part of me stares at my inbox, wondering if she’s reading it right now. I look at my phone, like maybe it’ll ring. I twist my lips to the side and drum my fingers against the notebook, where I’ve hastily scrawled my notes.
Then I reach inside the bottom drawer of my desk and remove the shoebox. I lift the lid and thumb through the contents inside—all of them, mementos of my mother. When I reach the sour cream container, I pull it out. Mom was always planting seeds inside these things, setting them in windowsills, letting the plants grow.
Maybe it’s time I try some growing of my own.
With a thrill of excitement, I grab the seed and the container, race down the stairs, shove my barefeet into a pair of Dad’s loafers, and don’t bother with a coat.
“Hey, kiddo,” Dad says from his recliner. “Where are you off to?”
“I’ll be right back,” I call over my shoulder, shutting the door behind me.
I clomp around the carriage house to the shed.
The inside smells like oil and damp earth. Tools line the walls—shovels, rakes, coils of rope. Basically, everything a groundskeeper might need. I walk past gas cans, a weed trimmer, and find a bag of potting soil inside a rusted wheelbarrow. I scoop the sour cream container full, push the seed into the soil, and make my way back inside, where I will give it some water and wait to see what happens next.
6
THE OVERLAY
After church, Twig and I drive to Evermore. We detour past Lainey’s house, which is surrounded by reporters. I try calling her again with the same result—straight to voicemail.
I hang up without leaving a message.
“Kate hasn’t been able to get a hold of her either,” Twig says.
“Hopefully, she’ll be at school tomorrow and we can talk to her there.”
