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When the festival starts, there will be lights, of course. Orange, white, and purple lights are already strung between tents, and, once things are in full swing, I know there will be bonfires that cast both warmth and light on anyone that walks by.
But that’s not for another couple days. Right now, the fairgrounds are just coming back to life. Just starting to show the black and orange bones in half-finished parts and debris still littering the ground. While the official fair won’t start for over a week, the craft fair that’s tradition for Hollow Bridge is this tomorrow and the day after, with my parents long-time vendors of the snack and pumpkin painting variety, though it’s mostly for fun and not for extra income.
A familiar feeling curls and stirs in my stomach as I make my way back to my parents’ booth to help them with anything they’re taking back home. It’s excitement, despite everything, for my town’s favorite time of year. It’s genetic for us to love Halloween, I’ve decided. And even though I’d told myself the bird was a bad omen, I find it almost easy to leave my trepidation behind with every step, and to convince myself that even if Phoenix is back, it doesn’t change anything.
Lost in my thoughts, it’s a surprise when a man slams into my shoulder, knocking me off balance. I can’t help the sound of protest that slips from between my lips, and the gray-haired, wild-eyed man glares at me, like I’ve done something wrong.
Like I’m the one who slammed into him.
“Excuseme,” I mutter when he’s far enough away that he can’t hear me. My steps slow, and I watch as he makes his way towards the parking lot, steps staggering and uneven. But even this rude, strange man isn’t enough to drag my thoughts away from Phoenix for long, and in seconds I’m back to trying to convince myself nothing has changed.
By the time I get back to them and accept a pumpkin in my arms that throws me off balance, I almost,almost, believe it.
Chapter3
If I’d ever needed any evidence that my parents’ marriage is the stuff of dreams, their constant date nights would be enough.
From night fishing, to all night cruises, to weekends in the Adirondacks, I’m pretty sure that by this point, my parents have done it all and been in love for every bit of it. While I’m not particularly interested in marriage; if I was, I’d want something like this.
Tonight, my dad has surprised my mom with tickets to a late-night opera, becausethoseexist apparently, and a bed-and-breakfast stay afterward. The place they’re going, the Adirondack Inn, has been one of their favorites since before I was born.
When I leave them to go to my room on the second floor, my mom is still picking out her outfit, and judging by the drifting of Dad’s voice coming up the stairs, he’s trying to book roses for Mom.
They’re the sweetest, most in love couple I’ve ever seen in my life, bar none.
Yawning, I close the door of my room behind me, eyes flicking over the large space. We’d knocked out the wall between two bedrooms when I was younger, and now my room is the size of huge, meaning there’s ample room for my sitting area, desk, and bed that’s tucked into the far wall. My floor is bare, since we’d ripped up the carpet and replaced it, and the soft purples, grays, and dark charcoal color scheme doeseverythingfor any kind of bad mood I’m ever in, and helps my brain that hates things that are out of place.
A large, taxidermy golden eagle spreads its wings on top of my dresser; the mount it’s on makes it look like it’s about to attack anyone coming in my door. My gaze lingers on it, and I stride over to stroke my fingers along the silky, feathery texture. It’s the first thing my aunt let me help her do, and parts of the mount, like the wood the eagle’s claws are clasped on, were my idea.
Though, it’s thanks to my Aunt Kathryn that it looks good at all.
My fingers move over the feathers almost without my say-so as I think about the bird in the woods. Would its feathers have felt like this? Or would they have been stiff with dirt and grime? If I had pressed my fingers against its skin, feathers ruffled over my nails like those of the golden eagle, would I have been able to feel the wriggle of beetles whose arrival accompanies the presence of dead things?
For a moment, I imagine I can feel them on the eagle as I let my fingers sink into its feathers. I imagine the squirming, hard carapaces of small creatures against my fingers, scurrying around me like an unfortunate nuisance as they do what they were made to do.
But finally I blink and pull away, dropping my hand to my side to survey the eagle’s angry, yellow gaze. It’s beautiful, though I always think that when I come in here. The eagle had been killed by natural causes, and sold to my aunt by a company that works with the Department of Natural Resources for conservation. Half of the money she’d spent had gone to a bird rescue, and I’d quickly been able to overcome my trepidation of working with such a beautiful, dead animal that looked like it should still be flying the skies.
I collapse on the sofa with a groan, half-wishing I’d gone for my bed instead. I could still watch television from there, and it’s not like I expect to be doing much, anyway. So what if I want to turn in early?
But out of habit, I pull the black and purple comforter off of the back of the couch, draping it over me as the excess hangs to the hardwood floor. It’s a king size comforter for a couch, so there’s always enough to wrap me up like a burrito if the situation calls for it. My next order of business is finding the remote on the side table without looking, and my fingernails click harshly against the fake-marble top a few times before finally I close around the matte black object and turn on my smart TV.
I know they’ll be gone soon. According to Dad, the opera starts at eight, and the clock on the home screen of the television shows me that it’s just before seven. If I’m right, they’ll be gone within the next twenty minutes or so, leaving me here alone.
Not that I mind.
Really, I don’t.
When I start flicking through the live stations, though, I know I’ve made a mistake. While I love to sleep with the white noise of a movie or show playing, I rarely, if ever, just leave it up to Jesus by putting the television on a live channel. The jolting differences between commercials, and most shows, are good at throwing me into nightmares or worse. If I want to sleep, my best bet is the food network, or some bridal show with gentle, pretty music and mostly polite voices until the mom or grandmother breaks out into their insults.
I’m about to pull back to the menu when the news anchor catches my attention, my finger freezing on the button before I can do more than consider what I’m going to watch.
Did I really just hear what I think I did?The words the woman said ping around my empty head, smacking off the bones in my skull to echo louder in my ears.
“The body of Emily Forrest, a college student at SUNY Oswego, was found in the lake near the town of Hollow Bridge. The small town, known for elaborate Halloween celebrations, has been the scene of such a tragedy before. When—”
I close my eyes hard, until my eyelids hurt with the pressure, but her voice continues to flow through my brain unfiltered. She talks about Emily’s parents, her academics, and all the things they never got to say aboutDaisysix years ago.
For a moment, I consider jumping to my feet and going to tell my mom. I can imagine her face when she hears, and the worry that will line her eyes as I look anywhere but into them. I know she’ll cancel date night with my dad, and that’s what makes me mentally put my foot down on the idea.
