Black Bird of the Gallows

  He slips his hands under my armpits and catches me before I crumple to the pavement. “I’m sorry,” he says gruffly. “I don’t want you to fall.”

  One hand slides to my waist—no, Sparo’s waist. We stand there, his hand a warm pressure on my waist, steady and chaotic at the same time. I don’t like him touching me, but I like the way his touch makes me feel—like listening to good music. Our mouths are close.

  “You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he says. “It’s dangerous.”

  “What was that thing?” I ask. “Don’t say you don’t know.”

  “Okay, I won’t say it.” His hand falls away, and I sag against the van. “What did he want from you? Drugs?”

  Is he on drugs? He’s so obviously evading, it’s insulting. If he said he couldn’t talk about it, for whatever mystical, made-up reason, I might have respected that. For a while. Maybe. But drugs?

  “No! You…that-that thing—” I stick my finger right at his chest, making contact with firm muscle. “What is he? He’s not human.” My voice heats, along with the rest of me as I replay my conversation—if you want to call it that—with the creature. Even my own freshly made memory looks false. My mind stretches for an explanation, aches when a rational one doesn’t surface. “And the bees… My God, those bees.” I press my hand to my mouth to stifle a sob. I hadn’t imagined this. It was as real as the bruises I’d wake up with and the ache in my shoulder where it was wrenched. That was… I can’t even comprehend what I just experienced. I want to go home so badly.

  Reece bends down. So calm. He picks up Deno’s keys and my green sunglasses. I tense up with a new sort of panic. Oh crap, I’m exposed. Even with the wig and the makeup and the extra six inches in height, he could recognize me now. I hold my breath as he studies the keys, then hands them back to me without a flicker of recognition. I nearly gasp in relief.

  “I’m glad you weren’t hurt.” His eyes are tight, restless, and they don’t meet my gaze. His words are final.

  “Hey! What was that thing?” I rasp, but he’s already heading back the way he came.

  “Be careful, Sparo,” he tosses over his shoulder. “Stay away from the bees.”

  6- the dark of the mine

  Saturday morning. I climb out of bed slowly, feeling like gravity has more pull than usual. A headache gnaws at my temples, and my shoulder seizes when I sit up. I gasp from both the wrench of pain and the memories of the previous night. I could write them off as dreams, maybe, if not for the physical proof that it happened. A glance at my upper arm reveals bruises made by the grip of a strong hand. I look away with a shudder and pull on leggings and the old, frayed U2 sweatshirt that I’d rescued from my dad’s Salvation Army box.

  I open the drapes, letting watery morning light pour in my room. There, on my windowsill, is a coin. It’s just a quarter, but its presence makes me hug myself with apprehension. My gaze sweeps the deck below, the trees beyond. Crows are tucked in the branches. None on the deck. None on the railing looking up at me with red, far-too intelligent eyes. I crack open the window and take the quarter. It goes in the glass dish with the earring.

  My hands move to the jewelry case beside it. I open it and remove a white envelope, which I stuff in the large pocket of my sweatshirt. It contains photos of my mother. The only ones I have.

  Downstairs, my dad sits at the kitchen table in his fancy bathrobe (and matching slippers) and eating a bowl of cereal. He glances up from the game he’s playing on his iPad. “Morning. How was the show last night?”

  “Strange.”

  “Strange good or strange bad?”

  Strange very bad. But I can’t say that unless I want to tell him what happened or make up a lie. Neither is a wise option. “Just strange. I’m going for a walk.” Roger prances around me, all simple hope and longing.

  Dad just nods, watching me in a thoughtful way. He can tell I’m upset about something.

  “Put on a hat,” is all he says, and because I’m in such a precarious place with my emotions, and because I’m grateful he didn’t pry, I kiss his cheek and tell him I love him. He looks surprised—maybe a little alarmed—but I smile and ask him to not use up all the almond milk, that I want cereal when I get back. I clip Roger’s retractable leash to his collar, and he surges toward the back door. The envelope rustles noisily in my pocket. Dad doesn’t ask me about it. I grab a wool hat from the basket on the counter and pull it on my head.

  “Be safe,” he says.

  “I will.”

  One of the selling points of this development—according to the brochure—is the hiking trails behind the houses that weave around Mt. Franklin and down the side of it into land bordering the shuttered coal mining operations. The mines are long dead, but some of the roads still exist and are kept as trails. They’re rarely used. I can count on one hand how many times I encountered another hiker back here. Roger angles an eye at me. He knows where we’re going. We turn up our street and head for the dead end where the forest begins.

  The trees are thick, although the path is wide from decades of trucks coming and going. My breath comes hard as we traverse up, then down, then sideways along the slope. Finally, we arrive at a chain link fence, overgrown with vines and rusting at the joints. I curl back a loose section, and Roger and I duck through.

  I found this place in the first year I moved here. My dad and I utilized the hiking trails as “bonding exercises,” as prescribed by my therapist. I spied this side path during one of our walks and followed it once when out on my own. I’ve kept coming back ever since. The entrance to the Burnham mine is a high, wide concrete dome. A wooden-slat wall was built to close it off, with a door, sort of. The whole thing is fairly rotten, but you’d know that only if you went up and touched it. The decaying padlock is just for show. You can open the gate and prop it open with a rock. That’s what I always do. It’s what I do now.

  Temperate, musty, moist air wafts from the entrance. The air is always the same, no matter the season. It warms in the winter and cools in the summer. It’s a constant thing, unchanged by seasons or time or weather.

  I sit just inside the mine entrance, on a natural ledge of rock, back and feet braced on either side of the wooden frame. Sunlight slants an angle across my belly. To my right, there is only blackness as the mineshaft twists deep into the rock below. The tunnel holds no allure for me. Fear of collapse, of getting lost, of poisonous gases, keeps me in the pool of sunlight that reaches a few feet inside the mine.

  I remove my envelope of photos and open the flap gingerly, as if the pictures may bite me. It’s not comfortable to look at these. In a few of them, she’s sober. In most, she’s not. The one on top of the stack is of the nots. Her half-lidded eyes gaze blankly at the camera as she flashes the peace sign and a vacant smile with me perched next to her, beaming a wide grin. I might’ve been four. Those were the days when I was too young to understand my mother’s illness.

  But I’m not looking at the photos to reminisce. I’m looking to examine, and that purpose gives me strength. I angle the photo into the sun and focus in on my mother’s mouth. She’s smiling, and kind of far away, so I can’t accurately compare this image of her mouth to the one I saw on the creature from the parking lot. I flip through them quickly, scanning for a close-up, unsmiling image of my mother. I find it in an unremarkable candid shot of her sleeping. I lean close, half hoping, half dreading that her features match the ones I saw on Friday night. There’s her mole. Her nose, her lips, her mouth. It’s all there. Her features are exactly as they were on the creepy bee-guy’s face.

  I rub my eyes, trying desperately to make sense of the events that transpired at The Strip Mall the previous night and the gifts in my window box. Either they happened as I recall them, or I am losing my mind. I prefer option number one, despite knowing that if the face-changing man is real—if I am really getting gifts from red-eyed crows—it means I am dealing with things I can’t comprehend. Things likely dangerous.

  The scratch of shoes on grav
el snaps my attention. A figure steps through the chain link fence. Roger is on his feet in an instant, sniffing the air.

  Reece.

  I fumble the photographs, hastily gather up a few that drop, then tuck everything in my pocket. He doesn’t see me yet. He’s maneuvering through the brush, dealing with the fence’s sharp edges. Plus, he has headphones on. His phone is tucked in his coat pocket. I have a bad moment wondering what to do. He’d be easily confronted here. I could find a stick or something and—look asshole, you will tell me what that thing was last night, or I’ll—

  —give away my Sparo identity; that’s what would happen and it’s not an option. I have so many questions. I’m afraid that the guy with the shifting face will return. I’m afraid of the crows. Of the bees. Of the dread growing in my belly. Of liking this boy.

  Confronting or threatening Reece won’t get me what I want. Befriending him may, but I don’t know if I can pull that off. It’s impossible to be friends with someone who has answers you desperately want. I could try to get out of here before he sees me.

  Roger has other thoughts. He strains at the leash, tail wagging furiously. He lets out a friendly yap. Reece looks up, sees us, and his eyes widen. He tugs off the headphones.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks, not terribly friendly.

  “I could ask you that.” Unlike my encounter with Kiera Shaw last week, I don’t feel at risk of crumbling. Maybe because I don’t believe he’s cruel. “This is my spot.”

  He comes forward, stops right in front of me. “Is not.”

  I point at the thick beam just above where my feet are braced. “My name’s on it.”

  He leans down and squints at the letters I carved there with a sharp rock a few years ago. “So it is.” But he makes no move to leave. Instead, he braces one foot on the low, flat stone next to my hip. “May I join you?”

  “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.” Here I am, trying to be polite. I pick a stone out of the rocky ground, annoyed with how unsettled he makes me feel. There’s so much swirling through my head. The horror of last night still sits fresh and vivid in the forefront. This place has always been somewhere I’ve been able to think clearly, and now it will be imprinted with a memory of him.

  “Why?” he asks. “Of all the places to go, an abandoned mine is kind of creepy.”

  I gaze up at him, full of skepticism. “You don’t get to lecture me about creepy”—I have to be very careful what I say—“when you’re the one who snuggles with crows.”

  His eyes turn amused. “They’re highly misunderstood animals.”

  “Sorry, not buying it.” I pick up a sliver of shale and flip it between my fingers like a coin. “So, how did you find this place?”

  “I followed the trail,” he replies.

  “This mine isn’t on the main trail.”

  “Then I followed a trail of death and destruction.”

  “I’m being serious.”

  “So am I,” he insists. “I like to do research when we move someplace new. I read that about sixty years ago parts of this mine collapsed, killing some miners, trapping a bunch more.”

  “That’s true,” I say. “What are you, some kind of history buff?” It wouldn’t surprise me. He appears quite interested in Mrs. Bryan’s U.S. History class.

  “Yeah.” He takes a headlamp on a strap from his pocket. “See? Nothing diabolical. I like local lore stories. Just came to check this one out, being it was so close to home and all. Want to go inside with me?”

  I peer into the tunnel. Although I know the miners died deep, deep inside, the tunnels are a tomb. “No. Thank you.”

  “You’re terribly sensible.” Reece drops into a crouch and scratches Roger behind the ears. The dog melts into his touch with a pleased grunt. “Is it true this dog belonged to the homeowners before us?”

  “Yeah,” I say, resisting the urge to tug Roger back. “Who told you that?”

  “Do you always have so many questions?”

  “For you? Yes. Do you ever answer them?”

  “Not without motivation.” He raises one brow in what could be a challenge, or a joke. I can’t tell which.

  Maybe I should have gone after him with a stick. “We took Roger after the Ortleys…passed. We didn’t want him going to the shelter.”

  “He’s a lucky boy, then,” Reece murmurs, delving his fingers into the thick rolls at the dog’s neck. His eyes go soft and heavy in a close mirror of Roger’s blissful expression. The dog leans in to Reece’s scratching fingers, lifts a hind leg, and scratches the air. “He’s not sad about them anymore, by the way.”

  “Who?”

  “His dead family. He’s over it.”

  I blink slowly. “Now you’re a history buff and an animal psychic?”

  “Tsk, tsk. No, Angie.” He raises one eyebrow. “He’s just clearly happy. That’s all I’m saying.”

  That is definitely not all he’s saying. “So are you going to explain the crows?”

  “There’s nothing to explain.” He squints into the woods. “I told you—the nature shows say not to display fear to the wildlife.”

  “Oh, you are so full of—”

  “We aren’t going to be here too long,” he blurts. “My mom is a consulting doctor at the hospital. A month, maybe a little more, and we’ll be gone.” He runs a hand through his hair, knuckles tense.

  “Why are you telling me this?” My mouth goes dry. Leaving?

  He angles into the sun, throwing the shadows under his cheeks into relief. “Just thought I should.”

  The headache I woke up with had subsided, but it rattles back to life. It’s as though we’re having a conversation about something that’s really about something else, but I’m too dense to grasp the subtext.

  Suddenly, I can’t stay here another minute. If I do, I’m going to blow my cover, tell him it was me in the parking lot last night—if he hasn’t figured it out already—and bombard him with every question backed up in my mouth. I get to my feet, giving Roger a tug. The dog reluctantly moves to my side. Face-to-face, Reece’s eyes are as soft and as sad as they always are when it’s just him and me. He sighs. “I didn’t mean to chase you off,” he says. “I’ll leave.”

  I shake my head. “It’s okay. I need to get back. Just tell me one thing, if you can.”

  His gaze moves over my face. He steps closer. I can smell him—fresh pine and clean air. He swallows, pushes his hands deep into his pockets. He’s hard to look at right now, with the light turning his hair to gold and those smoldering eyes gazing into mine. It’s like looking into the sun.

  “Okay. One thing.” His soft voice clashes with the intensity of his gaze. “You’re adorable when you’re trying to be mad at me. You needn’t work so hard at it, though. We aren’t meant to be adversaries.”

  “I, um…” My thoughts disband, leaving nothing for communication purposes. I’m adorable? Adorable has many definitions. I think Roger is adorable, for example. “That…wasn’t what I was going to ask you.”

  He inclines his head. “Okay, then. Ask.”

  But that “adorable” echoes through me, clinking around like a penny down a well. “What are we meant to be, then?”

  His lips curl up at the corners. “That wasn’t your question, either.”

  I swallow with effort. If Lacey were here, she’d be subtly pinching my arm right now. Get a grip, Angie! “Am I in some kind of danger?”

  Reece’s mouth tightens. He sighs and turns toward the gaping blackness of the mineshaft. “Of course not. Someone’s always watching.”

  7- you already know the answer…

  Thank God for Google.

  Seriously.

  My father says that all the time, and I roll my eyes because he’s usually looking up gross health things, like cancer moles or how headaches could indicate a brain tumor. But here I am, hunched at my laptop, engaged in the world’s most unproductive activity: an internet search without knowing quite what you’re looking for. It’s eleven thirty on
Sunday night and instead of studying for my test on the War of 1812 tomorrow, I’m looking up every term I can remember from Friday night. Scavenger. Black bird of the gallows. Cleaner of bones. Harbinger. It’s difficult to describe a man with a transforming face into a search engine. The results have varied from strange to deeply disturbing. It’s amazing how creative the porn industry is.

  The only phrase that got a meaningful result was harbinger. The old-fashioned definition is someone who is sent ahead to secure lodging, but the modern meaning sends a shiver over my skin: one who comes ahead of a major change. One who foreshadows an event yet to come. Usually, a bad one.

  There are other sites—ones run by people who are into conspiracies, the paranormal and whatnot, but I stumble across one with an author who documents facts and writes with clarity. Despite the dubious online moniker of ShadowMan43, his entry on harbingers pulls me closest to the screen.

  Ravens and crows have long been called harbingers of death by many cultures.

  These opportunistic birds rarely deserve the distinction, but some early cultures tell tales of roving murders of crows who feasted on more than just the bodies of the dead. These creatures are said to perform some sort of grim reaper role, where they took human form and sucked the souls from the dying.

  Good grief. Is this what I’m dealing with? Grim reapers lurking around Cadence? It simply couldn’t be. And didn’t explain the existence of creepy guy with the bees. The article continues:

  It’s important to remember that early cultures did not always bury the dead, especially in times of war and widespread sickness, so it was not uncommon to see crows feasting on human corpses. Mainstream historians will say the shadowy figures seen lurking around the dead were thieves, but many theories of impending evil persist. The Greeks, especially, believed crows were a bad omen, often forecasting death.

  I scroll down, past a poorly scanned painting of St. Benedict with a crow at his feet, and continue reading.