Chapter Text
The alarm on Salem’s bedside table went off late on Tuesday morning, pulling her from a dreamless rest. Blinking slowly, her ears registered the cacophony of headless voices from just outside her window, muffled by the dregs of sleep still trying to claim her. She squeezed her eyes shut against the incessant chatter. Focus. After a long moment, they went away, leaving the bedroom in a still silence, her head empty. But her heart still wouldn’t calm.
She sighed. She wasn’t going back to sleep.
Dragging herself to the bathroom across the hall, she stood in front of the mirror, reaching for her toothbrush and stuffing it into her mouth. As she brushed, she studied her reflection. Skin of almond brown, coarse black hair woven into box braids down to her waist, dark circles beneath brown eyes. It was the same every morning, the same girl looking back at her.
When she was younger, whether she admitted or not, she had tried to find features of a man she’d never known. She saw her mother, Ruth, in her high cheeks and deep set eyes, but was her pronounced nose his? Her heart-shaped face? There were no pictures of him in Ruth’s house—not her house, because that place was never a home—so she had nothing to compare herself with. Just word of mouth and a first name, useless without the last.
Salem finished brushing her teeth and put her hair into a ponytail. Once back in her bedroom, she searched through her dresser drawers to find something to wear. Finding a t-shirt and jeans, she got dressed and stumbled over to her closet, narrowly avoiding the piles accumulated on her floor. It was late September, so she grabbed a jacket. Her messenger hung on the door handle.
The fridge was almost empty upon opening: leftover Chinese a week old, bottles of water, and a rotten orange. She scrunched her nose, debating the orange before checking her wallet. A measly few dollars, but it would be enough for a bagel or something else cheap from the university’s coffee cart. She’d just have to make the Chinese last another day until she got her paycheck.
Salem grabbed her keys from the dish near the door and closed it behind her, descending the steps that led to the apartment complex’s parking lot. The sun was out but useless against the bite of wind whistling through the trees. Her little black Cadillac Catera was parked under a shedding oak, leaves of orange and red decorating the windshield. She unlocked it and climbed inside, setting down her bag before checking the area to make sure she could pull off.
In the street before her car, flitting past to and fro, were ghosts. That was no surprise.
Salem Mekuria had always been able to see the dead.
Somewhere between birth and consciousness, she came to understand a very crucial fact: she was not normal. Not everyone, very few people in fact, truly knew what it was like to make contact with the dead. Of course, many psychics claimed to have this ability, but Salem learned from a young age that if they were telling the truth, they wouldn’t speak about it with such awe.
It was not as exciting, nor as scary, as the movies would suggest. Ghosts, or spirits, were only impressions of something once alive. They appeared as shimmering bodies of matter, wispy and often insubstantial with proper focus. Some times their forms would be caught in their last moments, faces torn in agony or bliss. Other times, they managed a more uniform appearance, having spent more time in the realm between death and the after-life. (Frankly, seeing the dead made Salem less of a believer in religion than she would have been otherwise).
As for talking with them, it was far more complicated. Most apparitions weren’t aware of their death, making conversations seem more like talking to a brick wall. While the most chatty, they didn’t provide much insight beyond a retelling of their demise or desperate attempts for help for whatever task they had hoped to accomplish before dying. The ones that were aware of their ghostly existence didn’t pay the living any mind without prompt, unless they hoped to try possession, but those were few and far between.
In any case, interacting with the dead brought upon more harm than good. Acknowledging their presence let alone speaking with them, siphoned energy, leading to fatigue and often sickness. Salem had learned that the hard way, being so often surrounded by the dead in her hometown. It wasn’t easy to avoid, and that’s why she left.
Or, that was the story she stuck with if pestered by her family about why, of all places, she’d move to Solk, North Carolina to work as both a university professor’s assistant and a gas station’s attendant. About why instead of staying home where her family could help her, she wanted to be on her own to live out a life where no one would understand her. As if her family could understand any better than the strangers walking past Salem on the street. The strangers might understand her more, to be honest.
Her family—her mother, aunts, uncles, cousins—they all believed that Salem could see the dead. But that made her cursed, a devil’s child. It wasn’t uncommon to hear whispers about it all throughout the big house that Ruth Mekuria owned and sold her handmade jewelry out of. Relatives, and neighbors, walked in and out as they pleased, not having the decency to at least lower their voices before they questioned Ruth about Salem’s affliction and what horrible things that cursed girl saw now.
If Salem was being honest with herself, she left because of that. Because Ruth never denied their claims, never rose to defend her only daughter. Maybe she was well within her right, and maybe Salem was just her father’s child: someone who abandoned the people who loved them. And maybe, just maybe, her life would end up meaningless, just like Ruth had said the night she left.
In some ways, when she put her pride aside, her mother had been right. Her pay from two jobs was barely enough to keep the lights on in her cheap apartment. She skimped out on meals just to get by. Without any sort of money to go to university, the professor she worked for let her take his class unofficially and complete tests along with the students, though her perfect scores wouldn’t matter. The only person who would know she was capable was herself and Professor Lindon. She didn’t have many friends, and her weekends were spent holed up in her room, forcing out the constant chatter of the dead from her mind.
But that wasn’t enough to make Salem go back. It never would be. As long as she was still the devil’s child, she was never coming home.
Pressing her eyes shut, she gripped the steering wheel and counted to ten and back again, until the only sound in the car was the echo of wind outside. When she opened her eyes, the dead were gone, and she was alone. Her car dashboard flashed the time, 10:23am, and she started the engine, cursing to herself as she pulled off in a rush. Class started in a little over ten minutes and she was cutting it awfully close.
The traffic lights weren’t on her side. She tapped impatiently on her steering wheel at the fifth red light in a row, looking longingly out her passenger side window to the old man on a scooter going faster than she was. As her focused wavered, so did the strength in which she kept the dead from her sight. They flickered in and out of view, only serving to further her mounting frustrating. When the light turned green, she pressed the gas, making the rest of the drive in an anxious haze.
She arrived at 10:33am, barely enough time to get to the Johnson-Simon building, let alone get breakfast. It was just as well; she wasn’t much hungry now. To get there on time, she all but broke out into a run, cutting across the green lawn past strolling couples who looked at her strangely. Johnson-Simon was a peaked brick building, sporting grand windows and gabled roofs. Salem didn’t appreciate its beauty as she burst inside, taking the steps two at a time to the third floor.
A few steps before the door to the classroom, she adjusted the strap of her bag and tried to calm her breathing. In. Out. Still slightly winded, she pushed open the door anyway. Inside, she was met with a bright lecture hall, a projection screen, and plush seats in tiered sections, each filled with chattering students. A composed, perhaps slightly impatient Professor Lindon stood at the desk below the screen, rearranging papers into neat stacks.
He looked up when she approached, dark eyes unamused. “You’re on time, Ms. Mekuria.” Ruth had always told her that to be early was to be on time, to be on time was to be late, and to be late was unacceptable. At the very least, she wasn’t the latter.
“I got the printed packets that you asked for.” Salem took off the brown leather bag and undid the buckle, reaching for the stack of papers in a manilla folder. She tried handing it to him but he shook his head.
“I have no need for them; I already know the material. Pass them out so that I may finally start my class.” So he was annoyed, got it. She did as told, starting with the lowest tier of seats as he began to speak out to the crowd.
“Good morning, students. I trust you had a good weekend?” Murmured agreements. “Good, good. Now, the packet my assistant is passing out: these are the guides that overview the topics we’ll be covering and required reading. These titles are available at both the Gooding and Adams library, so I recommend you take advantage. Copies are limited.”
Lindon continued his speech and Salem moved to the second tier, robotic movements as she passed out the papers, avoiding students’ eyes. Some looked barely awake, others intently focused on the professor, and many whispering to their friends; none paid her any mind. Different skin tones, nationalities, face structures. Solk University wasn’t an Ivy by any means, but it was still a good school. Good enough to think twice about offering Salem any financial aid or scholarships.
“Now, I think we’ll continue into the history behind psychology, to give you a good basis. Afterwards, we’ll move on to developmental psychology. Comparisons in human development by Jonathan Tudge is a good start. I’ll be referencing him and the others on your list frequently, so I encourage you to read the first couple chapters if you want be prepared.”
She moved onto the third tier. “Don’t expect an extensive deep dive. As I’ve said before, this is only an introductory course. If you’re interested, you can take my other course in the spring which dives deeper into the concepts I’ll introduce. My colleague, Professor Anton, he has a seminar some time in late winter, so I’d look into that as well.”
Somewhere halfway on the last tier of seats, Salem nearly tripped over someone’s bag laid in the walkway. She caught herself, but it made a loud, abrupt sound. Eyes traveled to her: curious, judging, tired. Lindon’s gaze felt the heaviest, but he cleared his throat and kept talking. Her neck felt hot as handed out the last of the papers.
A blonde girl near the end of the row, once she got her paper, gave her a slight smile and winked. “Nice save.”
Salem blinked, unsure of what to say. It was sort of an unspoken rule that the students didn’t talk to her. She was there to help Lindon, listen in, and nothing more. That was the problem when new semesters started; these people didn’t know the proper etiquette.
She passed without a word but she felt the blonde girl’s eyes on her back. Once every student had a packet—she’d printed just enough—Salem returned to Lindon’s desk. He was plugging wires into his computer, to connect to the projector, rambling on about Wilhelm Wundt and his founding of the first psychological laboratory in Germany. He was the first to call himself a psychologist, Lindon said as he pulled up his slides, and is often connected with structuralism, though it was his student Titchener who was mainly responsible for that school of thought.
Sitting down at the smaller, student desk next to Lindon’s, Salem got out her notebook, flipping through the filled pages to find a blank one. She’d heard this lecture many times before, taken extensive notes and studied until her head hurt. If Lindon was ever sick, she thought she could teach the class herself. That was why she’d gotten her own reading material from the Souter library to read through.
Ghostly Matters: Haunting and the Sociological Imagination by Avery Gordon. It was an interesting read, something to keep her mind busy and pen moving as the lecture went on. Though, she found it hard to focus, feeling eyes on her occasionally. When she’d look up, the feeling would go away, and the culprit was too inconspicuous among a crowd of weary faces.
Eventually, the feeling was so distracting that she decided to focus on the professor’s words, zoning in just as he started to talk about various types of psychological research. As many times as she’d heard him speak, give the same spiel over and over, she was never not amazed at the way he commanded attention. Each inflection in his voice was purposeful, the way a poet knew just the right words to say. Even those who looked close to nodding off couldn’t quite fall asleep.
How lucky these people were, to take this class and so many others with it. What Salem would give.
The lecture ended somewhere around early afternoon, Lindon dismissing everyone with a short essay due Thursday about an early psychologist and their contribution to the modern study. Students packed up their things and made quick work of leaving, though a few lingered to speak with the professor. Salem slid on the strap of her bag and was about to leave when Lindon called her back.
“Salem?”
She stopped, turned around. “Yes?”
“Can you come here please?”
“Why, of course.” She came to stand before the professor, swallowing back an apology. Lindon didn’t appreciate repentance without action. It would be more beneficial to do better than to make excuses about why she’d screwed up in the first place.
“You know, I place high expectations on my assistants.” He phrased it like a question, though she surmised that it was a statement. Still, she nodded. “Many people vie for this position, Salem. Qualified people.” He all but didn’t say students, unlike you. “I expect the best out of the people I hire. People passionate about their education, willing to go the extra mile.”
Fuck, was she getting fired? This was not what she needed right now. Lindon reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a stack of something. Resignation papers? Did assistants even get those?
“You’re a very bright person. Intellectually. Perhaps not socially.” His mouth quirked upward slightly, and he handed her the stack. She couldn’t see how any of this was an amusing matter, though she took it with all the grace of someone being handed a bomb. On top was a folio of her most recent tests and essays, each marked with extraordinary scores. Below that, a document with the words To whom it may concern, I am pleased to…
“A recommendation letter.” Salem breathed out shakily, skimming over the words. Almost disbelieving. “You’ve written this…why?”
“Because you can be so much more than my assistant.” He crossed his arms. “But it won’t happen like this. You can take all the tests in the world, but unless you put that mind to a degree, no one will ever know how smart you are.”
“Professor Lindon…”
“I know, I know. The money, you don’t have any, and Solk isn’t big on scholarships. But I talked to the dean of admissions. We’re old friends, and he’s willing to make you a deal of some sorts, for my sake. You’d be able to take classes, though you couldn’t stay on campus or anything. But I don’t think you really care about that, do you?”
Salem’s breath caught in her throat. “T-thank you. I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t thank me so quickly. There is a catch. You would need to keep your scores up, pass your midterms and final exams. Maintain at least a 3.5, and it might help if you picked up an extracurricular, though that’s just my suggestion.”
“Okay.”
“And, one more thing.” Lindon chewed his lip for a moment. “The dean wants security. I tried as hard as I could, but he wouldn’t budge. Instead of the full tuition, you’d only have to pay half of it, since you’re not getting nearly as many benefits. A quarter of it now, then the rest later. That’s as low as I could get it.”
Her shoulder’s dropped. “That would be…”
“Fifteen-thousand, more or less. You’d have to pay it before you could start.”
“Well, thanks anyway.” She shouldn’t have gotten her hopes up. Every problem in the world boiled down to money. She tried to hand him back the letter and folio but he wouldn’t take it.
“Look, look. I know that’s a lot of money, but you’ve been saving, surely. I certainly can’t pay you enough to cover it, but what about your other job?”
Even if Salem didn’t eat for the next few years, never drove her car, or performed any basic human necessity, her wages would never amount to fifteen thousand dollars.
“Like I said, thanks anyway.” She said. He reached as if to take the stack back, but he pulled out the last few pages instead, placing them on top. An application for Solk University.
“Just think about it, alright? You have until the end of the quarter to decide and pay. Don’t give this opportunity up in favor of pride or anything. Ask who you need to, take out a loan. Do whatever it takes to further your education. Your future is too important to throw away.
“Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes. That’s—”
“Carl Jung, I know.” Salem sighed.
“He seemed to know what he was talking about.”
“I’ll think on it.”
“Good. Now go home. Eat something. You’ve gotten skinnier since I’ve met you.” Lindon patted her shoulder awkwardly. He wasn’t one for physical affection, or any affection in general. Regardless, she appreciated the sentiment.
Deep in thought, she left the classroom, stuffing the papers into her bag. Fifteen thousand dollars was still ringing in her ears. Perhaps that’s why she didn’t notice anyone standing outside the Johnson-Simon building until they spoke.
“Hiya!”
Startled, Salem whipped around until she was face-to-face with the blonde girl from earlier. This close, she got a better look. Fair skin, tanned from a summer likely spent in the sun. Wavy beach blonde hair down the length of her back. Bright hazel-green eyes rimmed with mascara beneath trimmed eyebrows. Her outfit consisted of a loose white t-shirt with the university’s logo and black sweatpants. She looked like she belonged on the sand or on a farm and would look out of place in neither.
Salem stared blankly until the girl spoke again. “You’re Lindon’s assistant.” It wasn’t a question, so she didn’t answer it. “That must be a pretty cool gig, working with the professor. How do you keep that balanced with classes?”
“I don’t have any.”
The girl—Salem resolved to call her Blondie—blinked, titled her head. “Then how…” Something clicked. “Ah, you don’t go here. Impressive, still. I knew some people going for that job. Guess you were the lucky one.”
“Is there something you want?”
Blondie shrugged noncommittedly, stuffing hands in her pockets. “Not necessarily. Just wanted to talk to you.” She didn’t sound very sure of herself. “I mean, it’s not really me that wants something. It’s more something that maybe you’d want. Like, I think you and I might have similar qualities, is all.”
“If you’re trying to get me to help with Lindon’s assignment—”
“Oh, no. No. I’m not asking about that.” She said quickly, holding up her palms. “What I’m trying to say is that we’re kinda alike, you and I. We see things in a different perspective, yeah?”
Salem adjusted her bag strap impatiently. “A presumptuous statement, considering you don’t even know my name.”
Blondie sighed. “See, this would be much easier if we weren’t in such a public area.” A group of students walked by at that moment, low conversation drifting past. “Hey, here’s a thought. What if I buy you coffee?”
“No thanks.”
“Oh, trust me. I know the best cart. It’s near the west buildings, you know. I didn’t figure it out until a few months ago, but it’s because they get the shipments earlier—”
“Are you high?”
“No.”
“Drunk?”
“No.”
“Then why are you bothering me?”
“Look, I can explain all of this if I can just buy you some coffee.” Blondie awarded Salem a smile. “Please? I promise it will be worth it. It’s good opportunity to make a lot of cash—”
“Are you trying to get me to sell drugs?”
The girl facepalmed. “No, I am not trying to get you to sell drugs.” She looked through her fingers. “I just need you to come with me to a place more private—”
“No thanks.” Salem cut her off and walked in the direction of her car. She half-expected Blondie to protest, but she heard nothing, just a forceful exhale and steps receding in the opposite direction. Toward the west buildings.
What the hell had that been?
As Salem got into her Catera, it was surprisingly easy to push thoughts of the girl out her mind, considering recent developments.
Lindon had gone out of his way, for her. He saw something worth going to the dean about, worth making a deal. And what a deal it was. She wouldn’t get this opportunity again, she was sure of it. If she ever hoped to go to college, if she ever kept herself up late at night and hoped against hope for a chance at something better, this was it. Everything she wanted, so close. All that stood between her and the future she wanted was fifteen thousand dollars.
Salem leaned back in the driver’s seat, considering her options.
Asking her family wasn’t one of them. She was beyond sure that they could help finance it, might even be glad to do it in fact. But it came with strings, biting insults, and the truth that they had all accepted: she couldn’t do this on her own. The prodigal daughter would finally come to her senses. The devil’s child would turn from her ways and admit she was wrong.
She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Despite what Lindon would like to think, it’s more than pride. He didn’t have to grow up in that house; he didn’t have to sit there, barely of age, listening to these adults talk about how she would end up in hell for something she didn’t even understand yet. He didn’t have to listen to the whispers from her own mother about regretting ever meeting her father, how she would never have the life she wanted.
He didn’t have to see her mother the night she left, so shocked, so hurt. As if this exodus wasn't inevitable.
What other choice did she have? Loans. They were a slippery slope. More than one of her relatives had succumb to debt over the years. And what of worth did she even have for collateral? Her crappy car? Her shitty apartment? Selling all her worldly possessions couldn’t even finance a dinner at a nice restaurant.
She pressed her forehead to the steering wheel, the mechanism beeping under the weight. Incessant chatter reached her ears and she fought to keep ahold out her mind. Not now. If she let her focus slip for even a second, the dead were always there just outside perception, waiting to invade. Certainly her family didn’t know what this like; if they did, they’d know she was already in hell.
Checking the time,1:33pm, Salem started the drive back to her apartment. She had some hours to kill. Research to do. For Lindon, for the desperate girl inside her that wanted to learn, she owed it to them to at least try.
As feeble as the attempt would prove to be.
* * *
Later that evening, before her shift at the Gas-N-Go, Salem stopped by the Souter library to use their computers. Earlier, after a long time of debating with herself, she had decided to call her mother. Walking to the nearest payphone by the apartment building, she listened for the dial tone and paid her quarter. She dialed the house number, figuring that was her best chance at getting an answer. After a few long rings, it had gone something like this:
Ruth had answered with a curt, crackly: “Hello?”
“Hey,” Salem had swallowed. “mom.”
“Oh, Salem?” A brief silence. “How are you doing?”
“Good.” Another brief silence. “I…um…my job with the professor is going well. It’s nice, easy work.” She said, even though her mother hadn’t asked.
“That’s nice.”
“Yeah.” Even through the phone, Ruth had this innate ability to make Salem and anything she said feel undoubtedly meaningless. “And the gas station isn’t so bad; I have the night shift. Mostly quiet. A few truckers.”
“Okay.”
Salem shut her eyes. Why had she done this?, she’d thought, to put her pride aside? “So, um…I got this opportunity.”
“Yeah?” Somewhere in the background, a door slammed shut and a voice called out. Ruth’s house was still open for business.
“Yeah. I could possibly…attend the university, actually. My professor—the one I work for, he put in a recommendation for me. Worked out a deal for me with the dean. I’d only have to pay half of the tuition. A quarter now and the rest later.”
Background talking, whispers. Then: “How nice.”
If Salem were smart, she would have stopped talking right there. But she didn’t. She never could. “He thinks I could have a good future. He thinks I’m bright.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You’re not screwing him, are you?”
Salem’s shoulders dropped, fingers gripping the receiver. “No, I’m not screwing him. He’s several years older than I am.”
“That never stopped anybody. You sound half-in-love.”
“I’m just—excited. It’s a great opportunity.”
“Sure. Yeah.”
“It is.”
“I know, Salem. Was that all? I have some customers waiting for me.”
Here was her chance. “The tuition.”
“What about it?”
“It’s fifteen thousand dollars, up front.”
A brief silence. “And?” Her voice crackled. “Salem, are you asking me for money?”
“I…”
“I thought you were independent now. Didn’t need us, your family, anymore?”
“That’s not—I left because—”
“Because the dead was too much here. Yeah, sure. Okay.” Ruth cleared her throat. “Look, I don’t have time for games. If there’s something you want from me, ask straight.”
“There wasn’t—I just wanted…”
“Please deposit twenty-five cents to continue this call.” A robotic voice intoned. Salem hadn’t seen a point; she had slammed the phone into its holder and walked home.
Now, she was at the library, using their free internet access.
Local lenders were not hard to come by; finding trustworthy ones were the problem. As charming as Keith Cirino’s Loans and Stuff sounded, the numerous one star reviews deterred her from finding him completely credible. It was the same with a majority of the loan places in Solk that looked even remotely like they’d accept Salem’s measly collateral.
She’d just about decided to try again tomorrow when she heard a rustling across the library, between the filled shelves. Instinctively, she ducked her head just below the dividers between each setup. It wasn’t necessarily a crime to use the library’s resources, given she was an employee to the university, but she did it anyway. The steps grew louder and Salem peeked just a little to get a look at who would emerge.
That’s when she saw Blondie.
Solk University wasn’t a big place; seeing her there wasn’t strange in it of itself. What was strange was the fact Blondie looked so damn suspicious. She couldn’t place her finger on it, but she suspected it was the slouched posture, the quick steps, the darting eyes. Had the girl just been in a drug deal? Maybe her earlier hypothesis had been correct. In any case, she watched her go and turned off the computer, exhaling quietly. A problem for another day.
By the time Salem left Souter library, she hadn’t expected to see very many people. The campus was usually empty at this time of night, people in their dorms or the risky few at parties. A few stragglers might be scattered here and there, but none paid Salem any attention.
That’s why it was strange to see Blondie, somehow still around, looking about dubiously to the campus as she headed to her car in the lot. It was dark enough that Salem didn’t have to worry about being seen; clouds were shifting over the moon, blocking its light, and the street lamps only did so much.
Salem took this as an opportunity to get to her own car without being intercepted with strange conversation. What had that been about, anyway? She got to her Catera, parked beneath a towering elm, and sat in the driver’s seat. On any other day, she would have just pulled off and gone home to prepare for her shift at the gas station, but this time she paused.
Across the way, Blondie had finally made it to her car—a gray Elantra—and casted one last glance around before getting inside. She pulled off with remarkable speed, headlights clicking on as the tires screeched against concrete. Salem tilted her head, then started her own engine, following the road to the university’s exit.
She ended up right behind Blondie’s car as the two left, then beside her at the traffic light. The Catera’s windows were sort-of tinted, per the previous owner’ss desire for privacy, but she still ducked a little anyway. There wasn’t anyone on the street with them, which was unusual, and if that girl looked over, she’d be able to make Salem out. Frankly, there wasn’t much reason to hide—it’s not like she was going to accost Salem from her car—but the principle still stood.
Abruptly, while the light was still red, Blondie made a left turn and sped down the road.
Salem watched, not exactly shocked, but intrigued. What was with this strange girl? Her fingers, wrapped around the steering wheel, tapped against it. Curiosity was a funny thing, the desire to know things, understand them. It’s what made Salem as devoted to learning as Professor Lindon believed her to be; and what made her mind run about with explanations about what she’d just witnessed. Drug deals, danger. The possibilities were endless.
She looked down the street the girl had turned on. Above, the traffic light turned green, clearing her to go straight, to go home. Instead of doing so, she hesitated for a moment. No one was around, and oncoming traffic was nonexistent…
Then, in the same abrupt manner, Salem turned onto the same street that Blondie had. She couldn’t quite explain why she was doing this, certainly the girl was long gone by now, but her interest had been piqued. It would likely prove to be fruitless, and afterwards, she could drive on home, confused at her own rashness.
Except, far ahead of her, she spotted Blondie’s Elantra, making a right turn on red. In some action she couldn’t entirely reason, when she made it to the corner, Salem made the same turn. This gave way into a silent espionage, with her following the gray car from a distance and Blondie making erratic turns, sometimes disregarding traffic lights and cutting off incoming cars. Salem told herself that she was simply making sure the girl got home safe, since she was likely out of her mind, but even she knew the lie was flimsy.
She was curious, plain and simple, and had nothing better to do than waste the hour before her shift. It would be a long night, working from 10 to 3, and she needed something to get by.
Blondie’s questionable driving continued until they were somewhere near the edges of Solk, where businesses transitioned to neighborhoods. Salem suspected this was where the adventure would end, that this all had been for nothing and the girl was just going home.
But, the girl didn’t stop at any house. She drove past them and turned right, getting on the two-laned street lined by dense trees and foliage that lead out of Solk. Salem was just about ready to turn back when, suddenly, the girl made a left turn on a lane Salem hadn’t even known was there, headlights immediately swallowed by darkness.
She followed, again, and realized too late her mistake.
It was a one-way dirt road, narrow with branches that spilled over into its path. Salem cursed to herself as she heard them scratching against the doors of the Catera. She had already driven about a quarter mile, hoping for somewhere to turn around, but found none. The only way out would be reversing in a strictly straight manner, otherwise risking a crash, and she didn’t trust herself. Blondie, however, continued forward without hesitation.
Whether she liked it or not, she was surely in this now.
Against her better judgement, Salem killed the headlights, focusing on Blondie’s dim ones ahead. Worse than being stuck on this road was being caught and having to explain why she’d followed, a thing she wasn’t entirely sure of herself. She could only hope that the girl was too distracted to notice.
Eventually, the mercurial branches contracted a more uniform appearance: arched over the road in such a way that suggested deliberate precision. This persisted until the trees abruptly ended, opening into a large clearing into which Blondie made another turn, this time in a…paved parking lot? From a distance, she watched as the girl parked, then walked to the building in which the lot was for. Upon seeing it, Salem became even more confused.
To describe it as merely a church seemed like an understatement. Under the moonlight, the building stood dark and opposing against the night sky. Two tall spires emerged from the weathered sandstone, accompanied by spirelets and almost obsessive detailing that went into every molding and trim. Arched windows spanning across three floors, lit dimly from within as if a haze were shielding the place from outsiders. In all its glory, it still carried the air of something foreign, desolate.
Blondie disappeared beneath the vestibule shrouded by darkness. She hadn’t seemed like the religious type, but the mystery was solved. Salem was ready to turn back, feeling stupid, but something stuck out to her just before she could. Now, she wasn’t the religious type either, but what church convenes on Tuesday’s so late at night? And, now that she thought about it, what church lays at the end of a dirt road, without any markers to speak of?
Curiosity, that naughty friend, breathed down Salem’s neck like every other phantom she’d ever seen. She idled there, teeth digging into her bottom lip. The lot wasn’t empty; what were the chances anyone would notice her out of a crowd? And, if she was caught, it’s not like they’d do anything; don’t all churches want new believers? She’d fake it until she could leave, hopefully avoiding Blondie’s eye.
She pulled into the nearest parking space and got out before she could overthink it. A long path skirted by flat lawn lead to the entrance where, through the vestibule, waited a large gothic door. Below its peak was a design engraved into the wood: a large eye contained by a rhombus, the pupil replaced by a stained glass, eight-pointed star. Two large handles laid stagnant, and they were warm to the touch.
Inside, there was a small anteroom that opened into the nave. Above, the supports converged at one point, sprouting out into the shape of a dome. Rows upon rows of pews laid ahead, sparsely filled with people, their heads down. At the end of it all was the grand altar, behind it the facade of a reredos supported by pillars. And, in its center, the same carved eye imprinted in marble, vibrant colors of yellow, indigo, and violet. There was no priest in sight, nor any other religious figure.
What was this place?
In Salem’s peripheral, she saw the girl’s blonde head walking down one of the many hallways branching from the nave. She followed, despite her better judgement. Once she was set on something, there was no way to pull her out. Her blind persistence was what made her both a good student and doubly stupid for it.
Hiding in the alcoves of the hall, she trod carefully over the carpeted floor, hearing the low murmur of conversation behind the doors she passed. Oil lamps attached to the walls dimly lit the way as the girl headed deeper, Salem not far behind. She didn’t look back once, too intent on whatever destination she was heading toward.
Finally, the girl stopped and looked around, narrowly missing Salem ducking into a shadowy corner. Then, she turned the handle of a door and vanished through it. The mechanism didn’t click shut, leaving a small crack where it should’ve closed. Waiting about a minute, Salem watched to see if she’d come back out, but no one did. That meant it must lead to some other hallway, another facet to this strange place.
Salem emerged from the corner and took a deep breath. Quietly, she made her way to the same door, placed her palm on the wood, and…pushed.
It opened with a loud creak, revealing little by little what laid beyond: a large Persian rug spanning the floor, bookshelves lining one wall, indecipherable paintings on the other. All of it lit by an antique lamp sitting on an intricately sculpted desk.
And, too, sitting on that desk was Blondie. Watching. Waiting.
“There you are,” She let out a sigh, pushing off the desk. “Took you long enough.”