smolder;

Jill hadn’t noticed the bruising around her knuckles and arm until it’d been pointed out.

 ‘ nasty fall ? ’ it was mr. tucker, who lived close by, who had asked. jill had frowned at him, unsure as to what’d made him think that.

‘ yes. just clumsiness, ’ she’d replied innocently.

  but that hadn’t been the case. the marks had been gifts from naomi, reminders of their last training session. they continued to ache and itch, as if there were small fires burning under the layers of flesh. the blotches stood out like traces of lavender and cardinal paint. but she didn’t mind – she’d never do. 

   after all, the ring was the only place where she felt at ease. there was too much despair everywhere – everywhere but there. at first, every inch of her refused to go in, the memory of having dropped larissa off right at the gym’s doors too engraved in her mind. it throbbed with guilt and confusion, so much so that jill couldn’t bear to drive past the establishment. but now, much to her dismay, the ring was among the few spots in town where she felt safe. 

   there, where the air reeked of sweat and copper, her limbs seemed to loosen their tight grip, the tension then poured onto every punch and dodge. there, she’d find comfort knowing she’d be grazed by nothing but naomi’s fists.

   a sense of comfort and familiarity flooded her as she walked in through the doors, her eyes scanning for its owner. 

   “ naomi? ” she asked, following the sounds of leather against leather, solid against solid.

 “ crap, sorry. i thought i’d forgotten something from the last time i was here. ” jill blushed, forgetting what she’d been looking for in the first place. “  i thought you would be home by now… i didn’t mean to interrupt. ”

Thwack!

Five days she’d had, and what did she have to show for it? A bunch of ruined notebooks, a million questions, and a goddamn headache.

Thwack!

Why did she even bother? She wasn’t a police officer, nor was she a detective. What the fuck was she even doing?

Thwack!

Nothing she did was of consequence. No matter how hard she tried to help, she had no hope of making a difference.

Thwack!

From her throat rose an animal’s cry, rough and ripped and roaring. Her strikes became faster and faster, muscles ablaze, knuckles screaming, sweat paving trails down her spine. The pain in her body was nothing compared to her roiling mind, crammed full to the brim with sharp-edged thoughts. If she moved a little faster, hit a little harder, maybe she could quiet it, or at least stop the cuts from hurting so badly—

Thwack!

A crack in the skin, like a seam ripping. Warmth throbbing at her fingertips.

Thwack!

Useless—worthless—hopeless—

Thwack!

A sound. Not cloth-on-leather, but something else. The creak of a well-worn hinge.

Thwack!

“Naomi?”

Ice up her spine, blood at her cheeks. Caught.

She knew that voice, but she turned anyway, chest still heaving, skin soaked in sweat.

“Jill,” she said, her voice cracking. The shift was nigh instantaneous: her back straightened up, hands fell to her sides. Non-threatening.

“It’s okay… I probably needed to be interrupted.” Truth be told, she’d give anything to keep wailing on that bag, but even she could admit that it wasn’t really helping.

A bead of sweat tickled at her brow and she lifted a hand to wipe it. What she saw, however, was a blood-soaked bandage, deep dark concentrations at her knuckles; she hadn’t realized she was bleeding. Or maybe she’d just chosen to ignore it.

“So, uh, what are you doing here? Can I help you find something?” she said awkwardly, trying to be casual as she slid her hands behind her back. With any luck, Jill hadn’t noticed, but that was disingenuous of Naomi. Jill was the observant sort—of course she noticed.

Nice one, Naomi. Real role model you are.

CLARESSA SHIELDS

When Abel went to church growing up, his favorite part had always been the Homily. There was something about it, when he would get to hear someone speak the words of God in language he could relate to himself. He hated Father Green, and he hated St. Cecilia’s, but he always loved church. There was something in one of his Homilies that he said that struck a chord with him, something about how important routine was to someone who was in emotional pain. And Abel, always being in some kind of pain, clung to that idea. He had a routine, and were he not able to follow it one day, it would throw everything else off for him. So he tried his best to, only breaking it when he absolutely had to. 

It seemed there was someone else in town who had a similar routine to him. Or at least, they always started their days off in the same place. But recently, he hadn’t seen her around. Not since the events of the week prior. He wondered how she knew Larissa, or if that was even why she wasn’t around. Despite it feeling like it, he had to realize that not everyones’ lives revolved around this girl. 

As he turned around to head out of the door with his drink, someone else walked in, causing a collision, which caused half of his drinks to get on himself, and on the papers she was carrying. He looked down before he even saw who she was, a feeling of panic causing his chest to tighten as he shot down to organize the papers that had fallen. “I’m so sorry,” he said, until his eye caught a name. Larissa, covered in his morning dark roast. He looked up and saw the girl who he had been wondering about. His assumption was right. She did know Larissa. He got up off of the ground with the papers and handed them to her. “I’m sorry.” Just as he was about to end it there, walk away and not turn back, he didn’t. Something felt important, something kept him there. “I don’t want to…make you uncomfortable…but…what are you writing about Larissa Kearney?” 

She’d only managed to make it through 1987, she griped to herself, as if she could have possibly read any faster than she’d been doing. Unable to sleep, she’d stayed up the whole night, until… until…

“Shit!” She made the mistake of looking at the clock: noon. How long had she been asleep? She had class later and needed to get through these journals before then, fuck fuck fuck—

Scrambling into the bathroom, she brushed her teeth and did her best to tame her hair, which was all sticking out to one side. She paused only for a moment to survey herself: sleeplessness smudged beneath her eyes, sweat beading at her brow, and those damned fake teeth, still slightly discolored even after all these years.

Well, it wasn’t gonna get any better than this, she guessed. She splashed some cold water on her face and scooped the journal entries into a folder, then was out the door. She was on autopilot as she drove to the café, sleep still clinging to her eyelids. She needed coffee, and badly. Her usual place had always appealed because everyone there was so friendly—she knew all about the baristas and even some of the regulars, too. This time, though, she hoped that she could get in and out without having to socialize.

Naomi could smell the coffee in the air as she slammed her car door, journals tucked under her arm, and raced for the door. Throwing it open, she stepped over the threshold and—

Collided directly into someone. Stunned, she dropped her folder, causing some of the entries to come loose.

“Crap!” She leaned just in the door and grabbed some napkins out of the dispenser. Crouching down, she blotted carefully at the papers, chest tightening when she saw the guy’s fingers curling over her journals. Even so, she accepted them from him with a smile, or what she hoped was a smile.

“It’s okay,” she said, even though it wasn’t. She looked him over and realized he was a regular; she didn’t know his name, but they’d talked occasionally while waiting for their coffee. They had similar schedules, she supposed. But when he asked about the journals, her hackles raised immediately.

Chill out, Naomi, she told herself, measuring her breathing. It wasn’t his fault that they collided, and he probably was being genuine. They were classmates, maybe, or acquaintances. Nothing to get worked up about.

“Look, I… let me get some coffee and then we can talk about it. Can I buy you one? To make up for, you know—” She gestured to his soaked shirt. Then, because she couldn’t help herself: “How did you know her?”

Connor flinches. He knows she’s just scared; he’s seen the way people curl their lip at this kind of talk, but her tone still makes him recoil. Buried in the shadows lurking in the corners of his mind, something slithers towards Connor’s heart. It wraps around the fluttering muscle, which beats, quick and feeble, like a bird trapped in a predator’s hungry mouth. It dribbles cool dread into his veins and freezes his muscles, which tense and ripple with tremors. That something whispers an echo in his ear.  “Fag!” “Kick him in the nuts!” “Yeah, like he has any. Shall we check?” “Grab him– hey! Hold him down!”

Sticky fingers pin him to dusty floorboards. He can hear them creak and squeak under his struggling form. He feels small, barely five, his limbs tiny caricatures of what they’ve grown into. There’s a cry of terror unravelling in his throat, but it stays there, trapped. Someone’s reaching for his pants, yanking–

Connor blinks. He can see the girl’s lips moving but he can’t hear what she’s saying. There’s a sheen of cold sweat entrenching him in his panic, and the feeble lungs resting, shrivelled, in his chest, constrict more and more to the point that he reaches up to rub at his throat. It takes the suddenness of the girl’s movement to shock Connor into sucking in a sharp, rasping breath. The air’s so dry it makes him wince again. While she seems eager to leave, Connor shakes his head at her offer, glancing at a firefly that buzzes languidly between them. 

“No, that’s okay,” he mutters, wiping his muddy fingers on the grass next to his knee. “I think I’ll stay a little longer. Thank you, though–… Uh, get home safe.”

Something wrenched in her when she saw the look on his face—she’d scared him. But she didn’t quite have the presence of mind to feel bad about it because she was fucking scared, too. If this was anything like last time…

Oh, god, she had to get home. She couldn’t muster up the words for a goodbye to end this strange, confusing, terrifying conversation, so she just left, her footsteps heavy, skin soaked through to the bone. As she passed the Kearney house, she shivered from something more than the cold. She couldn’t look at it, kept her eyes firmly averted, yet she could feel Larissa’s presence at the window, her cold stare boring into Naomi’s neck.

Bile rose in her throat, and she just barely made it behind a bush to vomit.

Her knees wobbled under her and she sunk to the ground, hot tears welling in her eyes. She willed herself not to cry, but soon found herself staring at her tears as they mingled with her own sick, stinking and pathetic. The thought just made her sob harder.

She realized too late as she wiped her face that her hands had mud on them. Gasping for air now, she forced herself to stand up on her wobbly legs lest she make a scene. She didn’t want to be known as the woman who puked outside Larissa’s place, especially since she looked half-drowned, soaked and covered in mud. No, this was not an image that the public needed to see.

That boy back there, whoever he was… he was the only one who needed to know. She’d make damn sure it stayed that way.

Steeled by her newfound resolve, Naomi gave one last look down the little path she’d followed that had started it all. Then, teeth gritted, she took off for her place as fast as her legs would carry her.

The sorrow of the crowd was potent. Looking around, Will saw a lot of people he didn’t even realize would’ve known Larissa. Obviously, in a town this small. Still, the way the webs of Hollyhead weaved themselves had always, and would always, surprise him. He had gotten there too late to stand by his mother. Probably good, given she was speaking with any and everyone. Offering them a hug and a fortune reading when they could stop by. He couldn’t help but chuckle. That was Miranda Moody alright.

 As his eyes locked and loaded on the engraving of her name in the stone, the sound of his own name whipped Will’s head to the side to see a familiar face. It took him a moment to come out of his trance, before seeing the warm eyes and soft smile before him. “Naomi Wilder.” He smirked. “In the knick of time. Yes, please.”

They walked quietly, the damp dirt beneath them molding to their footsteps, leaving a trail. As they approached the small clearing, Will took a moment to look back at the mourners enveloping the small monument. “Lots of people here.” He mumbled, reaching into his suit jacket and pulling out a well-stocked flask. “Good for the family. Hard on them if nobody came.”

He took a swig of the liquor, and stretched his arm out to hand it to her. “It’s crazy. You leave town for a few years, and everyone grows up. You included.” He smiled. “How’ve ya been, kiddo?”

When they were at last away from the crush of people crowding the headstone, Naomi felt it so much easier to breathe. She suspected Will had something to do with it, too. The days when she’d play in Miss Moody’s yard seemed like a lifetime ago now, but she could still remember his gentle affect like it was yesterday: his voice, stern but kind, as he intervened in her troublemaking. Though she usually wrapped it in the guise of making mischief, the truth was that the Moody house had been an escape for her. When Nolan was on the warpath or her father had a bad day at work, she had somewhere to run to. Somewhere that made her feel safe.

That sense of safety extended to the calm face of the man beside her, though that face was now etched with new lines and worries that never quite seemed to fade. She felt for a moment that they were back at the house again, the warm summer sun shining on their backs as they drew chalk figures on the sidewalk, laughing as they played silly card games.

How things had changed. That tender brightness had been extinguished in them both, it seemed. Sometimes she wanted it back; sometimes she feared it would burn her.

She eyed the flask he offered. Things had definitely changed. On any other day she would have refused, but this wasn’t just any day. So she took the flask instead, drank a bit, grimaced at the taste.

“Is it good for them, though? Do these people actually care, or are they just here to gawk?” She frowned. “Sorry... I’m being cynical. Just been a long day, you know?”

She was pretty sure he did know. Still frowning, she took another swig and handed the flask back to him. At “kiddo,” she laughed for the first time that day. He probably still saw her like that—that girl with the bruised elbows and the skinned knees, twigs ever-present in her untamed hair. Nowadays that girl felt like a stranger. She had for a long time.

“I’ve been… I’ve been… God, how have I been?” The liquor was warming her belly now. “I don’t know. Nearly every day is jam-packed packed with classes, I guess so I can avoid answering that question.” Her expression darkened. “I taught Larissa for six years, you know. Now, going through all these motions today, I can’t help but wonder why I even bother. They certainly didn’t do her any good.”

She cleared her throat, which had become thick with grief. “How did you know her?”

The murmuring stream looks cold and dark in the waning light. The kind of dark that makes you curious about what may be dwelling in the depths. The kind of dark that you want to look at, but from afar. Step too close, and you’ll be just another soul in Hades’ river. Connor listens to the whispers and wonders what they’re saying. If the water’s just carrying the trees’ otherwise silent tales, unheard as, rather than expel sound, they soak it in. Feed on it. How many secrets must they keep, trusted creatures, solid and rooted to an age-old Earth. Connor wonders what they’ve seen. What they’ve heard. What they know about Larissa.

More than the rest of us, that’s for certain.

The girl from The Ring sits up, and Connor turns to face her. They both squelch with soggy mud, both pull a face. Connor’s more used to it, though– or so he suspects –and finds some comfort in sinking his fingers into the slime. It’s like a protective coat, permeating him lest whatever lurks in the shadows takes a swipe. He toys with it as the girl speaks. 

“Okay,” comes his reply, faintly heard over the crickets’ song. He sends a smile her way. An assurance: I won’t push you. We can keep our secrets to ourselves. 

But then the questions have turned onto him, and Connor glances at the trees again, wondering if they’re awake. Alert. Their souls peeking at him through the cracks in their trunks, the swirls embedded in their thick bark. He tiptoes around his answer, like a shadow dancing around the edges of a pool of light. Scared to disappear.

“Sometimes you see things, or you hear them. Sometimes it’s just your mind playing tricks on you, like… Like when you think you see something move in the dark, but it’s just your eyes trying to see something. But… It’s difficult to figure out when it’s your head, or… Or something else.” Connor shrugs, watches his fingers swirling in the mud. “I think it doesn’t matter. Whatever… Whatever it is, it’s always trying to tell you something.” He looks up, cocks his head. “We’ve just forgotten how to listen.”

One look at his face and she felt bad for her reticence, like she was committing a lie of omission. But maybe she needed to tell a few lies right now to make it through the night. Not that she’d be doing much sleeping tonight anyway… she’d be too busy thinking about that damn girl in the stream. Though she’d been imagined, the weight she left on Naomi’s mind sure felt real.

Maybe she’d sleep at the gym tonight. Hell, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d exercised herself to sleep, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. She’d spent long nights on that hard concrete floor, too tired to drag herself to the little sofa bed but too wired to fall asleep where she was. She’d let that icy feeling creep beneath her skin, feel her space breathing all around her, welcoming her. In those moments she might not have been comfortable, but she was safe. Sometimes that was all that mattered.

She could only meet the boy’s eyes for so long before she had to look away, like the sincerity she saw there was too bright to look at, too vibrant to be dulled by half-truths and runarounds. He seemed to be avoiding the situation as much as she was. That… that meant something. He had experienced something uncanny too, she was sure of it, whether it was in recent days or long in the past. There was a certain comfort to the thought that she wasn’t alone in this, this whatever it was.

Part of her that was incredibly freaked out by that—again, admitting that something like what had just happened had actually, well, happened—but part of her was comforted by it. Like, maybe she wasn’t crazy. Maybe they were both just troubled. Or maybe Larissa was fucking haunting them—

Naomi squeezed her eyes shut. No need to think about that now. Focus on the moment.

“How can it not matter?” she said, the tremor in her voice betraying her placid expression. She remembered all too well the last time she’d believed in what she saw. It ended in a bloodied face and a breakdown. Since then, she was never as quick to trust her eyes. She was pretty keen to avoid jail time, after all, and what better way to get arrested than by beating up random people or, heaven forbid, getting pointers from ghosts?

“If she’s—it’s—just a figment of my imagination… do you know how crazy that sounds? A girl is dead, and I’m taking advice from her—from her—” her throat closed up. She couldn’t say it.

The problem was, Naomi had seen that look in her eyes. She’d seen it multiple times. Each time, she got the sense that Larissa, or the shade of her, was trying to tell her something. That she just had to look a little harder, linger a little longer, and she’d find it.

But what did she want her to find?

Naomi struggled to her feet, nearly slipping in the mud. An icepick of a headache stabbed itself through her eye, throbbing, like Larissa’s freezing fingers poking at her brain.

“I can’t be here anymore… I have to go, I have to get out of here,” she said, words jumbling together, gaze frantic. Her heart rate was picking up again, cool prickles of sweat forming at her neck, swamp water running down her back in rivulets.

This, like the look, he understands. That wave of relief that washes over you when someone’s pulled you out of murky depths. Depths you didn’t realise you were drowning in, until you gulp down gallons upon gallons of liberating air. So Connor inclines his head, a silent acknowledgment. The next reveal comes as more of a surprise, however, and Connor feels his eyes widen to match the fullness of the moon– though, in retrospect, he’ll probably conclude that it was waxing, close to completion. Still, now he stares at Naomi with a clammy pallor clinging to his cheeks, like chains rattling from a spirit’s ankle. He believes in echoes of the soul, of course. Of lonely wanderers whose eyes weren’t covered by coins. The thought of Larissa remaining among them, rather than finding peace and solace elsewhere, not only terrifies him, but saddens him, too. 

His lungs are tight as he drags his gaze towards the surface of the water, which ripples with the last traces of Naomi’s violent digging. A mayfly darts across, surfing the tiny waves. Connor watches until it disappears into the shadows. He wants to utter some words of comfort, but the thought of Larissa being trapped in Hollyhead still, even in death, could never ease anyone’s conscience. He pauses to breathe from his inhaler before finally speaking. 

“I did,” Connor says, like it’s an admittance to guilt. How long will it take, he wonders, for her to either realise he was the one to find her, or disclose that she knew all along? That, out of politeness, she feigned ignorance? Connor can’t decide which is worse. He decides he’d rather avoid testing the waters. So, instead, “Did she feel present?”

Naomi closed her eyes, slowing her breathing a little bit at a time. In, out. In, out. Twilight overtook the horizon and the crickets began to awaken, chirping all around them. The stream burbled below in breathless whispers. Larissa’s voice didn’t seem to be among them; perhaps she was gone, or maybe she was just done visiting.

Despite the sodden chill creeping into her skin, her strength was returning. She pushed herself up onto her elbows. When she felt steady, she sat all the way up, wincing at the squish of mud underneath. Well, she’d already soaked her mourning clothes—what was a little mud on top of it all?

He didn’t seem to want to talk about Larissa, she noticed. She didn’t blame him. Looking back at him, she suspected he might have been close to her, but it wasn’t really her place to presume. Best to leave it alone.

His question threw her off, though, right as she was feeling better. Naomi wasn’t sure she was prepared to answer it. Of course Larissa wasn’t present! But try and tell that to the woman who had soaked her clothes a few minutes ago, and she might have disagreed.

To say that she felt present would be to imply that she believed it had been real. And it wasn’t. But the damn chill was climbing into her bones now, and Larissa’s cold smile still arched behind her eyelids.

“She was… she was… I don’t know what she was. I can’t explain it, and I’m not sure I want to.”

Naomi didn’t know what else to say and her brain was starting to hurt, so instead she deflected.

“Have you ever… seen anything like that? You know. Someone being, uh, present.”

The wind stretched itself through the sky as damp clouds hung over the open field like a curtain; shielding all those who entered from the sun. The coldness roared; rearing its head back as the quiet man made his way through the columns of headstones. Will tapered through the remains of people lost; some many moons ago, and some merely moments ago. He made his way through the seemingly eternal fields. Finally, a small, newly engraved headstone peered into his vision; and then the group of sable dressed mourners surrouding it. Will’s pace quickened, rapidly closing off the gap between him and the small monument. He found his feet taking place behind the mass of bodies before him. His pale, saddened eyes made their way to the words engraved in front of him.

Larissa Mona Kearney

A requiem.

The site of a graveyard had always made Will queasy. That eager kind of feeling ate at him; the feeling that he needed to dig deep into his hometown to sift through the dirt above his brother’s coffin until he could feel Benajmin’s hand in his again, albeit it bone. And now, it made him desperate to run to Richmond and set up permanent residence on the ground’s of his son, Baby Benjamin’s, grave too. A graveyard would forever make Will miserable; too many dead Benjamin’s to count.

And here, in a sea of people who no longer knew him, Will was as queasy, desperate, and lonely as he had ever been.

“Will,” she said, sliding through the idle mourners to stand at his side, eyes averted from the pit that was the star of their solemn gathering. “Long time no see… wish it could be under better circumstances.”

She’d been seeing him around here and there for the better part of a year, but they rarely got a chance to talk beyond the ships-passing syndrome that had plagued their past conversations. Here, though, he looked like he needed a life preserver, even if it came in the form of small talk. Why not be the one to throw it?

“You look like you need some air. Wanna take a break from all this? I don’t think she’ll hold it against you.” She gestured to a small clearing not far from the grave site, where they could respectfully observe without being drowned by the scratchy clothes and stifled sobs surrounding them.

He recognises the look in her eye when she spots him. He’s seen it in reflections, some distorted by old double glazing that’s sagged over the years by the West Virginia heat. But the look doesn’t change, no matter how hazy it appears in a ruined mirror image (ruined, or real?). With that very look, Connor’s faced monster after monster. Unlike Naomi, whom, from knowing her only as the girl from The Ring, he suspects is prone to punching her demons in the face, he’s simply cowered. Let them rip into his tattered flesh and settle in the marrowbone. Pain’s just another ghost to him, watching him from the darkened corners of his room while he sleeps. 

“No, no. I’m sorry,” Connor says, scrambling to sit up. He wipes mud from his moistened palm, the wet sheen coating the grass on which the pair sit making his skin glimmer like an embalmed corpse. He was going to offer his hand, to shake or… Just show that he isn’t a threat (though one need only look at him and they would know). But the clamminess doesn’t abate, and so Connor’s left only with matching smear of grassy dirt caked onto his hand and hip. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, to distract from his silliness, “I… Should’ve been more quiet. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

He didn’t think he’d find it in himself to smile today, but Naomi somehow has. Seamlessly, as it seems, she’s dug past the dirt and uncovered a treasure. Connor rewards her with a breath of a chuckle, though it isn’t delivered without a pinch of mirth. “Maybe,” he returns, meeting her gaze. “It looked like you were fighting one, though.”

Naomi half-expected the boy to run away after she’d scared him so badly, but instead he lingered. She felt some responsibility to pull herself together, to act like a responsible adult, but the pounding of her heart and the numbness of her limbs refused to obey. Something about this boy’s look told her that maybe that was okay, if only for a moment.

She let her head fall back against the mud, too weak to care that her hair was getting dirty. She’d need a shower later anyway.

“Honestly, I’m kind of glad you did,” Naomi said, and it was the truth. It was like some kind of spell had come over her: she was trapped in this surreal bubble with Larissa, and the arrival of this mourner had been what popped it. Or something like that. Maybe she was just crazy… these days, that was looking more likely than ever.

She debated whether she should tell him what had really happened. On the one hand, it sounded totally wild, but on the other, she wasn’t sure she could sleep tonight if she had to keep Larissa’s ghost to herself. What was the worst he could do? Gossip about her seeing things? She had a feeling that there were plenty of other people in this town who were haunted in their own ways.

“I… thought I saw her,” Naomi said hesitantly. “I know we just saw her body and all, but I just—she looked so real and I thought that maybe if I could just touch her, I could pull her back from… wherever. I don’t know. It sounds so stupid now.” She looked over at the stranger. “You knew her, right?”