《Marcie's Ashes - [An Urban Supernatural Mystery]》 Anastasim - Chapter 1.1 Hunter held Marcie¡¯s ashes tightly against his chest. The midnight ocean wind was barely a breeze, the metal urn colder still against his skin. Course sand caked onto Hunter¡¯s shoes and he had to stop every ten paces to dig free the wheels of his beach wagon. Frankly, it was too heavy. He¡¯d packed everything he could possibly need that night. Chalk for tracing, the generator which was the bulk of the weight, a headlamp, single use gloves, a bucket of goats blood, a paint brush, and the Necronomicon. It was in taking inventory of all these items that he realized he forgot to bring a goddamn broom. There was no turning back for it now. If death couldn''t keep them apart, a little sand certainly didn''t stand a chance. Memories of Hunter¡¯s childhood painted hazy pictures of the beachside carnival of Redwood Cove, California. Dart throwing games, ring toss, a Ferris wheel, a fun house, and plenty of other attractions he and Marcie could spend all day doing again and again. They were all gone now, except for the carousel at the end of the cove, which for whatever reason had been left behind when the rest of the boardwalk was deconstructed. The dock had been overtaken by rising tides, burying most of the hardwood under a foot of sand. Cove Beach itself was cramped under a cliffside, far from the streetlights that lit the town past dusk. Hunter dreaded lugging the generator back up the hill to the parking lot with his scrawny stick arms. He feared for his spine, still addled by semesters of sleeping on the cheapest mattress imaginable in a college dorm room and shrimp-sitting in a desk made for people of average height and well-proportioned legs. His were long, too long, and aching terribly. The sand swallowed him up to the ankle as he anchored himself enough to pull the wagon. Though, that was nowhere near top of the list of ¡®things Hunter was currently concerned with¡¯. Hunter approached the carousel, averting his eyes from the hole torn in the canopy as soon as he saw it. The carousel was tucked away in the farthest point on the beach, under the tallest looming cliff. Its cloth hadn¡¯t done a single thing to break her fall, he imagined. Now it flapped in the wind, making sounds like the blow of a horse''s nose. Hunter averted his mind away from these thoughts as soon as they passed and, without thinking, pressed the urn a little harder into his ribs. Old wood, eaten by fungus, wildlife, and simply the passage of time, creaked under his footsteps. Horses of various colored porcelain were caked with sand. Paint finish was peeling off like scabs, revealing the gray metallic bars that held the spinning top together like toothpicks. Memories surfaced of when he used to shove other kids to the side just to sit on the special seahorse, but looking at it now, its face was uncanny. It had the smile of a demon and unblinking eyes that seemed to follow him as he started unpacking. Hunter¡¯s last few days were spent obsessing over the perfect angle, the perfect path to accommodate the exact lines and symbols. Not to mention the last six months using his very rudimentary, very Googled, Latin to translate pieces of the tome. Beth, as nosy and annoying sisters must do, started to pick up on Hunter¡¯s frequent trips to the beach during the day. She¡¯d called it his ¡°weird obsession¡±. But, when did Hunter not have a weird obsession? Mom scolded her, saying if she had enough time to bother him, she had plenty of time for studying, which of course Beth would never end up doing. He¡¯d confirmed his design as he brushed dry sand off the carousel floor with his bare hands. The work of it gave him enough splinters to last a lifetime and he paused every minute or so to remove a new one. The book of the dead seemed delicate, but the pages never tore. It was dark, dusty, and Hunter had a strong suspicion the binding might be made of human skin. Bulging with Post-It notes, he flipped to where he¡¯d bookmarked an incantation titled Anastasim. Little by little, he took chalk to the floor, erasing and redrawing any runes that had even the slightest deviation from the reference. He only had one chance to get the incantation right. And no horse pole or bench¡ªthe ones for parents that didn¡¯t want to crush their groin riding with their child¡ªwas going to ruin that chance. Once done, he traced over the chalk perfectly in blood. Sundown was hours ago. The town was in deep silence by now, slumbering, tucked away under woolen blankets while Hunter worked something unholy in the dead of night. Confident in his efforts, he wiped the sweat from his forehead. With no hesitation, he reached his hand into the urn. Her urn. Sprinkles of ashes fell from his fingertips. Her fragments were miniscule and inhuman, but no less her. The ashes settled into place, outlining the sigils without being lost to the wind, however soft a breeze it was. Hunter stepped off, plugged the carousel into the generator. The generator sputtered as it worked, much louder than Hunter was hoping for. The carousel buzzed into weary life. Shy lights blinked in and out like it was struggling to breathe. What working speakers were left, those not yet disemboweled of their wiring to make bird¡¯s nests, crackled with circus music. Hunter flipped the switch to start the carousel spinning.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. ¡°This better work or else I¡¯m gonna feel like such an asshole,¡± he whispered to himself and read the first section of the spell. ¡°Lutum de pulvere, caro de luto, animam dilecti mei voco.¡± The blood began to glow a crimson red. The carousel lurched forward and its metal supports creaked as if it was yawning awake. Hunter hopped on and began to finalize the spell, ¡°lutum de pulvere, caro de luto, amorem meum in terram.¡± The carousel spun faster. He read from the book again, ¡°lutum de pulvere, caro de luto, amorem meum in terram.¡± Faster it went. Hunter read the phrase over and over, prompting the carousel to whirl at rapid speeds it should have been entirely incapable of. The light of the sigils brightened in blinding red, illuminating the beach out to the ocean. Marcie¡¯s ashes began to float in midair. As the horses spun, Hunter dizzied. He fell into the nearest horse but dug his grip into its pole to stabilize. Despite the disorienting lights and unbearable motion, he persisted. ¡°lutum de pulvere, caro de luto, amorem meum in terram.¡± Then he saw her. A shadow, an outline in the corner of his blurred vision, riding the bobbing horse he clung to. As the great world spun around him, light and music and ash coalesced. All of it like a raging storm, its eye focusing on him and her shadow. The music rose in a crescendo until it was so oppressively loud that it registered in Hunter¡¯s ears as pure noise. The rush of so many sensations disentangled Hunter from the inside, melting the world into amorphous shapes. Then suddenly it stopped. Ambiguous color and shadow imploded. At once so pitch dark that the world disappeared in a void. In another instant, soft lights, flickering back on, brought Hunter back to his senses. And she was there. Her hair, black as that endless void, flowed as she turned on her steed. Long obsidian streaks seemed to float like they were windswept, though they settled as the carousel did. Her dark amber skin had paled slightly, showing a faint roadmap of veins and arteries. There were other somewhat alarming developments. Small crustaceans crawled in and out of her sand-dusted hair. She was missing a single shoe, which revealed a foot without skin or muscle. Though, tendons, still attached, articulated her phalanges. Her left eye socket had been hollowed out. But, the one that remained was a warm hazel. Thankfully and miraculously, she had materialized in a comfortable outfit. Black ripped jeans, a black crop top clinging to her emaciated body, and the same gray cotton jacket she always wore when she slept in Hunter¡¯s lap. Under her top he could see a patch of skin missing, showing the lip of her ribcage. When she saw him staring, a red-ish color returned to her pale face, and she quickly zipped the oversized hoodie. She was just as beautiful as the day he left. ¡°Marcella,¡± Hunter gasped, pure elation leaping from out his throat, only weakened by nausea. ¡°What''s up, string bean,¡± she said, smiling from atop her plastic mustang. The carousel returned to its natural lurching speed. The ash, chalk, blood, truly any evidence of the ritual was gone, as if it was taken by some unknown force as currency. Suspicion in the back of Hunter¡¯s head fretted that the carnival ride was not going to survive the incantation. In fact, he wasn¡¯t even sure he would have survived himself. However, the beams only creaked slightly as if its age and the anomalous motion it just went through had never worn it at all. As well, it seemed his body and soul were still intact, even if it was reeling from vertigo. Basking in the enormity of what he¡¯d accomplished, Hunter blinked, confirming that this was, in fact, reality. ¡°Oh my God, it worked! I ¨C wow ¨C I can¡¯t believe it worked,¡± Hunter said, kissing the Necronomicon, then immediately regretting it when his lips met the skin-like binding. ¡°You¡¯re real!¡± ¡°Very real, my little necromancer,¡± Marcie agreed, a grin creeping across her face as she seemed to settle into reality herself. She took in the view as the carousel turned. The ride itself, the beach, the ocean, Hunter. When she settled on the waves crashing onto the sand, she listened for a moment. Hunter tried to listen too, but he didn¡¯t want to pull his focus from Marcie, for fear that if he looked away, she¡¯d disappear. Turned again, she peered through the hole in the top¡¯s fabric and up towards the cliffside. Her apparent joy waned seeing the trajectory of her fall. The framing of her death. ¡°Wow, this place looks like shit,¡± she laughed, injecting a cheerfulness into her tone. ¡°Like it was shit when I died, but somehow it¡¯s gotten even shittier.¡± Hunter couldn¡¯t stop himself from smiling. Now that he had her back, he wanted to listen to her voice forever. He dropped the spellbook to the ground and took three wobbly steps towards her. ¡°I¡¯m sorry I took so long,¡± he said. ¡°And I¡¯m sorry I wasn¡¯t there.¡± She opened her arms to him, but Hunter felt his legs buckle. Exhaustion whisked all his remaining consciousness away. And then the world went black again. Anastasim - Chapter 1.2 Her scent was like a fireplace with hints of cinnamon. Hunter woke up with his head laying on Marcie¡¯s shoulder, still making slow rounds on the carousel. Only now, they were seated on one of the benches. The sound of ocean waves bringing up seafoam on the beach of Redwood Cove had a subtle calming effect. Hunter had completed his mission, but now sitting beside her was unreal. He¡¯d been so focused, so single-minded, that he never stopped to think what it would feel like to have her back. Have her there with him. So he nuzzled into her cold shoulder. She was comfortable. ¡°You don¡¯t¡­regret being brought back. Do you? The choice you made¡­I don¡¯t want to go against your wishes. I just don¡¯t want you to hate me for doing this. I¡¯m sorry.¡± The words came out of him like a waterfall. ¡°You don¡¯t have anything to be sorry for,¡± Marcie said, ¡°You did so much for us to be together. I¡­¡± ¡°Yeah?¡± Hunter had to pull himself together. He knew there was more behind her words that faded away. She never hesitated saying how she truly felt, so why did she have so much trouble sometimes? This time, he¡¯d stay. Stay long enough for her to take her time telling him. Marcie caught herself, ¡°I¡¯m gonna need help getting off of this thing. I¡¯m not used to walking on it.¡± She laughed, pointing to her skeletal foot, ¡°it was a pain in the ass just to get you to the bench.¡± Hunter spat a thin laugh, ¡°Pff, you¡¯re such a baby.¡± ¡°Am not!¡± Marcie pulled back and feigned shock and offense. He raised his eyebrow inquisitively. ¡°Okay fine, I¡¯m a little baby for being a little unstable after being resurrected from the fuckin¡¯ dead!¡± ¡°And?¡± She sighed and exaggeratedly slouched, ¡°And I love you or whatever.¡± They both leaned in. He felt her shallow breath, ignoring the burnt odor, as he closed the space between their lips. But a burst of sound made both of them jump. A wailing woo-ahp of a police siren rang from the top of the cliff. A car door slammed soon after. Hunter had spent so much time, so much mental energy planning out the night he¡¯d resurrect the love of his life, and thereafter convincing himself that he wasn¡¯t delusional or mentally unstable, he hadn¡¯t quite considered what came next. Of course, the music and lights on the beach would be pretty alarming, considering the carousel had been defunct for the last decade and a half. Though, a noise ordinance was the least of Hunter¡¯s crimes that night. He rushed to grab the urn, the book, and then hoisted Marcie¡¯s body from the bench. Her eye wide, she didn¡¯t resist, but still yelped, ¡°Hey! Be gentle.¡± From the point at which her forearm met her elbow, he saw the joint pop and bend at a very wrong angle. She didn¡¯t seem to be in pain, only startled by the way her body could contort. They ran clumsily towards a corner behind a rock wall, where Hunter deposited the items and helped Marcie down. She had trouble balancing on her foot of exposed bone. ¡°Wait here,¡± he told her. There was a silent panic that passed between both of them. Whether or not Marcie had put it together, Hunter had certainly run through the mounting evidence against him. What would Marcie do if he was arrested? No matter. ¡°I¡¯m giving you five minutes. Or if anything goes wrong, I come out and I spook the motherfucker,¡± Marcie glared with utter sincerity. ¡°I¡¯ll handle it,¡± Hunter reassured her, as he saw the bobbing brightness of a flashlight walk down the path to the beach. When he returned to the carousel, he knelt down and feigned obsessive interest in the wiring of the control panel. As soon as the officer came into view, Hunter knew this night was going to be much more complicated. ¡°Hunter?¡± the officer asked. When he spoke, Hunter fell back into his familiar melodic baritone. He, on the other hand, seemed lost when he saw Hunter, sunk deep into what they both shared. Grief, regret. He pulled his thoughts back and flashed a smile. The kind of smile he used to show to soften any conflict. ¡°Officer Portillo.¡± Officer Portillo was young, for a father. Hunter never asked him directly, but he figured he was about forty now. He looked far beyond that. He seemed even smaller than the last time he saw him. His face was still soft, but it was accented by worry lines and a perpetual furrow of thick brows. And at that moment, the lines of his face seemed to deepen. It seemed they were both in a problematic circumstance in which their masks had fallen. Hunter contemplated telling him exactly what had just occurred. Maybe he deserved to know that only meters away his daughter, who they both lost, was alive again. What would happen if Marcie burst from behind the rock to embrace her father? If she does, it would only end in disaster. A second death, an investigation into Hunter¡¯s research, government experimentation or something worse. Mr. Portillo, as Hunter knew him, was the first to speak. ¡°I heard you were back in town.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve only been back for a couple weeks.¡± True. Nodding up at the carousel, Mr. Portillo asked, ¡°?Qu¨¦ est¨¢ pasando ah¨ª?¡± Soft, but no less interrogating. ¡°No es nada.¡± Definitely a lie. Hunter hated lying despite how easily they could dance off his tongue. But the response received a sympathetic turn of the officer¡¯s head. ¡°It¡¯s where we first met,¡± Hunter admitted. Not a lie, but definitely a bold-faced misdirection. ¡°I figured I could breathe some life back into it. I thought since it''s far down the beach¡ªand the speakers are pretty blown anyway¡ªI did my research, this is technically public land. But, if you need me to pack up¡­¡± After Hunter trailed off, none of Mr. Portillo¡¯s unease waned. ¡°I got reports of lights on the beach. I need you to turn it off Hunter. It¡¯s too dangerous and you can¡¯t be disturbing people at night like this.¡±Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. Hunter nodded respectfully, ¡°Understood sir,¡± then turned to shut off the generator. Still in his presence, Hunter was beginning to sweat. It had been more than five minutes and Marcie hadn¡¯t shown herself. That didn¡¯t allow him to breathe any easier. There was no way she couldn''t have heard their conversation. ¡°Somebody stole her urn,¡± the man said, almost in passing, like it was some idle thought to pass the time it took for Hunter to flip a couple switches. He froze. ¡°I¡¯m sorry Hunter,¡± Mr. Portillo continued. ¡°We haven¡¯t been able to identify a culprit, but a couple months ago, someone vandalized her grave.¡± ¡°What?¡± Hunter¡¯s surprise was genuine. When he was there, when he dug open the burial plot, the only things out of place were of his doing. ¡°Seems like whoever it was took it too far this time,¡± the officer said, matter of fact as he could manage. Hunter said no more, hoping that was the end of it. He hit the final switch that powered off the carousel. The music crackled into nothingness, the lights flashed a couple times, then the beach was dark again. ¡°You can¡¯t bring her back, mijo. She made her choice.¡± Mr. Portillo concluded. A sound like a soft whimpering came from behind the rock formation. The officer looked inquisitively around Hunter, who in response held his gaze on the officer. Mr. Portillo took a step forward. Just one, but it was still one too many. ¡°You came alone tonight?¡± Hunter stood his ground. ¡°Yes sir.¡± Which wasn¡¯t technically a lie. ¡°Probably just an animal or something.¡± Also, in all technicality, not a lie. Hesitantly, the officer went at ease. ¡°I don¡¯t wanna catch you out here again. Yeah?¡± ¡°Yes sir.¡± Hunter nodded. And with acknowledgement solidified, Officer Portillo flipped on his flashlight and made his way back up the cliffside. As soon as he heard the police car drive off, he ran back to where he¡¯d left Marcie. When he turned the corner, he nearly screamed. She really did look like a corpse and more than just the visual signifiers. Even the way she sat, her body idle, appeared as if she had no vitality in her muscle. Her chest didn¡¯t rise or fall with a breath. Her stillness was absolute. Whatever energy was keeping her alive now was inhuman. He knew that logically, but seeing it was something altogether different. Her limp, seemingly lifeless self was, in fact, still alive. Alive and angry. Marcie contained a growl. ¡°I can¡¯t believe he¡¯s back on the force.¡± ¡°I¨C¡± Hunter started. ¡°¨CAnd does he really believe I¡¯d fucking kill myself?¡± Marcie forcefully threw her own urn, much harder than any regular human could without destroying their body. It clatter down the sand. She popped her dislocated shoulder back into place. And something he thought very sturdy and incredibly certain inside Hunter broke for the first time that night. Partially at least. ¡°Wait, you¡¯re saying you didn¡¯t¡­? All this time I thought¡­Why didn¡¯t you tell me?¡± Hunter asked. Marcie screwed up her face. ¡°It¡¯s not like I didn¡¯t want to. You never asked! And it¡¯s pretty hard to start a new conversation if all I could do was slam drawers and throw cups around. For the record, and seriously, write this down, it¡¯s not my fault you went and bought more ceramic mugs after I already broke four of them. Take a hint and get plastic or metal or something!¡± When she was alive, or at least the last time she was, they could get like this. For the next hour or so, they¡¯d refuse to look at each other. Marcie thought he could sometimes act like a robot or a golem under a directive spell, unable to pull himself away from procedure to have one goddamn emotional conversation. It was frustrating for both of them for him to have such trouble conveying his inner thoughts. Hunter wanted to be better, convey himself better, so eventually they¡¯d both realize they had misunderstood one another somewhere along the way, then they¡¯d be fine. Then it would happen again, and again they¡¯d be upset. And then he lost her. So now, Hunter couldn¡¯t do anything but look. He couldn¡¯t do anything but understand. When their eyes met, anger drained from them both. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Hunters said, kneeling to scoop her up again. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to blame you for something you didn¡¯t have control over.¡± ¡°It¡¯s okay.¡± Marcie reached her arms around Hunter¡¯s neck and allowed herself to be hoisted off the ground. ¡°I could have tried to figure out a way to tell you. I¡¯m sorry I lashed out.¡± Hunter sat her down on the lip of the carousel while he packed the rest of his equipment. He ran down the beach and found Marcie¡¯s urn with a sand flea inside it. He lifted her up the hill to his car and then went back down for the wagon. The book still glowed faintly red. ¡°Can I ask,¡± Hunter said as he got onto the main road, ¡°how did it happen?¡± Marcie stared out the passenger window of the old family Honda CR-V, lost in her mind somewhere. She sat in the seat next to Hunter criss crossing her legs so he could see her bare bones clearly. ¡°It¡¯s all hazy,¡± she said, distantly. ¡°I remember looking out towards the water. And the feeling of a hand on my back. Then, the feeling of falling, and that I didn¡¯t want to be. Everything else, it¡¯s kind of a blur. Being up there. Upstairs. It really changes you.¡± She hadn¡¯t changed. Memory or not she was still Marcie. Body in one living piece or not, she was still Marcie. ¡°You don¡¯t think, maybe, it was¡­you were¡­¡± he hesitated speaking the word aloud. The word exonerated him of a responsibility. And how could he let go of that now? ¡°Murdered?¡± Marcie said. And Hunter realized it wasn¡¯t what lay outside the window in the dark night that she¡¯d be staring at, but her own reflection in the glass. She touched her face and drew the outline of her empty eye socket, ¡°Maybe.¡± At last, he made one last turn onto a private road. The house that sat at the end of the lane was stark white, lit by fluorescent LEDs and moonlight. Its imposing size had for a long while made Hunter feel small and unbecoming of it. But, it was home. ¡°Maybe it¡¯s for the best you don¡¯t remember something so painful,¡± he said. Then he saw disagreement wash over Marcie¡¯s face. The raise of her brow and that look that said ¡®if you make this an argument, you¡¯re about to lose.¡¯ ¡°I want to know what happened, Hunter.¡± The resolve in her eye was intense and equally inviting, like she had already made him her accomplice in some scheme with a single stating of her desire. She was always like that. Hunter sighed. He¡¯d pulled the break in front of the guest house. The moonlight casted a glow on her through the window, illuminating all the small things Hunter thought he lost. She was so beautiful. Even with otherwise gruesome parts of flesh missing. ¡°Then I¡¯ll ask around,¡± Hunter said. ¡°I''ll figure it out.¡± And that, too, felt like lying. Anastasim - Chapter 1.3 Only one house sat at the end of Weller Drive. Hunter had no idea where the private drive had got its name from, who built the property, or when it was constructed. He didn¡¯t know why the main house had uneven steps up to the front door, why the road up to the house was lined with eastern white pines instead of a much more ecologically consistent redwood, or why there was an attic hatch in his guest house that led nowhere. Nor did anyone in his family. Years and years ago, when he had asked his father, he told Hunter he had no idea and that he was being bothersome. Then, when he asked his mother, then Candace, and was dismissed twice again, it became apparent that no one who lived in that house, other than he, particularly cared for history. 1 Weller Drive was by no means the nicest domicile this side of Redwood Cove, ¡®the Ridge¡¯ as they all seemed to know it as. Hunter would never delude himself into believing his family wasn¡¯t wealthy or at least well-off beyond the national average. Marcie never let him hear the end of it when he claimed his family was ¡®just comfortable¡¯. But, while his drive had a garden, the garden of the house a mile down the main road was greener. While his house had a TV room, a pool, a gym, some other lucky asshole down the road had an in-home theater, an indoor pool with some Greek-as-fuck marble, and a basketball court. Tucked away behind the main house, was a one-room lodge meant for guests the Campbell family never had. When Hunter outgrew his childhood bedroom, he petitioned to move into the guesthouse. And so, rehomed his wardrobe, his Pokemon and Batman posters, Origami cranes, Tennis rackets and at home workout gear, empty ant farm, film-accurate replica Hellraiser cube and Freddy Kruegar glove, all the other trinkets from years of obsessive yet fleeting hobbies, and had clung his privacy there ever since. Hunter and Marcie had fallen asleep in each other¡¯s arms still in the clothes from the night before. Grains of sand peppered the bedsheets. Marcie hadn¡¯t realized truly how much sand could pack itself into a chest cavity. Much of it had been washed down the shower drain. Marcie insisted on cleaning up the rest of what they¡¯d tracked in herself but he would never let her clean it alone. Cold water dripped from Hunter¡¯s brown curls and Marcie sat on the lip of the tub, while he brushed the last stuck bits of sand out of her hair. ¡°Tell me if this is too soon,¡± Hunter said. Marcie went silent. Probably expecting what he was thinking. ¡°But, what¡¯s¡­after?¡± He finished. ¡°Hmm,¡± Marcie considered her answer, ¡°Nothing.¡± ¡°Nothing?¡± Hunter asked incredulously, ¡°Wouldn¡¯t there have to be something, I mean, we talked. You spoke back to me when we called to you.¡± ¡°I know. But to be honest, I barely remember what it was like. Nothing is the only way I can describe it. I didn¡¯t have eyes, or ears, or a body. There¡¯s no space or time. It¡¯s just¡­nothing. I feel like so much of myself was stripped away. I think maybe that¡¯s why I can¡¯t remember much from the year before I died. Like it was shaving my essence down top to bottom. And then you pulled me out.¡± Hunter still pondered whether or not this was comforting or disturbing. He never landed on an answer. ¡°I¡¯m so glad you never went back to a three in one. This coconut butter is doing wonders for dead girl hair,¡± she said, obviously taking the conversation in a different direction. They each brushed their teeth. Though, the Necronomicon, in Hunter¡¯s best translation, suggested that Marcie¡¯s body was now in some sort of necromantic stasis. Whatever that meant for the merits of fretting over tooth decay was still up in the air. Marcie borrowed one of Hunter¡¯s T-shirts, which fit her more like a dress. But, she happily scrunched up the fabric and took a very conspicuous sniff the moment Hunter had turned his back to her. Hunter dressed himself in his usual ensemble. Corduroy pants, a well-fitted shirt which was sage green that day, and a collared shirt, unbuttoned and tucked in. Marcie made him do a little spin to show off the fit and whistled in approval when he did, in fact, do a little spin. Last night''s events and revelations had left him in a tornado of turbulent emotions. But going through a morning routine with Marcie again, he couldn''t help the grin that crept across his lips and overtook his worries. He could breathe for the first time in over a year. A knock came at the door to the guest house. Hunter had closed the blinds weeks ago, priming his family to expect to be unable to see anything going on inside the room. However, he still jolted with a smidge of anxiety when he heard his sister¡¯s voice. ¡°Hunter! Family meeting!¡± Candace chirped, about as pleasantly as birdsong at two in the morning while you¡¯re trying to sleep. He saw her shadow waiting behind the door, waiting like a hawk. Quickly and quietly, he told Marcie, ¡°Lay low. I¡¯ll be right back. If I¡¯m gone long, there¡¯s a new Flannigan show that you could binge if you wanted to. Password¡¯s the same.¡± Small falters in Marcie¡¯s smile asked him not to go. But she relented. ¡°Aight.¡± He shut the door to the bathroom slowly leaving Marcie safely tucked away from view. Then popped open the front. Many other bird comparisons came to mind when seeing his sister. She always did her eyes up with wild colors. That day red eyeshadow made a thick border around her pupils like a secretary bird. All three of the Campbell children had rather distinct noses. His was crooked from a break it suffered in highschool, which was his own fault. But by the will of genetics, Candace¡¯s nose stuck out like a beak. And she always liked to stick that beak where it didn¡¯t belong. ¡°Who were you talking to?¡± she asked, nudging Hunter with a bony elbow. On second thought, he didn¡¯t think boney could accurately describe anything with skin anymore. Hunter thrust his hands into his pockets. It only slightly helped to settle their jittering. ¡°A friend from college,¡± he said. Candace made a ¡®hmm¡¯ sound like she¡¯d come to some conclusion, then looped her arm through his. ¡°I heard you laughing. Hunter, it¡¯s okay to be happy again. I know it¡¯s probably still really fresh, but don¡¯t wait if you¡¯ve found something good.¡±Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. Whatever look Hunter must have responded with probably looked like a blend of horrified and bewildered because Candace¡¯s face fell quite quickly in response. ¡°Sorry,¡± she rushed to say, ¡°It¡¯s just, I met Bradley, not even a year after I lost Todd.¡± Hunter¡¯s bewilderment deepened, ¡°Yeah but Todd didn¡¯t die. He had to move to France for work.¡± ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s not quite the same thing, is it?¡± Candace asked, innocently and rhetorically. Some pep in her step returned, the source of which was a mystery to the universe. She walked them both to the house, more or less dragging Hunter along with her. Mom, Dad, and Beth were already seated at the table. Dad, at the end, already had a plate of waffles, eggs, bacon, and hash browns, all slathered in a flaming red hot sauce. He was dousing his eggs in black pepper when Hunter and Candace took their seats at the dining table. ¡°Here you go.¡± In a rush, Mom set down two full plates in front of both children with singular focus. Evidence of the concerning crime that was her cooking laid bare on the plate. The eggs were overdone. The bacon was floppy and underdone. The waffles she served ranged between over and underdone. And the hash browns were from frozen patties, whose quality she could hardly be held responsible for. Mom''s cream colored blouse was stained with oil splatters, syrup, ketchup, and brown speckles of ashy pan residue. Sunlight of early spring refracting through the kitchen window illuminated her sleeves like washed out stained glass. If Helen Campbell was cooking that morning, it meant she had insisted upon doing so. Which she only did when she was anxious. Which meant that Dad and her had an argument in the last twenty-four hours. Which meant this family meeting was going to be a blast. The only person who seemed to be in a worse mood than Dad was Beth, who for whatever reason was scowling in Hunter¡¯s general direction. ¡°Honey, can you sit down?¡± Dad hadn¡¯t touched his red and black speckled abomination of a breakfast. ¡°In a moment,¡± Mom called from the kitchen, ¡°Would anyone like any strawberry preserves? Ooo we also still have maple syrup. Oh, where did I put the preserves?¡± Dad had a way with words. Not that Hunter thought him a great orator, just that he could move mountains without yelling or portraying any emotion. In fact, in all of Hunter¡¯s twenty years, he never even heard his father raise his voice. Not when he got his first C on a test. Not when he got the first scratch on his first car. Not even when he snuck out with the bottle of Barolo his father had been saving for his sixtieth birthday. Dad could discipline you or command you with the same energy one uses to talk about mild weather, in five words or less to boot. ¡°Helen, sit down.¡± He commanded in a topically mild tone. Mom sat down. In the silence before he spoke, Dad cleared his throat and drank a sip of water. ¡°Candace, have you found a venue yet?¡± he asked. Candace smiled her annoyingly persistent smile. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t we wait for Bradley? He¡¯s calling his parents right now about travel arrangements.¡± Dad gave Candace¡¯s question a moment to linger in the air like a fart everyone knew was of her origin. Beth took her glowering eyes off of Hunter only long enough to roll them. Hunter didn¡¯t even so much as touch his fork, despite actually being pretty hungry. The only person who dared to move was Mom, who couldn¡¯t have guessed the record speeds at which breakfast was going down hill and was then consoling herself with a bite of waffle. Candace¡¯s smile didn¡¯t waver. Not one bit. ¡°I addressed my question to you, Candace, not Bradley.¡± ¡°Well, Dad, it¡¯s a family meeting¨C¡± ¡°¨CYes. This is a family meeting. Bradley won¡¯t be part of the family until you pick a venue. And travel arrangements can¡¯t be made until you know where you¡¯re sending the Dannhausers.¡± Dad had a way with non-verbal communication too. If he let his neck down, only slightly in a diagonal, that meant ¡®what I just said was so unbelievably self-explanatory and the fact that I had to explain it to you would be a federal crime¡¯. He was, at that moment, letting his neck down slightly in a diagonal. Candace¡¯s smile was beginning to crack. ¡°We were thinking maybe the beach if we can get a permit. If not, the Lovetts offered their property with a family friend discount which was very kind of them.¡± A single hand was raised from across the table. It was Mom this time who had halted Candace in her tracks. ¡°Your father wanted you to pick a real venue. Somewhere memorable. We can help you with the wedding, baby, you don¡¯t have to worry about that. And you know how we feel about the Lovetts.¡± Mom glanced at Hunter. He wanted to slink back even further. But, he remained as still as possible. This family meeting was definitely going to run long. Was Marcie okay in his room? Does she need food? Normal food or like human flesh? The book described what Marcie had become as a spirit returned to its body at the time of its death. Hunter worried that was a fancy roundabout way to say zombie. ¡°Bradley and I have already consulted with local florists and decorators. I¡¯ve told you, we want to afford our own wedding with our own money.¡± Candace was beginning to sound defensive. ¡°Our money is your money,¡± Mom said. ¡°No. It¡¯s not.¡± Candace pounded her fist into the table. It wasn''t hard, but it was enough to jostle the silverware, clatter the plates, and make Mom jump. ¡°No. It is not,¡± Dad agreed. ¡°Helen, a proper venue and any travel is a gift from us. Candace, get me a list of venues by the end of the week. Proper venues.¡± Candace parted her lips to speak again but never got the chance. She was never given one. ¡°Elizabeth. You got another F on a test,¡± said Dad. Then breakfast turned to chaos. Dad¡¯s first mistake, one he very frequently made, was using Beth¡¯s full name. His second was even more obvious of a blunder. Hunter would advise anybody and everyone who came into contact with Beth Campbell that they should never, under any circumstance, be blunt without it ending pooly. With her, you can¡¯t shoot for the heart. You more-so have to take a chisel and mold her with soft whacks. But, no one, especially Dad, ever listens to Hunter. Reasons turned into excuses. Excuses into accusations. Accusations into insults. Typical teen angst. Those insults flew mostly in one direction, away from Beth and mostly towards Dad, then Mom when she tried to chime in. On and so on it went like Beth put ¡®It¡¯s not my fault Mr. Denton hates me¡¯ through twenty languages in google translate until she eventually said, ¡°Fuck off, Mom. Would you stop putting more syrup on your plate? If you get diabetes and lose your legs, I won¡¯t wheel you around.¡± To which Candace stepped in. Which began an unadulterated barrage of unpleasant euphemisms to Bradley¡¯s penis and how tiny it must be. Dad tried to speak over the other three, get them to settle down. Eventually, realizing his efforts were futile, started speaking simply to add his voice to the storm. Hunter looked out the back window. Across the backyard, through the obscuring of the closed blinds, he thought he saw the TV glow. Marcie was safe inside. Maybe she¡¯d have to stay inside. Yeah she looked dead, but worlds worse was she looked like Marcie. Even if people didn''t know Marcie by name, she was the girl who fell off the cliff. The girl who''s death constructed extra warning signs and higher railing. But that was a problem for later. For now she was safe. ¡°Hunter!¡± Someone at the table said, he wasn¡¯t fully sure who. It wasn''t until Beth pointed at Hunter and everyone went silent that he snapped out of his thoughts. He missed what she said but whatever it was cast a dark shadow over the room and made everyone grimace, like Dad had dumped a metric butt-load of black pepper onto everyone''s head and they were all about to sneeze. But it wasn''t Dad who brought down the mood. They were all staring at him. Dad asked, in a tone somehow even more flat than he''d ever heard before, ¡°Hunter. I was under the impression you were taking a voluntary gap year. Did you or did you not fail out of your last semester?¡± Anastasim - Chapter 1.4 Without Marcie, Hunter barely ate. He felt aimless. He felt restless. Then the anxiety started. Most of his time was spent awake in bed, locked in a stalemate between the pros and cons of leaving his college dorm room. His friendships, new and shallow, dried up as they drifted elsewhere. Eventually, after too many failed midterms and unattended lectures, he just stopped trying. And a little while after that was when a neighbor from a ways down the hallway who he¡¯d spoken to about zero times, knocked on his door. They came with several restaurant to-go bags full of incense, mixes of herbs and salt, and an offer. Then the neighbor showed him how to summon a spirit. Her spirit. Among the innumerable questions that Hunter had about everything, the identity of the spirit they called forth was not one of them. It had to be Marcie. It could only be Marcie. After the first seance, classes were far beyond an afterthought. He taught himself to perform the seance with the neighbor¡¯s help. He still had no idea what their deal was but at that point it wasn¡¯t all that important. During one summoning, Hunter had asked if Marcie wanted to come back to life. To which she answered a resounding yes. He later had to formulate an explanation to an R.A. why the whole floor shook and all his drawers had been flung onto the carpet. A rough tumble out of bed was an adequate enough excuse to get a slap on the wrist. Finding out that the occult was real¡ªthat demons, ghosts, and grimoires existed¡ªshould have been world shattering. It should have broken Hunter. But he¡¯d already been broken once. He finally had something that could piece it all back together. He¡¯d always had small cycles of hyperfixations. But this was truly the first time he had to agree with his sisters. He was obsessed. An offhand google search turned into months of research. He taught himself a dead language just to learn as much as he could from every niche website, dusty library book, and historical academic paper. It was about all that college was good for at that point. The world of the supernatural was vast. Too vast for Hunter to fully explore in one semester. And he only needed to scratch the surface to find what he needed. Hunter had one goal. It took two semesters worth of incomplete credits, but he finally found the key to everything. The book. ¡°Yes.¡± Hunter looked at Dad across the dining table and smiled. It was always better to meet his eyes. Otherwise, he¡¯d waste his breath commanding Hunter to look at him. Hunter didn¡¯t want to waste any time. Mom, Beth, and Candace were still silent. For Beth, a bad grade was common, presumed even. For Hunter, dutiful, obedient Hunter, it was earth shattering. He continued explaining in a direct tone to match Dad¡¯s. ¡°I was on academic probation two semesters ago. I was attempting to fix it but with Marcie¡¯s passing, it was challenging. I¡¯m sorry. I should have told you, but I was ashamed to admit I wasn¡¯t doing well.¡± There was a flash of something maybe someone else¡¯s dad would have meant to convey sympathy or respect. For Hunter¡¯s father, that immovability was the closest he¡¯d ever get. ¡°You understand even one semester costs a lot of money? I work every day and probably will until I die, so you have every opportunity available to you. That goes for all of you.¡± The three children nodded. ¡°Hunter, I expect more of you. Berkeley is not a school where you allow yourself to slack off. You don¡¯t get to flunk out after I¡¯ve worked so hard to pay for your education. I want you to plan out how you¡¯re going to regain those credits. Until you have that figured out, I¡¯ll be handing you a list of tasks to do to repay those wasted semesters. Beth, you¡¯re grounded.¡± ¡°What!¡± Beth screamed. ¡°That¡¯s not fair! Why does Hunter get off so easily!¡± Dad squared his shoulders. Which is a bit redundant, the man was practically a rectangle. He just got up from his chair. Not a single glance was awarded to Beth for her protestation and certainly no response. ¡°I have to drive to work.¡± Then he gave Mom a look like ¡®is this what you wanted?¡¯, then he left. He hadn¡¯t even taken a single bite of his pancakes. Granted, they were soaked through with hot sauce. With the conversation cut so abruptly, everyone sat there in resigned and deflated smallness. Except, of course, for Beth who was staring daggers at Dad and then transferred to Hunter as soon as Dad was no longer visible from the dining room. ¡°Can I bring this to my room to eat?¡± asked Hunter. ¡°Yeah,¡± Mom said with a sigh and a nod of the head like she was coming out of some sort of dream. He had to get out of there. It had taken every fiber of Hunter¡¯s being to keep from exploding along with everyone else at the table. He didn¡¯t know how his father managed to stay so stoic all the time. It was exhausting. Marcie was curled up under a mountain of blankets. The whole guesthouse was sweltering. Hot air blasted out of the vents with a consistent harsh woosh. Opening the door had made him flinch when all the air rushed out like opening the door to an oven. Some horror movie he''d never seen flashed blood and guts across the screen. If it was anybody else, the gratuitous gore might have tipped Hunter off to the beginning of a concerning fixation on human flesh. And while in life, many did find Marcie''s love for cinemas most gruesome to be concerning, Hunter found it endearing then. He still did. He felt the sweat start to trickle down from his forehead. Breathing was even a little hard with how thick the air was. He held the plate out to her. ¡°Room service.¡± Marcie took the plate ferociously and started wolfing down food, completely unperturbed by the furnace she¡¯d created. ¡°You¡¯re not cold?¡± she asked, with half a pancake shoved into her mouth. ¡°How could I be? I¡¯m roasting here. What happened?¡± Marcie took another huge forkful. ¡°I got really hungry, then I got really cold¡± she said. Hunter heard the biting sarcasm behind her mouthful of eggs and bacon. He had to stop himself from putting a palm to his face. Instead, he put his hand to Marcie¡¯s forehead. In an instant, it felt like he¡¯d placed the back of his hand against a block of ice. The feeling of her skin was so cold it was painful.The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. ¡°Well, that¡¯s moderately concerning,¡± Hunter said, ¡°I think there''s something about this in the book, but I don''t remember exactly what it says.¡± It was, most likely, highly inadvisable to keep a centuries old demonic grimoire made of human skin in his socks and underwear drawer, but it was the only place he could think to hide it. Since the night of Marcie¡¯s resurrection it wouldn''t stop glowing. Since all his other clothes were hung in the closet, he kept it under piles of black briefs to cancel out the color. Maybe, in some cruel twist of fate, when Hunter died, the book would curse him by turning into a mummy made of those undergarments. Except they¡¯d be desperately unwashed. Post-it notes rimmed the exterior of the resurrection spell, with many of them overlapping one another. He flipped through until he found one that seemed relevant, ¡°Resurrected body requires flesh to sustain form¨C¡± Oh great, she actually was a zombie. Maybe he should have paid a bit more attention to the undead girlfriend aftercare. He¡¯d worked so hard to get her back and he was already royally fucking it up. ¡°¨COh great! I am a zombie!¡± Marcie¡¯s voice muffled as she threw herself under the covers. ¡°Wait, wait! It doesn¡¯t say anything about human flesh or living flesh. So maybe a couple steaks will work?¡± ¡°And if that doesn¡¯t work?¡± Flipping through more Post-Its he found, ¡°Uhh, the resurrected body will decompose if it is not sustained.¡± Marcie tossed the covers back off. They locked eyes and Hunter knew they were both flooded with the same panic. He shut the book closed, threw it hastily back into the sock drawer, and grabbed his jacket and keys. ¡°You think like three pounds is about enough?¡± He asked, rushing to get his shoes on. He could feel the stink eye emanating from Marcie¡¯s direction. ¡°You calling me fat?¡± ¡°Okay, four pounds.¡± He ripped the door open ready to get to store as fast as humanly possible. A voice called from beside him right outside the guesthouse. ¡°Who are you talking to?¡± Beth asked. It was clear as day, she still was annoyed from breakfast. Quick thinking had Hunter grabbing his phone out of his pocket and shook it to say ¡®Piss off, I¡¯m on a call¡¯. He was gonna have to get used to keeping an earbud in to match the charade, he thought. ¡°Hey!¡± Beth called after him. But he was already in the car, getting in to start the engine. There were two major supermarkets in Redwood Cove. Three, if you counted the Mexican market downtown. Four, if you counted the farmer¡¯s market that popped up once a month. But the two that most everyone shopped at¡ªyou know the kind of stores where you could bump into someone you didn¡¯t really want to talk to or have that first realization all six year olds have that their teacher does in fact exist outside of school¡ªwere Vinny¡¯s and Harvest Fresh. Harvest Fresh was the hoity-toity store that was stocked full of all the keto-friendly, gluten-free, cage-free, nut-free, non-GMO, grass-fed, vegan, organic bullshit an upper class asshat could ask for. It had its own juice bar, cafe, buffet, bakery and charcuterie counter. And Hunter wanted to avoid it and all costs. So he drove the extra three miles to get to Vinny''s, which was just a normal goddamn grocery store. Normal brands, normal brownish worn tile, and a sort of stale smell that permeated the whole store and mixed with the myriad of other smells from each aisle. A droning of bland pop music was playing out of invisible speakers. By happenstance, there was a sale on pork shoulder. Human flesh was supposed to taste like pork, right? Maybe that would be more satisfying. Hunter grabbed a couple new york strips to be safe. He figured while he was here he might as well grab some snacks. Marcie¡¯s favorites. Going aisle to aisle he grabbed everything he remembered she used to fiend for during lunch breaks and midnight snack runs. Cheap peach iced tea, any cinnamon candy, and Snickers bars (but only the dark chocolate ones). He¡¯d landed in the chip section for a family sized bag of Spicy Sweet Chili Doritos when a man came down the aisle. There were a moderate amount of people in the store, another person coming down the aisle was no surprise. Though, this man did smell. His pants and jacket were covered in dirt and he had an unkept beard that seemed to be trying to escape his chin in wiry clumps. Lines on his face indicated he might¡¯ve been in his upper 40s, maybe 50s. Maybe he was even younger and worn by hard times. Homelessness in Redwood Cove wasn¡¯t like the horror stories people told. It wasn¡¯t like San Francisco or Oakland. The homeless here were just down on their luck or had difficult medical problems and never got the proper support. Redwood Cove was too rural and too small to have a super pervasive drug problem, so most of the homeless people were pretty much in their right mind. And pretty nice at that. So Hunter had no issue with the man. The man got rather close, right up next to Hunter. He thought the man was about to ask him for change, but the man barely even looked his way. On his tip toes and stretching his back, he reached up for a bag of chips on the tallest shelf. ¡°Um, sir?¡± Hunter tried to get his attention, ¡°Which bag did you want? I could grab it for you.¡± The man grumbled something Hunter couldn''t make out. He kept stretching his back, painfully it seemed, to reach for what he wanted. "The Cool Ranch?¡± asked Hunter. He reached up to grab it off the shelf, just as the man decided it was time to jump for it. His body collided with Hunter¡¯s and knocked his hand, sending a row of chip bags cascading to the ground. Hunter had secured a bag of Cool Ranch, which the homeless man snatched angrily. ¡°Beware, satanist,¡± he grumbled under his beard and walked away, crunching a bag of spicy nacho under his foot. Stunned and dumbfounded, Hunter stood amongst a sea of fallen bags. He must''ve been tired. They¡¯d gotten home late last night and it had been a long morning, that was for sure. It was likely he just misheard. There was no way anyone knew. There couldn''t be. Maybe he said Thank you, sorry bout this, only really mumbly. He put down his basket to start picking up the chips. Clean up on aisle six. A voice came over the store¡¯s speakers. A lone employee quickly came pacing up the aisle pushing along a half full shopping cart. Hunter looked up before he could grab any of the Cool Ranch Dorito bags to find that the employee, quite contrary to the homeless man, was staring at him. ¡°Hunter?¡± asked Grant Jeong, the last person on planet earth Hunter wanted to see.