In 1958, Caleb Donovan died on the fateful summer night of his 19th birthday. He was buried in the church cemetery by the local priest, and nobody but the groundskeeper attended his funeral. Father McKenzie was the one that published the small obituary.
Caleb Donovan passed away at the young age of 19, on 28th July 1958 after a brief illness. He's survived by his companion Agatha. He was a beloved member of our small community and he will be dearly missed.
Three brief sentences celebrated the young lost life of Caleb, whose existence had left nothing behind as if he'd never really existed at all. He must have been known, he must have been seen at any point in his life. He had built a life together with the woman they called Agatha. Yet Mark's dad was completely right when he warned me of the little information we'd find. Small town mysteries rarely make big news, and there seemed to be nothing strange in a life lost to an illness. We tried still—a whole week of sleepless nights in the library, barely leaving to eat microwaved noodles and go to the bathroom— until we realized no matter how deep we combed the press and the internet, we would find nothing else.
Who was Caleb Donovan? Who was Agatha? What was the mysterious illness? Questions piled as we got no answers.
Mark suggested the improvised roadtrip. I declined, at first. Silas convinced me otherwise, happy to be alone for a few days because I'd been pestering him about his upcoming exams. He was hiding something from me, that much I knew. But as much as I still saw him as my little brother, Silas was growing to be an excellently independent young man, and I had to respect his privacy. It was only my business if he was in danger, and I had made sure he'd call me.
Peter stayed behind to ensure I wouldn't lose my mind leaving Silas alone for so long. Although the idea of leaving my brother to the care of Peter wasn't any better. I'd had to remind myself he'd saved me because all those years of danger and fear wouldn't erase so easily. The twins were on a business trip. And that left Mark and me to travel to that little village in the hopes we'd find something else.
He drove a black SUV, very fitting to his mafia persona. But he was sporting a dark grey hoodie, a black cap and sunglasses. I'd have confused him as a tourist if it wasn't for the cluster of demons that would've helped me identify him a few miles away.
That morning, when I exited my apartment building with a packed backpack, he'd been waiting for me as he drank some coffee. He was leaning against the car, surveying his phone.
I realized he'd brought a drink for me. "A strawberry milkshake. I notice it's the thing you always order at the diner."
So used to being the one who saw, and not the other way around, his attention to detail made me feel some type of way. I thanked him quietly, avoiding eye contact.
"Are you shy all of a sudden?" He said as his smile painted his words with joy.
"Shut up," I responded, busying myself with the passenger door so he wouldn't see my red cheeks.
"I can read you like a book." He took the last sip of his drink and threw the plastic cup on the trash can. "We better get going, it's going to be a long journey."
No matter what they promise you in movies, road trips are far from the romantic and joyful experience of your lifetime. After sitting for seven hours, my butt hurt like a motherfucker and I was ready to throw myself out of the car. Luckily, Mark wasn't better off, and he stopped at the next rest stop.
A true truck driver's fantasy extended before our eyes. A cafeteria, a modest hotel, a small convenience store, and a rather voluminous bar. I whistled, impressed with the busy life of the stop. Above us, the sky was getting darker and darker as night threatened to fill the sky with a thousand stars.
"What a lovely night," I confessed against my will as I stretched my sore legs. The relief of finally being able to walk almost turned into a satisfied slurry on the pavement.
When I noticed I had left Mark behind, I turned with my eyebrows pinched. "What—?"
He was staring at me with an expression I couldn't decipher. His eyes were bright, and his mouth was slightly open. I was taken aback by his demeanor.
"What are you looking at?" I raked my hair, in search of whatever he was looking at. "Do I have a spider anywhere? I hate spiders."
"No," he answered, shaking his head. "Everything is fine. Let's go eat something first. I'm starving. Then, we'll check into the hotel."
********
"Huh?" I raised my eyebrows at the receptionist. "Not even one room?"
She shook her head no. "I'm afraid it's peak season."
"But—But it's winter. I couldn't imagine why it's so busy here."
The lady, an older woman with short and curly blond hair and an outfit straight out of a 50s movie, smiled. "Of course! Truck drivers stop here all year round and tourists are on the way to the south to run away from the cold."
Mark hit the counter with his open palm with such force that the sound echoed and the lady jumped at the same time I did. He slid a hundred dollar bill. "So no rooms available?"
Her eyes regarded the bill with thirst. Still, she smacked her red lips. "No rooms available, I'm afraid."
Mark rolled his eyes, searching his wallet. "How about now?" He added three hundred-dollar bills on top of the first one. "Or this?" He put another bill, his cold stare piercing the lady.
I didn't like how he flaunted his wealth. It reminded me of how little my brother and I really had. He wasn't troubled with spending 500 dollars so she would let us stay the night, that was half of my monthly rent. An ocean of riches separated our worlds.
The receptionist slapped Marj's hand away when he showed the intention of taking the money back. "I have accommodation. But it's a small room for staff. That's the most I can give you."
Mark offered her a satisfied smile. "We'll take it, thank you… Anna."
As it turned out, calling accommodation to the laundry room was a little too optimistic of a choice of words. There was a bed, I'll give you that. And to the side, a tiny chair that acted out as a small nightstand.
"Way to pay for an overpriced bunk," I muttered. There was only one bed, and it would barely fit one person. I put my hand out. Seeing Mark's confusion, I added. "Give me the keys, I'll go sleep in the car."
"No way you're going to sleep outside. That's the type of decision a horror character makes that gets them killed. We stay together at all times."
I regarded the bed again, unsure. "But—Who sleeps on the floor then?"
Mark grinned. "Nobody. We'll make this work. Like a sleepover."
Leaving out the fact that abuela scared away any potential friends I might've had, she would've never let me have a sleepover. Although it was a typical childhood experience, my infancy hadn't been normal. I hadn't been normal, ever. I narrowed my eyes. "I don't think sleepovers are like that."
Mark sighed, plopping his backpack on the wall. "Stop whining and come here. I want to sleep." He fisted a bunch of my sweater fabric and pulled me closer.
With no other option but to comply, I settled on the bed next to him. "Nope, I don't like this."
When I pulled away, Mark grabbed me by the waist, keeping me trapped. "Shh. Just sleep. It's not that deep."
It was going to be such a long night… I closed my eyes, trying to trick my brain into believing I was asleep. But I was too aware of his warmth to let my mind blank. When I opened my eyes, I discovered he was looking at me. "Come on. Sleep."
"How can I sleep if I can feel your psychopathic stare through my closed eyelids?" I joked. He didn't respond, instead blinking at me like he hadn't heard me. I sighed, closing my eyes again.
I focused on the running dryer. Something metallic clanged every other second, like an improvised rhythm. Maybe a zipper, or a loose coin trapped in between the bedsheets. The clients of the hotel chatted loudly a few feet from us. Otherwise, the silence blanketed us both.
Silence, and more silence. And I felt for the regular rhythm of Mark's breathing so I finally knew if he'd already fallen asleep. More silence. Then, Mark laughed. "Why are you so nervous?"
Thank god the sensor lights were out at that moment, or might've been able to see my blushing cheeks. "I like my personal space."
"Sure you do."
"I really do."
"Where do you think my case file is? What are they planning to do with it?"
I shrugged, looking at the emergency lights on the ceiling. My knees were bent sideways, leaning against his legs. "I don't think they want the case file as much as they want to keep me out of it." 1585 I inhaled deeply. "Apparently, the cult can see the future. And they don't want me to meddle with their plans."
Mark's path kept crossing with mine like entwined balls of thread. What had my mom said? Out of the thousands of possible futures in which they win… There was one in particular. An exception. But to think defeating their plans would keep Mark safe was a stretch I wouldn't dare say out loud. Mark was condemned, and cosmic rules didn't care for appeals.
Capital sentences were carried out without fail, without emotion.
"We'll figure it out, eventually," Mark said. "They can't escape my influence. Wherever they are, Peter will flush them out, and then we'll have our answers."
I didn't notice I had fallen asleep until I opened my eyes. The burnt lady stared at me from above. Her hair framed her face and tickled my cheeks. She smelled of rotten flesh and charred skin.
I screamed.