Chapter 25

  “So did he tell you what kind of reaper you are?”

  “Lunárii.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Yup.”

  “Autumn!”

  My chest burns with every breath as I hurtle into the dark woods, deeper and deeper into its twisted fingers. My lungs lurch with every cold breath. My backpack bounces on my shoulders, tossing its contents around. An unstable concoction of rage, confusion, fear, and fucking hunger boils in my stomach. My body charges forward without any command. I'm simply along for the ride.

  “Where are we going? I don’t like it here.”

  My legs throb, begging me to stop, but I can’t. I don't know how to. I can’t stop until I’m sure that when I turn around that damned mansion is out of sight—that all of Greenfield is.

  “Autumn, stop!”

  My right leg finally collapses from under me. I drop to the cold ground, embraced by a bed of brown switchgrass. I can’t slow my breathing. Every breath is a lie, promising relief, air, oxygen, only leaving me starving for more. I sit up and crawl to the nearest tree to rest against it. The colorless trees surround me like a cage of ash and black. But as I look around me, the mansion is long out of view, hidden by tangled branches. The taste of salt hits my tongue as a tear slips into my mouth.

  Finally, I take in a single long breath and release it with a shudder. White fog billows from my mouth. I look up to catch the sun slowly disappearing beneath the trees. The air around me is dead and unmoving, as if I’ve entered a land between time and space. A place no one can touch me. Only the dead can reach me here. At least the dead don’t lie.

  “Spooks,” Maggie says softly. Her silhouette gently forms beside me. “What are we doing here?”

  “The ruins,” I say after a long breath. “I need to know what Ward is hiding.”

  “You should call Hannah and—”

  “No. I’m not risking their lives again. If I could, I’d leave you at home too. Stay hidden.”

  “From who? Ward will never catch up with us. You made sure of that. I don’t even know where we are.”

  “It’s not Ward I’m worried about.”

  The shadows grow longer as the sun begins to set. I’ve never been out here this late. Usually, Dr. Ward and I would be heading in by now. Mom will probably call as soon as she realizes I’m not home for dinner. Maybe I’d be doing her a favor if I never came home. She’d have no one left to belittle or lie to. She can forget about me and focus on her glorious career.

  “Sometimes I think hearing your thoughts nonstop is worse than death,” Maggie interjects. “When are you going to just talk to your mom?”

  I roll my eyes and pull my phone from my pocket.

  5:16 PM

  NO SERVICE

  I put my phone away and pull my backpack off my shoulder. My schoolwork is scrambled inside, but it’s easy enough to find my flashlight and a couple glow sticks. But I pause with the glow sticks in hand. The flashlight will likely only get me so far before the spirits in these woods inevitably drain the batteries. And glow sticks aren’t much help in a sea of darkness. I pull Dad’s notebook out and flip through the pages until I find a page marked Kindlings.

  The shadow may be our ally, but it doesn’t do much good when you can’t see your own feet. Kindlings are helpful in a pinch and require no reaping. Through life we experience moments of wonder, beauty, awe, love, and happiness. I like to call those moments ‘kindlings’. We store those memories inside like a flip book, always eager for another. The Earth has a flipbook of her own. We tap into those moments through echoes. But so rarely are we able to offer our own. Close your eyes and think of your own kindling. Something big. A kiss, catching your first fish, that kind of thing. Then release it to the world.

  (Sometimes it helps if you actually cup your hands and blow. Like you’re starting a fire.)

  I close the book and set it back inside my backpack. I release a gentle sigh and close my eyes. Then, I scan my memories for one worth offering as kindling. The first memory to appear is Ethan in my room. His emerald eyes looking down at me. But I quickly scrunch my nose at it. Sure, he’s cute, but that’s so lame. The memory of meeting Hannah and JJ for the first time comes to mind. It isn’t a uniquely happy moment, but it makes me smile a little as I imagine Hannah’s spitfire personality. Yet I know there is one memory I’m avoiding. The last happy moment I had with Mom and Dad.

  I open my eyes and spot Maggie sitting cross-legged beside me with an expectant grin on her face.

  “You know how Mom always liked to listen to her cumbias when she cleaned?” I begin. “Dad would always find clever ways to stop her from cleaning. It annoyed her so much, but he was the only one who could make her laugh. One day he came home late, and her music was so loud. I was at the kitchen table trying to do my homework. Dad knew she’d put him straight to work. She already had the mop out for him.

  “So he grabbed the mop handle like a microphone and started singing along to the music in the worst Spanish I’ve ever heard. I think he only got two words right. When he reached Mom, he dropped the mop and pulled her close. He spun her around and danced her around the room.”

  “But he spilled the mop bucket,” Maggie recalls.

  “Mom’s foot slipped on the wet floor. But before she hit the ground, Dad flung her around so that she’d land on top of him. He said, ‘Woah honey, we didn’t even make it to the bedroom this time.’ Mom of course replied…”

  “?Ay, Cochino!” Maggie and I mock her together. We both get a small laugh in the darkness.

  “It was the last time I saw them both smile.”

  “Worth a shot,” Maggie says.

  I cup my hands together around my mouth and picture the memory. Then, I softly blow.

  Swirls of chromatic glowing dust burst to life in my hands. Maggie gasps as a wave of light ripples from my lips. The twinkling dust dances between my fingers, twirling around them like tiny galaxies. The darkness of the woods retreats as white light flows around me. The kindlings gently following me like a school of glowing plankton. When I stretch my arm out they fly far away, deep into the woods. And when I retract my arm, they return on command.

  I’ve always seen specs of light show up in paranormal photos online. The forums would invariably debate if it was simply dust or undeniable proof of spirits. But here thousands of them twirl around me with life.

  I close my backpack and return it to my shoulder, then place my hilt in the slim pocket of my coat. When Dad got me this coat I always wondered why it had so many pockets. Not that a girl can complain about pockets, but I never could figure out what the purpose of a single long pocket on the inside would be. I assumed it was for some hunting tool. Sometimes I’d just stick pencils in it. But the hilt fits perfectly. And now, as I press my fingers over the fabric, I’m beginning to wonder what the hard vertical strips are. I had assumed they were simply to give it shape, but Dad is full of surprises.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Ready?” I ask.

  “You sure about this? What about Granny? You think Dr. Ward would hurt her?”

  I pause as the uncomfortable question fills the space. “When I first entered that estate, I thought it was strange there were no portals or haunts inside it. I thought—I hoped he was just helping them cross over. I trusted him.” I squeeze my fist. “He called all of Greenfield a pasture. Like everyone in it is simply cattle for him to reap. But why would—” I release my anger with a long sigh. “I’m not going to let that happen to her. We get to those ruins. We get answers. We bust her out. I’m done being lied to.”

  “And the creepy cannibal monster lurking in the woods?” Maggie winces.

  “I fended it off once already,” I cross my arms. “I’ve had more training since then.”

  Maggie raises an eyebrow, not buying my confidence.

  “Just stay hidden,” I concede.

  She takes a short, hesitant breath, then vanishes. Her glitter swirls into the sasquatch neatly strapped to my backpack. Then, I turn to face the endless darkness of Thicket Grove. I stretch my arm out once more and the tiny glowing specters scatter out into the dark woods like a trail of starlight.

  Soon, the sun flees the sky above, leaving me with only the dim glow of my kindlings to guide me through the night. Even Maggie is quiet as we push deeper into Thicket Grove. It’s easy to get lost out here. There are hardly any visual markers. Every tree looks just like the last spindly tree. But I know I’m making progress as the heavy weight of dread pulls against my stomach. Where there should be chirping crickets, croaking toads, and rodents scurrying around me, there is only stillness. Dead silence.

  But a familiar sour odor fills the air. Quietly, I follow the scent. My kindlings stop at a clearing in the woods, where the cold blue moonlight peers down. The faint sound of clicking echoes through the trees.

  Click.

  Clilick. Click.

  Click.

  I swallow what feels like a golf ball as my throat tightens. I cover my nose as the pungent scent grows fouler. Slowly, I step forward. In the center of the clearing, a black vulture is perched upon a white stone, pecking at something beneath it. I release a gentle breath.

  “Can we go home now?” Maggie whispers, nearly causing me to flinch.

  Suddenly, the black bird twitches its head in my direction. Its glistening eye glares back at me. It caws angrily and flutters away, revealing the stone it was perched on wasn’t a stone at all. The white carcass of a doe remains in the center of the clearing. I’m suddenly reminded of the first time I encountered the monster in the woods. The nauseating memory of it ripping a doe apart flashes into my mind. My kindling begins to flicker as my happy memory is replaced with the nightmare of that night.

  I shake my head to shoo away the memory and my lights return. Then, I step into the center of the clearing to get a closer look. Little remains of the doe as animals have picked it apart. The bones of its lower half are snapped apart, and much of it is completely missing.

  “This is where you first saw it,” Maggie says as she appears beside me.

  I scan the tree line around me, hoping to place my hiding spot from that night. I step to the right and crouch low, close to the carcass.

  “Ew,” she retches as the smell fills our senses.

  Between two narrow trees in the distance, I spot an overgrown thicket. Its familiarity stings. The spot where Hannah, JJ, and I hid is still there frozen in time.

  “This way,” I say.

  Finding the trail we ran that night is as easy as finding broken branches. Tree limbs are snapped and bushes are crushed from the monster chasing us. I take long quiet breaths as I walk, sticking to the shadows like Dr. Ward taught me. My fear is somehow lessened as I retrace my steps through the creek bed. Perhaps it’s because I already know what’s out here. Or maybe what’s back home just scares me more.

  School, Mom, Dr. Ward. Hiding in these woods is almost peaceful compared.

  “Can I ask you something?” Maggie appears, walking beside me.

  “I told you to hide,” I scold her quietly.

  “It’s boring in there!” She complains.

  I shake my head.

  “Why are you so scared of being a lunárii?” She asks. “Like, I get you don’t want to reap souls. Echoes are one thing, but consuming an active spirit, like yours truly, feels like murder. Am I right?”

  “You’re one for one.”

  “But it’s not like you actually have to reap souls. You can be like a vegetarian reaper.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Okay but then what is? You’re probably not lunárii anyways. Your dad was telúrii.”

  “Because for once in my life I want to actually like myself,” it comes out like vomit. “I’ve always been a freak. I’ll always be a freak. At school, even Mom looks at me like some creature she barely knows. But as a reaper, my life can have purpose. I can help souls. I can protect people. My life can actually mean something. But even if I choose never to reap a soul, I’d live in fear of myself every day. I’m tired of having to fight against the reality that maybe I’m just broken.” Every word feels like a piece of my heart laid bare. “Besides, I’m not afraid of learning I’m lunárii. I’m afraid I already know the answer.”

  “What?”

  “The Davidson house. When that boy grabbed my arm. I felt every part of his soul.”

  “But Dr. Ward said he was just possessing you. He said if a soul possesses a reaper, they explode. Spirit bomb!”

  “I know what he said,” I release a shuddered breath. “But when that boy’s soul entered, for a moment, I felt like I could breathe him in as easy as air. I think, if I wanted to, I could have.”

  Maggie and I stand quietly in the creek bed. The branches softly groan as a breeze drifts through the dead silence. A glint of light suddenly flashes in the corner of my eye. Just behind the next tree line, water glistens in the moonlight. I step forward and my stomach drops.

  A large clearing cuts out a section of the woods to reveal the swamp. In the center is a small run-down shack, surrounded by still water dotted with wilted lily pads. The dock beside it is blackened and splintered. All of it feels like an oil painting of a nightmare.

  “Watch the trees for movement,” I say. “We don’t want to be caught out in the open here.”

  Cautiously, I press forward into the clearing. My kindlings flicker away as my nerves take over. When I reach the shack, the memories of Mallory come rushing back. Her fear, but also her last words. Please help the others. What others?

  I close my eyes to channel my reaping sight. I feel them throb as the blood vessels around my eyes warm with pulsing blood. I steady myself to prepare for what could be revealed when I open them again. Will I see Mallory? Will I see others? I force them open quickly like ripping off a bandage. Nothing. The entire clearing is devoid of any echo, spirit, or specter. No dust. No silver cords. Just silent emptiness.

  “This place is sick,” Maggie says softly.

  “Sick?”

  “It’s like the ground itself is crying. I feel… hollow. I hate it here.”

  I look back to the broken piece of the dock, where I saw Mallory’s body. I doubt anything of it remains now. But the thought of it sends bile rushing up my throat. I brace myself on the corner of the shack and retch. My stomach squeezes out whatever remains of my lunch.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I wipe my mouth. “I’m fine.”

  I push past the tightness in my gut and step onto the dock. The wood groans as I wrap around the shack. On the back is a door with a shiny silver lock on it. Something that once felt so impassable now feels like nothing more than a stick in my way. I ignite my hilt and place it on the lock. Once it begins to glow bright orange I smash it with the bottom of my hilt. Sparks fly as it snaps and drops onto the dock.

  With my hilt still lit, I slowly push the door open. The white light of my blade spills into the small dark room. The cramped shack is filled with metal objects. Chains, hooks, and ropes hang from the roof. Some are old and rusted. Many look new. Hack saws, knives, and hammers hang on the wall, and a row of metal drum barrels line the left wall.

  “What the fuck?” I mutter.

  Dread creeps up my spine as I enter. My mind races to rationalize any other reason for all of these items, but it comes up empty handed. I grab a wrench from the wall and begin loosening the bolt on one of the barrels. Please be empty.

  I pull the bolt out and brace myself. I steady my stomach, though I doubt there’s anything left to vomit. Then, I slowly lift the lid. Inside is a thick pile of animal fat filling almost half the barrel. The pungent smell assaults my nose. I grab a shovel from the wall and use the handle to poke the fat, hoping I don’t feel anything else. I only feel the bottom of the drum.

  I search every other drum and shake it to feel for its contents. Most are empty, others contain varying levels of animal fat. Could this be Dr. Ward’s? Is this where he cuts his animal fat? Why so far out? I look around the shack for any answers, but I only find more questions. Some of the tools are old, practically antique. Others look like they could have been purchased yesterday.

  I step out of the shack and shut the door. Nothing makes any sense. But this isn’t why I’m here. I’m suddenly reminded that I need to push even deeper into the woods. This is the furthest I’ve ever gone. These woods have a persistent dread that hangs over me, as if I’m walking deeper and deeper into a radiated wasteland. I feel whatever evil lies at the epicenter threatening me to stay away.

  “Autumn,” Maggie whispers. “We’re not alone anymore.” She points toward the trees on the other side of the clearing.

  Just outside the trees in the tall grass stands a slender woman in a blue dress. Her empty black eyes stare back at me.

  Reaping Autumn has a website now! Visit for more content and updates.